L'ENVOI

Oh, let my argosy's flight

Come back through the streaming mist,
For I've been abroad with the moon to-night,
And the morning comes, dew-kissed.

A. A. LUTHER

My idea

Of restin'

Jest Restin'

Is to go down to th' Crick

And lay down on th' bank
Near a riffle

Otterbein College

An' jest lay an' think an' listen

Or maybe

Jest lay an' listen.

An' hear th' cow bell

Janglin' soft like

Way down in th' paster lot:

An' watch th' ants

Tote a dead bug

Up one side of a stick and down t'other.

(Dern little fools!)

An' chase flies off yer nose

An' feel sorta tickled

When th' ol' toad

Settin' under a cool leaf

Ketches one.

An' along comes an ol' scamp of a blue jay

An' screeches at ye

An' a sassy little red squirrel
Drops hunks o' bark on ye

An' orders ye offen his earth:

I wonder if they's any red squirrels An' blue jays in Heaven?

ALVIN BRUCH

The Wind

College of the City of New York

A disobedient and boisterous child,

Turned out of doors until his ways improve,
Sulks about the barn and the house-corners
Whimpering, half regretful, half defiant.

He whistles with a fretful cheeriness,
Secretly vexed they do not call him in;

He tries the door and finds it barred against

him,

He rattles at the panes with new impatience.

His sob becomes a wail, his wail a shriek;

In sudden rage he rushes through the garden, Uprooting greens and shattering the cornstalks,

Sending the ducklings scampering for shelter.

Then, his strength failing, his anger lessens, —
A tearful sorrow-softness possesses him;

He whispers through the ear of the iron lock
Dear promises of love and gentleness.

His spirit is subdued, his voice repentant.

To a Mud Puddle

FORMAN G. BROWN

University of Michigan

So brown, so dirty by the gutter wall,
You stand a blemish to the eyes of men;
They look at you, or see you not at all,
And shun you while you rise to clouds again.

Yet he who gazes on your murky face
Sees pictures there of things as far above
His head as God Himself; The willowy grace
Of tree, swift-scudding clouds, or circling dove.

So is it with our lives; in hidden deeps
We only see the wrong, nor stoop nor care
To find the heart of purest gold which sleeps
Within the muddy water resting there.