ht,
So it crimson-canopied be--
It dies, and Fancy out of the night
Comes down--comes down to me.

O red, red clouds with your glory gone,
That are ghostly shapes of gray.
My lady dreams by a moon-lit lawn,
Away from me--away;
Go down--go down from the sky, so the gleams
Of the moon shine over the sea,
And bring the thought of my lady's dreams
Over to me--to me.

ROBERT L. HUNGER.
_Yale Courant._

~Panacea ~

When life proves disappointing,
And sorrow seems anointing
Brows of care,
Take a brace and go a-sailing,
Either dolphin back or whaling,
Anywhere.

Fling your troubles to the breezes,
Where the salted Ocean sneezes
Spray your face--
Never mind the moments flying,
There'll be left of care and sighing,
Not a trace.

ANNIE NYHAN SCEIBNER.
_Wisconsin Aegis._

~The Dive.~

One moment, poised above the flashing blue,
The next I'm slipping, sliding through
The water, that caresses, yields, resists,
Wrapping my sight in cooling, gray-green mists.
Another moment, my body swirls, I rise,
Shaking the water from my blinded eyes,
And strike out strong, glad that I am alive,
To swim back to the gray old pile from which I dive.

CORNELIA BROWNELL GOULD.
_Smith College Monthly._

~The Robin.~

A STUDY.

Abstracted, contemplative air,
A sudden run and stop,
A glance indifferent round about,
Head poised--another hop.

A plunge well-aimed, a backward tug,
A well-resisted squirm,
Then calm indifference as before.
But oh, alack, the worm!

KATHERINE VAN D. HARKEE,
_Vassar Miscellany._

~A Mountain Brook.~

I come from the depths of the mountain,
The dark, hidden, head of the fountain,
I spring from a nook in the ledges,
And bathe the gray granite's rough edges,
I rush over wide mossy masses
To quench the hot thirst of the grasses.
I bathe the cleft hoofs of the cattle,
As o'er the rude ford-stones I rattle.
I glide through the glens deep in shadow;
I flow in the sun-bathed meadow,
And seek, with a shake and a quiver,
The still steady flow of the river,
Then on to the wild rhythmic motion
Of my mother, the sky-tinted ocean.

CHARLES OTIS JUDKINS.
_Wesleyan Literary Monthly._

~In the San Joaquin.~

Across the hills the screeching blue-jays fly
In countless flocks, and as they hasten by
The children look up from their merry play
To watch them slowly, slowly fade away;
And night steals up the corners of the sky.

No silent, trem