When from his heart hope had almost fled,
He spoke of bonds he had in town. 
Still the shy little maiden shook her head—­
But she shook it up and down.

Trinity Tablet.

My Mistake.

I met her on a Pullman car,
  In section number nine;
Each eye shone like a morning star,
  With radiance divine. 
So when I placed my bags and traps
  In section number ten,
She looked so tempting ’mid her wraps
  I sought her face again.

She glanced at me with roguish pose,
  Yet innocent of guile,
Then colored like a blushing rose,
  And tried to hide a smile;
The sweet confusion but enhanced
  Her dainty tint of pink,
And quite by accident she chanced
  The nearest eye to wink.

When she refused my proffered card
  With scorn and proud disdain,
I tried my best, and pleaded hard
  My error to explain. 
She listened to my mumblings crude,
  Then tossed her nose on high;
“I think,” she said, “you’d wink, if you’d
  A cinder in your eye.”

E. P. G.
The Tech.

Sic Semper.

I sent her a spoon,
  She is married to-day;
The wedding’s at noon. 
I sent her a spoon—­
And she loved me in June! 
  But that’s always their way. 
I sent her a spoon,
She is married to-day.

WILL L. GRAVES.
Makio.

A Modern Instance.

Her little hand in his he took,
All hot and quivering it was;
And noted how her eyes did look
Bright as a lucent sapphire does.

Within her dainty little wrist
Her pulse throbbed quick, as if her heart
Beat love’s glad summons to be kissed,
Heart’s first reveille since life’s start,

Her oval cheeks were flushed with rose;
Her red lips parted for such breath
As hot from tropic spice lands blows;
Enough ’twas to have warmed old Death!

He gazed at her; he spoke—­and she
Stuck out at him a small tongue’s tip: 
The family doctor old was he,
And she—­he said she had la grippe.

Red and Blue.

The Echo from the 17th.

Who builds de railroads and canals,
    But furriners? 
Who helps across de street de gals,
    But furriners?

Who in de caucus has der say,
Who does de votin’ ’lection day,
And who discovered U.S.A.,
    But furriners?

FRANK TOURTELLOT EASTON.
Brunonian.

Ballade of Laura’s Fan.

It was never imported from France
  With a dainty Parisian frou-frou,
Nor upon it do bull-fighters prance,
  As only the Spaniards can do. 
It was stencilled by no one knows who,
  Yet I’d give all my coupons and rents
For that one precious keepsake from you—­
  The fan that cost $0.63.

On the staircase we sat out a dance,
  Or twenty, for all that I knew;
At times on the bliss of my trance
  The breath of the roses stole through. 
But redder than rose-petals grew
  Your cheeks, at my swift compliments;
So the softest of breezes it blew—­
  The fan that cost $0.63.