Some one listened and told it all,
And the horses might wait by the garden wall,
But none came to answer him, years ago.

So, standing, fresh as the rose on her breast,
Smiling down on me here below,
Never a care on her brow impressed,
Never the dream of a thought confessed
Of all the weariness and the woe,
Hearts would break were time not so slow.
Swept are life's chambers; comes the new guest.
Old love, or new love--which was the best?
For this was her grandmother years ago.

_Southern Collegian_.


~The Convert.~

I wrote lots of trash about Cupid,
And the telling bewitchment of curls,
And that men were excessively stupid
To be madly devoted to girls.
I remarked that true love was unstable,
As compared with position or pelf,
'Till one day I met you, little Mabel,
And learned what it felt like, myself!

Don't read all the things I have written
When I knew that my heart was my own,