Don’t read all the things I have written
  When I knew that my heart was my own,
But since I confess I am smitten,
  Read these little verses alone. 
And sincerely I trust I’ll be able
  To convince you, you sly little elf,
To grant me your heart, little Mabel,
  And learn what it feels like yourself!

GUY WETMORE CARRYL.
Columbia Literary Monthly.

A Thief’s Apology.

I stole a kiss!—­What could I do? 
Before the door we stood, we two,
  About to say a plain good-by;
  She seemed so innocent and shy,
But what she thought, I thought I knew.

Ah, swift the blissful moments flew,
And when at last I said adieu
  (Perhaps you think me bold), but I—­
          I stole a kiss.

The tale is told; perhaps it’s true,
Perhaps it was a deed to rue;
  But when that look came in her eye
  I thought she wished to have me try—­
I don’t know how ’twould been with you—­
          I stole a kiss.

ROBERT PORTER ST. JOHN.
Amherst Literary Monthly.

A Ballad of Dorothy.

It’s “Dorothy!  Where’s Dorothy?”
  From morn to even fall,
There’s not a lad on Cowslip Farm
  Who joins not in the call. 
It’s Dolly here and Dolly there,
  Where can the maiden be? 
No wench in all the countryside’s
  So fine as Dorothy.

With tucked-up gown and shining pail,
  Before the day is bright,
Down dewy lanes she singing goes
  Among the hawthorns white. 
Perchance her roses need her care,
  She tends them faithfully. 
There’s not a rose in all the world
  As fresh and sweet as she!

With morning sunshine in her hair
  A-churning Dolly stands: 
Oh, happy chum, I envy it,
  Held close between her hands;
And when the crescent moon hangs bright
  Athwart the soft night sky,
Down shady paths we strolling go,
  Just Dorothy and I.

As true of heart as sweet of face,
  With gay and girlish air,
The painted belles of citydom
  Are not a whit as fair. 
Come Michaelmas the parish chimes
  Will ring out merrily. 
Who is the bride I lead to church? 
  Why, who but Dorothy?

ARTHUR KETCHUM.
Williams Literary Monthly.

A Cup and Saucer Episode.

’Twas only coffee, yet we both drank deep,
  I won’t deny I felt intoxication;
For just to see those roguish moon-eyes peep
  Over the cup, I plunged in dissipation.

She raised her cup, and I raised also mine;
  She gave a look, as if “Now are you ready?”
Our eyes met o’er the rims—­it seemed like wine,
  So sweet, divine, bewitching, almost “heady.”

So cup on cup!  The salad, too, was good. 
  I had of that far more than my fair rations. 
Yet served it merely as an interlude
  Between the music of the cup flirtations.