In view of this pleasing prospect (now, alas! somewhat distant), I send you a scrap of newspaper verse which prophesies my sentiments.

It is signed 'M.

E.W.,' and Tom Mills says whoever wrote it knows you." WHEN POLLY GOES BY.
'T is but poorly I 'm lodged in a little side-street, Which is seldom disturbed by the hurry of feet, For the flood-tide of life long ago ebbed away From its homely old houses, rain-beaten and gray; And I sit with my pipe in the window, and sigh At the buffets of fortune--till Polly goes by.
There 's a flaunting of ribbons, a flurry of lace, And a rose in the bonnet above a bright face, A glance from two eyes so deliriously blue The midsummer seas scarcely rival their hue; And once in a while, if the wind 's blowing high, The sound of soft laughter as Polly goes by.
Then up jumps my heart and begins to beat fast.
"She 's coming!" it whispers.

"She 's here! She has passed!" While I throw up the sash and lean breathlessly down To catch the last glimpse of her vanishing gown, Excited, delighted, yet wondering why My senses desert me if Polly goes by.
Ah! she must be a witch, and the magical spell She has woven about me has done its work well, For the morning grows brighter, and gayer the air That my landlady sings as she sweeps down the stair; And my poor lonely garret, up close to the sky, Seems something like heaven when Polly goes by.
"P.

S.Tony has returned to the university.