"Wee modest, crimson-tipped flower, Thou'st met me in an evil hour; For I maun gang far frae thy bower, And leave thee greeting 'mang the stour. But lassie, thou art no thy lane, This heart is also brak in twain, And like to burst with grief and pain To think I'll see thee ne'er again." "H'm! He might have signed 'Robbie Burns' at the end of it!" commented Gowan. "Seems to take it for granted I'm doing half of the grieving. No, thanks! I prefer to 'flout them' like Phillida. He may go away with his old broken heart if he likes. That's not my idea of a valentine." "There were bad valentines as well as good ones, weren't there?" twinkled Dulcie. "Certainly; and if I set this down to you, perhaps I'll not be far out. Who comes next? Oh! Bertha. "TO BERTHA "I have a little heart to let, As nice as nice can be; It's vacant just at present, On a yearly tenancy. It's quite completely furnished With affection's choicest store, Sweet nothings by the bushel, And kisses by the score. It sadly wants a tenant, This little heart of mine, So I beg that you will take it, And be my Valentine!" "Edith! Dulcie! Phillida!--Oh! I can't guess!" laughed Bertha. "There's not the least clue! Go on, Gowan! I'll plump for Phillida." The next on the list was-- "TO NOREEN "Cupid on his rosy wing Flits to offer you a ring: Take it, dear, and happy make One who'd die for your sweet sake!" "That's the sugary type again, and suggests a cracker!" decided Noreen. "You feel there ought to be a big dish of trifle somewhere near." "I wish there were!" chirped Edith. "You haven't guessed yet!" "Oh, well, I guess you!" "I hope it's my turn next," said Prissie. "No, it happens to be Dulcie," retorted Gowan. "You'll probably be the last of all. "TO DULCIE "Oh, lady fair from Cheverley Chase, The day when first I saw your face Put me in such a fearful flutter I could do naught but moan and mutter. Whether I'm standing on my head, Or if I'm on my heels instead, I scarce can tell, for Cupid's arrows Have made my brain like any sparrow's. When you come near, my foolish heart Goes pit-a-pat with throb and start, And when I try my love to utter, My fairest speech is but a stutter. How to propose is all my task, Whether to write or just to ask, And ere I solve the problem knotty I really fear I shall go dotty. Oh, lady fair, in pity stop And list while I the question pop. 'Tis here on paper; think it over, And let me be your humble lover." "Quite the longest of them all!" smiled Dulcie complacently. "But not as poetical as mine!" contended Noreen. "Oh, go on!" said Edith. "I'm sure I'm next!" And so she was. "TO EDITH