old,
And this is the life for me.
I have a penny, my fiddle, and Joan,
And my sweet Joan has me.

ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH.
_Smith College Monthly._

~Jamie's Word wi' the Sea.~

(A-WAITIN' FER JINNIE.)

Ye'll no fret ye mair the noo,
Wull ye, sea?
Like ye've dune the winter through,
Roarin' at the sands and me.

Ye were wearyin' yersel'
Till her bit,
Wee, licht fuitstep by ye fell.
Ay, but lookee noo! an' quit!

Ken ye no the way she rins?
Hoo her hair,
Ower-muckle fer the pins,
Blaws aboot her everywhere?

Ye'll no stop yer clatt'rin' din?
Puir blin' thing!
Ye'll no see her happy rin;
"Jamie!" ye'll no hear her sing.

Hoots! Awa', ye loupin' sea,
Doon yer sands,
Jinnie's callin' doon tae me!
Jinnie's haudin' oot her hands!

ROBERT JERMAIN COLE.
_Columbia Literary Monthly._

~Lent.~

Priscilla is a maid devout
In this repentant season,
And to the world and all its ways
Has vowed a pious treason.

Sweet little saint, so shy, demure!--
Though long I've tried to win her
I fear that I'm not in it with
Some other lucky sinner.

For when I begged she'd trust her heart
To me, and o'er her bent,
She blushed and softly murmured,
"How can I when it's Lent."

T. L. CLARKE.
_Yale Record._

~I Dream of Flo.~

I dream of Flo, and memory, fleeting light,
Calls up the happy bygone days to-night,
The scent of lavender is faint in air,
(Ah, well-remembered flowers she loved to wear!)
My senses float afar in rapt delight.

How can I e'er forget that summer night!
'Tis not because her black eyes shone so bright,
Nor is it for the witchery in her hair,
I dream of Flo.

She promised me a cushion well bedight
With ruffles blue, and I, oh, luckless wight,
Must send to her--she said, exchange is fair--
My college pin in gold. Her cushion's where
With half-closed eyes I lie. Is't not aright
I dream of Flo?

ALBERT SARGENT DAVIS.
_Yale Courant._

~A Humble Romance.~

Her ways were rather frightened, and she wasn't much to see,
She wasn't good at small talk, or quick at repartee;
Her gown was somewhat lacking in the proper cut and tone,
And it wasn't difficult to see she'd made it all alone.
So the gay young men whose notice would have filled her with delight
Paid very small attention to the little girl in white.

He couldn't talk the theatre, for he hadn't time to go,
And, though he knew that hay was high, and butter rather low