sons snow.

Fly, skaters, with wing'd feet!
The night wears on;
Be your stroke ne'er so fleet,
Night soon is gone.

With morning's dawn, the fires
In ashes lie,
And mountains keep their ward
Silently by.

GRACE W. LEACH
_Madisonensis_.

~By the Roadside.~

Shy violets among the tangled grass;
Red robin, to thine own mate blithely singing,
Among the elm-tree boughs so gayly swinging;
My love, my true love, down this way will pass.

How shall you know her? By her sunny hair,
Her grave, sweet eyes, all pure, no evil knowing:
Oh, robin! thou wilt turn to watch her going;
There is no maid in all the land so fair.

Shy violets among the tangled grass,
Shed forth your richest perfumes 'neath her feet!
And gallant robin, when thou seest her pass,
Trill out thy merriest lay her ears to greet;
And elm-tree branches, drooping low above her,
Whisper to her that I came by and love her.

LOUISE R. LOOMIS.
_Wellesley Magazine._

[Illustration: A WELLESLEY GIRL.]

~"A White Morning"~

Many a morning the trees' slim fingers
Lift to the blue their frosted tips;
Winter has paused beside them, passing,
And blown upon them, through icy lips.

After the day has dawned in earnest,
Comes a blaze from the soul of things.
Some small snow-bird, beneath the window,
Beats out life, from his restless wings.

Never trust to the cold and silence;
Suns will rise, and the day climb higher.
Under the snows are resurrections;
Under the frost is hidden fire.

GRACE W. LEACH.
_Madisonensis_.

V. IN SERIOUS MOOD

~Verses.~

What must be must be, little one,
The dark night follow the day,
And the ebbing tide to the seaward glide
Across the moonlit bay.

What must be must be, little one,
The winter follow the fall,
And the prying wind an entrance find
Through the chinks of the cottage wall.

What must be must be, little one,
The brown hair turn to gray,
And the soul like the light of the early night
Slip gently far away.

FORSYTH WICKES.
_Yale Literary Magazine._

~A Little Parable.~

Just beyond the toiling town
I saw a child to-day,
With busy little hands of brown
Making toys of clay.

Working there with all his heart,
Beneath the spreading trees,
He moulded with unconscious art
Whatever seemed to please.

Men and fortress, plates and pies,
All out of clay he made,
Then rubbed with chubby fists his eyes,
And slumbered in the shade.

JOHN CLAIR MINOT.