When girls are only babies,
Their mammas quite insist
That they by us—­
Against our wills—­
Be kissed—­kissed—­kissed.

But when those girls
Are sweet eighteen,
Their mammas say we sha’n’t,
And though we’d like to kiss them,
We can’t—­can’t—­can’t.

C.F.H.
Williams Weekly.

A Snare and a Delusion.

Between the trees a hammock swings
  On the lawn, at twilight’s glow;
Oh, what bliss sweet memory brings
  Of the days of long ago!

A dainty gown of spotless white,
  Moulded to a faultless form,
Fashioned like a fairy sprite,
  Riding on love’s tidal storm.

In the gloaming, dim discerning,
  We can faintly see the book;
Softly stealing, with lore’s yearning,—­
  Gracious heaven! it’s the cook!

Yale Record.

At the Junior Promenade.

The stars were out and the moon was bright
        At the Junior Promenade,
But all the glories of starlit night
Were bated before the splendid sight
Of that merry throng—­and my lady in white,
        At the Junior Promenade.

Oh, she was tall and wondrous fair
        At the Junior Promenade,
Her eyes were stars, and black was her hair,
Her cheeks shone red in the bright light’s glare: 
I worshiped her quite as I danced with her there,
        At the Junior Promenade.

She waltzed with the grace of a goddess divine
        At the Junior Promenade. 
I held her close, her hand in mine,
My cheek touched the strands of her hair so fine. 
A perfume arose from her lips of wine,
        At the junior Promenade.

Such seeds of love in my heart were sown
        At the Junior Promenade,
Till soon came the end—­I was left alone,
And then found out—­what I cannot disown—­
That I had made love to the chaperone
        At the Junior Promenade.

CAREY CULBERTSON.
Syllabus.

El Dorado.

’Twas a youthful would-be poet,
  Gazing with enraptured air
Through the starlight, when a comrade
  Found him standing silent there.

“Don’t disturb me,” was his answer,
  When addressed, “Oh, let me be! 
I am filled with heavenly raptures,
  For I see infinity!

“Let me gaze until I’m sated,
  For at last I’ve found a place,
Where there’s absolutely nothing
  Crowded out for want of space!”

GRANT SHOWERMAN.
Wisconsin Aegis.

The Conversion.

She told him surely ’twas not right
To smoke a pipe from morn to night
“Indeed,” cried he, “what would you, dear? 
’Tis but to aid my thoughts of you.” 
“Why, then,” she whispered, nestling near,
“Why, then, I love your old pipe, too.”

R. W. BERGENGREN.
Harvard Advocate.

Were It Only Now.