So that is why my heart is gone,
And I am dreary and forlorn,
  With tears my eyes are laden. 
She does not want my heart—­ah, no! 
I did not wish to have it go;
  O Cupid, and O maiden!

GERTRUDE JONES.
Wellesley Magazine.

As Toll.

Lovely Mabel, were you dreaming? 
  Glad the day you said to me,
Dancing eyes so brightly beaming,
  “Give my love to dear Marie!”
What a strange exhilaration
  To be bearer of your heart,
What a wonderful temptation
        For a part.

For I have not tried to find her
  Since you sent your love by me;
Day by day I think I’m blinder,—­
  Fruitless search, as you might see. 
I wonder, if in sending,
  If you choose your slave by chance,
What that twinkle was portending
        In your glance?

Tell me, when I bear the treasure,
  Would you very angry be
Should I keep a trifling measure
  That was hardly meant for me?

For it’s common in commissions
  Some percentage of the whole
To extract from you patricians. 
      Just for toll.

JOHN BARKER.
Williams Literary Monthly.

Chansonette.

Dimpled cheeks and scarlet lips,
Pink and dainty finger-tips,
Glowing blushes, fragrant sighs,
Looks dove-sweet from starry eyes,
These do show this saying true—­
Maidens all were meant to woo!

Guerdon dear shall be his meed
Who will be Love’s thrall in deed: 
Strollings ’neath a mellow moon,
Whispers soft as rain in June,
Kisses, maybe, one or two—­
Maidens all were meant to woo!

WILL L. GRAVES.
Makio.

Triolet.

He kissed me ’neath the mistletoe! 
  Of course I said it wasn’t fair
To take advantage of me so,
And kiss me ’neath the mistletoe,—­
But then, ’twas only Jack, you know,
  And so I really didn’t care! 
He kissed me ’neath the mistletoe,
  Although I said ft wasn’t fair!

GERTRUDE CRAVEN.
Smith College Monthly.

Song.

The April sun smiles bright above,
The skies are deep and blue,
I walk among the growing fields
And dream, sweetheart, of you. 
And as I go, from out the wood
A mocking-bird calls clear,
“Sweetheart, sweetheart,” and I turn,
Half hoping thou art here.

Alas! the sunlight floods the earth,
Yet all is dark to me;
The flowers may gaily bud and bloom,
The earth be fair to see;
And “sweetheart, sweetheart,” evermore
The mocking-bird may sing,
But in a fairer land thine eyes
Are opening to the spring.

R.L.  EATON.
Morningside.

The Effigy.

And so she smiles!—­Nor frown nor pout
That look divine can put to rout.

I would, my love, thou wert half
So constant as thy photograph!