Hoots!  Awa’, ye loupin’ sea,
  Doon yer sands,
Jinnie’s callin’ doon tae me! 
  Jinnie’s haudin’ oot her hands!

ROBERT JERMAIN COLE.
Columbia Literary Monthly.

Lent.

Priscilla is a maid devout
  In this repentant season,
And to the world and all its ways
  Has vowed a pious treason.

Sweet little saint, so shy, demure!—­
  Though long I’ve tried to win her
I fear that I’m not in it with
  Some other lucky sinner.

For when I begged she’d trust her heart
  To me, and o’er her bent,
She blushed and softly murmured,
  “How can I when it’s Lent.”

T. L. CLARKE.
Yale Record.

I Dream of Flo.

I dream of Flo, and memory, fleeting light,
Calls up the happy bygone days to-night,
  The scent of lavender is faint in air,
  (Ah, well-remembered flowers she loved to wear!)
My senses float afar in rapt delight.

How can I e’er forget that summer night! 
’Tis not because her black eyes shone so bright,
  Nor is it for the witchery in her hair,
      I dream of Flo.

She promised me a cushion well bedight
With ruffles blue, and I, oh, luckless wight,
  Must send to her—­she said, exchange is fair—­
  My college pin in gold.  Her cushion’s where
With half-closed eyes I lie.  Is’t not aright
      I dream of Flo?

ALBERT SARGENT DAVIS.
Yale Courant.

A Humble Romance.

Her ways were rather frightened, and she wasn’t much to see,
She wasn’t good at small talk, or quick at repartee;
Her gown was somewhat lacking in the proper cut and tone,
And it wasn’t difficult to see she’d made it all alone. 
So the gay young men whose notice would have filled her with delight
Paid very small attention to the little girl in white.

He couldn’t talk the theatre, for he hadn’t time to go,
And, though he knew that hay was high, and butter rather low,
He couldn’t say the airy things that other men rehearse,
While his waltzing was so rusty that he didn’t dare reverse. 
The beauties whom he sighed for were most frigidly polite,
So perforce he came and sat beside the little girl in white.

She soon forgot her envy of the glittering beau monde,
For their common love of horses proved a sympathetic bond. 
She told him all about the farm, and how she came to town,
And showed the honest little heart beneath the home-made gown. 
A humble tale, you say,—­and yet he blesses now the night
When first he came and sat beside the little girl in white.

JULIET W. TOMPKINS.
Vassar Miscellany.

Mendicants.

“Foot-sore, weary, o’er the hills
  To your friendly door I come. 
I’m a mother; in my breast
  I have wrapped my only son. 
Lady, blessed of the Three,
  Give us shelter for a night. 
Pure and wise they say thou art,
  Pity one by fate bedight.”