DICK'S REFORM.

JUNIOR DICK has reformed, they say, -

A terrible midnight "grind" is he,

He takes no more his nights at the play,

And his hour at billiards every day,

But is working for his degree.

In his room in Weld there are brilliant rugs,

There is bric-a-brac over the low bookcase.

He gazes at curious signs and jugs,

The spoils of midnight raids, and mugs

Won in many a race.

Dick is nodding, and to the floor

Lets Pliny's Epistles fall lightly down.

He dreams of Sophomore days once more,

Of the triumphs of Harvard bat and oar,

And her foot-ball renown.

The Indian clubs in the window-place,

As the firelight flickers upon the pane,

Seem Freshmen full of innocent grace,

And the statuettes on the low bookcase

Become "Port-peelers" twain.

Dick starts, and with rapid, restless stride,

He paces the chamber to and fro.

Like a lion caged, he chafes in pride,

There is a world of joy outside,

Within a world of woe.

But hark! a voice at the keyhole near,

The voice of a friend it seems to be,

Is calling and whispering in his ear,

"Junior Dick, why 'grind' ye here?

Come on a 'bat' with me!"

He goes, and the street resounds his lay;

No longer a midnight "grind" is he.

He takes again his nights at the play,

And his hour at billiards every day.

Next year he'll try the degree.

ION.