But these last words, fair lady, bear in mind: Ere for your sport another heart you break, Forbear the triumph dear to womankind And spare your victim, even for my sake. When Robert had finished this letter, he wrote to his old chum, Walter Kennelworth, in New York, that he had written a farewell letter to Marie and that it was all over. Walter replied: Dear Robert, I have received your letter filled with gloom. Now, cheer up, old pal, the sun will shine again and Marie or some other girl just as good will smile on you. You are too young to let a girl wreck you. Stick to business and keep up your studies. I enclose a poem which I think about fits your case, and it will probably work out about that way. With all good wishes, Your friend, Walter. A BROKEN VOW It was a broken hearted boy who vowed a solemn vow, I will not write a letter to that pretty little Editoress anyhow; I will not do that fearsome thing, I will not pen a jest, About the beautiful Hostess who mocks the staying guest. He made a postscript to his vow, he made a codicil, He was serious as tho he formed his will, And then he sat down and smiled with all his might About all the love letters he did not have to write. But in a day or two he felt exceedingly queer and strange, A restless something filled his mind, he longed for a change; He asked the doctor what was wrong, the doctor gave a pill, And made a memorandum to add twenty to his bill. Then the pictures of all the girls he knew, Came flocking to his brain; Marie's lovely angel face marched sternly in the train, And each of them and all of them compelled him to think Just as a man thinks when he quits smoke or drink. At last a little disappointing note came--then he said: Just one more farewell love note I'll write; It shall not be serious, something fancy and light. He wrote a love letter, Just as a man who says he has sworn off; Takes Rock and Rye or some such thing to stop a cough. But why pursue this sorry tale, Why tell of what he did; 'Twas like the one more smoke or drink That throws away the lid. He wrote of the things she'd wrote and said, Of memories of sweet caresses that haunted the heart and head; He wrote of how much better she was than the other girl of the South, Of her beautiful eyes and ruby mouth. He wrote of love for her, And how well she had served cocoa and consommé; He wrote of love lost and debauched, Until the break of day. And when they came and found him ill And sought to nurse him thru, They said, "Here taste this chicken soup She made, it will be good for you."