~Priscilla.~
Priscilla in the garret loft
Of rare old silks and velvets soft
A heap espying,—
Forgotten hues of a by-gone day!—
The little maid in deft array
Carefully folds and lays away
With envious sighing.
Did they some rustic beauty grace,
A comely form and winsome face.
With footsteps flying?
Or does she sigh because a bride
They once adorned; now cast aside,
Left in the garret there to hide,
The dust defying?
Perchance her great-grandmother wore
Them hundred years ago and more—
Priscilla's crying!
"Come little maid, why this despair?
What makes those big tears standing there?"
"Ah, sir! because they will not bear
Another dyeing."
Yale Record.
~Hard to Beat.~
Last night I held a little hand
So dainty and so neat,
Methought my heart would burst with joy,
So wildly did it beat.
No other hand into my soul
Could greater solace bring,
Than that I held last night, which was
Four aces and a king.
WILLIAM A. THOMPSON. Wesleyan Literary Monthly.
[Illustration: "THAT SWEET GIRL GRADUATE.">[