DAVID POTTER.
Nassau Literary Monthly.

My Pipe is Out.

My pipe is out; the hour is late,
And sitting lonely by the grate
  Sweet thoughts that led their circling train
  In puffs cerulean ’round my brain
Have flown, and left me to my fate.

No more the form of lovely Kate
Floats in the smoke-rings I create;
  And this the cause of all my pain,
        My pipe is out.

How can my pen the woes relate
That on these happy moments wait? 
  With eager eyes I look again
  Within my empty pouch,—­in vain! 
So I must cease to meditate,
        My pipe is out.

HERBERT MULLER HOPKINS.
Columbia Spectator.

At the Race.

She wore a little knot of blue,
  He waved a flag of red;
With all her heart she would be true
  To Yale—­she said.

And as she spoke a dainty flush
  Gave token of her pride;
He thought the crimson of her blush
  Her words belied.

So while he watched her blushes start—­
  “Deny it if you will,
Your blood—­yes, even in your heart—­
  Is crimson still.”

She turned and spoke, her voice was low,
  And yet it pierced him through—­
“Sir, pardon me, I’d have you know
  My blood is blue!”

Yale Record.

To an “Instructor."

Treat not with such wanton disdain
  The title of which you’re possessor,
Nor sorrow, because you remain
  Instructor instead of “Professor.”

Content you should be to be known
  As one of enlightenment’s ductors,
Rememb’ring how oft we bemoan
  Professors who are not instructors.

HARRY S. FURBUR, JR.
Syllabus.

As Usual.

Oh, the gay and festive Freshman has appeared upon the scene,—­
’Tis not the monster jealousy that makes him look so green,
’Tis not the fumes of rum that give his nose that ruddy glare,
But the boy has caught hay-fever from the hay-seed in his hair.

The blush upon his cheek is not the bloom upon the rye,
But tells of health and happiness, and johnny-cake and pie. 
The firm, elastic tread with which the boy is wont to roam
Comes from running on a steep side hill to drive the heifers home.

The funny tales he’ll have to tell of cows that get astray
Will all be sure to help him in a purely social way;
And all the strength that he’s acquired from milking them each trip
Will come in mighty handy when he tries to learn the grip.

For father will go barefoot, and mother dear will scrub
The neighbors’ dirty linen within a sudsy tub,
And Jane will wear no Sunday hat, and Jim no Sunday tie,
So Sam can go to Harvard to adorn the Zeta Psi.

Then nearly every morning, at the druggist’s, for a bluff,
He’ll ask the clerk for vichy, to make him think he’s tough. 
That boy will smoke a cigarette, and quite forget the plow! 
And mother will not know her son a year or so from now.