The Free Lance,
And dreaming on, of gardens where
Diviner fragrance blows,
I softly breathed a silent prayer,
And kissed again the rose.
—University of Texas Magazine.
Here’s to the man proud of his wealth,
But careful of his tin;
He often blows about his dust,
But never blows it in.
I slept in an editor’s bed one night,
When no editor chanced to be nigh;
And thought, as I tumbled that editor’s nest,
How easily editors lie.
OUR WRONGS.
When girls are only babies
Their mamas quite insist,
That they by us, —
Against our wills, —
Be kissed—kissed—kissed.
But when those girls
Are sweet eighteen,
Their mamas say we slia’n’t,
And though we’d like to kiss them
We can’t—can’t— can’t.
—C. E. //., in Williams Weekly,
the flirt.
As the wind that sends the ship
Upon the rocks or upon her course
As suits her best,
So is she like.
And so quickly is her nature changed,
That those who say she is,
Doubt ’tis so,
In fact she is more
Variable than veritable,
What must be must be, little one,
The dark night follow the day,
And the ebbing tide to the seaward glide
Across the moonlit bay.
What must be must be, little one
The winter follow the fall,
And the prying wind an entrance find
Through the chinks of the cottage wall.
[March,
— Exchange.
Transcript
— Exchange.