TO THE REVERED MEMORY OF A GREAT SCHOLAR AND GREAT TEACHER WHOM I WAS ONCE PROUD TO CALL…

Frances James Child,

THIS LITTLE BOOK IS GRATEFULLY INSCRIBED.

In "Cap and Gown" you look in vain For epic or heroic strain. Not ours to scale the heights sublime, Which hardly masters dare to climb; We only sing of youth and joy, And love,—the credo of the boy!

PREFATORY NOTE

The gay verses which celebrate undergraduate life must not be taken too seriously. They seldom pretend to the dignity of poetry. College verse, if I understand it, is verse suited to the period and point of view of undergraduate days. Light, graceful, humorous, sparkling,—this it should be for the most part; serious sometimes, it is true,—for young men and women about to take upon themselves the responsibilities of mature life are at heart by no means frivolous, but touching the note of grief, if at all, almost as though by accident. Life is often sad enough in the after-years, and for the period of sorrow, sad verse may be in place. Happy they who have not yet traded cap and bells (never far hidden under cap and gown) for the

"Sable stole of cypress lawn."

Happier still if they never need make such a sorry exchange.

Yes, like all sound art, college verse must, above all else, be honest. Let us not say, however, that the thoughtful moods of young men and women may not sincerely be set to the music of verse. One department in this collection bears the name "In Serious Mood," and its sentiment rings as true as that of any other.

In looking over very many undergraduate papers, I have been struck with several facts. I will give them for what they are worth, leaving their explanation to others. First, there seems to be a general fondness for the sonnet, and a very general lack of success in writing it. Second, the French forms of light verse are exceedingly popular—particularly the rondeau, ballade, and triolet. These, more easily lending themselves to gay moods than does the sonnet, are written with much greater success. Triolets are perhaps least often, rondeaus most often, successful. Third, purely sentimental verse is little written in women's colleges, its place being taken by poetry of nature or of reflection. Oddly enough, when it is attempted, the writer usually fancies herself the lover, and describes feminine, not masculine, beauty. College girls show possibly more maturity of reflective power than do their brothers, but they are notably weaker in the sense of humor. Fourth, amongst so much merely graceful verse, there are not wanting touches here and there

of genuine poetry. I shall be disappointed if the reader does not discover many such in this little book.

While I have confined myself, for the most part, to verse printed in the college publications of the past five years, I have overstepped this limit in a few instances. None of the poems in the present book, however, were included in the first series published in 1892.

Thanks are due Messrs. Andrus & Church, of Ithaca, N.Y., for their generous loan of bound files of the Cornell Era, to the assistant librarian of Harvard University for numerous courtesies, and to the editors of many college papers, without whose kind cooperation the second series of "Cap and Gown" would have been impossible.

F.L.K.

COLLEGE PUBLICATIONS REPRESENTED.

AMHERST COLLEGE Amherst Literary Monthly, The.

BALTIMORE, WOMAN'S COLLEGE OF Kalends, The.

BOWDOIN COLLEGE Bowdoin Orient, The. Bowdoin Quill, The.

BROWN UNIVERSITY Brown Magazine, The. Brunonian, The.

BRYN MAWR COLLEGE Bryn Mawr Lantern, The.

CALIFORNIA UNIVERSITY University of California Magazine.

CHICAGO UNIVERSITY University of Chicago Weekly, The.

COLGATE UNIVERSITY Madisonensis.

COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY Columbia Literary Monthly, The. Columbia Spectator, The. Morningside, The.

CORNELL UNIVERSITY Cornell Era, The. Cornell Magazine, The.

DARTMOUTH COLLEGE Dartmouth Literary Monthly, The. Dartmouth Lyrics, 16mo, 1893.

HAMILTON COLLEGE Hamilton Literary Monthly, The.

HARVARD UNIVERSITY Harvard Advocate, The. Harvard Lampoon, The. Harvard Monthly, The.

KANSAS, UNIVERSITY OF Kansas University Weekly.

LEHIGH UNIVERSITY Lehigh Burr, The.

LELAND STANFORD UNIVERSITY Palo Alto, The. Sequoia. Stanford Quad, The Four-Leaved Clover: Stanford Rhymes, 16mo, 1896.

MASS. INSTITUTE OF TECHNOLOGY Tech, The.

MICHIGAN UNIVERSITY Inlander, The. Wrinkle, The

MOUNT HOLYOKE COLLEGE Mount Holyoke, The

NORTHWESTERN UNIVERSITY Syllabus, The.

OHIO STATE UNIVERSITY Makio, The.

PENNSYLVANIA, UNIVERSITY OF Red and Blue.

PRINCETON UNIVERSITY Nassau Literary Monthly.

ROCHESTER, UNIVERSITY OF Campus, The.

SMITH COLLEGE Smith College Monthly.

SYRACUSE UNIVERSITY University Herald.

TEXAS, UNIVERSITY OF University of Texas Magazine.

TRINITY COLLEGE Trinity Tablet, The.

TUFTS COLLEGE Tuftonian, The.

UNION COLLEGE Concordiensis, The. Garnet, The. Parthenon, The.

VANDERBILT UNIVERSITY Vanderbilt Observer, The.

VASSAR COLLEGE Vassar Miscellany, The.

VIRGINIA, UNIVERSITY OF Virginia University Magazine.

WELLESLEY COLLEGE Wellesley Magazine, The. Wellesley Lyrics, 16mo, 1894.

WELLS COLLEGE Cardinal, The.

WESLEYAN UNIVERSITY Wesleyan Argus, The. Wesleyan Literary Monthly, The. Olla Podrida, The. Wesleyan Verse, 16mo, 1894.

WESTERN RESERVE UNIVERSITY College Folio, The.

WILLIAMS COLLEGE Williams Literary Monthly, The. Williams Weekly, The.

WISCONSIN, UNIVERSITY OF Badger, The. Wisconsin Aegis.

YALE UNIVERSITY Yale Courant, The. Yale Literary Magazine, The. Yale Record, The.

* * * * *

~Soap-Bubbles.~

As a little child at play Blows upon a pipe of clay Bubbles, evanescent, bright, With their iridescent light, So I fling upon the wind Verses of the bubble kind.

And my friend with eyes of blue Looks my dainty verses through, Pauses from his books awhile, With an intellectual smile; For my fancy seems as naught To this man of deeper thought.

Still I plead as my excuse: "Even bubbles have their use. They are perfect while they live, And their short career may give, As they shimmer, and are flown, Some suggestion for our own.

"Let their beauty, pure and glad, Make another soul less sad, And, as upward they are whirled, Let them show their little world, Floating clouds and perfect sky, Warmly mirrored, ere they die."

HERBERT MULLER HOPKINS. Columbia Literary Monthly.

I. LOVE AND SENTIMENT

~Love Laughs.~

"Love laughs at locksmiths," laughs ho! ho! Still Thisbe steals to meet a beau, Naught recks of bolt and bar and night, And father's frown and word despite. As in the days of long ago, In southern heat and northern snow Still twangs the archer's potent bow, And as his flying arrows smite, Love laughs.

Trinity Tablet.

~Where Cupid Dwells.~

Way over the seas, is a far, far land, Where skies are blue and gold; Where ripples break on a silver sand, And sunbeams ne'er grow old; There's a dale where Cupid dwells, they say, And 'tis there that he rests from his frolic play.

Oh, there's many a lass and many a swain That knows of his shafts made there; For Cupid spares naught of a deep heart-pain. Though love be all his care. And I think he should make a reflection or two, When he rests over there from his play. Don't you?

ROBERT L. MUNGER. Yale Courant.

~To Ruby Lips.~

Two ruby lips are hers; a pair Of eyes a cynic to ensnare, A tinted cheek, a perfect nose, A throat as white as winter's snows, And o'er her brow bright golden hair.

But, though she's everything that's fair, My captured fancy's focused where A saucy smile suffuses those Two ruby lips.

Why longer wait their sweets to share? We're safe behind the portière. A moment, then, that no one knows— Ah! now she's flown, couleur de rose, With, one might hint (but who would dare?) Too ruby lips.

H.A. RICHMOND. The Tech.

~A Gift.~

My friend holds careless in his palm A glittering stone. He does not know a jewel rare Is all his own.

But in its flashing lights I see A diamond shine, And though he holds it in his hand, The gem is mine.

ELIZABETH REEVE CUTTER. Smith College Monthly.

~Jacqueminot.~

Are you filled with wonder, Jacqueminot, Do you think me mad that I kiss you so? If a rose could only its thoughts express, I'd find you mocking, I more than guess; And yet if you vow me a fond old fool, Just think if your own fine pulse was cool 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, Floats our dainty bark. Sweetly sound two voices, Shadows hide the view; Heard the rushes something? Don't you wish you knew!

Gently sigh the zephyrs, Shine the stars above, Eyes of brighter lustre Speak of lasting love. Quickly pass the hours, Glides the bark canoe; Heard the rushes something? Don't you wish you knew!

A.H.B. Brunonian.

~Prom-Roses.~

Only a bunch of roses fair, A duster of pink and white, Roses that nod to the music low, The flowers she wore that night.

She tenderly lifts each drooping head That gracefully tosses there, And the dainty flowers, nestling close, Smile back at the maiden fair.

"How beautiful they are," she said, As she pressed them to her cheek, "Why, the opened petals almost seem As if they were trying to speak."

I wonder why she cannot hear The song that the flowers sing, I wonder if she knows or cares For the message the roses bring.

JAMES P. SAWYER. Yale Record.

~A Lyric.~

Beneath the lilac-tree, With its breathing blooms of white, You waved a parting kiss to me In the deepening amber light.

Your face is always near, Your tender eyes of brown. I see your form in dreams; I hear The whisper of your gown.

Once more the lilac-tree With twilight dew is wet; But, oh, I would that you might be Alive to love me yet.

EDWARD M. HULME. The Palo Alto.

Pallas

You say there's a sameness in my style, You long for the savor of something new, You tell me that love is not worth while, You wish for verse that is strong and true. Well, I will leave the choice to you— Prose or poetry, short or long, Only we'll let this be the cue— Love is excluded from the song.

I'll sing of some old cathedral pile, Where, as we sit in a carved oak pew, The sunlight illumines nave and aisle, And peace seems thrilling us through and through. No? you don't think that will do? How would you like a busy throng, A battle, Elizabeth's retinue? But love is excluded from the song.

A journey, a voyage, a tropic isle, The hush of the forest, the ocean blue, A lament for all that is false and vile, A paean for all that is good and true. Pompadour's fan, or Louis's queue, Mournful or merry, right or wrong. Subjects, you'll find, are not so few, But love is excluded from the song.

Oh! for a song of yourself you sue! Do you think you can trap me? You are wrong. Sing of your eyes and your smile and—Pooh! Love is excluded from the song.

GUY WETMORE CARRYL. Columbia Spectator.

~How I Love Her.~

Dear, I'll tell you how I love you— Not by singing sweetly of you— Oh, I love you far too much, For the daintiest rhyme's light touch; No, it needs no language signs, It's written here between the lines, How I love you! You will see If you look there, loving me.

C.B. NEWTON. Nassau Literary Monthly.

~Polly.~

She fluttered gaily down the hill— That merry, dimpled lass— She hurried singing down the hill, And then she loitered by the mill, And saw the bubbles pass, Made double in the glass Of the mirror of the water, greeny still.

She heard a sparrow pertly cry, She smelt the new-mown hay, She felt the sunshine in the sky, As lightly she went skipping by, A-down the sunny way— 'Twas like a holiday, The keen, expectant sparkle in her eye.

And Cupid's wings were on her feet, As nimbly she ran down; And Cupid's wings were on her feet: For pretty Polly went to meet Her lover in the town. She wore that lilac gown That made him say—oh, nothing to repeat!

CHARLES W. SHOPE. Harvard Advocate.

~Under the Rose.~

Last night the blush rose clustered,— To-day the rough wind blows In showers her broken petals; Last night,—yet no one knows,— I kissed thee, sweetheart, sweetheart, Under the rose!

Last night my fond hope blossomed,— To-day December snows Drift deep and cold above it; To-day,—ah! no one knows,— My heart breaks, sweetheart, sweetheart, Under the rose!

CATHERINE Y. GLEN. Mount Holyoke.

[Illustration: MT. HOLYOKE GIRL.]

~A Bit of Human Nature.~

'Tis only a pair of woman's eyes, So long-lashed, soft, and brown, Half hiding the light that in them lies, As dreamily looking down.

'Tis only the dainty curve of a lip, Half full, half clear defined, And the shell-like pink of a finger-tip, And a figure half reclined.

'Tis only a coil of rich, dark hair, With sunlight sifted through, And a truant curl just here and there, And a knot of ribbon blue.

'Tis only the wave of a feather fan, That ruffles the creamy lace, Loose gathered about the bosom fair, By rhinestones held in place.

'Tis only the toe of a high-heeled shoe, With the glimpse of a color above— A stocking tinted a faint sky-blue, The shade that lovers love.

'Tis only a woman—a woman, that's all, And, as only a woman can, Bringing a heart to her beck and call By waving her feather fan.

'Tis only a woman, and I—'twere best To forget that waving fan. She only a woman—you know the rest? But I am only a man.

CHARLES WASHINGTON COLEMAN. Virginia University Magazine.

~Her Little Glove.~

Her little glove, I dare aver, Would set your pulses all astir; It hides a something safe from sight So soft and warm, so small and white, A cynic would turn flatterer!

Could Pegasus have better spur? 'Twould almost cause a saint to err— A Puritan to grow polite— Her little glove.

'Twill satisfy a connoisseur, This dainty thing of lavender; And when it clasps her fingers tight I think—I wonder if it's right— That somehow—well—I wish I were Her little glove.

FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES. Wesleyan Verse.

~Skating Hath Charms.~

So cold was the night, And her cheeks were cold, too, Though it wasn't quite right, So cold was the night, And so sad was her plight, That I—well, wouldn't you? So cold was the night, And her cheeks were cold, too.

H.H. Amherst Literary Monthly.

~The Portrait.~

Pearls and patches, powder and paint, This was her grandmother years ago. Gown and coiffure so strange and quaint, Features just lacking the prim of the saint, From the mischievous dimple that lurks below; High-heeled slippers and satin bow, Red lips mocking the heart's constraint, Free from passion, devoid of taint— This was her grandmother years ago.

Straight and slender, gallant and tall. Ah, how he loved her, years ago! Just so she looked at that last dim ball, When, in a niche of the dusk old hall, They whispered together soft and low. She whispered "yes," but fate answered "no:" 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, But since I confess I am smitten, Read these little verses alone. And sincerely I trust I'll be able To convince you, you sly little elf, To grant me your heart, little Mabel, And learn what it feels like yourself!

GUY WETMORE CARRYL. Columbia Literary Monthly.

~A Thief's Apology.~

I stole a kiss!—What could I do? Before the door we stood, we two, About to say a plain good-by; She seemed so innocent and shy, But what she thought, I thought I knew.

Ah, swift the blissful moments flew, And when at last I said adieu (Perhaps you think me bold), but I— I stole a kiss.

The tale is told; perhaps it's true, Perhaps it was a deed to rue; But when that look came in her eye I thought she wished to have me try— I don't know how 'twould been with you— I stole a kiss.

ROBERT PORTER ST. JOHN. Amherst Literary Monthly.

~A Ballad of Dorothy.~

It's "Dorothy! Where's Dorothy?" From morn to even fall, There's not a lad on Cowslip Farm Who joins not in the call. It's Dolly here and Dolly there, Where can the maiden be? No wench in all the countryside's So fine as Dorothy.

With tucked-up gown and shining pail, Before the day is bright, Down dewy lanes she singing goes Among the hawthorns white. Perchance her roses need her care, She tends them faithfully. There's not a rose in all the world As fresh and sweet as she!

With morning sunshine in her hair A-churning Dolly stands: Oh, happy chum, I envy it, Held close between her hands; And when the crescent moon hangs bright 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. I had of that far more than my fair rations. Yet served it merely as an interlude Between the music of the cup flirtations.

And then to have her say 'twas all my fault! I fairly blushed, and gazed down at my cup. I noticed, though, she had not called the halt Until the pot was empty, every sup.

BERT ROSS. Harvard Advocate.

~Faint Heart Ne'er Won Fair Lady.~

"The burn runs swiftly, my dainty lass, And its foam-wreathed stones are mossy, An I carry ye ower to yonder shore Ye will na think me saucy?"

"I thank ye, sir, but a Scottish lass Recks not of a little wetting. Will ye stand aside, sir? I can na bide, sir. The sun o' the gloamin's setting."

"Yet stay, my pretty, the stepping-stones Are a bridge o' my are hands' making. An ye pay no toll I maun be so bold— The sweeter a kiss for taking."

"Farewell, ye braw young Highlander. Tho' first ye sought to mask it: Unceevil 'tis to steal a kiss. But muckle waur to ask it."

CHARLES POTTER HINE. Yale Literary Magazine.

~A Foreign Tongue.~

When lovers talk, they talk a foreign tongue, Their words are not like ours, But full of meanings like the throb of flowers Yet in the earth, unborn. I think the snow Feels the mysterious passage and the flow Of inarticulate streams that surge below. And it is easy learning for the young; When lovers talk, they talk a foreign tongue.

ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH. Smith College Monthly.

~Ye Gold-Headed Cane.~