"Jennie, darling, 't is a captive;
May n't I have the hand as well?"
O'er her crimsoned cheeks the blushes
Chased each other in their play;
And the checker-board, unheeded,
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Slid upon the grass away;
When the dying rays of glory
Bathed the landscape, as the sun
Slowly sank behind the mountain,
Game and Jennie both were won.
WALLINGFORD, '77.