L. C. STONE.
Amherst Literary Monthly.

[Illustration:  A BROWN GIRL.]

Tantalizing.

Her rosy cheeks are pressed to mine,
  Her gleaming hair lies on my shoulder,
Her arms are clasped about my neck,
  And yet my arms do not enfold her.

Her throbbing heart beats loud and fast,
  Her wistful eyes are gently pleading. 
Her blushing lips are pursed to kiss,
  And yet my lips are all unheeding.

I coldly loose her clinging arms,
  And roughly from my side I shove her. 
It’s amateur theatricals,
  And I must play the tyrant lover.

HENRY MORGAN STONE.
Brunonian

Phantasy.

Her beaming eyes of deepest blue
Enthralled all who to Yale were true. 
Her crimson lips, too, conquests made: 
Fair Harvard’s sons their homage paid,
And many a suitor came to woo
      Petite Elaine.

I begged a kiss awhile ago;
The crimson lips, ’tis true, said “No,”
But in her eyes turned up to me
I read the answer differently—­
The crimson never had a show,
      Yale won again.

Yale Record.

Rosebuds.

She plucked a rosebud by the wall
  And placed it in his outstretched hands;
It was love’s token, that was all,
  And he rode off to foreign lands.

He kept the rosebud in his breast,
  And when the battle charge was led,
They found him slain among the rest,
  The rosebud stained a deeper red.

But she, beside the wall that day,
  A rosebud gave to other hands;
Nor thought of that one borne away
  By him who rode to foreign lands.

Bowdoin Orient.

Bashful Johnny.

Young bashful Johnny loved sweet May,
And went to court her every day,
But his tongue could never swear
  He loved her true. 
It seems to me, had I been there,
  I’d vowed my love—­now wouldn’t you?

Sweet May would sit by Johnny’s side
And all her thoughts to him confide,
Yet take her hand he’d never dare—­
  So near his, too. 
It seems to me, had I been there,
  I’d clasped it tight—­now wouldn’t you?

And May’s red lips seemed to invite
Sweet kisses, but so bold a flight
He thought—­yet wondered if she’d care—­
  Would never do. 
It seems to me, had I been there,
  I would have kissed her—­now wouldn’t you?

GEORGE G. GILLETTE.
Williams Literary Monthly.

Cupid’s Blunder.

Poor Cupid froze his wings one day,
When winds were cold and skies were gray,
  And clouds with snow were laden. 
A little maid was passing by;
She caught the rogue,—­he could not fly,—­
  O naughty little maiden!

She sent him off with sharpen’d dart,
To steal for her a certain heart;
  But, oh, the mishap stupid! 
Since Cupid’s blind, and cannot see. 
He went astray, and came to me. 
  O naughty little Cupid!