I’m sitting musing in my room,
  The snow is on the ground;
The moon has hid her face to-night,
  And darkness is profound. 
’Twas somewhat such a night as this,
  A little darker, though,
I asked Bess to go sleighing, and
  She said that she would go.

But just as we were starting out,
  Said she, “For just us two”
(A smile played round her mouth) “I think
  It much too dark, don’t you?”
I did not know their wiles as yet,
  I was so young and slow;
But thought she really meant it, and
  I stammered, “I—­think—­so.”

She cast at me a pitying glance,
  Then in the house we went;
The balance of that evening was
  In conversation spent.

* * * * *

Since then she’s always been polite,
  And cordial, too, you know;
But from that time I realize
  I’ve never had a show.

A. W. BELL.
Yale Record.

Her Thanks.

She thanked them all for everything,
From Christmas card to diamond ring;
And as her gifts she gaily flaunted,
She told her friends, “Just what I wanted.”

But I, who had no cash to blow,
Just kissed her ’neath the mistletoe. 
She blushed a bit, yet never daunted,
Repeated low, “Just what I wanted.”

M.D.  FOLLANSBEE.
Harvard Lampoon.

An Idyl.

He stands before his glass in doubt;
  His beard by night hath sprouted well. 
He needs must scrape,—­and yet without
  He hears begin the lecture bell. 
Too many times he’s skipped the course—­
  He fears its doors on him may shut: 
His blade is dull.  Now which is worse,
  To cut and shave, or shave and cut?

Harvard Lampoon.

"When?"

When Harvard’s crimson cohorts came
  From classic Cambridge down,
And Eli’s lovers of the game
  Forsook their leafy town,
And met on neutral ground to claim
  The football victor’s crown,

I carried Rose to see the sight,
  The pageant’s grand review;
We watched the struggling heroes fight,
  The crimson and the blue;
The crowd was yelling with delight,
  And fierce the contest grew.

First Yale rose up, an azure sea,
  And shouted through the din;
Then Harvard yelled triumphantly,
  And each was sure to win,
When Rosa, smiling, said to me,
“When does the game begin?”

E. A. BLOUNT, JR.
Columbia Spectator.

An Unfortunate Phrase.

He sent her twelve Jacqueminot roses,
  All fragrant and blooming and fair,
That nestled so sweetly and shyly
  ’Neath smilax and maidenhair.

She sent him a letter to thank him,
  On paper just tinted with blue—­
“The flowers are still very fresh, John,
  When I see them I think of you.”

She posted her letter that morning,
  He got it that evening at ten. 
She can’t understand what has changed him,
  For he called on her never again.