'My gown? Though, no doubt, sir, you're clever, You 'd better leave fashions alone. Do you think that a frock lasts for ever?' Dear Kitty, I'll grant you have grown; But I thought of my 'scene' with McVittie That night when he trod on your train At the Bachelor's Ball. ''Twas a pity,' You said, but I knew 'twas Champagne. And your gown was enough to compel me To fall down and worship its hem-- (Are 'hems' wearing? If not, you shall tell me What is, when you come to Commem.) Have you thought, since that night, of the Grotto? Of the words whispered under the palms, While the minutes flew by and forgot to Remind us of Aunt and her qualms? Of the stains of the old _Journalisten_? Of the rose that I begged from your hair? When you turned, and I saw something glisten-- Dear Kitty, don't frown; it _was_ there! But that idiot Delane in the middle Bounced in with 'Our dance, I--ahem!' And--the rose you may find in my Liddell And Scott when you come to Commem. Then, Kitty, let 'yes' be the answer. We'll dance at the 'Varsity Ball, And the morning shall find you a dancer In Christ Church or Trinity hall. And perhaps, when the elders are yawning And rafters grow pale overhead With the day, there shall come with its dawning Some thought of that sentence unsaid. Be it this, be it that--'I forget,' or 'Was joking'--whatever the fem- -inine fib, you'll have made me your debtor And come,--you _will_ come? to Commem. OCCASIONAL VERSES. ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS. Designed to show that the practice of lying is not confined to children. By the late W. W. (of H.M. Inland Revenue Service). And is it so? Can Folly stalk And aim her unrespecting darts In shades where grave Professors walk And Bachelors of Arts? I have a boy, not six years old, A sprite of birth and lineage high: His birth I did myself behold, His caste is in his eye. And oh! his limbs are full of grace, His boyish beauty past compare: His mother's joy to wash his face, And mine to brush his hair! One morn we strolled on our short walk, With four goloshes on our shoes, And held the customary talk That parents love to use. (And oft I turn it into verse, And write it down upon a page, Which, being sold, supplies my purse And ministers to age.) So as we paced the curving High, To view the sights of Oxford town We raised our feet (like Nelly Bly), And then we put them down. 'Now, little Edward, answer me'-- I said, and clutched him by the gown-- 'At Cambridge would you rather be, Or here in Oxford town?'