I love my adversary’s leg to kick,
  To frisk upon his features with my feet,
Or bunt him in the stomach till he’s sick—­
        All this is sweet.

I smile to hear his collar bone collapse,
  Accompanied by his expiring screech;
To crack his ribs is happiness, perhaps,
        Beyond all reach.

I laugh aloud when, in the scrimmage wild,
  I smash the thigh bone of some lusty boy,
And see him borne off, helpless as a child—­
        That, that is joy.

My sturdy heel into his spine I jam,
  To beat his mouth until he pouts at fate,
To punch him sternly in the diaphragm
        Is rapture great.

Than to perceive his manly blood run red
  No greater joy can unto me be given;
But at one kick to kick him down stone-dead—­
        That, that is heaven,

Lehigh Burr.

The Man without a Country.

The “man without a country” was in such a sorry plight,
There wasn’t any place on land where he might pass the night,
But if you’d like to see a man as badly off as he,
Who hasn’t any place at all to stay on land or sea,
Who has no spot he may enjoy to any great extent,
Just wait until you see some time the man without a cent.

H.F.H.
Amherst Literary Monthly.

She Shook Her Head.

“May I kiss you, dear,” a youth once cried,
  Although scarce hoping what he said;
But the maiden turned away her eyes
  And slowly, sadly, shook her head.

“But would you mind,” he still went on,
  “Now would you really care,” he said,
“If I should kiss you?” and again
  She turned aside—­and shook her head.

J.P.  SAWYER.
Yale Record.

Priscilla.

Priscilla in the garret loft

Of rare old silks and velvets soft
A heap espying,—­
Forgotten hues of a by-gone day!—­
The little maid in deft array
Carefully folds and lays away
With envious sighing.

Did they some rustic beauty grace,
A comely form and winsome face. 
With footsteps flying? 
Or does she sigh because a bride
They once adorned; now cast aside,
Left in the garret there to hide,
The dust defying?

Perchance her great-grandmother wore
Them hundred years ago and more—­
Priscilla’s crying! 
“Come little maid, why this despair? 
What makes those big tears standing there?”
“Ah, sir! because they will not bear
Another dyeing.”

Yale Record.

Hard to Beat.

Last night I held a little hand
  So dainty and so neat,
Methought my heart would burst with joy,
  So wildly did it beat. 
No other hand into my soul
  Could greater solace bring,
Than that I held last night, which was
  Four aces and a king.

WILLIAM A. THOMPSON.
Wesleyan Literary Monthly.