Athwart the soft night sky,
Down shady paths we strolling go,
Just Dorothy and I.

As true of heart as sweet of face,
With gay and girlish air,
The painted belles of citydom
Are not a whit as fair.
Come Michaelmas the parish chimes
Will ring out merrily.
Who is the bride I lead to church?
Why, who but Dorothy?

ARTHUR KETCHUM.
_Williams Literary Monthly_.


~A Cup and Saucer Episode.~

'Twas only coffee, yet we both drank deep,
I won't deny I felt intoxication;
For just to see those roguish moon-eyes peep
Over the cup, I plunged in dissipation.

She raised her cup, and I raised also mine;
She gave a look, as if "Now are you ready?"
Our eyes met o'er the rims--it seemed like wine,
So sweet, divine, bewitching, almost "heady."

So cup on cup! The salad, too, was good.