“The time is come,” said Birthington, “when wash we really must,
For, see our country’s garments, how they’re trampled in the dust;
And Liberty’s bright tunic is so sadly soiled, I ween,
That nothing but a washing day will make it bright and clean.”

The morning dawned, the washers came, the washing was begun;
The steam rose high, nor ceased to rise till cleanliness was won. 
And now, though good George Birthington is gone to his repose,
The grateful country still recalls how well he washed her clothes.

FLORENCE E. HOMES.
Wellesly Lyrics.

The Freshman’s Vacation.

He had fished in the Aroostook,
And he’d trolled in the Walloostook,
And he’d angled in the Mattawamkeag,
He had hunted Lake Umbagog,
And spent weeks on Memphremagog,
For he’d sworn to bring the fish home by the bag.

All too soon the summer ended,
And his homeward way he wended,
And he left his tent within the shady vale;
But before he reached New Lyddom,
He took all his fish and hid ’em
In an envelope and sent them home by mail.

University Herald.

A Rondel.

“I’d draw the knot as tight as man can draw,
And firm I’d make it fast by every law;
Dearest, you need not speak your fond consent,
Your paleness and your blush so finely blent,”
He gently said; “tell me my happy lot: 
        I’d draw the knot.”

But ere he could the eager phrase repeat,—­
The phrase his manly fancy found so sweet,—­
The modest maiden toward him turned her face: 
Her eyes met his a moment’s rapturous space,—­
She spoke, her firm glance faltering scarce a jot,
        “I’d rather not.”

J.J.  MACK, JR.
Harvard Lampoon.

The Ladye of the Lab.

He fareth in a joyous wise
Where runs the road ’neath gentle skies—­
How should his canine heart surmise
That where the red-roofed towers rise
  The blood is red upon the slab? 
His way is warm with sunlight yet,
He knoweth not the sun must set;
And he hath in the roadway met
  The Ladye of the Lab.

How should he read her face aright? 
Upon her brow the hair is bright,
Within her eyes a tender light,
Her luring hands are lily-white,
  Tho’ blood be red upon the slab;
Her calling voice is siren-sweet,—­
He crouches fawning at her feet,—­
It is a fatal thing to meet
  The Ladye of the Lab!

And she hath ta’en him with a string
To where the linnets never sing,
Where stiff and still is everything,
And there a heart lies quivering
  When blood is red upon the slab;
O little dog that wandered free! 
And hath she done this thing to thee? 
How may she work her will with me,—­
  The Ladye of the Lab!

CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD.
Four-Leaved Clover.

Our Wrongs.