nd when it clasps her fingers tight
I think--I wonder if it's right--
That somehow--well--I wish _I_ were
Her little glove.

FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES.
_Wesleyan Verse_.

~Skating Hath Charms.~

So cold was the night,
And her cheeks were cold, too,
Though it wasn't quite right,
So cold was the night,
And so sad was her plight,
That I--well, wouldn't you?
So cold was the night,
And her cheeks were cold, too.

H.H.
_Amherst Literary Monthly._

~The Portrait.~

Pearls and patches, powder and paint,
This was her grandmother years ago.
Gown and coiffure so strange and quaint,
Features just lacking the prim of the saint,
From the mischievous dimple that lurks below;
High-heeled slippers and satin bow,
Red lips mocking the heart's constraint,
Free from passion, devoid of taint--
This was her grandmother years ago.

Straight and slender, gallant and tall.
Ah, how he loved her, years ago!
Just so she looked at that last dim ball,
When, in a niche of the dusk old hall,
They whispered together soft and low.
She whispered "yes," but fate answered "no:"
Some one listened and told it all,
And the horses might wait by the garden wall,
But none came to answer him, years ago.

So, standing, fresh as the rose on her breast,
Smiling down on me here below,
Never a care on her brow impressed,
Never the dream of a thought confessed
Of all the weariness and the woe,
Hearts would break were time not so slow.
Swept are life's chambers; comes the new guest.
Old love, or new love--which was the best?
For this was her grandmother years ago.

_Southern Collegian_.

~The Convert.~

I wrote lots of trash about Cupid,
And the telling bewitchment of curls,
And that men were excessively stupid
To be madly devoted to girls.
I remarked that true love was unstable,
As compared with position or pelf,
'Till one day I met you, little Mabel,
And learned what it felt like, myself!

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 s