And then to have her say ’twas all my fault! 
  I fairly blushed, and gazed down at my cup. 
I noticed, though, she had not called the halt
  Until the pot was empty, every sup.

BERT ROSS.
Harvard Advocate.

Faint Heart Ne’er Won Fair Lady.

“The burn runs swiftly, my dainty lass,
  And its foam-wreathed stones are mossy,
An I carry ye ower to yonder shore
  Ye will na think me saucy?”

“I thank ye, sir, but a Scottish lass
  Recks not of a little wetting. 
Will ye stand aside, sir?  I can na bide, sir. 
  The sun o’ the gloamin’s setting.”

“Yet stay, my pretty, the stepping-stones
  Are a bridge o’ my are hands’ making. 
An ye pay no toll I maun be so bold—­
  The sweeter a kiss for taking.”

“Farewell, ye braw young Highlander. 
  Tho’ first ye sought to mask it: 
Unceevil ’tis to steal a kiss. 
  But muckle waur to ask it.”

CHARLES POTTER HINE.
Yale Literary Magazine.

A Foreign Tongue.

When lovers talk, they talk a foreign tongue,
Their words are not like ours,
But full of meanings like the throb of flowers
Yet in the earth, unborn.  I think the snow
Feels the mysterious passage and the flow
Of inarticulate streams that surge below. 
And it is easy learning for the young;
When lovers talk, they talk a foreign tongue.

ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH.
Smith College Monthly.

Ye Gold-Headed Cane.

It stands in the corner yet, stately and tall,
With a top that once shone like the sun. 
It whispers of muster-field, playhouse, and ball,
Of gallantries, courtship, and fun. 
It is hardly the stick for the dude of to-day,
He would swear it was deucedly plain,
But the halos of memory crown its decay—­
My grandfather’s gold-headed cane.

It could tell how a face in a circling calash
Grew red as the poppies she wore,
When a dandy stepped up with a swagger and dash. 
And escorted her home to her door. 
How the beaux cried with jealousy, “Jove! what a buck!”
As they glared at the fortunate swain,
And the wand which appeared to have fetched him his luck—­
My grandfather’s gold-headed cane.

It could tell of the rides in the grand yellow gig,
When, from under a broad scuttle hat,
The eyes of fair Polly were lustrous and big,
And—­but no! would it dare tell of that? 
Ah me! by those wiles that bespoke the coquette
How many a suitor was slain! 
There was one, though, who conquered the foe when they met
With the gleam of his gold-headed cane.

Oh, the odors of lavender, lilac, and musk! 
They scent these old halls even yet;
I can still see the dancers as down through the dusk
They glide in the grave minuet. 
The small satin slippers, my grandmamma’s pride,
Long, long in the chest have they lain;
Let us shake out the camphor and place them beside
My grandfather’s gold-headed cane.