Yet sitting there with peaceful face,
The reflex of her simple soul,

She looked to be a very saint

And maybe was one, on the whole

Only that her pretty bonnet kept away the aureole.

Mary E. Wilkins.

A SONG

WILL not say my

true love's eyes

Outshine the noblest star;

But in their depth of lustre lies
My peace, my truce, my war.

I will not say upon her neck
Is white to shame the snow;
For if her bosom hath a speck
I would not have it go.

My love is as a woman sweet,

And as a woman white;

Who's more than this is more than meet

For me and my delight.

Norman R. Gale.

LES PAPILLOTTES

'ULALIA sat before the glass

E While Betty smoothed her hair.

The mirror told her how she was
Attractive, young and fair;

Curtius was telling her the same
In rosy note, where he confessed his flame.

She read with a satiric eye

Of passion, hope and pain;

Then, careless tossed the poor note by;
Then, took it up again,

And systematically tore,

And folded each strip carefully in four,

And handed in fine scorn each bit

Of rapture to the maid, Who wot how to dispose of it. The beauty, disarrayed, Now crept in bed, blew out the light Her locks in pink curl-papers for the night.

She slept; and with each gentle breath
The paper in her hair

Soft rustled, and, the story saith,
Repeated to the air

Whate'er stood on it fervent thing

As if the lover's self were whispering.

And through her dream she heard it say,
The twist o'er her left ear,-

"I vow that I must love alway

The dearest of the dear."

And o'er her forehead spoke a twist,

"That stolen glove I've kissed and over-kissed."

Said on, "Thou are the loveliest;

Thy beauty I adore."

Another, smaller than the rest,

Sighed, "Love, love," o'er and o’er.

And one said, "Pity my sad plight!"
So Curtius' passion pleaded all the night.

Eulalia waking in the morn,
Large-eyed, sat up in bed,

While vows the tend'rest that be sworn
Still whispered in her head;-

A dreamy bliss her soul possessed,-
She rang for Betty; and before she dressed,

Upon a subtly perfumed sheet,
As Curtius' own, blush-pink,

She penned with crow-quill small and neat,
And perfumed crow-black ink,

In flowing hand right tidily,

The proper, simple message, "Come at three."

Gertrude Hall.

UPON GRACIOSA, WALKING AND

TALKING

HEN as abroad, to greet the morn,
I mark my Graciosa walk,

WH

In homage bends the whisp'ring corn,
Yet to confess

Its awkwardness

Must hang its head upon the stalk.

And when she talks, her lips do heal
The wounds her lightest glances give:—
In pity then be harsh, and deal

Such wounds that I

May hourly die,

And, by a word restored, live.

A. Quiller-Couch.

W

HER VALENTINE

HAT, send her a valentine? Never! I see you don't know who "she" is. I should ruin my chances forever; My hopes would collapse with a fizz.

I can't see why she scents such disaster
When I take heart to venture a word;
I've no dream of becoming her master,
I've no notion of being her lord.

All I want is to just be her lover!
She's the most up-to-date of her sex,
And there's such a multitude of her,
No wonder they call her complex.

She's a bachelor, even when married,
She's a vagabond, even when housed;
And if ever her citadel's carried

Her suspicions must not be aroused.

She's erratic, impulsive and human,
And she blunders,-as goddesses can;
But if she's what they call the New Woman,
Then I'd like to be the New Man.

I'm glad she makes books and paints pictures,
And typewrites and hoes her own row,
And it's quite beyond reach of conjectures
How much further she's going to go.

When she scorns, in the L-road, my proffer
Of a seat and hangs on to a strap;
I admire her so much, I could offer
To let her ride up on my lap.

Let her undo the stays of the ages,

That have cramped and confined her so long! Let her burst through the frail candy cages That fooled her to think they were strong!

She may enter life's wide vagabondage,
She may do without flutter or frill,

She may take off the chains of her bondage,-
And anything else that she will.