the words that the wild wind said,
And where, in the dark, did the cloud-ships go?

Come through the window and touch her hair,
Wind of the vast and starry deep!
And tell her not of this old world's care,
But kiss her softly and let her sleep.

_Columbia Literary Monthly._

~Two of a Kind.~

HE:

Down in the glen
By the trysting tree,
Somebody's sister is waiting for me.
Under the stars,
In the dewy grass
Waiting for me--the poor little lass!

And I sit alone
In my cozy den,
A much better place than that clammy glen,
And I think of her tears
As she waits in vain
Till it seems almost cruel to give her such pain.

SHE:

Down in the glen
By the trysting tree,
Somebody's brother is waiting for me;
Waiting in vain,
Though it may seem cruel,
But how can I help it--the poor little fool!

I know I'm not faithful
As he is--but then,
Women are never as constant as men.
He'll never forgive me;
I know I'm to blame,
But he might have treated me some day the same.

WALTER TALLMADGE ARNDT.
_The Badger._

~To the Cigarette Girl.~

Your motions all are sweet and full of grace
As daintily you roll your cigarette;
You smoke it with a pretty puckered face
That I, a mortal man, can ne'er forget.

It's jolly fun when you adopt our sins;
Pray never fear of being thought a "poke."
Your every mood sincerest worship wins,
And yet I wish, my dear, you didn't smoke.

H. F. H.
_Amherst Literary Monthly,_

~A Game of Chess.~

We played at chess one wintry night
Beside the fire, that warm and bright
Was mirrored in her hazel eyes;
Methought a gleam from Paradise
Outshone the back-log's flickering light.

The hand that took my queen was white,
I trembled at its gentle might;
Nor sweeter game could Love devise--
We played at chess.

I scarce could see to play aright,
I took a pawn and lost a knight,
And then she gazed with mild surprise--
She said I was not shrewd nor wise;
And yet, to me, with strange delight
We played at chess.

ROBERT PORTER ST. JOHN.
_Amherst Literary Monthly_.

~When Margaret Laughs.~

When Margaret laughs the world is gay,
All care is driven far away;
Her hat aslant, with roguish air,
A red carnation in her hair--
True daughter of the merry May.

The rosebuds of a summer's day,
The modest flowers along her way,
All seem to have a grace more fair,