Yale Record.

In Maiden Meditation.

“Were I a man,” quoth Mistress Jane,
“Ah, would I were!—­I’d drink champagne
  And smoke—­be dashing in my dress—­
  And let my roving eyes express
A love I never entertain.

“With rose lips near, I’d not refrain
From kissing.  I would e’er maintain
  That woman’s ‘No’ is often ‘Yes,’
        Were I a man.

“Yet while I muse, it seems quite plain
That as I am I can’t complain,
  For Tom and Jack—­they both confess—­
  Adore me.  So I rather guess
I’d wish I were a girl again,
        Were I a man!”

W.C.  NICHOLS.
Harvard Lampoon.

"Three’s a Crowd."

Crisp and hard lay the snow beneath,
The frosty air made young blood tingle. 
As we glided over the polished road
To the sleigh-bells’ merriest jingle.

We were warmly wrapped to our chins in rugs,
Fur-proof against winter’s biting weather,
There was room in the sleigh for only two,
But—­three of us sleighed together.

The moon from the clear, cold sky above
Flooded the snow with a golden glory,
And I whispered—­for how could I refrain?—­
The old, old, world-famous story.

Must have seemed quite a crowd, you say,
With three in the sleigh?  Well you are stupid! 
Three’s a pleastanter company far, than two,
When the person who crowds you is Cupid!

Vassar Miscellany.

On Bills.

At the first of the month I grow morbid and sad;
As I gaze on that pile I believe
In the saying that never was potent before—­
“’Tis more blessed to give than receive.”

Lehigh Burr.

A Senior’s Plea.

“Dear Father:  Once you said, ’My son,
To manhood you have grown;
Make others trust you, trust yourself,
And learn to stand alone!’

“Now, father, soon I graduate,
And those who long have shown
How well they trust me, want their pay,
And I can stand a loan.”

JOHN CURTIS UNDERWOOD.
Trinity Tablet.

After the Game.

They played at cards on the yellow sand. 
  When the fields and the trees were green,
She thought that the trump was in her hand,
  He thought that he held the queen. 
But winter has come, and they both have strayed
  Away from the throbbing wave—­
He finds ’twas only the deuce she played,
  She finds that he played the knave.

Columbia Spectator.

Old Days.

Sing a song of old days,
Old days and true,
True days and bold days,
Deeds to dare and do.

Quarter-staff and buckles
Trip, turn and tread—­
Tapped upon the knuckles,
Rapped upon the head.

Pouch and pocket-fillings,
Knavery and worse—­
Oh, the crowns and shillings
In the miser’s purse!