’Tis only the toe of a high-heeled shoe,
  With the glimpse of a color above—­
A stocking tinted a faint sky-blue,
  The shade that lovers love.

’Tis only a woman—­a woman, that’s all,
  And, as only a woman can,
Bringing a heart to her beck and call
  By waving her feather fan.

’Tis only a woman, and I—­’twere best
  To forget that waving fan. 
She only a woman—­you know the rest? 
  But I am only a man.

CHARLES WASHINGTON COLEMAN.
Virginia University Magazine.

Her Little Glove.

Her little glove, I dare aver,
Would set your pulses all astir;
  It hides a something safe from sight
  So soft and warm, so small and white,
A cynic would turn flatterer!

Could Pegasus have better spur? 
’Twould almost cause a saint to err—­
  A Puritan to grow polite—­
        Her little glove.

’Twill satisfy a connoisseur,
This dainty thing of lavender;
  And when it clasps her fingers tight
  I think—­I wonder if it’s right—­
That somehow—­well—­I wish I were
      Her little glove.

FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES.
Wesleyan Verse.

Skating Hath Charms.

So cold was the night,
  And her cheeks were cold, too,
Though it wasn’t quite right,
So cold was the night,
And so sad was her plight,
  That I—­well, wouldn’t you? 
So cold was the night,
  And her cheeks were cold, too.

H.H.
Amherst Literary Monthly.

The Portrait.

Pearls and patches, powder and paint,
  This was her grandmother years ago. 
Gown and coiffure so strange and quaint,
Features just lacking the prim of the saint,
  From the mischievous dimple that lurks below;
  High-heeled slippers and satin bow,
Red lips mocking the heart’s constraint,
Free from passion, devoid of taint—­
  This was her grandmother years ago.

Straight and slender, gallant and tall. 
  Ah, how he loved her, years ago! 
Just so she looked at that last dim ball,
When, in a niche of the dusk old hall,
  They whispered together soft and low. 
  She whispered “yes,” but fate answered “no:” 
Some one listened and told it all,
And the horses might wait by the garden wall,
  But none came to answer him, years ago.

So, standing, fresh as the rose on her breast,
  Smiling down on me here below,
Never a care on her brow impressed,
Never the dream of a thought confessed
  Of all the weariness and the woe,
  Hearts would break were time not so slow. 
Swept are life’s chambers; comes the new guest. 
Old love, or new love—­which was the best? 
  For this was her grandmother years ago.

Southern Collegian.

The Convert.

I wrote lots of trash about Cupid,
  And the telling bewitchment of curls,
And that men were excessively stupid
  To be madly devoted to girls. 
I remarked that true love was unstable,
  As compared with position or pelf,
’Till one day I met you, little Mabel,
  And learned what it felt like, myself!