FRANCIS CHARLES MCDONALD.
Nassau Literary Monthly.

An Evening Song.

O red, red clouds in the westering sky,
  That are lit with a lamp of gold,
The hours are faint, they sleep, they die,
  The stars are earthward rolled;
Make bright day’s burial-place, make bright,
  So it crimson-canopied be—­
It dies, and Fancy out of the night
  Comes down—­comes down to me.

O red, red clouds with your glory gone,
  That are ghostly shapes of gray. 
My lady dreams by a moon-lit lawn,
  Away from me—­away;
Go down—­go down from the sky, so the gleams
  Of the moon shine over the sea,
And bring the thought of my lady’s dreams
  Over to me—­to me.

ROBERT L. HUNGER.
Yale Courant.

Panacea

When life proves disappointing,
    And sorrow seems anointing
    Brows of care,
Take a brace and go a-sailing,
Either dolphin back or whaling,
    Anywhere.

Fling your troubles to the breezes,
Where the salted Ocean sneezes
    Spray your face—­
Never mind the moments flying,
There’ll be left of care and sighing,
    Not a trace.

ANNIE NYHAN SCEIBNER.
Wisconsin Aegis.

The Dive.

One moment, poised above the flashing blue,
The next I’m slipping, sliding through
The water, that caresses, yields, resists,
Wrapping my sight in cooling, gray-green mists. 
Another moment, my body swirls, I rise,
Shaking the water from my blinded eyes,
And strike out strong, glad that I am alive,
To swim back to the gray old pile from which I dive.

CORNELIA BROWNELL GOULD.
Smith College Monthly.

The Robin.

A STUDY.

Abstracted, contemplative air,
  A sudden run and stop,
A glance indifferent round about,
  Head poised—­another hop.

A plunge well-aimed, a backward tug,
  A well-resisted squirm,
Then calm indifference as before. 
  But oh, alack, the worm!

KATHERINE VAN D. HARKEE,
Vassar Miscellany.

A Mountain Brook.

I come from the depths of the mountain,
The dark, hidden, head of the fountain,
I spring from a nook in the ledges,
And bathe the gray granite’s rough edges,
I rush over wide mossy masses
To quench the hot thirst of the grasses. 
I bathe the cleft hoofs of the cattle,
As o’er the rude ford-stones I rattle. 
I glide through the glens deep in shadow;
I flow in the sun-bathed meadow,
And seek, with a shake and a quiver,
The still steady flow of the river,
Then on to the wild rhythmic motion
Of my mother, the sky-tinted ocean.

CHARLES OTIS JUDKINS.
Wesleyan Literary Monthly.

In the San Joaquin.

Across the hills the screeching blue-jays fly
In countless flocks, and as they hasten by
  The children look up from their merry play
  To watch them slowly, slowly fade away;
And night steals up the corners of the sky.