Yourself you don’t believe it! Your words your glance belies, And, full of other fancies, Protest those flashing eyes. _THE SCHOOLBOY’S DEVIL._ You knew, of course, my special devil? His cunning and his boldness charmed; Pressed to my breast this sprite of evil I warmed. At first he worried me with fear; I timid was, and mild, and young. My shoulders were too weak to bear His tongue. Holding some mild traditions yet, I shook and trembled, oft, in awe, Till, lo! in him the Muse’s pet I saw. He caught me, then, with flash of phrase, With living fantasies entranced, And wicked eyes from grave to gay He glanced! With fiery speech well fused together, Our friendly union grew complete, Although at times with wintry weather We’d meet. Designing once to cause his death, My fingers in a cross I twirled,[11] Out came his tongue; off in a breath He whirled. But scarcely dawns the Eastern light, The nightly blackness scarce is o’er, Ere back he comes, my foe, my sprite, Once more. How smart he’s grown! and well up, too, In Darwin’s and Descartes’ style! He knows the sex; nor strange to loo Meanwhile. And chess he also right well knows, And often billiards is his fad-- At times about this game he grows Quite mad. You knew him well, of course, of yore, He cunning was, and boldly charmed; I pressed him to my bosom’s core, And warmed. Ah! have I tired my friendly sprite? His friendship’s flame has colder grown; He now forgets and leaves me quite Alone. FOOTNOTES: [11] _I.e._ made with the two first fingers and thumb, the sign of the Russian cross. POPULAR SONG. _THE GIPSY MAID._ I love thee! And believe it true! The while your gipsy maid avows That unto death she’ll love but you, While life’s blood in her bosom flows. For you she’ll leave her home of old, She’ll follow you the wide world o’er. The gipsy’s love will ne’er grow cold Until the gipsy breathes no more. Black bread, while meal to meal succeeds, Her passion ne’er will lull to sleep; One burning kiss is all she needs, Her gipsy blood its warmth will keep. When time of trial draweth nigh, No burning tears will she outpour; Well skilled is she in misery-- ’Twill only make her love thee more. No change which doth our being move A single pang to her can give; But change in him her soul doth love She hath no power to overlive. FROM TYOUCHEF.