I never in a railroad car
Did take my seat to ride,

But the prettiest girl aboard the train,
Was always sure to slide.

Although the delay is but momentary-men, women and babies, become more restless than did travelers of the ante-railroad period in coaches, with stoppages at every pump handle, and change of horses at every inn. One would think that our whole country had received the injunction so often thundered into the ears of little Joe "down in Tom all alone's" to move on.

Evening finds us rusty, dusty and dry, out of the cars and on board one of those magnificent lake steamers which so completely typify present American energy. We love to look at them, with their perfect arrangement in every detail, from the ponderous engine down. A single rise and fall of the massive beam seems enough to fill one with exultation for the present and hope for the future-enough to tell us all, Sons of Yale, that every day is advancing us towards life, in times and places where determined activity, in whatever pursuit, can alone ensure success.

Weary travelers stretch themselves upon the deck-stools and whiff their cigars in contented forgetfulness of the noisy railway, while listening to the surging of the waters about the wheels. There is music in the cabin too, where real sable harmonists elicit picayunes and plaudits from an appreciating audience. It gradually dwindles away however, and the saloons and decks become deserted for the state-rooms and berths, until nothing is heard but the thorough sounding thump of the engine. Sleep rests on all but the firemen-princes of the infernal—below, and the steersman above. For the pilot of one of these modern leviathans we are always disposed to feel, so to speak, a respectful sympathy. There seems to be something almost ennobling, something to make one a man, connected with his office. Responsibility doubtless, ever has this tendency. But the fact is not always so strikingly impressed upon our mind, by circumstances. Perched aloft so as to command the length and breadth of his charge, at one glance, he silently and surely holds her on her way over the waters. Hundreds of his fellow creatures are under his feet, wrapped in the stillness of death-their lives committed to his charge, and he alone, with the stars above and the waves beneath.

The chilly dawn of morning finds many astir, for even modern travel breaks in upon the habits of men, as does a call elsewhere upon this account of a day's experience of it.

A College Flirtation.

GENTLE reader, are you of a susceptible temperament? Does every pair of "witching black" or "melting blue" eyes, with lips and locks to match, give you a queer sensation in the region of the heart? If so, you can sympathize with me, for thus it is with your humble servant.

I do not think I am to blame for this failing. It is hereditary. One of my uncles died with it. That is to say, he met a charming lady in the street one day, he fell desperately in love with her, though unknown to him, and died fifteen years afterwards, a bachelor, always having declared he would marry no one but the fair unknown. He never was able to find her through all the fifteen years, and so his friends averred that he died of a broken heart,-though some basely insinuated he brought on his death by over-eating of lobster salad and cucumbers.

Therefore you see my susceptibility is hereditary. I should have left it behind when I came to College, but I did not. From hence sprung the events I am about to relate, and which I write down as a warning to others.

I escaped very well all attacks during the two first terms of my Freshman year. I was busy with my lessons, studying day and night to take a high rank in my class. It is true now and then as I walked down Chapel St., on my way to the Post, I would meet the flashing gaze of some eye, and feel a slight twinge, but by the time I had reached my room and had gone through the task of digging out a few Greek roots for Professor H——, I would perceive that all my symptoms had disappeared.

Matters went on thus until the third term. Occasional twinges but no settled disease. And then-!

I went to the Wooden Spoon Exhibition. When I procured my ticket, the manager said to me, "L., it isn't customary to give Freshmen tickets admitting more than one person. But as you're a pretty good looking fellow, I suppose you will wish to take a lady."

"Of course," I replied, not wishing to deny the "soft impeachment," though I had not a single lady acquaintance in town. So he gave me a ticket admitting myself and lady.

I went home feeling slightly ashamed that I had been in College nearly a year, and yet could boast of no lady acquaintance whom I

would invite to accompany me to the approaching Exhibition. Feeling thus I met R.

"Why, L." said he, clapping me on the back, "what makes you so down-hearted. You look you had lost every friend you had in the

as if

world, or had just received notice of forty-seven marks."

"Worse than that," I replied; "I want one friend more.”

"Well, I'm just going up to see J." he answered, "I'll introduce you. You can make a friend of him."

"But I want a female friend." And I briefly unfolded to him my situation.

"You're just the man I want to see," said he, “I've got a cousin who has just arrived here on a visit; I'll introduce you, and she will go with you. I intended to take her myself, but I can spare her. I have two others."

"Is she pretty?" I asked.

"Charming. Blue eyes, auburn hair, small white hands, and all the et ceteras."

"I'm your man, or rather her man," replied I, and we parted.

The next night was an eventful one in the hitherto even course of my college life. I dressed myself with the greatest care and nicety. I don't think there was a blacker pair of boots in college, and my neck-tie was perfectly unapproachable. As my friend R. remarked--he is fond of quoting French--I was perfectly comme il faut.

I believe that was the remark he made, though I cannot be positive, as he said it just before I entered the room, where I was introduced to the loveliest girl I had ever seen. I was done for! As Mark Meddle says in the play, "I have no hesitation in saying, and I say it boldly"-I was done for!

The events of that evening are to me a delicious dream. Every one who was there knows of the abominable crowd outside the door. No, I will not call it abominable, it only pressed me more closely to her side and gave me an opportunity of protecting her. I stood all the evening, but I was insensible to fatigue. The speaking was excellent, as every one knows, but it had no charms for me. I was half jealous of the praises she gave to those "handsome speakers," as she termed them.

We had ice-cream at Beecher's and then such a delightful walk home. We talked of friends far away, of home associations yet clinging around our hearts, of books and poetry.

"Who is your favorite poet, Mr. L.?” asked she.

"I don't know,” I replied, "I never read much poetry. I like Shakes

peare pretty well and Milton too." I named these, resolving to be on pretty safe ground.

“Never read much poetry!" exclaimed she, "you don't know what pleasure is in store for you. It is true that Shakespeare and Milton are poets such as the world has never seen, but other bards have sung, since then. Tennyson and Longfellow are two noble examples of living English and American poets. I think a poet the grandest work of God."

She changed the conversation to other matters, but not before she had fixed in me a determination to "read up" on poetry, and if possible to become a poet myself.

"Do you remain in New Haven a long time?" I asked, as I parted

from her.

"Until the first of July. I suppose I shall have the pleasure of seeing you often," she said in her own bewitching manner.

"Thank you," and "good evening," was all I could say. But I went home with the disease of which my uncle died, fastened upon me in full vigor. I "laid out" for three days, and read nothing but poetry. I made a few attempts at writing some verses myself, but succeeded no farther than this,

"O maiden, with the fair blue eyes,"

But although I could make no farther progress in the poetical way, it did not hinder me from cultivating the acquaintance of this "maiden with the fair blue eyes." In fact, I was so much enraptured with her, that I could not possibly have relinquished her society altogether. One evening we had been talking over our favorite authors, when she said,

66

Mr. L., I believe I never asked you if you wrote poetry. I think you must, you have so perfect an appreciation of what is beautiful."

"I sometimes attempt it," I replied, fearful of losing favor if denied all ability to write verses.

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Well, I have some music," said she, " which I like very much, but I do not like the words. I wish you would write some new ones. It is a serenade. Will you?"

How could I refuse? I asked her to sing over the words, (she was a beautiful singer and excellent pianist,) so that I could learn the spirit of the piece, and muttered something about being only too happy to fulfill her wishes, but wishing her serenade at the bottom of the Red Sea all the while.

I went home in despair. How was I to comply with her request! I blamed my foolish vanity which had led me to pass myself off for a poet. Finally a plan entered my mind, which I immediately put into

execution. My old friend and quondam chum at the academy, Harry G., was a poet. I had not seen or heard from him for two or three years, but I knew his old address, and I indited a letter to him, beseeching him to write me one or two verses in a certain measure, and everlastingly oblige me.

By return of mail the verses came. I thought them good, and she pronounced them excellent, so I transcribe them for the benefit of the reader:

Lady, good night!

When in the evening skies,
The stars unclose their eyes,
Trembling with light,

Then, going to thy dreams,

Sleep sweet till morning beams

Upon thy sight.

Lady, good night!

O'er thee may angels keep

Their watch while thou dost sleep,

With gentle might!

With one so good and pure,

We ever may be sure

It is good night.

As I said, she thought them excellent, and they were the means of advancing me considerably in her favor. We grew quite intimate. We walked out to East Rock. We took a moonlight sail on the bay, in which I am sorry to say, we got lost in a fog, and I blistered my hands with rowing. But then she pitied me so sweetly, and took my hand in her own so kindly as she looked at the blisters, that I would have rowed to Double Beach and back again for the same reward.

But such bliss could not last forever. Her visit came to a close, and she left New Haven. Can I describe the anguish which rent my heart at parting? I was going to tell her all, but I could not see her alone. Her friends were so confoundedly officious.

"Good bye, L." said she; "I shall think of you when I sing your song."

"At no other time ?" I asked.

"Perhaps so,” replied she.

And it was all over.

I let my beard grow. I went round gloomier than any Sophomore in Biennial. I had all the marks of Skakspeare's lover. "A lean cheek;"