nding stair,
She replies with a smile to my sober bow;
The palms lean lovingly toward her hair,
And her foot keeps time to a distant air.
I'm afraid she does not recall or care--
She does not offer to kiss me now!

Heigho! What a sad, what a sweet affair,
What a curious mixture life seems to be!
I am fast in the net of love, and there,
With another man on the winding stair,
Is the girl I love,--and I pulled her hair
When she wanted a kiss at the age of three!

GUY WETMORE CARRYL.
_Columbia Spectator._

~A Toast.~

Clink, clink,
Fill up your glasses.
Drink, drink,
Drink to the lasses.
Eyes that are blue,
Lips that are sweet,
Hearts that are true,
Figures petite.
Clink, clink,
Fill up your glasses.
Drink, drink,
Drink to the lasses.
Drink, for there's nothing so sweet as a maid is;
Drink to the dearest of mortals, The Ladies.

HENRY MORGAN STONE.
_Brunonian_.

~A Bit of Lace.~

It lay upon a pillow white,
The framework of a beauteous sight
Wherein its mistress laid a bright
Ecstatic face,
And when each night it proudly bore
Her wavy wealth of "cheveux d'or"
It seemed a very Heaven for
The bit of lace.

But lace can from a pillow part
And by a touch, of cunning art
Adorn the casket of the heart,
Where every grace,
Half hidden by its witching fold,
Seeks to betray a charm untold--
How envies each admirer bold
The bit of lace!

Still maidens' mind and garments change,
And so there comes a new exchange;
The real Valenciennes finds a strange
New resting-place,
Where tiny feet and ankles hide,
And where but for a shoe untied
No human eye had e'er espied
The bit of lace.

A crowded street, a sudden scare,
A little rush, a lengthy tear,
A snowy skirt that needs repair,
Decides the case.
And what each morn her footman missed
Hung from a dainty, dimpled wrist,
And ardent lovers fondly kissed
The bit of lace.

* * * * *

This tale is incomplete, I know,
But where else could the traveller go?
Ah, it was fifty years ago
All this took place.
And nodding, in her noonday nap,
Secure from every sad mishap,
I see in Grandma's dainty cap
The bit of lace.

_Red and Blue._

~A Song to Her.~

A song to a maid with eyes like stars;
Lad, you can sing it.
Any old tune to trip the bars,
Any old voice to ring it;
Love will wend it away to her;
Love will mend it and pray to her;
Love with his love will wing it.

A song