Above the city’s noisy glare,
Yet sweet, tho’ humble, is my fare;
For changing not from praise to blame,
These faithful friends are still the same—
No earthly comforts can compare
With pipe and book.
CHARLES E. MERRILL, JR.
Out into the mud and the wet he goes,
My hero, tall and strong;
Under his jersey the muscle shows,
And, Samson-like, his dark hair grows
Delightfully thick and long.
Out from his feet the black mud flies,
His jacket is far from white;
Bother these boys with their dapper ties,
Who come and compel me to turn my eyes
Away from a nobler sight!
The hills are red with the western sun,
The twilight comes like a dream;
But until the practice work is done
I strain my eyes for his every run,
And I know he will make the team.
I envy the fellow who keeps his cap,
With so little appreciation,
While I stroll back with a soft-tongued chap
Whose muscles I know aren’t worth a rap,
And whose hair is an imitation.
CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD.
To the Faculty.
You tell us in philosophy
That time does not exist,
That ’tis but a film of fancy,
A little mental mist.
And space—why, space is nothing
More than mere mode of thought,
A sort of mental telescope
Our feeble minds have wrought.
Well, if that’s true, Respected Sirs,
I’ll breakfast at my ease,
And think myself in chapel
Just as often as you please.
H. K. WEBSTER.
Hamilton Literary Monthly.
“Maud, take my heart!” cried Algernon.
(Maud goes to Barnard College.)
She said, “You know I’m wedded to
A noble search for knowledge.
“I cannot take your heart, Al, but—”
He saw her eyes with pleasure beam—
“I’m much obliged. You’ve given me
A subject for a daily theme.”
Columbia Literary Monthly.
"Give Me the Town."
Give me the town; let others go
Where babbling streams of water flow,
Where soars the lark on daring wing
(I’d rather hear De Reszke sing),
And where sweet-scented breezes blow.
I love to be where, to and fro,
Weary or eager, fast or slow,
The human tide is eddying;
Give me the town.
The balls, the theatres, the row,
Who would not find amusement so?
Here’s where a man can have his fling,
Can drink the dregs of—everything.
Would you change this for Surrey? Oh,
Give me the town.
MARY HELEN RITCHIE.
Bryn Mawr Lantern.
[Illustration: A BRYN MAWR GIRL.]
I Flunked To-Day.
I flunked to-day. “I’m not prepared,”
Was all I said. Still less I cared.
No more I strive the depths to try,
Or drink the fount of wisdom dry;
Yet once at learning’s court I fared;