he Summer Girl.~

A half-reclining form
In a "sleepy-hollow" chair,
A cloud of curls that storm
About her beauty fair,
Two laughing eyes that tell
A shyly answered "Yes."
A dainty hand to--well,
Say simply to caress.

An airy little sprite
In a billowy flood of lace,
Which flutters in its flight
In the galop's tripping grace.
And, oh, the broken hearts
Which follow the rapturous whirl!
Oh, the Redfern gown, and the arts
Of the annual summer girl!

EDWIN OSGOOD GROVER.
_Dartmouth Literary Monthly._

~Love's Token.~

The frost and snow of mistletoe,
The warmth of holly berry,
These I combine, O lady mine,
To make thy yule-tide merry.
And shouldst thou learn, sweet, to return
My love, nor deem it folly,
Twined in thy hair the snow fruit wear,
And on thy breast the holly.

ALICE R. TAGGART.
_Vassar Miscellany_.

~A Passing Song.~

Ah, only love I have ever known,
Ah, only love I shall ever know,
The careless hours of youth have flown
And the light-hearted past to the winds is thrown,
And faster and faster the hours go.

To your heart and mine there's a secret lying
While the spring's breath thrills in the air of May,
While life seems ever to be defying
The flight of time and the thought of dying,
And the great world runs on its careless way.

Yet one dear thought in my heart is resting
As I face the path I must tread ere long,
When wearied with life's unending questing,
Its tawdry joys and its idle jesting,
I shall pass to the midst of the missing throng.

That here I have known your heart's dear thrilling,
Your helping hand and your watchful eye,
My life with your tender love fulfilling.
I know but this, and am strangely willing
To learn your love and in learning--die.

GUY WETMORE CARRYL.
_Columbia Spectator_.

~Safe.~

When I picked up her glove
I let Fate decide it.
So great was my love,
When I picked up her glove;
'Twas as soft as a dove
_And her hand was inside it._
When I picked up her glove
I let Fate decide it.

W.
_Columbia Spectator._

~Her Winsome Smile.~

Her winsome smile! It beams on me
From where the choir makes melody,
Behind the parson; maid demure,
Her witching eyes my thoughts allure,
Although, in church, this should not be.
Pale Luna's light, the dimpling sea,
Are very taking, I'll agree;
But to her smile all else is poor--
Her winsome smile.

The preacher, in a mournful key,
Shoves on the Year of Jubilee,
Shows prese