When you lay in her tresses an hour ago,
Jacqueminot.

This pale, proud girl, you must understand,
Held all my fate in her small white hand,
And when I asked her to be my bride,
She wanted a day to think--decide;
And I asked, if her answer were _no_, she'd wear
A Marshal Niel to the ball in her hair,
But if 'twere _yes_, she would tell me so
By a Jacqueminot.

My heart found heaven, I had seen my sign,
And after the dance I knew her mine,
And I plucked you out of her warm, soft hair,
As her stately pride stood trembling there,
And I felt in the dark for her lips to kiss,
And I pressed them close to my own like _this_,
And I held her cheek to my own cheek--_so_,
Jacqueminot!

FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES.
_Wesleyan Literary Monthly._


~Don't You Wish You Knew!~

Glancing in the moonlight,
Gliding in the dark,
Down the river slowly,