The spare Professor, grave and bald, Began his paper. It was called, I think, "A Brief Historic Glance At Russia, Germany, and France." A glance, but to my best belief 'Twas almost anything but brief— A wide survey, in which the earth Was seen before mankind had birth; Strange monsters basked them in the sun, Behemoth, armored glyptodon, And in the dawn's unpractised ray The transient dodo winged its way; Then, by degrees, through silt and slough, We reached Berlin—I don't know how. The good Professor's monotone Had turned me into senseless stone Instanter, but that near me sat Hypatia in her new spring hat, Blue-eyed, intent, with lips whose bloom Lighted the heavy-curtained room. Hypatia—ah, what lovely things Are fashioned out of eighteen springs! At first, in sums of this amount, The eighteen winters do not count. Just as my eyes were growing dim With heaviness, I saw that slim, Erect, elastic figure there, Like a pond-lily taking air. She looked so fresh, so wise, so neat, So altogether crisp and sweet, I quite forgot what Bismarck said, And why the Emperor shook his head, And how it was Von Moltke's frown Cost France another frontier town. The only facts I took away From the Professor's theme that day Were these: a forehead broad and low, Such as the antique sculptures show; A chin to Greek perfection true; Eyes of Astarte's tender blue; A high complexion without fleck Or flaw, and curls about her neck.

THE MENU

I beg you come to-night and dine. A welcome waits you, and sound wine— The Roederer chilly to a charm, As Juno's breath the claret warm, The sherry of an ancient brand. No Persian pomp, you understand— A soup, a fish, two meats, and then A salad fit for aldermen (When aldermen, alas, the days! Were really worth their mayonnaise); A dish of grapes whose clusters won Their bronze in Carolinian sun; Next, cheese—for you the Neufchatel, A bit of Cheshire likes me well; Cafe au lait or coffee black, With Kirsch or Kummel or Cognac (The German band in Irving Place By this time purple in the face); Cigars and pipes. These being through, Friends shall drop in, a very few— Shakespeare and Milton, and no more. When these are guests I bolt the door, With Not at Home to any one Excepting Alfred Tennyson.

AN ELECTIVE COURSE

LINES FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF A HARVARD UNDERGRADUATE

The bloom that lies on Fanny's cheek Is all my Latin, all my Greek; The only sciences I know Are frowns that gloom and smiles that glow; Siberia and Italy Lie in her sweet geography; No scholarship have I but such As teaches me to love her much. Why should I strive to read the skies, Who know the midnight of her eyes? Why should I go so very far To learn what heavenly bodies are! Not Berenice's starry hair With Fanny's tresses can compare; Not Venus on a cloudless night, Enslaving Science with her light, Ever reveals so much as when SHE stares and droops her lids again. If Nature's secrets are forbidden To mortals, she may keep them hidden. AEons and aeons we progressed And did not let that break our rest; Little we cared if Mars o'erhead Were or were not inhabited; Without the aid of Saturn's rings Fair girls were wived in those far springs; Warm lips met ours and conquered us Or ere thou wert, Copernicus! Graybeards, who seek to bridge the chasm 'Twixt man to-day and protoplasm, Who theorize and probe and gape, And finally evolve an ape— Yours is a harmless sort of cult, If you are pleased with the result. Some folks admit, with cynic grace, That you have rather proved your case. These dogmatists are so severe! Enough for me that Fanny's here, Enough that, having long survived Pre-Eveic forms, she HAS arrived— An illustration the completest Of the survival of the sweetest. Linnaeus, avaunt! I only care To know what flower she wants to wear. I leave it to the addle-pated To guess how pinks originated, As if it mattered! The chief thing Is that we have them in the Spring, And Fanny likes them. When they come, I straightway send and purchase some. The Origin of Plants—go to! Their proper end I have in view. O loveliest book that ever man Looked into since the world began Is Woman! As I turn those pages, As fresh as in the primal ages, As day by day I scan, perplext, The ever subtly changing text, I feel that I am slowly growing To think no other work worth knowing. And in my copy—there is none So perfect as the one I own— I find no thing set down but such As teaches me to love it much.

L'EAU DORMANTE

Curled up and sitting on her feet, Within the window's deep embrasure, Is Lydia; and across the street, A lad, with eyes of roguish azure, Watches her buried in her book. In vain he tries to win a look, And from the trellis over there Blows sundry kisses through the air, Which miss the mark, and fall unseen, Uncared for. Lydia is thirteen. My lad, if you, without abuse, Will take advice from one who's wiser, And put his wisdom to more use Than ever yet did your adviser; If you will let, as none will do, Another's heartbreak serve for two, You'll have a care, some four years hence, How you lounge there by yonder fence And blow those kisses through that screen— For Lydia will be seventeen.

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