e days,
My thoughts were given to a dainty maid
At college with me, and in woodland ways
And quiet music-rooms my court I paid.
But, with, my Junior dignity, I chose
My Queen abroad, within the city's glare,
Forgot the violet for the gayer rose,
And lost my heart and pocket-money there.

Saint Valentine, those days were long ago;
Your power is lost upon this penitent,
For, with my Senior gravity, I know
That life means more than your light sentiment.
And yet, this once, your day shall have from me
Some of the old observance, though I scoff;
My thesis waits,--my Valentine shall be
The old-maid sister of my major prof.

CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD.
_Sequoia_.

~The Banjo Fiend.~

There is a fellow across the way
Who plays the banjo night and day,
And all you ever hear him play,
Is plunk, plunk, plunkety, plunk, plunk.

He plays along with might and main,
Be it foul or fair, be it snow or rain,
And, oh! it is that constant strain,
That plunk, plunk, plunkety, plunk, plunk.

You sit here in your room and swear,
But he can't hear, nor does he care,
Only goes on playing that same old air,
The plunk, plunk, plunkety, plunk, plunk.

It is his hope that some fine day
On the Banjo Club they'll let him play,
But he won't if we have aught to say,
With his plunk, plunk, plunkety, plunk, plunk.

WILLARD GROSVENOR BLEYER.
_The Badger_.

~Varium et Mutabile.~

I saw her going to the game,
Her eyes were bright, her cheeks aflame,
And o'er her shoulders lightly fell
A Princeton scarf, her choice to tell.

I saw her when the game was o'er,
A loyal Nassau maid no more;
To Yale, the victor, now she's true--
Her yellow scarf was lined with blue.

J. P. SAWYER,
_Yale Record._

~In His Own Country.~

I made myself a poet in the place,
And blithely sang of college life and ways,
The pleasure of the undergraduate pace,
And all the joy between the holidays;
No care spoke ever in my careless song,
From graver strains I kept my pipe apart,
And played the upper notes; ah, was it wrong
To dream my music reached the student heart?

Upon a day one said, with kind intent:
"Why sing forever of these trivial things?
For better music was your piping meant;
Will you confess such earth-restricted wings?
Strike some Byronic chord, sublime and deep,
Find in ethereal flight the upper air,
And speak to us some word that we may keep
Within our hearts and ever treasure there!"

Then, with