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SLIPS of a kidskin deftly sewn,

It clasp'd the hand, so pure, so sleek, A scent as through her garden blown, Where Gerty rests a pensive cheek; The tender hue that clothes her dove, The hand that when the light wind All these, and this is Gerty's Glove.

stirs,

Reproves those laughing locks of hers. A Glove but lately dofft, for lookIt keeps the happy shape it took

You Fingers four, you little Thumb! Warm from her touch! What gave the Were I but you, in days to come glow?

I'd clasp, and kiss,—I'd keep her. Go! And where's the Mould that shaped it so? And tell her that I told you so.

Frederick Locker.

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THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM.

Our love was like most other loves ;

A little glow, a little shiver,
A rose-bud, and a pair of gloves,

And “Fly not yet”-upon the river; Some jealousy of some one's heir,

Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, A miniature, a lock of hair,

The usual vows,-and then we parted.

We parted; months and years roll'd by;

We met again four summers after: Our parting was all sob and sigh;

Our meeting was all mirth and laughter: For in my heart's most secret cell

There had been many other lodgers ; And she was not the ball-room's Belle, But only–Mrs. Something Rogers!

Winthrop M. Praed.

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