I let Fate decide it.

W.
_Columbia Spectator._


~Her Winsome Smile.~

Her winsome smile! It beams on me
From where the choir makes melody,
Behind the parson; maid demure,
Her witching eyes my thoughts allure,
Although, in church, this should not be.
Pale Luna's light, the dimpling sea,
Are very taking, I'll agree;
But to her smile all else is poor--
Her winsome smile.

The preacher, in a mournful key,
Shoves on the Year of Jubilee,
Shows present times without a cure,
With pessimistic portraiture--
His back is turned, he cannot see
Her winsome smile.

HARRY KEISER MUNROE.
_Wesleyan Argus._


~The Summer Girl.~