How can my pen the woes relate
That on these happy moments wait?
With eager eyes I look again
Within my empty pouch,—in vain!
So I must cease to meditate,
My pipe is out.
HERBERT MULLER HOPKINS. Columbia Spectator.
~At the Race.~
She wore a little knot of blue,
He waved a flag of red;
With all her heart she would be true
To Yale—she said.
And as she spoke a dainty flush
Gave token of her pride;
He thought the crimson of her blush
Her words belied.
So while he watched her blushes start—
"Deny it if you will,
Your blood—yes, even in your heart—
Is crimson still."
She turned and spoke, her voice was low,
And yet it pierced him through—
"Sir, pardon me, I'd have you know
My blood is blue!"
Yale Record.
~To an "Instructor."~
Treat not with such wanton disdain
The title of which you're possessor,
Nor sorrow, because you remain
Instructor instead of "Professor."