Is all we can claim—and one year out of four—
We must make up in speed, what we lack for in time,
And make a bold push or have no Valentine.
“An abrupt, ringing laugh, from a friend standing near,
And—‘I read you it wrong!’ he says, ‘Benedict!’ do ye hear?
How horrid provoking to play me this game!
I don’t care, I will send it subscribed with my name.”
H. H.
We wont give the name in full, or we should never receive another love token. But—what have we here? as we live—another Valentine! and with a sprig of geranium, too, pressed loving between the paper—and love verses! No—we will not print these, they are too confidingly tender and hardly “allowable” rhyme.
But here comes one, with a full, round superscription, for all the world like the hand of a lady we used to love when we were a boy—adoringly, wildly, most insanely. She was older than we were, and didn’t take the matter so much to heart. Some other fellow took her off—a cadet, or something of that sort from West Point—and she never returned our love letter. But what is this? Ha! $3— there is something in this, that is a cure for the twinges of an old love wound: