The maids of Java flocked before his door,
Attracted by the trousers that he wore;
    While his vest, a bosom-venter,
    Shook Formosa to the centre,
And they hailed him as a mentor by the score.

On his own ground as a masher, on the street
He outdid a Turkish Pasha, who stood treat;
    He gave Shanghai girls the jumps,
    And their cheeks stuck out like mumps
At the patent-leather pumps upon his feet.

But he called upon a Boston girl one night,
With a necktie ready-made, which wasn’t right;
    And she looked at him, this maid did,
    And he faded, and he faded,
And he faded, and he faded out of sight.

The Tech.

Her Present.

He had hinted at diamonds, a fan by Watteau,
A fine water spaniel,—­so great was his zeal,—­
A chatelaine watch, or a full set of Poe,
And then at the end sent a padded Lucile.

F.
Harvard Lampoon.

On the Weather.

The sultry stillness of a summer’s day
Oppresses every sense.  The droning bees
Alone the silence break, and restless play
The shadows of the gently swaying trees.

The very ripples in the stream are still,
Save now and then a low and gentle swash,
All which doth try me sore against my will—­
So hot!  And all my ducks are in the wash.

FERRIS GREENSLET.
Wesleyan Literary Monthly.

Tom’s Philosophy.

The bridges mingle with the river,
And the river with the ocean;
The lights of Boston mix forever
With a jagged motion;
Not a lamp-post near looks single;
All things, when in town I dine,
With weird, uncanny phantoms mingle,
Why not I with wine?

See the house-tops fall from heaven! 
And that chimney hit the other—­
A college man would be forgiven
If home he’d help a brother. 
Is it the sun that shines on earth,
Or moonbeams that I see? 
What are all my struggles worth,
Since I’ve lost my key?

Harvard Lampoon.

Fashion’s Folly.

I knew a maiden fair and sweet,
  Whom I had loved for years. 
At last one day I told her this,
  Although with many fears.

At first she did not say a word,
  Then in a pleasant way
She looked out to the west, and said: 
  “It is a pleasant day.”

She had not heard a single word,
  She’s told me since with tears;
She wore her hair, as some girls will,
  Down over both her ears.

S.W.  CHAMBERLAIN.
Vassar Miscellany.

Christmas in Chicago.

The girl from Chicago arose sharp at eight,
As her maid on the door was knocking;
She found a piano, a desk, and a slate
Concealed in the toe of her stocking.

A. M. WHITE, JR.
Harvard Advocate.

A Discovery in Biology.