d dainty finger-tips,
Glowing blushes, fragrant sighs,
Looks dove-sweet from starry eyes,
These do show this saying true--
Maidens all were meant to woo!

Guerdon dear shall be his meed
Who will be Love's thrall in deed:
Strollings 'neath a mellow moon,
Whispers soft as rain in June,
Kisses, maybe, one or two--
Maidens all were meant to woo!

WILL L. GRAVES.
_Makio_.

~Triolet.~

He kissed me 'neath the mistletoe!
Of course I said it wasn't fair
To take advantage of me so,
And kiss me 'neath the mistletoe,--
But then, 'twas only Jack, you know,
And so I really didn't care!
He kissed me 'neath the mistletoe,
Although I said ft wasn't fair!

GERTRUDE CRAVEN.
_Smith College Monthly_.

~Song.~

The April sun smiles bright above,
The skies are deep and blue,
I walk among the growing fields
And dream, sweetheart, of you.
And as I go, from out the wood
A mocking-bird calls clear,
"Sweetheart, sweetheart," and I turn,
Half hoping thou art here.

Alas! the sunlight floods the earth,
Yet all is dark to me;
The flowers may gaily bud and bloom,
The earth be fair to see;
And "sweetheart, sweetheart," evermore
The mocking-bird may sing,
But in a fairer land thine eyes
Are opening to the spring.

R.L. EATON.
_Morningside_.

~The Effigy.~

And so she smiles!--Nor frown nor pout
That look divine can put to rout.

I would, my love, thou wert half
So constant as thy photograph!

P.P.S.
_Parthenon_.

~Sotto Voce.~

Sing we of the summer,
Of the old, old days,
Of the reed songs and the murmur
Of the waterways.
Let thy song be merry, ever mine be sad;
Let thy sigh be airy, even ofttimes glad;
For then comes a sadness I cannot explain,
Like the deep-plunged echo of a sea's refrain;
And it dooms the sweetness
Of her winsome ways
To the dead completeness
Of the old, old days.

Sing, Oh! then with joyance,
Thou, my mandolin;
Drown each dread annoyance
Deep, thy soul within;
Whisper ever lowly of her glad, true eyes;
Sing her name, love, slowly, thou can'st sympathize;
Teach my heart, my wilful heart, the faith of peace,
Promising her constancy with time's increase.
Bar, Oh! break the sadness
Of the doubter's sin;
Sing eternal gladness,
Thou, my mandolin.

HAROLD MARTIN BOWMAN.
_Inlander_.

~On Tying Daphne's Shoe.~

Tying her shoe, I knelt at Daphne's feet;
My f