With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,

And with mine own hand sought to make it

grow;

And this was all the Harvest that I reaped : "You hold it This Way, and you swing it So."

The swinging Brassie strikes; and, having struck,

Moves on: nor all your Wit or future Luck
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Stroke,
Nor from the Card a single Seven pluck.

And that inverted Ball they call the High
By which the Duffer thinks to live or die,
Lift not your hands to IT for help, for it
As impotently froths as you or I.

Yon rising Moon that leads us Home again,
How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;

How oft hereafter rising wait for us

At this same Turning — and for One in vain.

-

And when, like her, my Golfer, I have been
And am no more above the pleasant Green,
And you in your mild Journey pass the Hole
I made in One - ah! pay my Forfeit then!
HENRY W. BOYNTON.

A GAME OF TENNIS.

THE court is rolled, the net is set,
Two players bold are ready,
While Chloe chaffs across the net

And laughs, “ Love all ; be steady!
Love all, indeed! with Chloe near

What need for more to think of? I've sipped some loving cups, but here There's only one to drink of.

"My serve!" she cries; the game begins;
I've missed! My eyes betray me.
And yet 't is through her eyes she wins;
I knew she would outplay me.

But "Fifteen love!" she now commands
What of the first injunction?

Ah, yes! no doubt she understands
And has some slight compunction.

At last the game to "vantage" goes;
I lay no claim to winning.
'Tis she who sovran kindness shows
And lets me have an inning.

By Jove! I win, by one bold stroke,
Just in the line behind her.

She sighs, "Love one

And cry: "Come, help me find her!"

- I grasp the joke

RAY CLARke Rose.

A RHYME OF A CEDAR-SHELL.

THE full moon shines and shimmers;
The bay, as smooth as glass,
Spreads like a silver mirror
Before a comely lass;

Unbroken, save where swiftly
Our sharp shell cuts its way;
And four broad blades grasp firmly,
And sweep its calm away.

The wide bay nears and narrows;
Among the shadows deep
Which 'neath the long bridge cluster,
We quickly slide and sweep
To where the winding river
Shines clear before our sight,
With one bank glooming darkly,
And one serene and bright.

Against the tide we struggle;
We feel its sullen strength,
And glory as we part it

And win each hard boat-length;
Until, warned by the moonbeams,
Which cast a lengthened shade,
We turn our sharp bow homeward,
Borne swift by tide and blade.

Upon our fevered temples

The wind's cool fingers rest, Among our bare locks tremble, And on each labouring breast;

While, fast and faster gliding,
Once more we reach the bay,
Whose rippling waters gladly
The rising wind obey.

At last we reach the boat-house,
And from the level float
Upon our heaving shoulders
We bear our dripping boat ;
In her white wraps we fold her,
And stack each well-tried oar,
The huge doors close on darkness,
Our swift night row is o'er.

WILLIAM LINDSEY.

IN THE PROCESSION.

SPRING comes: and baseball, robust flower, in every meadow's seen;

Summer: and tennis bourgeons white upon the shining green;

Autumn and football shakes at us chrysanthemumlike hair;

:

Winter and even ice is left a-bloom with skaters fair.

Four times a year the earth is glad with miscellaneous joy;

As often sighs the man who was and now is

not

- a boy.

ANONYMOUS.

CASEY AT THE BAT.

It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day:

The score stood four to six with just an inning left to play;

And so, when Cooney died at first, and Burrows did the same,

A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the

rest

With that hope that springs eternal within the human breast;

For they thought if only Casey could get one whack, at that

They'd put up even money, with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, and so likewise did Blake,

But the former was a pudding, and the latter was a fake;

So on that stricken multitude a death-like silence

sat,

For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single to the wonderment

of all,

And the much-despisèd Blaikie tore the cover off the ball;