The Widow’s Mite.

She was a widow stern and spry,
  And brimming with lots of fight;
She married a little man five feet high,
  And he died from the widow’s might.

Columbia Spectator.

Lines to Her.

There are other fellows nearer,—­
  And some of them are dearer,—­
Of those sad thoughts my heart has
                                  not
                                     a
                                      doubt.

But I want to get in line
With my little Valentine,
  So’s not to let those fellows
                               cut
                                  me
                                    out.

CHARLES FLOYD McCLURE.
Wisconsin Aegis.

A Sensible Serenade.

I sing beneath your lattice, love,
  A serenade in praise of you;
The moon is getting rather high,
  My voice is, too, my voice is, too.

The lakelet in deep shadow lies,
  Where frogs make much hullabaloo,
I think they sing a trifle hoarse,
  And I do, too, and I do, too.

The blossoms on the pumpkin vine
  Are weeping diamond tears of dew;
’Tis warm, the flowers are wilting fast,
  My linen, too, my linen, too.

All motionless the cedars stand,
  With silent moonbeams glancing through,
The very air is drowsy, love,
  And I am, too, and I am, too.

Oh, could I soar on loving wings,
  And at your window gently woo! 
But then your lattice you would bolt,
  So I’ll bolt, too, so I’ll bolt, too.

L.M.L.
Columbia Spectator.

Love’s Secret.

Well I know she is not handsome,
  She can neither sing nor dance,
But I strangely am attracted
  By each careless nod and glance
        Of my Madeline.

Quite a philanthropic feeling
  Is my love, so true and rare,
For she’s burdened with great riches;
  In which burden I would share
        With my Madeline.

From such heavy care to shield her,
  Each and every purpose tends. 
I will help to clip the coupons,
  And I’ll draw the dividends
        Of my Madeline.

ROBERT PECK BATES.
Trinity Tablet.

Pity ’tis, ’tis True.

I sat me down at leisure;
The ready waiter flew,
My order took suavely,
And shouted, “Oyster stew!”

The steaming dish was waiting,
The ready waiter flew,
Then, rose I up in anger,
And left,—­’twas “oysters two!”

HERBERT WELCH.
Wesleyan Argus.

Broken Chains.

He was tired of being shackled;
  She was faithless, that was plain;
So his lawyer filed the papers,
  And the papers filed his chain.

EUGENE A. COX.
Vanderbilt Observer.

Gory Gambols.