jolly American girl.

She laughs at her sorrows, she laughs at her joys,
  She laughs at Dame Fortune's mad whirl;
And laughing will meet all her troubles in life,
  The laughing American girl,
  Yes, the joyous American girl.

You say she can't love if she laughs all the time?
  A laugh at your logic she'll hurl;
She loves while she laughs and she laughs while she loves,
  The laughing American girl,
  Oh, the laughing American girl!

S.F.P. Campus.

~Ballade of Justification.~

A jingle of bells and a crunch of snow,
  Skies that are clear as the month of May,
Winds that merrily, briskly blow,
  A pretty girl and a cozy sleigh,
  Eyes that are bright and laughter gay,
All that favors Dan Cupid's art;
  I was but twenty. What can you say
If I confess I lost my heart?

What if I answered in whispers low,
  Begged that she would not say me nay,
Asked if my love she did not know,
  What if I did? Who blames me, pray?
  Suppose she blushed. 'Tis the proper way
For lovely maidens to play their part.
  Does it seem too much for a blush to pay
If I confess I lost my heart?

What if I drove extremely slow,
  Was there not cause enough to stay?
Such opportunities do not grow
  Right in one's pathway every day;
  Cupid I dared not disobey,
If he saw fit to cast his dart;
  Is it a thing to cause dismay
If I confess I lost my heart?

ENVOY.

What if I kissed her? Jealous they
  Who scoff at buyers in true love's mart.
Who can my sound good sense gainsay
  If I confess I lost my heart?

GUY WETMORE CARRYL. Columbia Spectator.

~Perdita.~

'Twas only a tiny, withered rose,
  But it once belonged to Grace.
The goody didn't know that, I suppose—
'Twas only a tiny, withered rose,
No longer sweet to the eye or nose,
  So she tossed it out from the Dresden vase.—
'Twas only a tiny, withered rose,
  But it once belonged to Grace.

Harvard Advocate.

~Strategy.~

Some, Cupid kills with arrows,
Some, with traps;
But this spring the little rascal
Found, perhaps,
That he needed both to slay me;
So he laid a cunning snare
On the hillside, and he hid it
In a lot of maidenhair;
And I doubt not he is laughing
At the joke,
For he made his arrows out of
Poison-oak.

CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD. Sequoia.

~Canoe Song.~

Dip! Dip! Softly slip
Down the river shining wide,
Dim and far the dark banks are;
Life is love and naught beside.
Onward, drifting with the tide.

Drip, drip, from paddle tip
Myriad ripples swirl and swoon;
Shiv'ring 'mid the ruddy stars,
Mirrored in the deep lagoon,
Faintly floats the mummied moon.

Soft, soft, high aloft,—
Ever thus till time is done,—
Worlds will die; may thou and I
Glide beneath a gentler sun,
Young as now and ever one.

E. FRÈRE CHAMPNEY. Harvard Advocate.

~A Rambling Rhyme of Dorothy.~

When ye Crocuss shews his heade
  & ye Wyndes of Marche have flede,
Springe doth come, and happylye
  Then I thinke of
    Dorothy.

Haycockes fragrante in ye sun
Give me reste when taskes are done:
  Summer's here, & merrylye
    Then I dreame of
      Dorothy.

Scarlette leaves & heapinge binne;
Cyder, ye cool Tankard in;
  Autumn's come. Righte jollylye
    Then I drinke to
      Dorothy.

When ye Northe Wynde sweeps ye snowe
& Icyclles hange all belowe,
  Then, for soothe, Olde Winter, he
    Letts me dance with
      Dorothy!

ARTHUR CHENEY TRAIN. Harvard Advocate.

~The Prof.'s Little Girl.~

She comes to the Quad when her Ladyship pleases,
  And loiters at will in the sun and the shade;
As free from the burden of work as the breezes
  That play with the bamboo is this little maid.
The tongues of the bells, as they beat out the morning,
  Like mad in their echoing cases may whirl
Till they weary of calling her,—all their sharp warning
  Is lost on the ear of the prof's little girl.

With a scarred-over heart that is old in the knowledge
  Of all the manoeuvres and snares of the Hall,
Grown wary of traps in its four years at college,
  And able at last to keep clear of them all,—
Oh, what am I doing away from my classes
  With a little blue eye and a brown little curl?
Ah me! fast again, and each precious hour passes
  In slavery sweet to the prof's little girl.

She makes me a horse, and I mind her direction,
  Though it takes me o'er many a Faculty green;
I'm pledged to the cause of her pussy's protection
  From ghouls of the Lab and the horrors they mean;
I pose as the sire of a draggled rag dolly
  Who owns the astonishing title of Pearl;—
And I have forgotten that all this is folly,
  So potent the charm of the prof's little girl!

  Yet, spite of each sacrifice made to impress her,
She smiles on my rival. Oh, vengeance I'd gain!
  But he wears the same name as my major professor,
And so in his graces I have to remain;
  And when she trots off with this juvenile lover,
Leaving me and the cat and the doll in a whirl,
  It's pitiful truly for us to discover
The signs of her sex in the prof's little girl.

CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD. Four-Leaved Clover.