inijiijiiijmjijijj jiii 1 ii!!iiiiii|iii)i!nHi|tii||^^ '■'''■■ '';;,;;:;:,,!;;„,.;,:,,...:;. ,M.M.mii'ni..MHiiiMii>.MM!miHi!iMniim.nMMM..m!tii.< iliiillHIIIIIilllltllllitlH^^^^^^ !!i!!Mnt(!!'iMriM!')"'; ii n i!lililiiil!liilili!>llJl!lllilli!iiiii!lii!li!i!lllii]ii!!!iHiili!!!HlH fBRARY "VERSITY OF I ALIFORNIA y Digitized by tine Internet Arciiive in 2008 witii funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation littp://www.arcliive.org/details/fromliaselectionsOOpeckricli " Dulce est periculiim" SELECTIONS FROM THE HARVARD ADVOCATE 1906— 1 916 THE FIFTY YEiVR BOOK "The centuries fade, like a mist from the glass; We are gone — why we know not, nor where; Yet as ever we wearily halt as we pass. We behold thee, still young and still fair." Ode to Harvard Lloyd McKim Garrison, '88, Advocate ^^ Veritas nihil veretur^^ THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, MASS. ^' Manche liehe Schatten steigen auf'^ H 33^ In 1876, in 1886, in 1896, and in 1906, like books "'^^'^^-^ were printed. The first was supervised by Charles Eliot Norton ; the last by Thomas Tileston Bald- win, the best friend of the Advocate. It is a com- fort that the compiler of this book has assisted in making the selections for five books. If one seeks a monument to the little old paper, let him look about in the list of young writers, and see how many of them became famous. No well of English undefiled is wasted, no matter how small its output. Chumming with such fellows is the charm of four years at Harvard. To have lived with fifty boards of editors through the last half century has been a privilege ! Frederick W. Loring, Advocate '70, TVTote : " Dear friend, pray God preserve our youth, And grant that we may e'er remember. " In years to come, we '11 form new ties. Yet leave the old unbroken, When to our children's lips arise The words that we before have spoken. " Nor need we ever fear to see Death come, this knot to sever ; A college friendship ! It shall be For life, dear comrade, and forever." Frequently sons of old editors have become editors in their turn. Three generations of editors in the same family may shortly be the rule. In the words of Roosevelt, Advocate '80, in this book, ''Let us not be unprepared." Let us dedicate this book: To the Third Generation of Advocate Editors. W. G. P. 533 The Advocate owes thanks to Percy A. Hutchin- son, '98, Hermann Hagedorn, '07, Reuel W. Beach, '06, Philip W. Thayer, '14, William Gary Sanger, '16, and Robert N. Cram, '17, for their assistance in making this book, as well as for other good service. CONTENTS PART I — FAIR HARVARD PAGE Harvard and Preparedness 3 Theodore Roosevelt, '80. A Plea for Personality in Professors 6 Charles Warren, '8g. ALiiA JMater 15 Witter Bynner, '02. Editorials 15 E. B. Sheldon, '08. Professionalized Scholarship 19 G. W. Gray, '12. Leadership of the Intellectual rather than the Athletic 22 Robert Walston Chubb, ^15. The "Advocate": Forty-Flve Years After ... 37 W. G. Feckham, '6y. William James 40 Percy Adams Hutchinson, 'g8. The Fifty- Year Class 41 IF. G. Peckham, '67. "Holworthy, H'y" 42 Thorvald S. Ross, ^12. Father's Soliloquy 43 H. W. H. Poii'd, Jr., 'og. In Memoriam P. H 44 H. W. H. Poivel, Jr., '09. The Game 45 K. B. Murdoch, '16. "Hello" 46 P. J. Roosevelt, '13. Ballade of Harvard Square 46 W. G. Tinckom-Fernandez, ^10. Ballade of Christmas Vacation 47 IF. G. Tinckom-Fernatulez, '10. Voices in the Fall 48 W. G. Tinckom-Fernatidez , ^10. The Market Place 49 Robert Emmons Rogers, 'op. From an Ode to Harvard 50 Witter Bynner, '02. V PAGE If I Were a Freshman 51 Richard Washburn Child, ^02. Harvard axd the Nation 55 Jerome D. Greefie, 'g6. PART II — HUMOR The "Monthly" to the "Advocate" 67 Hermann Hagedorn, Jr., '07. The Wrong Scent 69 Arthur Train, 'g6. The Maverick 73 Richard J. Walsh, '07. An International Affair 73 E. B. Sheldon, '08. Down by the Stream 79 F. Schenck, 'og. A Romance in Red 87 F. Schenck, 'og. The Murderer 92 C. P. Aiken, '11. Vignette 97 Wm. C. Greene, '11. The Blind Beggar 98 Wm. C. Greene, '11. Arcadian Sketches 98 P. R. Mechem, 'i^. The Case of Clara 100 P. R. Mechem, '15. Song 105 A. Gregg, '11. Mary — Not Marie 105 Lithgow Osborne, '15. Advice to Poets 112 H. Poivel, 'og. A Freshman Beer-Night 113 W. Goodwin, '07. Spring 116 James L. Pennypacker, '80. The Beauty in the Second Row 117 W. K. Post, 'go. How the Professor made Both Ends Meet ... 128 E. L. McKinney, '12. The Ex-President of the Russian Republic . . . 130 Robert Cutler, '16. The Dreamer of the Mountains 137 T. Tileston Baldwiti, Jr., '12. vi PAGE The Pickle of the Past ^39 H. A. Bellows, '06. Castles in the Air ^4° Scofield Thayer, '13. On the Decoration of College Rooms 141 R. J. Walsh, '07. Dollars ^44 W. L. Prosser, '18. The Fourth Case ^4» A.S.Pier,'9S' PART III — ADVENTURE Pieces of the GAiiE ^"5 P. A. Hutchinson, '98. Quatrain ^ ^ P. A. Hutchinson, ^98. From the Class Poem • • • ^ ^°^ Hermann Hagedorn, Jr., ^07. Morning , ^°^ Hermann Hagedorn, Jr., oy. Dryad King ^ ^^7 Hermann Hagedorn, Jr., '07. When the Shadow Falls 1°^ Hermann Hagedorn, Jr., '07. To TORQUATUS ^"9 Edward Eyre Hunt, '10. The Blind Angel ^7° C. P. Aiken, '11. The Warrior's Pr.\yer ^7i W.A.Norris,'j8. The Summons . . -^^^ Wilder Goodwin, ^07. The Lark ^^^ F. Biddle, 'op. After Defeat ^' F. Biddle, '09. Iseult H ceroid W. Bell, '07. La Gioconda ^'^ Harold W. Bell, '07. Phedre -^ R.J. Walsh, '07. In the Forest '^ Claude C. Washburn, 'oj. The Explorer ^'^ R. J. Walsh, '07. vii PAGE At Sea 175 Joseph Husband, 'g8. Salvage 176 Wilder Goodwin, ^oj. GoTT Mix Uns . 176 C. //. Jacobs, ^16. Little Coat-Tails 177 R. P. Utter, 'g8. Tripoli 184 F. L. Allen, '12. ETrea TLTipoivra — WiRELESS MESSAGES 1 85 C. P. Aiken, 'ii. The Recluse 186 Rudolph AUrocchi, '08. Prayer 187 Henry Gary, '00, Their Lot 187 /. Gazzam, '17. By the Flare of the Northern Lights 188 W. G. Sanger, Jr., '16. Children's Land 189 W. G. Sanger, Jr., '16. The Jap Doll 190 R. N. Gram, '17. Worlds in the Making 191 W. G. Sanger, Jr., '16. The Dance 192 R. N. Gram, ^17. Pro Defensio ^Esthetico 192 S. L. M. Barlow, '14. The Sea Cable 195 /. Gordon Gilkey, '12. The Wind's Way 196 H. E. Porter, 'op. Castles in Spain 197 A. F. Leffingwell, 'j6. Determination 198 R. M. Jopling, '16. Diana 198 A . F. Leffingwell, '16. Class Poem 199 Swinburne Hale, '05. The Sea Gull 200 /. S. Reed, '10. Class Poem 200 Amos Philip McMahon, 'ij. viii PAGE Baccalaureate Hymn 203 Lionel de Jersey Harvard, '15. Over the Downs 204 W. Willcox, Jr., '17. The Awakening 205 B. P. Clark, Jr., '16. An Ultimatum of Nature 205 Richard Washburn Child, 'oj. In the Grand Canyon 208 Harry R. Peterson, 'ij. In a Boat Cabin 208 Harry R. Peterson, '13. The Adventures of the Harvard Man 209 K. B. Toumsend, '08. A Vision of the Sea 211 /. AI. Moore, '11. Honor 212 /. M. Moore, '11. The West Today 212 /. M. Moore, '11. On a Birthday 213 /. M. Moore, '11. Babylon 214 George W. Gray, '12. A Litany 215 Harold Trowbridge Pulsifer, ^11. The Acolyte 216 Harold Trowbridge Pulsifer, '11. USQUEQUO DOMINE? 217 Van Wyck Brooks, '08. Lectures 217 A. Page, '05. The Dramatist as Citizen 220 Percy Mackeye, 'gj. PART IV — LOVE War in Flanders 233 Hermann Hagedorn, Jr., 'oj. Jealousy 233 H. T. P., '00. The Crafty ]Mrs. Carton 233 E. B. Sheldon, '08. "Poverty is no Sin, But Twice as Bad" .... 241 W. R. Castle, Jr., '00. Poppies 254 George W. Gray, '12. ix PAGE TiNTAGEL 258 D. MacVeagh, 'ij. The Player 259 George W. Gray, '12. Old Love or New? 259 /. Hinckley, '06. Sonnet 260 P. W. Thayer, '14. The Burmese Sculptor 261 Conrad Aiken, '11. Friends 261 H. Nickerson, 'ji. Dawn in the City 261 John Hall Wheelock, '08. Humanities 263 Van Wyck Brooks, '08. Vistas 263 John Hall Wheelock, '08. A Thought 264 F. B. Thiving, 'ij. Ibi Requiescat 264 F. B. Thwing, '13. Without Rhyme 264 T. J. Putnam, '15. The Kentish Sailor 265 D. L. MacVeagh, ^13. The Charles at Night 266 H. C. Greene, '14. The Maiden and the Meadow 267 /. A. Macy, 'gg. Chanson du Crepuscule 267 W. G. Tinckom-Fernandez, '10. Serenade 269 Hermann Hagedorn, Jr., ^oy. Chimes 269 S. Ervin, '08. Establishing a Motive 270 F. C. Nelson, '16. As You (Won't) Like It 275 Edward Eyre Hunt, '10. Dawn 276 Edward Eyre Hunt, '10. I TOO HAVE been IN ArCADY 277 Edward Eyre Hunt, 'lo. Jean 277 Alfred Putnam, '18, In Memory 278 M, F. Talbot, '16. X PAGE The Close of Mass 279 John H. Wheelock, '08. A Murderer 280 Sonnet 281 Frank Dazey, '14. The Man who Pah) 281 F. H. Dazey, '14. Consolation 282 R. MacVeagh, '10. Sonnet 283 Harold W. Bell, '07. La Esmeralda 283 E. L. McKinney, '12. In the Dato's Harem 284 L. Wood, Jr., '16. "Advice to the Lovelorn" 291 A. W. H. Powel, '09. XI PART I FAIR HARVARD "OHan-ard CoHege! America has need of you. let your might Become her captain and her strong delight. O Kft forever on the shield of Truth Before the armies of mortahty, The sounding challenge of the spear of youth ! " Witter Byxxer, '02, Advocate. HARVARD AND PREPAREDNESS Harvard ought to take the lead in every real movement for making our country stand as it should stand. Unfortunately, prominent Harvard men sometimes take the lead the wrong way. This ap- plies preeminently to all Harvard men who have had anything to do with the absurd and mischievous professional-pacificist or peace-at-any-price move- ments which have so thoroughly discredited this country during the past five years. These men are seeking to chinafy the country; and, so far as they have any influence, they are tending to chinafy Harvard too. The pacificist of this type stands on an exact level with the poltroon. His appropriate place is vdth the college sissy who disapproves of football or boxing because it is rough. In all our history there have been few movements more detrimental to our people and no movement more essentially ignoble than the professional pa- cificist or peace-at-any-price movement which has reached its zenith during the past five years. This movement became part of our official governmental policy when five years ago the effort was made to adopt the all-inclusive arbitration treaties under which we covenanted to arbitrate questions of national honor and vital interest (specifically, this means questions such as the murder of American men, women and children on the high seas and the rape of American women, for instance). A couple of years ago we actually adopted certain ludicrous arbitration or commission-for-a-year's-investigation treaties which, when the proposal was made to reduce them to practice, were instantly repudiated by the very administration that had made them. Much harm has been done to America by crooked poUticians and by crooked business men; but they have never done as much harm as these professional pacificists have sought to do and have partially suc- ceeded in doing. They have weakened the moral fiber of our people. They have preached base and ignoble doctrines to this nation. For five years they have succeeded in tainting our foreign policy with mean hypocrisy. I abhor wanton or unjust war. I believe with all my heart in peace, if peace can be obtained on terms compatible with self-respect. Even a neces- sary war I regard as a lamentable necessity. But it may be a necessity. It may be a necessity in order to save our bodies. It may be a necessity in order to save our souls. A high-minded man or woman does not regard death as the most dreadful of all things, because there are some things worse than death. A high-minded nation does not regard war as the most dreadful of all things, because there are some things worse than war. Recently there have actually been political but- tons circulated in this country with *' safety first" as the motto upon them in the fancied interest of one of the party candidates for the Presidency next year. This is the motto which in practice is acted upon by the men on a sinking ship who jump into the lifeboats ahead of the women and children. Even these men, however, do not, when they get ashore, wear buttons to commemorate their feat. This country needs to prepare itself materially against war. Even more it needs to prepare itself spiritually and morally, so that, if war must be ac- cepted as the alternative to dishonor or unright- eousness, it shall be accepted with stern readiness to do any duty and incur any hazard that the times demand. It would be well if Harvard would es- tablisli as part of its curriculiun an efficient system of thorough military training — not merely military drill, -vThich is only a part of military training, and indeed a small part, I believe heartily in athletics; but from the physical and moral standpoint such a system of military training would be better for all the men in Harv-ard and would reach far more men than are now reached by athletics. In addition, however, to such military training, and even if at present it proves impossible to get such military training, let Harvard men, graduates and undergraduates alike, start at once to practice and to preach that efficient morality which stands at the opposite pole from the milk-and-water doc- trines of the professional pacificists. Remember that sentimentality is as directly the reverse of senti- ment as bathos is of pathos. It is right and emi- nently necessary to be practical; it is right and eminently necessary to take care of our own for- tunes, of our own bodies. Each man must do it in di\d dually; and the nation must do it in its cor- porate capacity, acting for all of us. But in addi- tion, both men and nation must have the power of fealty to a lofty ideal. No man is worth his salt who is not ready at all times to risk his body, to risk his well-being, to risk his life, in a great cause. No nation has a right to a place in the world unless it has so trained its sons and daughters that they foUow righteousness as the great goal. They must scorn to do injustice, and scorn to submit to in- justice. They must endeavor steadily to make peace the handmaiden of righteousness, to secure both peace and righteousness. But they" must stand ready, if the alternative is between peace and righteousness, unhesitatingly to face suffering and death in war rather than to submit to iniquity or dishonor. Theodore Roosevelt, '8o. A PLEA FOR PERSONALITY IN PROFESSORS {Advocate Prize Essay) John Eliot, writing to old Jeremy Belknap, the historian-clergyman, July 31, 1781, said: *^01d Mother Harvard is a good old dame enough and will nourish many likely children who are yet to come." Notwithstanding this optimism of one hundred and thirty years ago, still paralleled in many a pres- ent-day expression, there are certain conditions at Harv^ard College today, which may very seriously affect the character of its future human product. The real need of Harvard College today is not more students, more funds, more buildings, or more pro- fessors. Its true need is mors great men as pro- fessors. The man who best serves the college is not he who has large knowledge to impart, but he who can impart knowledge in a large way. The real worth of the college to the young men whom it sends forth will, in the long run, depend not on what or on how much it teaches, but on koiu it teaches. The vitality of its teaching will depend upon the vitality of its teachers. A professor may be a fountain-head of learning; he may be a capable conductor of a full stream of knowledge; yet he will not be a true educator un- less his stream shall carry the electric current of a powerfully live individuality. Education without inspiration is a semi-dead thing. There is a gromng belief today among Harvard graduates that this side of the educational problem is being neglected by the Harvard Corporation; and the question is frequently asked: How often does 6 the Corporation today, in selecting a professor, lay the stress on the personality of the waw, rather than on the profundity of the pedagogue? Many grad- uates believe that the Corporation would do well, in choosing professors, to bear more constantly in mind the words of Senator George F. Hoar in his Autobiography of Seventy Years: "Making all the allowance for the point of view, and that I was then a youth looking at my elders who had become famous, and that I am now look- ing, as an old man, at young men, I still think that there can be no comparison betw^een the college administrators of fifty years ago and those of today. It was then the poHcy of the college to call into its service great men who had achieved eminent dis- tinction in the world 'without. . . . There v/as some- thing in the college training of that day, imperfect as were its instruments and slender as were its re- sources, from which more intellectual strength in the people was begotten than there is in the college training of the present generation. I will not under- take to account for it; but I think it was due in large part to the personality of the instructors. A youth who contemplated with a near and intimate knowledge the large manhood of Josiah Quincy; who listened to the eloquence of James Walker or heard his expositions of the principal systems of ethics or metaphysics; or who sat at the feet of Judge Story as he poured forth the lessons of juris- prudence in a clear and inexhaustible stream, — caught an inspiration w^hich transfigured the very soul of the pupil." The modern instructor has a passion for exact learning. His aim is to communicate a similar ardor to his pupils. Without personality, however, his efforts are pitiably vain. The average instructor needs sorely to learn a few of the fundamentals of personal influence. First, he needs to learn that it is not absolutely necessary to be dull in order to be accurate. Second, he should pjrasp the fact that it is not necessary to lose all sense of humor in order to be learned. Someone has said that the most valuable asset for a reformer is a twinkle in the eye. Such an ocular variation is equally necessary to the man who wishes to educate young men. Third, in order to be truly scientific, a scientist must be an artist; he must have an eye to the beauty of knowl- edge and a tongue or pen to express that beauty. Fourth, the educator must realize that in order to impart knowledge it is not necessary to standardize the learners; he must recognize that every under- graduate is an individual, even though of a most em- bryonic type. Fifth, above all, he must at all times recall that he himself is a warm, red-blooded mam- mal. He must not confuse education with iso- lation. He must at all times be a human being, teaching human beings. He must, in the words of Phillips Brooks, be a man ''growing in broader sym- pathy with men the longer that he does his special work." The great majority of undergraduates are in college not so much to acquire specific knowledge as to become well-rounded men. The college will be judged in the outside world not so much by the degree of learning of its graduates as by the kind and character of men it sends forth. The college must lay the foundation of character; the graduate schools can add the superstructure of practical knowledge. No professor, however, can aid in building character unless he himself has a strong personality. There is nothing for which the conventional youth of twenty, whose ideas are mostly another man's, really craves as for individuality. Lacking it him- self, he seeks it in his teachers. A teacher who can- not impress his students with his own individuality will leave an evanescent impress of any kind. A true teacher gives to his pupils not only his learning, 8 but also himself. It is the human quality of the gift, not the didactic, that is of value. Xow, as no element of personality is of greater effect or of more constant necessity than that of human s>Tnpathy, the possession of that attribute ought to be the leading determining factor in the choice of a professor by the Corporation. There is a grave question today, however, whether it is given much consideration, or whether it is allowed to out- weigh the possession of superior learning by another candidate. Yet it is no curious coincidence that five great Harv^ard professors — great not merely because of their learning, but because of the lasting impress they made on their students — should have had this one great characteristic — human sympathy. It happens that these five men, of most varied talents and personalities, have all been described by con- temporaries in the Harvard Graduates Magazine during the past few years; and it is well worth the while of the present Harvard Corporation to ponder deeply on the relation between the quali- ties described in the foUo-^ing extracts and the deep influence which these men had upon their pupils. Of Nathaniel S. Shaler, it was -^Titten by William R. Thayer in 1906: "It was as a lecturer and as a friend that he stirred their interest and kindled their admiration and affection. , . . Indeed his genius for meeting every- one on equal terms was astonishing. It sprang from his inmost nature — a nature democratic and sim- ple. . . . By his talents and his ceaseless industry, wedded to a large, magnetic nature, he showed that the calling of a imiversity professor has the noblest possibilities; he humanized it. ''Learning, after all, may be acquired; but genial- ity, -^it, the electric flash of insight, sympathy, are divine gifts." Of Francis J. Child, Professor Norton wrote in 1897: ''His nature was sweet and pure to the core, and in his relation with men there was something more than mere common kindliness and consideration — a certain quality of tender and genial humanity. . . . He preserved the strongly marked and alto- gether delightful originality of his nature from the pressure and attrition of the world which speedily wear down the marks of distinctive individuality and shape the mass of men into a general dull uni- formity. ... A master of most accurate and ex- tensive learning, a scholar of unwearied diligence and exact method, he possessed the faculties and sym- pathies which enabled him to impart his learning to his pupils and to inspire in the more capable among them something of his own enthusiasm for the best in literature and hfe." Of Louis Agassiz as a teacher, Burt G. Wilder wrote in 1906: "Indeed, the secret of his great power was to be found in the sympathetic, human side of his char- acter. Out of his broad humanity grew the genial personal influence by which he awakened the en- thusiasm of his audiences for his unwonted themes, inspired his students to disinterested service." Of Charles Eliot Norton, Professor Palmer wrote in 1907 of his "disciplined judgment and sympa- thetic heart." . . . "LFnder Professsor Shaler the student gained a kindling vision of pretty much all the natural world; under Professor Norton of the human. In these two culture courses, the speaker gave so much that there was little left for the hearer to do except to wonder, to enjoy, and to grow." And Professor BHss Perry wrote of "the breadth of his personal and intellectual sympathies, and his known constancy to all the ofiices and loyalties of friendship." 10 Of James IMills Peirce, W, E, Byerly wrote in 1905: "To his students, he was ever a sympathetic friend, patient and helpful, generous and inspiring. To the end of his life he was deeply interested in the young men around him, understanding and sym- pathizing with their tastes, their aspirations and their struggles, as if he were one of them. . . . His ready interest in everything human, and his keen en- joyment of life, made him the most charming of comp?mions." Let the Harvard Corporation ask any man of the '8o's or *9o's what are the lasting memories, the real instruction which he carried away from Har- vard, and the chances are that the answer will be as follows: "I remember the great human quaHties of Shaler and his broad \iews of the world. I remem- ber the charm and sympathy of Norton and his views of humane culture (much of which I then dis- agreed vA\h). I remember the helpful, practical philosophy oi Palmer. On the other hand, I don't remember anything about the details of the geology that Shaler taught, or of the Gredan or Renaissance art or architecture that Norton taught, or of the particular sermons and religious teachings that E rooks tried to instill into us, or of the philosophic ■concepts upon which Palmer lectured with such care. Moreover, I don^t remember one out of ten thousand of the historical and economic facts, of the mathematical chemical formulas, or of the Latin or Greek construction that I spent so many weary hours learning from able and learned but uninspired instructors and professors." Furthermore, that man of the '8o's or '90's -^ili go on to tell the Harvard Corporation that he re- gards all the myriads of things forgotten, as well forgottsi; and that the real vital things in his whole college course were the large impressions, the glimpses of ^dstas of hinnan inspiration — the in- ii spiratfon, as Senator Hoar said, "which transfigured the very soul of the pupil." I knew one Harvard graduate (now dead) who dates his first impulse to\\^rd finding himself to an examination paper set hy Professor Norton — on which paper there w^re twelve questions on dry details of the history of the architecture of the Middle Ages^ and one question which read as follows: *'What is your idea of beauty?" This particular student started to answer this question in a semi- jocose vein, was gradually startled to find that he was discovering in his own brain thoughts of the exist- ence of which he had not dreamed, ended by con- suming the whole examination period in answering this one question, omitted all the other twelve ques- tions, left the room feeling that he had everlastingly flunked — and received the shock of Ms young life when Professor Norton aw^arded him the highest mark in the course. In the same way Professor Shaler not only revealed to a student the world but he also fre- quently revealed to the student the student's own self. ^ It is to be seen, therefore, that the possession of human sympathies is a cardinal necessity in a pro- fessor or educator; for it is through sympathy that the personality of the student is brought out wliich constitutes education, actually as well as deriva- tively. And this leads to the thought of the second great quality which the Corporation should look for in its professors, ahead of their eminence in learning — the quality of leadership. The young man of twenty longs for a leader. It is the quality of leadership which makes the athletic hero; even more is it that quality which constitutes the professor a living in- fluence. But to be a leader, a man must be of the world and in the world — and not merely the prod- uct of secluded study-rooms. 12 In these days of specialists in every branch of knowledge, when the writing of an exhaustive mono- graph on the details of a subject accompanied by hundreds of footnotes and thousands of "authorities consulted" is the goal of so many learned instruc- tors, there is increasing danger of overlooking the broad vistas, in order to peer to the end of a very obscure street. In that street there may be a very absorbing family of men, or an entirely fascinating geological formation, or a singularly unique mass of classical relics; but he who confines his attention to it win not only not know or understand, but will lose the capacity to understand the outside world and the swarming throngs who never even approach that street. To a certain extent the college needs these lim- ited specialists; the graduate schools may even thrive on them; but the work which has the more profound effect on human beings is the work done by the instructor who not only knows the world but is himiself a part of it. The more a part of it the instructor has been — the more a leader — the greater wiU be his influence over those who are burn- ing to become a part of it. The college needs men who have achieved in the world and not merely in their speciality. Nothing inspires the young man, ardent for success, like the success of those who have gone out from the walls within which he is still secluded. In other words, leadership in the outside world is the best of all qualifications for leadership of the youth in college. It is im.possible, for instance, to estimate the pro- found effect which Harv'ard produced upon the future history of the bar of this country when she called, to instruct her graduates in the Law School, the second greatest judge of the United States Su- preme Court of the period — Joseph Story. Har\-ard has too long neglected the wonderful list of her great men. She has bestowed on them honor- 13 ary degrees, and prided herself on their works after their death. She has too infrequently paid them the greater honor of insisting that they should impart a portion of their living personality to her under- graduate sons. Of course there is one answer to the plea for an increase of "leaders" in the regular teaching faculty of Harvard — that it is difficult to induce men of eminence in active careers to take up the burden of the life of a college professor. It might be pos- sible, however, for the Harvard Corporation to se- cure their service for limited periods. While sporadic attempts have been made from time to time to have single lectures or a short course of lectures given by men of eminence, there has been no systematic ef- fort to provide full courses of lectures in each im- portant branch of learning by some Harvard leader in that branch in the outside world. There would seem to be no reason why, each year, some successful historian, chemist, engineer, author, political econ- omist, geologist, architect, artist, electrical expert, jurist, and classical scholar should not be drafted by the Corporation from Harvard's ''great reserve" (as it has been termed), each for a full course of lec- tures or at least for a half-year course, requiring his presence in Cambridge and among the students. The devotion or contribution of this amount of time and effort the Alma Mater can certainly expect from her sons who have achieved success. If the question of expense appears to be an ob- stacle to this plan, the college should go back to the system in vogue in the '40's and '50's, when the undergraduates were charged a special fee, in addi- tion to the regular yearly tuition fee, for the privi- lege of attending such courses. There can be no doubt as to the warm enthusiasm with which the opportunity to receive the impress of such men would be welcomed by the under- graduates. There can be no doubt as to the vitaliz- 14 ing effect of such courses upon the general scheme of education. The great need of the day is vitality and individu- ality as a corrective to the standardizing and me- chanical tendencies, not only in halls of learning but in every walk of life. The Harvard Corporation can do no greater serv- ice to the nation at large than by insisting on the attributes of human s}TQpathy and \'igorous per- sonaHty in its professors, even though to obtain them it may be obliged to accept a less degree of superior technical proficiency. Charles Warren, '89. ALMA MATER And one enlisted for my land When war let loose the sundering flood; And one — because his father's blood Was hot in him — let go my hand. I lost them both, — but not before I kissed them both. The battle, done, Defeated one, exalted one . . . Ask me not which I love the more ! Witter Bynner, '02. EDITORL\LS Mr. Ot\t:n Wister's recent address, delivered at the awarding of prizes for academic distinction, raises many interesting questions. Our enormous wheat crop as opposed to our hundred per cent lack of scholarship — a contrast startlingly emiphasized by Mr. Wister — seems destined to defy oblivion. The only thing is — why come to college at all? IS Why not begin immediately to achieve practical success? Of course, Mr. Wister says that our minds are trained in college for this very thing, that we emerge from the academic atmosphere with every qualification for increasing the wheat crop. This seems at first a rather delightful theory — college the place of active preparation for a life of material achievement. But when one drops theories and examines the undergraduate state of mind, the result is apt to be doubt and a certain unwil- lingness to theorize further. Instead of actively working toward an already settled career, the average undergraduate is not at all sure what he means to do with his life. This fact naturally interferes with any careful preparation. If, on the other hand, he has decided in favor of business or the law, he takes, if conscientious, a certain number of economic, history courses, etc. More often he considers that the professional school offers plenty of opportunities for professional work, that one can be an undergraduate only for once, that '' the great lessons in college are not to be found in books," and — on the whole, wisely — separates utterly his selection of courses from the choice of his future. Such a man can still do good work, can make his academic training of the highest value to him, no matter what he takes up later. He may believe that college is a place to broaden one's mind as much as possible, that cultivation should be the result of four years' residence in a university. His success as a lawyer will not diminish if he is fond of reading Moliere and Meredith in the evening; his success as a human being will greatly increase. There are, however, in every college a large num- ber of men who exist academically for the sole reason of enjoying themselves. This may be done in many ways; and four delightfully careless years are spent. Many of these men — in fact the majority — in- i6 tend to do things after they leave college, and, what is more, their intentions are usually fulfilled. But the obvious question is again — why come to col- lege at all? WTiy not secure an early start without an apparently useless delay? They may answer that they want a good time before they settle do^Ti to work. This is stupid. No one ^ill ever believe that an able-bodied, in- teUigent young man must have four years of lazi- ness as a preparation for modern American life. They may repeat the before-quoted remark about "the great lessons of college being found outside of books." By "outside of books" we infer they mean in men. But no one will deny that the out- side world is a far better place than college to learn the lessons of humanity. So the fact remains that about half of ever>^ under- graduate body is quite absurdly out of place. It is not exactly their individual fault because, un- fortunately, a college education has become a con- vention. Neither does it reflect on their ability and importance as men; it merely shows they are not in the right field for exhibiting this abihty and importance. "And there you are" — as Mr. Henry James is fond of remarking. E. B. Sheldon, 'o8. Cedantque arma togce: Place for the Signet! Har\-ard is in Cambridge, not in Tipperary. Har- vard's reno-^-n is as a literary institution. Harns grow ^4de in Connecticut, Jersey and Pennsylvania and in all the other Old Hollands or New Hollands that have been taken by the Dutch; and these are the fundaments of certain athletics. The winged cherubs declined the seats to which they were invited by Saint Cecilia. How rational, for an intellectual t}TDe of person! As for athletic divinities, we have President Eliot, Major Higginson and Charles Eliot 17 Norton, our church militant. This is the only secular trinity that the Advocate gets on its knees to. It is admitted that C. E. Norton has all-round athletic merits. Harv^ard is entirely assured that President Ehot won honor and glory as a Varsity Stroke, and the lines of the Major's dedication of the Soldier's Field are the thirty-nine articles of our athletic creed: Honor always; victory, maybe. Mr. Heldinger, the celebrated short back, is prob- ably all right. Personally he has the Advocate's best wishes, and vicariously he has given some of our money to his opponents — all that our Puritan principles allowed us to wager on his success. Perhaps the illustrious long stop, Mr. Murphy, does not find so many of his kind with us. Rival institutions of learning early snatch such Gany- medes, as a business; have often robbed even the Prep. School, which is in South Boston, of its most muscular scholars. Murphy and Heldinger are chummy fellows and are all right. They are honored like the gods; but are they really in our line? It concerns the common- weal, interest rei publicce, the country requires and Harvard requires, that Harvard should maintain its primacy. In certain athletics the primacy is based as above rather than on the upper Harvard qualities. The cherubs knew they had not the lower qualifications, and said so. We have wandered after gods strange to us, and have thereby lost caste with the barbari- ans. There is a noise without: ''It is the god Her- cules whom Antony loved. He now leaves him.''' Hercules was not the highest god, and Jupiter let himself down when he turned himself into a bull. Athleticism should not be our favorite schism. We are born quality, as children of Mother Harvard. In our youth we knew Lowell and Longfellow;^ we walked imperfectly with God and with Francis J. Child. T. Roosevelt, O. Wister, J. Fox, P. Mac- Kaye, F. Norris and a multitude like them and our- i8 selves are children of the same mother. The saints in our calendar are not Heldinger nor Murphy, but our saints are Shakespeare and Dante and Komer and Emerson and Parkman, and we say the place for the Bowditches is with the stars; and the martial heroes on our rolls are Bob Shaw and Charles Lowell. We are clerks to the Signet, stray offspring of Walter Scott and likewise of Geoffrey Chaucer. Did you ever hear of Edward Hopkins, Armiger? He left an endowment to pay each year for awards to students, with the motto, " Detur Digniori.'' On that principle: Do you give honor and glory and your suffrages to your wdnning champions. As Annie Hutchinson, the prophetess, arranged seven grades in her kingdom of heaven, so in your kingdom of Harvard, do you place the sons of Harvard in grades according as they are born of John Harvard in the spirit. Place brains over brawn, and wits over buttocks. Every Jack that is son to John Harvard, born or to be bom, to the end of time, takes from John a valuable estate; but he holds that estate on a tenure of these terms, to wit: that every Jack pay a grain of courtesy to every fellow^, not only of the Heaven- born, but to every student born of John Harvard. And the estate that John Harvard left was left primarily to the bookish, or those that way in- clined — although without any narrowness. Professionalized Scholarship The fault with what we call our scholarship sys- tem is that by offering money as the reward for high attainment in college work, it professionalizes schol- arship. A man is paid to make high grades in his studies. This is literally what is meant by the award- 19 inp of a scholarship with stipend. The principle is wrong, as it has long been recognized to be in ath- letics. If it is not right to pay an undergraduate money because he plays football with distinction, it is not right to pay him money because he translates Latin accurately or achieves high grades in history and mathematics. In this issue we print a discussion on this subject, scholarship. It was provoked by a recent editorial in the Advocate, and while it is highly interesting in its viewpoint and in its analysis, we believe that the contention of the editorial stands. It is that pro- fessionalized, commercialized scholarship is %vrong. It is not the best way to help scholarship, nor is it the best way to help worthy students who are in financial need. Two kinds of scholarships are offered in Harv^ard College: those with stipend and those without. On its face, such a distinction is wrong. For it di- vides the scholarship men into two groups — the paid and the honorary — and the very fact of the division hurts both groups. The honorary scholar- ship, everybody perceives, is not so valuable; and the paid scholarship somehow seems not so honorable. The college officially has made another division, calling men of the highest rank First Group Scholars, and those of lower rank, who have yet done notable work. Second Group Scholars; and in both groups are represented scholarships with and without sti- pend. But in the eyes of the undergraduate public the real grouping is into the paid and the unpaid, and so long as there are the two kinds the distinc- tion will remain. By accepting a scholarship with stipend, a man advertises his poverty. For, anybody who knows anything about the scholarship system knows that these scholarships are given only to those students who make wTitten application for them — applica- tions in which they have to set forth their financial 20 need, their home ciroimstances and their especial claim to financial assistance from the college. The awards, of course, are made to the best scholars among the applicants; and this generally means a high standard of undergraduate scholarship. But it is also true that the awards are made only to those who haA^e confessed their financial distress in their applications. Even if we cannot escape the double system, we might neutralize some of its bad influ- ence by not distinguishing publicly between the scholars who receive payment and those who receive only honor. When a man has completed his seventeen courses in Har\'ard College he gets his degree, a distinction wdthout stipend. The same argument that supports the funded scholarship ^^ill support the funded degree. If the scholarship is gii^en to aid the young scholar in his next year's work in college, why might not a stipend be awarded with, his degree — som.e- thing substantial to tide him over that imcertain first-year in the world.^ G. W. Gr.\y, 'i2. Thei^e is a rumor that the faculty have ordered one hundred pious maxims and Scripture texts, done in worsted, framed and glazed, to be hung in the various lecture rooms, in harmony with the standard of taste set by the appropriate inscription upon Emerson Hall. The Advocate regrets that the rumor has no foimdation, and that no further effort to rise above the commonplace, in the way of decora- tion, is contemplated, except to inscribe upon the opposite facade of Emerson Hall the sententious maxim ^'Man is Mortal," in answer to the enig- matic question ''What is Man?" 21 LEADERSHIP OF THE INTELLECTUAL RATHER TtL\N TtlE ATHLETIC (Advocate Prize Essay) Consideration of the question of leadership in- variably meets with protest. The intellectual proudly disclaims any ambition for leadership, that " last infirmity of noble mind '^ ; the athlete shows no inclination whatever to reject his honors; and that purely conceptual being, the average undergraduate^ tells you that he guesses that he knows whom he wants to elect as leader. Nevertheless, there are some phases of the problem that seem to require attention. No one familiar with conditions here will deny that excellence in athletics is at the present time the chief means to popularity and prominence in college. Few will deny that the intellectual stu- dent receives but a meager share of the honors. Although generally exaggerated, the extent of ath- letic leadership is clearly disproportionate. Four fifths of the nominees for offices of the Junior and Sophomore classes this year w^re athletes or di- rectly connected with athletics through manager- ship, and only two of the thirty-eight nominations could by any stretch of the imagination be ascribed to intellectual attainment. In the Senior class this is true to a lesser degree, for of the piu*ely honorary offices (excluding poet, orator, etc.) nearly two thirds were filled by athletes or managers. Even this leaves only a little over one third of the offices to be distributed among men prominent in all other activities. Similarly, over two thirds of the mem- bers of the student council are athletes. Most undergraduates are aware of this pre- dominance of athletic leadership, and are either satisfied with the state of affairs or are helpless to affect it. The number of the contented is un- doubtedly large, so that any attempt to change 22 conditions seems at first consideration an impossi- bility. As an expression of the interests and ideals of the community, leadership presents a fundamental problem. Nevertheless, we often hear of men who, in their Senior year, wish fer\'ently that they had not been misled by present ideals of achievement. And the faculty has taken note of the fact. Says President Lowell: "'So one in close touch with American education has failed to notice the lack among the mass of undergraduates of keen interest in their studies, and the small regard for scholarly attainment." This condition is inextricably in- volved in the problem of leadership. Moreover, athletic leadership must be recognized as a cause as well as an effect of neglect of intellect; so that in the final analysis an examination of the causes of the one is more or less the discovery of the causes of the other. The attempt here will be to point out these causes and to show how conditions may be changed in such a way as to encourage and connect intellectual leadership with intellectual interest. The solution of the problem does not lie concealed in the pages of deep treatises on education. The means of increasing intellectual leadership may be arrived at through an examination of the causes of athletic leadership. Evident though these may be, it would be well to consider them briefly. There are four which naturally occur to one and these may be called, for convenience, the social factor, adver- tisement, the dramatic appeal and the aim. For a number of related reasons, the athlete is, in the great majority of cases, sociable. He has ready access to the clubs and is in approximately seven cases out of ten a private school man who has time to spend and to waste in sociability. Such men do not need to take what Dean Hurlbut calls "the long look ahead" which calls for study as a neces- sity. Poor scholarship is not confined to any one class, and yet for better or for worse, the time of 23 club men is at their disposal and they do not use it for studying. To take the much-maligned Institute as an example, the hundred and fifteen men taken from the class of 19 14 last year got a total of six A grades, and fifty-five of them got nothing higher than C. All the Junior class officers are members of the organization and all are prominent athletes. The chances, then, of an athlete being unsociable are small even without regard to the intrinsic social qualities of sport. But this sociability is not sufficient to elect a man. Here the second factor of athletic leadership is important — ''advertising." In such a large col- lege as this the only men that are knowTi by all are the athletes. Read any newspaper during the foot- ball, track or baseball season and you will realize the truth of this statement. In college the athlete is known by sight and by achievement. Thousands come to see him play and go wild with enthusiasm. And although some men might realize that the values of the crowd were false, they nevertheless join in and cheer with the best of them, afterwards standing in not a little awe of that great man, the captain of the Varsity. There is indeed ample justification of this, and it is here that what has been called the "dramatic appeal" comes in. Ath- letic achievement is tangible and leads to an equally tangible reward. When we see a brawny halfback plunging through the line, or a runner breaking the tape in record time, the natural impulse is toward ad- miration. He is something of a hero and he must be honored. So we make him a leader whether he is fitted for it or not. And this immediateness of re- ward not only draws men into athletics but also makes its appeal to those who do not compete. But to overlook one other circumstance would be to ignore one of the strongest motives and one of the most admirable attributes of athletics. When the athlete has won all his honors and recognition, 24 there would seem to be no other incentive to the continuance of his pursuits. There is a long and hard training season to go through and daily practice of great rigor and monotony. The hope of more honors may be a cause for the sacrifice, but it would be a very Macbeth of ambition that would submit to it for that reason alone. There is here that mo- tive which is usually called college spirit, the al- truistic spirit of loyalty which, artificial and short- sighted though it may be, undoubtedly plays a part. Athletes have the sense that they are working for something vastly more important than themselves. Do they not constantly disregard their own interest in the interest of the team? Inevitably this idea has its effect upon the rank and file of the students, and they feel all the more called on to reward their al- truistic champions. Such are the most obvious causes of athletic leadership. The athlete is known socially and through the sporting columns ; _ he is admired for his achievements and his spirit. A sharp if not a bitter contrast it is to turn from the athlete to that nervous, short-sighted, weakened en- tity which represents to most undergraduates pure intellect. What alternative is there? A man comes to college, sees the contrast, and fancies that he must be either the one or the other. This is true to an extent that is deplorable. The man goes in for study reluctantly, often because he has failed in his attempts at outside activities. The problem is therefore twofold: to prevent the development of intellectual extremes and to make intellectual pur- suits seem less repugnant to the man on the border line, who cannot be athletic and will not be what he calls a grind. Or concisely, the intellectual must be made sociable, and the club man must be made intellectual so far as possible. The mere mention of such theses draws a smile. One contrasts in thought the man who burns the midnight oil with the man who drinks the midnight 25 wine. It IS taken for granted that the student must work alone and live alone because of his nature and his work. There is no more fallacious idea and, under the present system, no more deplorable fact. A man may go out for any activity and he gets to know men, but let him study and he studies alone. The claim here is that this condition is not inevi- table. A man may study and still have leisure for sociability if opportunity is offered to him. He may moreover study with men much more than now. The Germans seem to realize this fact. Says Paul- sen: "We are convinced that prolonged and daily intercourse with men and youths devoted to science is the best way to lead even those who are not destined to be actual scholars to a higher conception of their Hfe tasks and to provide them at the same time with the necessary scientific knowledge for their professions." Socialize students then, and in so far as the nature of study will allow, socialize study. The most obvious means of socialization is through organization, and organization under en- couraging circumstances. There is the Phi Beta Kappa. It is well enough organized, but under dis- couraging circumstances. Its headquarters are far above the common herd, in a tower! While the 440-yard runner luxuriates in his Varsity club, the scholar climbs the medieval stair to a musty room in the tower of Memorial Hall. The chief func- tion of the organization. Phi Beta Kappa day, is equally remote and equally musty. Build Varsity clubs, have football parades in stadiums, what you will for athletes, but don't confine your scholars to a tower! The only time that they appear is when nobody sees them, on June eighteenth or thereabouts. Now it might not be necessary to build a clubhouse for the Phi Beta Kappa, but surely they should have some respectable headquarters. Members of the organization must take the initiative and bestir themselves to obtain a meeting place. Further, 26 much more can be made of the elections to the so- ciety and must be, if the undergraduate is to feel that he is not among the number of the superior and successful men of the college. As a definite sug- gestion, why not let the chosen eights and twenty- twos wear caps and gowns for the week of their election? The suggestion is radical but not an im- possibility. But the Phi Beta Kappa is a far-distant goal for the Freshman or the Sophomore. For him the nearest point of distinction is the first group. It is indeed a distinction! A name in the Crimson and a certificate on the wall of College House. The only people that know it are the Dean and the office clerks. Here is another chance for sociability. The first group should have a social organization, officers and functions. A smoker, or, more preten- tiously, a dinner attended by the Dean, the Presi- dent or others who have scholarship at heart, would make the student realize that excellence in curricular work is really a distinction. It is all very well to say that in the case of the student, virtue is its o^Ti reward; as a matter of fact, where in- tellectual excellence means isolation, virtue is its own punishment. In this matter of the groups, the initiative must be taken by the faculty or by the student council. Excellence in curricular work and a vdder recog- nition of it could be further encouraged by a slight reform in the section-meeting system. All aspects of this much-debated question cannot be considered here, but from the point of view of sociability and interest, informality and more active participation should be the aim. Conceding the necessity of written tests, the discussion which takes place in the meetings can be made much more valuable by means of more discussion by the students and less by the instructor. Students might lead either en- tirely or occasionally, and all such purely discursive 27 meetings should be made optional, so that the men would come to gain knowledge rather than to show what they do not know. One form of discussion is becoming common in such courses as History I. The honor men get together every two weeks and one or two give the results of some special study^ which is forthwith discussed. This system can easily be extended, and certainly would make for greater sociability and interest without much danger of serious evil. This idea of the socialization of study may be carried farther, namely, into the realm of intellec- tual interests that are outside the regular work. One notes with regret the degeneration of some of the clubs which once had distinct intellectual aims; for a club with an aim is the most ideal form of sociable study, while a social club without an aim is very nearly useless. The Institute was, for in- stance, originally a club for the encouragement of debating and public speaking in the college. The Signet was, and still is to a minor degree, a literary club. Many of the social clubs, realizing the neces- sity of some central interest for the preservation of even a semblance of solidarity, have made the pres- entation of a play a regular function. This indi- cates a tendency which will no doubt become a permanent characteristic if intellect becomes pre- dominant. Of course, nothing but the action of the social clubs themselves can or should make changes in their constitutions. But grouping by intellectual achievement does not depend by any means upon the social clubs at present. It suffices but to mention the Dramatic, Speakers' or Philosophical clubs, the musical clubs and the organizations of the pubhcations, the Economic Society and the political clubs. Most of these organizations are small and form a distinct and sometimes exclusive circle, intimate among themselves but strangers to the rest of the college. 28 The only suggestion here is that they widen their scope and adopt a policy of hospitality. Faculty interest is invaluable to such clubs, not only in making their discussions more valuable but in arousing interest. Professors might mention the clubs in their courses, if there are any related to the department, and endeavor to carry- interest out- side of the classroom. The club secretaries might obtain from the office the names of all men special- izing in their line and extend uivitations to them to attend the meetings. But at most such efforts can only help to arouse intellectual enthusiasm. Leadership, the problem in hand, is a matter for the whole college and classes and can only be in- directly affected by such means. In this connec- tion it would be well to note a point that confirms the idea that activity must affect the whole college to affect leadership. The publications were men- tioned above. Now it will be noticed that men engaged in these activities are often elected to offices, especially in the Senior class. This seems to point to the fact that here, as in the case of the ath- lete, the prime requisite for leadership is that the man be known. To return, then, to that intellectual activity which concerns every man in college, study, the second question arises: How can the intellectual student be made kno^m to the college or even to his owoi class? Or, to use the commercial phrase, how can he be advertised? To take a concrete exaniple, there is a large course in the college attended chiefly by Sophomores which is conducted in a way that is in this respect model. After midyears the names of the men receiving honor grades were posted and the professor in charge not only drew attention to the fact but also spoke for ahnost fifteen minutes on the signfficance of good work in college. To my knowledge this course is a notable exception, whereas it could easily be the rule. Someone may 29 bring up the objection that it was a grammar-school method, to which it may be answered that the grammar school has much to show us on the point of intellectual emphasis. True, the performance gave rise in this instance to derisive grunts and sugges- tions of grinds and the like, but on the whole a healthy number of shame-faced youths viewed with regret that list of honor men. The grind theory, that nightmare to the man with social aspirations, has now, thanks to President Lowell and others, been fairly well exploded. Grades, however, are not the only marks of scholarly distinction. Honorary scholarships and prizes should be presented somewhat more publicly than at present, when Commencement is the occa- sion of such functions. At colleges where attendance at chapel is compulsory, all awards of the kind are made in chapel. Here at Harvard, having no com- pulsory chapel, we feel the need of such assemblings. The Freshman class is the only one that ever comes together as a body, and as for the college as a whole, not once in the course of a year does it get together, save perhaps at the football games. We deplore the lack of esprit de corps among Harvard men, and yet the fact remains that such a thing as an assemblage of the whole college is unknown. This is no plea for the "mob spirit" that foreigners have noticed in other of our American universities. The meeting proposed would really be a useful, not to say im- pressive occasion. At present one comes to college at the beginning of the term and registers in some small recitation room. College seems but a collec- tion of buildings, a spot on the face of the earth where one gets knowledge. As for the where and the when of such a meeting, conditions simplify the problem, for Memorial Hall is the only building large enough to hold the entire university. At the beginning of the year and at such other rare occa- sions as might occur it might well be used for the 30 purpose. Action on a matter of this sort lies with the authorities and can be affected by undergradu- ates only by a display of sentiment in its favor. Incidental to the measures advocated above would be that "dramatic appeal" mentioned in connection wdth athletics. But at one other point it might be emphasized: there should be more celebrations in connection with our illustrious graduates. One rarely hears mentioned the names of such men as Emerson, Longfellow, Sumner or Thoreau; the great leaders of the world outside are never men- tioned. No one wishes to turn chapel into a Positiv- ist temple, and yet it did occur to several people this year that some observance might have been made there of Lincoln's birthday. What efforts the Me- morial Society makes are chiefly confined to the com- memoration of building anniversaries, and although the preservation of such tradition is of value, there are others equally so. An occasional mention of the men whom Harvard has contributed to the American Hall of Fame might do a great deal toward en- couraging the intellectual attitude here and perhaps cause reflection on the present oblivion of the men of gridiron fame in the past. The last phase of the problem of intellectual activity, nam.ely, its aim, remains yet to be treated. Manifestly the intellectual clubs stand in no need of aims, but exist because of them. Disorganized curricular work, however, shows too often a lack of purpose and aim. High grades are made an end in themselves and are not regarded as a mere indica- tion of the pursuit of some significant end. The result is that men are found taking courses that never in any direct way will be of use to them, and this in spite of the new elective system. For the four advanced courses necessitated by concentration in one group in many instances afford ample excuse for taking twelve of the easiest courses that can be discovered. It is, moreover, a matter of common 31 observation and personal experience that choice does not necessarily involve a purpose. Often the choice is made without intelligence or a complete knowledge of the available courses. Here is a need of relating the different departments of the college, their scope and functions. To choose a course of study intelligently, a Freshman must know, for in- stance, the difference between such subjects as So- ciology and Social Ethics, and the relation of His- tory and Economics, the points of contact between Philosophy and Physics. Safeguards have been made to offset these weaknesses of detail, and yet there are indications that they still remain. They could be remedied in part by including in the col- lege catalogue short articles on the aim and scope of the divisions and departments written by the professors. There is reason to believe that they would be read. Only one other suggestion concern- ing this unity of the college course presents itself, prompted by the method lately adopted of oral examination for degrees in the departments of His- tory, Government and Economics. The plan is very much to the point under consideration, but all subjects not being adapted to oral examination, writ- ten examination might be expedient. In Germany state professional examinations are taken at the com- pletion of the college course, qualifying for the final examination for government positions. The plan is therefore at least feasible. But the attainment of unity in the college course merely accentuates the necessity of some aim for that unity. A purposeless, artificial unity is as bad as a vague pursuit of general culture; it is better to stand at the crossroads than to take the wrong road, however deliberate and consistent the choice may be. We are squarely faced, then, by the problem of aim. Are there any ends for scholarly effort, the partial attainment of which would inspire admira- tion akin to that felt for the loyal athlete? Are there 32 any aims which would stimulate such devotion to intellectual pursuits as that which binds the ath- lete to his team? As the first stimulus to intellectual effort, the professional aim is perhaps the most obvious. The effect of college work on professional careers has lately been much discussed. Undergraduates are constantly ad\dsed not to study subjects allied with the professions which they have in view, but to concentrate in departments in which (to make a doubtful distinction) they are interested. Admit- tedly there is a danger of premature specialization; but every Scylla has its Charybdis. Ad\dce to concen- trate according to whim encourages aimlessness and a harmful indift'erence toward undergraduate work. It is claimed that the growth of the graduate school is responsible for this shift of emphasis, this atti- tude. Says Flexner in his book on American uni- versities: "Research has largely appropriated the resources of the college, substituting the methods and interest of highly specialized investigation for the larger objects of college training. The way out lies, as I see it, through the \dgorous reassertion of the priority of college as such. The point of emphasis must be shifted back. . . . Historically, Yale, Co- lumbia, Harvard, Princeton, are colleges. The A.B., not the Ph.D., is and always has been the college man. The college has been richly endowed. And it is the college, where a boy may be trained in seriousness of interest and mastery of power, that the nation preeminently needs." This may be thought extreme. But is there not much truth in it? Do we not often hear the Junior or Senior remark: "There is no need of working here; wait till I get into the Law School." The professional aim, then, has been somewhat obscured and in its place noth- ing has been substituted. Only one concrete sug- gestion is here advanced to reinstate it. At various times it has been urged that a course be given in the 33 Freshman year which shall not only describe the different professions, as has been done at other col- leges, but also to relate them to each other and to college training. It is important that men should know the distinctive characteristics of their chosen professions, but still more important that they should know the points of contact. Too often these courses are so conducted that men think that one profession and the aims of one profession are the important things to master. Not at all; the im- portant thing is the whole. Let him see his func- tion and his relation clearly and then let the leaders of the course say as much as they please : If you go into medicine, study the Fine Arts. That very statement, inconsistent as it may seem, involves most essentially the presupposition of an aim. Let it be here understood that this is no attempt to impose any one aim. The attempt is to give the undergraduate some idea of the alternatives, the opportunity and choice which is open to him. Are there any other alternatives? A clue to the other important aim, choice of which might bring into intellectual pursuits something of the enthusiasm of athletics, is obtained through an inquiry into the aims and purposes of foreign uni- versities. One very marked difference between their system and ours is notable. The state plays a more important part. In France this tendency has de- veloped objectionably into "career-making," but in Germany the system seems to stimulate intellectual exertion and to afford a concrete goal for students so bent. We find university- trained men "actively engaged in the bureaus and courts, in ecclesiastical consistories and school faculties, in the hygienic and technological administrations of every grade." In England diplomacy is the aim of great numbers of university men, according to one of our distinguished visitors, and most of the statesmen of Great Britain today are university graduates. Here in America 34 the connection of the university with the state has lately received no little attention. It is becoming recognized that the federal departments need men of technical training; poHtics for men of higher caliber than at present; the diplomatic and civil services are open to college men. Could not some definite connection be established between our gov- ernment and national universities such as Harv-ard? Such connection would afford another definite aim for men in college and would in that case tend to increase interest in intellectual pursuits and the regard for attainment along those lines. This propo- sition might be looked into by the employment bureau here, keeping in mind the direct connection of academic work with the growing departments of the government. An attempt to keep in mind the importance of that individualism and differentiation v/hich Har- vard has so jealously guarded and at the same time to impart to such individualism clear and definite aims requires the brain and experience of some pro- found educator with a keen insight into undergradu- ate life. But that should not hinder the voice of the undergraduate from clear expression on these points. Unmistakably, and imperatively, the dem.and for aim and a worthy purpose arises. The whole col- lege seems to be engaged in following the motto: *' We don't know where we 're going, but we 're on our way." The exchange of an aimless condition of social life for an equally aimless pursuit of intellec- tual honors naturally makes little appeal to those men who are free to choose. The trend of these latter suggestions is therefore to present to men the alternative aims which college work may have, to relate them to each other and to ultimate human progress. It will be admitted that Harvard is in this respect far ahead of some of her American con- temporaries; but not all Harv^ard. Too many men live in intellectual isolation from the world of 35 thought which stirs outside; too many by reason of that isolation have lost their sense for that which is essentially valuable to mankind; too many are mis- led and carried away by the mob spirit of the ath- letic field, by the temporary greatness of the ath- lete. The method of this article has been comparison. In comparing the circumstances of athletic leader- ship with the condition of intellectual leadership, it would seem that the latter suffers from disad- vantages which may be summed up in one word: neglect. The hope is that the organization, the publicity, the appeals and the aims that have caused athletic leadership will also cause intellectual leader- ship. Intellectual activity, more especially curricular w^ork, must be socialized so far as is compatible with its nature; the man of intellect must be known, he must be brought into contact with the college as a whole. Secondly, such emphasis must be laid upon the work that it too shall make its ap- peal to the imagination. Above all, and more im- portant than all, intellectual activity must, most imperatively, have an aim and a purpose for every- one who goes in for it, whether it be a definite pro- fessional aim or a purpose more vague and vision- ary, some enthusiasm for the progress of humanity, of the nation, or of science and art. But this pro- gram requires action, and cooperative action. We need a new cooperative society paying a larger divi- dend of intellect. Let those who believe that in- tellectual pursuits are neglected and at a disad- vantage seek out kindred spirits and at once apply the principles of organization and enthusiasm. From time to time mention has been made of the organizations which seem most fitted to carry out the suggestions. But even then they must work to- gether — the Phi Beta Kappa and the faculty, the student council and the social clubs, the intellectual clubs and the professors. There is no immediate 36 danger that individualism vdW die at Harvard, but it must be forgotten for the time in order to attain the real differentiation and individualism that arises from definite cooperation. Robert Walston Chubb, '15. THE ADVOCATE: FORTY-FIVE YEARS AFTER " Her portion is the spirit, No other dower has she.'* It has been pleasant to know forty-five boards of editors. Our business managers have been mighty men. When they made subscribers of ninety per cent of the undergraduates, what captains of industry they were ! How they must have excelled the book agent and the charity worker! Did they use clubs, or forceful words? Often they were fellows who had no other outlet for the capacity which later distin- guished them in great business affairs. When the faculty was hostile to the Advocate, it was a pleasant pill to give $300 per year from the Advocate's earn- ings to the Library. That must have shamed many a millionaire. When rich men's sons are business editors, sometimes the subscription list is smaller. The Advocate should seek men to be business edi- tors who are going to be rich, instead of appointing those with rich fathers. Mother Advocate can be still prouder of her liter- ary editors. For forty years, whenever there has been a prize competition for stories, it has been a comfort to turn to the list and see how many of the prize takers have been Advocate editors. At any time look over the good magazines of the day and you are sure of finding contributions from some of our poets, our novelists and our story writers. While the only recent Harvard President of the 37 United States was an Advocate man, there were a host of others of as good presidential timber. One editor of '87 is recognized in New York as the best-equipped lawyer there is. A small army of others are nearly as distinguished among those who know them. Training in English is the best equip- ment. Merely to furnish the armament for such an army is a good-enough heritage. It is no mess of pottage still to be the workroom and the armory for the men who are masters in forging good English. But the Advocate had higher work. It was a leader in a boyish way in the new paths that de- veloped Harvard from the seminary presided over by retired clergymen to the university with its ample equipment for teaching all Americans to do service to their country. And there is where I think the Advocate has still urgent work to do. My chum tells me he sent his son to Amherst. He is a Con- gregational minister and a grand fellow with little money and a fit pride, which last indisposes him to accept any help in his boy's training. Before the Advocate can quit — for the Advocate was the student's Advocate — we should teach the Corporation to make tuition as cheap as it is in Germany. There is no such perfect pedagogy any- where as at Harvard. Our faculty is composed of perfect teachers. But let us cry out at Harvard for recognized leaders in public thought. Let us look again for such leaders as were Lowell, Longfellow^ Agassiz and Asa Gray, for leaders known all over the world and especially all over the United States. Harvard needs the country and the country needs Harvard, now more than ever. It is a losing battle if men go to the Western universities or to the less amply equipped colleges when they might have come to Harv^ard. Harvard should have had 10,000 students long ago. Students go where they see the leaders they have heard of. Let us do great work by teaching that great leaders can each have a follow- 38 ing of a thousand hearers ^Yhere the ordinary pro- fessor has a hundred. Therein is Harvard's best economy. There is Harv^ard's latent wealth. Great leaders may be good teachers as well, and the vital spark of leadership is a value of itself. When all the great historians were Harvard men, not one of them was enrolled among Harvard's professors. The great American lawyers, surgeons and engineers have been Harvard men and might be induced to lecture at Harv^ard, but have not been asked. Re- member Motley, Parkman, John Fiske, Ticknor and Prescott, historians; Choate and Carter, lawyers; Morrison, the country's greatest bridge builder; Bull and McBumey, the great surgeons; and read Bancroft's letter in the catalogue. It was a waste to put Emerson out of the college for forty years and first to recognize him by building Emerson Hall when he was dead. It is a partial w^aste to do merely the pleasant and profitable w^ork of pouring knowl- edge into the heads of athletes, automobifists, yachtsmen and polo players and to keep up the cost of education and the habit of extravagant living so that men of the intellectual strain go elsew^here, in part. It is best to grow figs from fig trees. There is better return from the investment if you give train- ing of the intellect to those whose forefathers had similar training. Let men worship money and ath- letics where they make a special job of those crops. Honor the honor of our athletes, but have they really been leaders even in their own lines? You are Har- vard's unbeaten champions. Talk of giving up the Advocate! WTiy, "the sequel to that day would unsolder the goodliest fellow^ship of famous knights whereof this world holds record." Give us men as editors of the Advocate who will do again for Harvard and the country what the edi- tors did before in old times when they told the faculty, overseers and the Corporation of prin- ciples which those gentlemen later adopted. Sup- 39 port President Lowell. Remember, you yourselves are Harv^ard's heirs apparent, more so than the athletes, the sports, the money bags. Long life to Harvard and the Advocate! W. G. Peckiiam, '67. WILLIAM JAMES FrRST, grave-browed Plato ; at his lips the smile, And tempering humor lighting the serene eyes; Conf ounder of fools ; hater of Sophist guile ; Beyond all mortals wise. And next, the Father of all Knowledge, he Whose mighty mind bent thought itself to law. Austere Aureiius next, straight-hewn and free — Free as the truth he saw. Then Galileo, who had set aright The erring stars; spare Kant; and by him one That saw Creation's plan in dazzling light, Great England's greatest son — All w^ho have walked the earth with careless feet, Heedless alike of power and of all gain, To follow after Wisdom sadly-sweet, Bearing not seldom pain. Above the fog of earthly doubt they sit. At kingly ease around the celestial board, Proving with logic sure and zest of wit God's time-enduring Word. And, lo! a place for one not least august; The frank, firm step rings on the starry floor. And Socrates, the brave, the good, the just, For James flings wide the door. Percy Adams Hutchinson, '98. 40 THE FIFTY-YEAR CLASS Freshmen we, year sixty-three, Conscripts then of Arcadie. Fresh the breezes, fresh the flowers, Fair the maidens, fleet the hours, Fair the River, cool and clear. Blest was Arcadie that year. Pilgrims through the world we stray'd, Love we begg'd; for faith we pray'd. One that took an argosy Found it Hght as fantasy. Voyagers, by sea and land. Home retum'd, a remnant band, Lacking trumpet, now, and drum. Veterans of wars we come. Not, as putting armor off. Our mortality we doff. We thy eldest. Mother Dear, Saying hail — farewell, appear. Mother, noble, resolute, Passing, halting, we salute. O immortal quite thou art, And we sure of thee are part. Harvard's oldest children we, Heirs of immortality. Nos victiiri, hear us, pray, Salutamus, Mater, te! 41 Hear our chorus' dying fall, "Harvard! Harvard!" still we call. W. G. Peckham, '67. "HOLWORTHY, H'Y" {Read at the Holworthy Centennial Dinner, May 18) In olden times in Holworthy Things were as they should be; They had no pretty chambermaids To bring them toast and tea; No winsome voices waked them up, No knocking soft and shy, In fact there were no Goodies then In Holworthy, H'y! Fame has it that once on a time One came to sweep the floor, To sweep out nooks and corners that Were never swept before; They tied their sheets and handkerchiefs, And when the Moon was high. They let her down from Number Eight, H'y. They had no need of Morning Bell, A Greek of strangest amble Kept in his room some lusty fowls To lay eggs for his scramble; And every day at rosy dawn There rose a raucous cry From Sophocles' hennery In Holworthy, H'y. Before the days of shower baths Each man would take his cup, And hie hun to the College pump, And there he'd fill it up; 42 And if by chance in smnmer time, The College well ran dry, They did n't wash themselves at all In Holworthy, H'y. • ••••* So when I 'm trying for a job As President or King, And people ask me who I am, I don't say anything; But when they ask me where I'm from, I simply answer, "WTiy, I used to live in Holworthy, H'y!" Thorvald S. Ross '12, FATHER'S SOLILOQUY Blow all the trumpets, beat the drums, Let every heart be gay! Our William-Boy is home to spend His Christmas Holiday. I like his tales of Cambridge town — Good Lord! how time does run; For WiUie's Class is Nineteen-Twelve And mine was Eighty-One ! He tells us all about his work, And what the ''Hours" mean, And how he cut his Nine O'clock, And how he saw the Dean! — He never heard of Censure Marks He never had to run And see Miss Harris, or "C. J.". . . Alas for Eighty-One! And after dinner he \\411 sit And talk of Boston's bars, And poUsh off my '50 Port And Uncle Jim's cigars. 43 But Jim, he sniggers in his sleeve. And I rebuke my son. — He does n't dream the Adams House Was there in Eighty-One ! He tells about the feeble pranks His fellow striplings play; I shake my head — but I recall The Med. Fac.'s golden day! He never froze the College bell Nor fired off the gun That stands on Cambridge Common still - Alas for Eighty-One! He notes my bald and shiny pate, He smiles at Uncle Jim — He does n't know that Forty-Three Will think the same of himl We know our hopes are mostly dead And life is nearly done. We '11 read the legend soon enough Hicjacet — Eighty-One! And yet, I know that Youth is Youth Though ages intervene; My heart 's as young as Willie's yet With thirty years between ! It makes me feel, to hear him talk, That Life has just begun, He looks ahead to Twelve — and I, Once more — to Eighty-One. H. W. H. POWEL, JR., '09. IN MEMORIAM P. H. • ••••• " Good sir, the Pequot House is burnt A twelvemonth since, ah me ! " Up sprang the Ancient Graduate "What's that you say?" quoth he. 44 And then he turned, and sighed, and let His vagrant fancy stray Back to the Eden Garden of Youth, The joys of Yesterday. The moon that casts across the stream Her swale of silvery light, The whistling freight that shakes the bridge, The sounds that fill the night: Barouche and barge and knockabout. And dusty touring car. And all the goodly company Around the Pequot bar ! ^A.h, tell me not this goodly House Has vanished out of view^. The Pequot, noblest link that bound The Crimson and the Blue! If this be so, let honest tears Imbue the fatal place; WtiEit profits now the Xight Before, And what the whole blame Race?" Harford W. H. Powel, jr., '09. THE GAME Like the rush of the surf on a sandy shore Comes the charge of the team dowm the field; Like a wall of frail sand that is swept by storm Their opponents waver and yield. Like a dance of wild praise to a heathen god The snake dance goes v/inding below. And the banners flare clear from the crimson stands To rival the sunset's glow. K. B. MURDOCK, '16. 45 "HELLO" I PASSED you in the Yard today, On Harvard Hall the bell rang mellow; Oh yes, I bowed and fled away, Just callmg out a hasty ''hello." I 've known your face since Freshman year, You always seemed a decent fellow, Of course you are n't quite in my sphere, But still I grant a hasty "hello." If years now rushing on so fleet Show payroll checks are signed by you; Will I say "hello" when I greet, Or a submissive "how d' you do?" P. J. Roosevelt, '13. BALLADE OF HARVARD SQUARE Back you are come at the summer's end, You with the tan from an August sky, Back to the Square the processions wend. The Square that was empty last July. "What did you do?" is the first glad cry, "Where are you rooming?" the distant hail, " What has that Freshman come to buy?" This is the end of the summer's trail ! Here to the Square you have come to spend. Freshman, far from maternal eye, Wealth that will make you many a friend. Whose credit will later cost you a sigh. But these are the safest friends, say I, Who help to swell your monthly mail — They are glad to meet you, Sir (no lie !) — This is the end of the summer's trail! 46 'Subway to Park" is the winter trend — The cuisines of France and Italy, And the wines of both in finest blend, And the beer of student Germany, These, ah these, shall come bye and bye, Meanwhile, where did you loaf and sail? The dreary Square is alive — for why? This is the end of the summer's trail! Envoi Harvard Square! How the time does fly! Then over the summer draw a veil. The new loves beckon, the old loves die. . . . This is the end of the summer's trail! W. G. Tinckom-Fernandez, 'io. BALLADE OF CHRISTMAS VACATION " God rest ye merrie gentlemen. Let nothing you dismay! " — Carol. The "Hours" are done, and you may go Over the Bridge and far away. To taste of Brut and fine Bordeaux, To quite forget grim yesterday, When at your desk you had to stay. And oil was burned long after ten — The Marks are in, your fears allay, God rest ye merrie gentlemen! Perhaps you may return on "Pro," Meanwhile let all the tunes be gay. Whichever way the wind may blow You've earned your little holiday; Let restless feet now homeward stray. The flesh-pots lure you once again, For after work must follow play — God rest ye merrie gentlemen I 47 The world is but a fleeting show, The Season cannot last for aye, And ere the candles flicker low, And fond "farewells" are left to say, Make haste, unless with heart of clay You pass forever from her ken — Then, while the mistletoe hath sway, God rest ye merrie gentlemen! Envoi Farewell ! Let nothing you dismay, (The Mid- Years drowse within their den) And when the dawn breaks cold and gray — God rest ye merrie gentlemen! W. G. Tinckom-Fernandez, 'io. VOICES IN THE FALL Hey Sport, any ole clothes? I'll buy! (It's time you was gettin' a suit!) An overcoat? Shure! Don't be shy! Hey Sport, any ole clothes? I'll buy! If you want the best prices, this guy Will pay 'em. What, nothing? Aw, shoot! Hey Sport, any ole clothes? I'll buy! (It's time you was gettin' a suit!) Fresh flowers to wear to the game! Here lady, Har'vud or Yale? What, not wearin' any? For shame! Fresh flowers to wear to the game ! Aw, Har'vud? Yep ! Carnations claim The victory. Vi 'lets get stale. Fresh flowers to wear to the game I Here, lady, Har'vud or Yale? 48 Fares ! All aboard there? Let 'er go ! (These "show" crowds, they give me a pain!) Step up in front, don't be so slow. Fares! All aboard there? Let 'er go! Ye-es! Subway to Park! (V.Tiat's the show? Conductor 's a snap? Think again.) Fares! All aboard there? Let' er go! (These ''show" crowds, they give me a pain!) W. G. Tinckom-Ferxaxdez, 'io. THE MARKET PLACE Sons of this younger day, Standing irresolute, slow. Longing to up and away, Fearing to venture and go, Info this quiet and rest. . . . Hark to it, clarion- shrill. . , ! Cometh the call to the test, The trying of mettle and will; Cometh the call to the fight, Willing or no, lue must face. Bartering life for might. The call of the Market Placet So swiftly June came on, this year! We sit in the slow afternoon, And dream upon the beauty here That we must leave behind us soon; The elm shade on the old red walls. The doves' low music in the eaves, The golden mist of sun that falls In slanting splendor through the leaves. 49 The Yard stands as the Yard has stood A hundred and a hundred years, Watching the sons, each newer brood That tries and wins and disappears. Above, unchanging and serene. Surrounded by her wide-flung gates, All powerful and all unseen. The Kindly Mother sits and waits. Robert Emmons Rogers, '09. FROM AN ODE TO HARVARD "Often we'd walk in town, Thereby less idly to be missing classes; And often in or out we 'd wait on Harv^ard Bridge to see A gull that caught the sunlight overhead; Or a crew that sped Symmetrical; or a single shell slide under, narrow As an arrow, — And watch the rower, his white flesh turning brown. Bending his back, his arm, his knee. Spending his brawn, his muscle, and his marrow Close with his heart to ply The quiet swiftness of his revelry. Sending his oar as with a wing to fly; Later we'd watch the western sky, With poppies hung from head to feet, Go feasting to his many-tapered bed. Where restless he would lie On the scattered golden sheet. And then at last, deep In a great ecstasy. Would fall asleep. Closing in tranquil clouds of night, like a petal in the grasses; 50 Or, later still, we'd see That bayonet-row of lights, March by the River Charles, patrol by many a home The huddling heights Of Boston town, And lead w^here, like the crystal vision of a camp, looked down The ancestral Dome." Witter Bynner, '02. IF I WERE A FRESHMAN Ir I were a Freshman I would not set my mind on the question, ''What can Harv^ard College do for me? " as much as I would set my mind on the ques- tion, "What can I do for Har\'ard College?" All life long the distinction between little men and big men follows closely the one or the other of these two attitudes toward the community. If I were a Freshman I would make up my mind that before I left Harv^ard College I would try to leave my mark upon that institution and commu- nity of men. I would help to mold its ideas of progress. I would endeavor to live up to Harv^ard's best traditions, but I would also have a part, if I could, in ending traditions outgrown or not founded on merit and in establishing new thoughts and cus- toms worthy to become traditions. If I were a Freshman I would insist, to myself and to all others, that of all the traditions of Har- vard none are more valuable than that which gives to each man the right to his individual growth. In- stitutions or social customs are not to be held of high value if they produce only pattern-men, who affect one style of clothing, and manner of holding an um- brella, and turn of thought; men who are content in their adaptation to a rather pleasant and blame- 51 less model. These are not large figures in college, nor will they become large figures out of college. Therefore if I were a Freshman I would set my face like flint against temptations to become an imitator or to accept thoughts or manners or customs in which I did not believe. I would try to avoid an attempt to tie the game with any respectable gen- eral average — men Vv^ho are admirable, brave, con- servative, a little lacking in initiative, in originality, in spirited attacks upon life, and willingness to go forward, unless invited onto the firing line. I would make my attempt an attempt to pass that average. I would say that a tie would be a defeat. If I were a Freshman I would begin training for life as if life were a game in which every nerve and fiber, every atom of biceps, bone and brain counted toward a winning. If I investigated and found that the men who had been out in business, professional or public life, and were winning, had marked alcohol off their diet list, I would mark it off mine. If I found that men who were winning had not been the kind to handicap themselves by the dis- eases, the waste of time and loss of their rights to the best in womanhood, all of which punish those men who barter much of the future for a little of the present, then I would keep straight, not only for an ideal but also to be in training for the game of life. I would not think of self-restraint solely as a measure of "being good"; I would also think of it as some- thing which would insure me against ''going off my form" and ''being slowed down." I would expect self-restraint would help me to "keep playing all the time" and to "follow the ball." If I were a Freshman I would be interested and active in the social and athletic side of college life, but I think I would put scholarship first. I would put scholarship first because most men agree that scholarship ought to be the first business of a college and the first business of a college man. 52 As soon as possible I would draw a line between real scholarship and the many things which students — and, unfortunately, many teachers — often look upon as scholarship. I would try to tip over the idea that scholarship is attendance at lectures. It is not scholarship ; it is a piece of routine. Or faith- ful writing of notes in a green-edged notebook. It is not scholarship; it is the labor of the clerk or the stenographer. Or learning by rote the lec- turer's or the textbook writers' ideas, loading them, for a brief period into the brain as one loads goods into a vehicle. It is not scholarship ; it is a piece of fetch and carry. Or setting the mind on getting high marks. It is not scholarship. It is a rough measure of distinction. These things may be ex- cellent, but they are not scholarship. Scholarship is more. Scholarship is not alone the accumulation of facts and the reception of other men's thoughts. Scholarship is the use of facts, the use of other men's thoughts. Any scholarship wliich Tvill interest a healthy young man must be a sportier game than writing and reading notes in a green-edged notebook. Any scholarship worth the name is an expression of self. If I were a Freshman I would try to grab some course out of an instruc- tor's hands and run away with it. I would acquire the instructor's set of facts and add a few he had not captured. I would try to have some scalps of knowl- edge at my belt which did not hang to his. And then I would use facts and other men's thoughts to jump the fences of the course and dig into new ground. If the instructor were tr^dng to teach me the history of the fall of the Roman Republic I would learn the histor>^ of the fall, but I would also want to compare it with the fail of all other large repub- lics. It is not inconceivable that a Freshman who started out to do this might arrive at some new, clear conclusion of his own which would one day save his own Republic from a fall. If I were a Freshman 53 I would bcp^n to make my brain not merely a re- ceptive vessel. I would practice true scholarship a little in order to make it a prodtictlve machine. If I were a Freshrnan I would try to know the heart and head of every freshman in sight. There may be two kinds of men — those who can contribute something to you and those to whom you can con- tribute. The first of these \\t11 help you. But so will the second. The snob does not see this. He is always a tailenden He never seeks the society of a man unless he thinks that man can give him an. advantage. Therefore he is always clutching at somebody's coat-tails. The snob is a cheat He is a cheat because he wants to gain more in acquaint- ance than he can give. Only whole men feel that they can afford to give a little more than they gain. You can usually pick out the men who are sure of their position because such men always seem to afford acquaintances which the snob does not dare to risk- If I were a Freshman I would pay Less attention to dubs than clubs paid to me. A club's affairs are none of your business until you are a member. Even when invited to join a dub I would not join it, no matter how attractive il seemed, until I found out whether it w^as a real club, maintained for the exchange of wholesome companionship, or a mere device to justify a hatband and create a set of social distinctions foreign to the spirit of America and Harvard College. Any so-called club wiiidi is so effeminate and silly that, had the college been made up of only cow-punchers, or Gloucester fisher- men, or the Canadian mounted police, or clean young railroad men, it would have been wiped out of exist- ence long ago, is not worth a minute of your time. If I were a Freshman I would have unfailing loyalty — loyalty to my class, to my college, and above all to my own convictions. I would try to stand up in my own shoes. Har- vard College can do much for you. If you are any 54 good at all you will be able to do much for Harvard College. Richard Washburn Child, '02. HARVARD AND THE NATION That Harvard should always be a national uni- versity, and be recognized as such throughout America, is a desire that finds frequent expression among Harvard men. This desire is often imper- fectly defined, springing from a vague though loyal feeling that somehow or other it is better for the institution to be national than local. But whether the national quality is to be preferred to the geo- graphical diversity of students or teachers, to the resulting atmosphere or tone of the university, to the pervasiveness of its influence, or merely to its primacy as the oldest or best, is not always consid- ered. It may be well for Harvard men to define their vague conceptions on this subject, and to set up an ideal for their university toward which they may work, and which may be gradually realized. First of all let us consider in what sense Harvard can already be regarded as a national university, if not as the national university. There is, to start with, the primacy in age, which carries with it the advantages of precedence on occasions of intercollegiate solemnity or festivity, and hence often the right to speak for the national interests of education and scholarship — a comfort- able advantage when combined mth intellectual and spiritual leadership, but otherwise an insecure title to respect. In fact, in the matter of years alone, if Harvard's sister university of Mexico should within the next generation take new life and flourish as Harvard has done in the last, a negligible exception to Harvard's primacy in the New World might well turn into an effective denial of it. 55 In the next place, looking again to the past, Har- vard has countless indelible associations with the history and literature of the country, and these asso- ciations give the university of today, entirely apart from its intrinsic merits, an inherited advantage, so to speak, over new institutions, and over those which have flourished in times or places that have hap- pened to be less significant for the nation. Harvard is already a national monument, and such it will always be. But, fortunately for the country. Har- vard is competing with many similar monuments, now in the making. If they are less interesting and venerable now, they will not necessarily seem so in the perspective of future centuries. Indeed, the finished monument, however stately, is not the figure to represent the ideal, national Harvard of today or tomorrow, but rather the living oak, of which it may be said, as Sir Walter Mildmay said of John Harvard's own. college at Cambridge, "I have set an Acorn, which, when it becomes an Oake, God alone knows what will be the fruit thereof." There are those who believe that a university situated at the geographical or political center of the country would be more favorably placed with a view to its becoming national than one which was remote from either of those centers. Such an in- stitution would undoubtedly tend to be less under the control of provincial influences, though whether its own influence would radiate far is an entirely different matter. For it is by excellence as a seat of learning and culture, more than by any circum- stance of location, that the national quality of a university's influence wdll be determined. Indeed it is quite possible that a university in which pro- vincial influences were strong should by its excel- lence attract its teachers from so wide a territory as to make it far more influential throughout the coun- try, and far better entitled to speak for the country in matters of education and scholarship, than an 56 institution relatively free from local color which might be established at the geographical or political center. There can be no doubt that the local and provincial associations of Harvard have been among the largest factors in promoting the resort of stu- dents from other parts of the country. The student from the middle states, from the south, or from the west, who chooses to come to Harvard, is probably influenced quite as much by the desire to come in contact with New England influences, and with local associations of Cambridge and Boston, as by Harvard's advantages in the special subjects of instruction which engage his interest. This argues no lack of loyalty to his own city or state, but a praiseworthy desire to enlarge his experience and broaden his views. Deprive any of the old eastern universities of their most local and provincial characteristics, and a large share of their attrac- tion for the outsider is gone. That because of, or in spite of, strong local and provincial associations Harvard has attained, through exceUence, to a national position, hardly needs to be argued. Through President Eliot's leadership, Harvard has been the guiding influence in educational theory throughout the country dur- ing the last forty years, and this statement applies fully as much to elementary and secondary educa- tion as to higher education, if not more. Anyone who visits the public schools of the western states cannot help being struck with the fact that there is more imquestioning acceptance of the principles on which the elective system is based in that part of the country, and much less reactionary agitation, than in the east. One has only to note the remark- able geographical distribution of members of the Har\^ard faculty ^ with reference to the college in which each member took his first degree, and es- 1 See Harvard Bulletin, Vol. lo, No. 17, January 29, 1908. 57 pecially the number of graduates of other colleges holding important administrative positions at Harvard, to see that the university is anything but local or provincial in scholarship and administra- tion. Even as regards the resort of students from different parts of the country, Harvard has already a clear title to be called a national university. The geographical distributions of its students this year, adopting the classification of the Commissioner of Education, is as follows: North Atlantic, 2931 ; South Atlantic, 120; North Central, 484; South Central, 88; Western, 140; dependencies and foreign countries, 155. The number of students from the North Atlantic section, consisting of the New England states. New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania, is made up as follows: from Massachusetts, 1941; from other New England states, 311; from New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania, 679. The large relative resort from Massachusetts and New England makes it evident that there is room for much further progress in the direction of national- izing the resort of students to Harvard. One of the most important standards by which to test the national quality of any university is the pervasiveness of the influence it exerts through the distribution of its graduates. In this respect there is no institution in the country that has a better right to be called national. The influence of Har- vard through its graduates is exerted partly by their numerical strength in different parts of the country, but, in a much more important sense, by the leader- ship which they tend to maintain in public and private affairs. In all parts of the country one finds Harvard men conspicuous in the support of good government, and especially in support of move- ments for the improvement of public education. (One is tempted to prove this rule by citing the two or three most flagrant and well-known exceptions!) There is no better way in which Harvard men can 58 show their loyalty to Harv^ard than by supporting the interests of education in all grades, from the kindergarten to the university, in the communities to which they belong. And this kind of loyalty can fairly be said to be characteristic of Harvard men in different parts of the country. It would be in- teresting to assemble the names of Harvard men who are ser\dng education as members of city school boards, or as leaders in civic movements for school reform. But of the fact that Har\'ard is strongly rep- resented in this field no one who reads the papers can feel any doubt. It is a significant fact that three members of the new Public Utilities Commission of New York are Harvard men. A large number are also in service as district attorneys and assistant district attorneys under reform administrations. The Bulletin recently published a note referring to a non-partisan list of the candidates for judgeships in Cook County, Illinois, from which it appeared that six out of fourteen men in this list were grad- uates of Harvard. In speaking of the support of education in other communities by Harvard men, I have referred to their action as public-spirited citizens, but their support also takes the form of enlisting as teachers and administrative officers in other institutions. It is in higher education that we must look for Har- vard's relatively greatest strength in this respect — several of the great state universities having more than twenty Harvard men in their faculties, and at least two having more than thirty. Harvard may regard with equanimity this strengthening of other universities by its o^vn graduates, for so long as Harv^ard maintains a high position as a seat of learn- ing it will gain more students from the mounting appreciation of higher education in remote com- munities than it \Adll lose through their diversion of students away from Harvard. None of the great endowed universities on the eastern seaboard can 59 compete or ought to compete with the rapidly growing and improving universities of the west and south in ser\'ing the bulk of the local population interested in higher education. They may reason- ably hope, however, to attract a constantly growing, if relatively small fraction, of the college and uni- versity students in those regions. Harvard's claim to be recognized as a national university may be justly based upon the ground that it is practically unique, in this country, in its emphasis on educational standards, both for admis- sion and for graduation. The present isolation of the university on account of its high standards and its insistence on examinations for admission has been the subject of recent comment, but this iso- lation is simply that which is incident to all leader- ship. One has only to travel through the country to observe that whatever opinions are held with regard to the general merits of Harvard University, there ',is practically only one opinion among teach- ers with regard to its standards. In fact, there is too much of a disposition to take it for granted that Harvard College is inaccessible. There is no better service that Harv^ard undergraduates and graduates can do for the university than to emphasize in their respective communities Harvard's accessibility for the most promising students and its desire to get them students who are promising, that is, with regard not only to scholarly ability but also to manners and moral force. Every good university will serve in its own community men of average ability, or less, whose proximity makes it easy for them to fulfill the particular requirements for ad- mission in each case, but it will also attract from a distance the kind of men who are willing to make sacrifices and overcome obstacles for the sake of obtaining advantages which they regard as peculiar to the institution of theh: choice. In this way Har- vard is getting, and may hope to get in the future, 60 in steadily increasing numbers, from different parts of the country outside of New England, men of more than average ability who, because of the process of their selection, will win more than their share of success and distinction in college life, and will contribute, out of all proportion to their numbers, to the prestige of Harv^ard when they return to their homes for professional, business or public life. In order that Harvard College may continue to attract good students from all parts of the country, it is important that the requirements for admission should always be properly related to the work of good schools every^v'here. This does not mean that the tests of mental ability should be lowered, for they might conceivably be raised in some subjects. It means that Harvard should not be thro^Ti out of articulation with good schools by requirements that are merely pecuKar. WTiether the content and ar- rangement of study programmes in schools outside of New England are ideal or not, there is no doubt that they represent fairly well what is demanded by the present stage of educational, social and economic development in the communities concerned. If Harvard is to have a share in that development it must take the actual product of good schools, sifting it in any way that adequately tests ability to do college work. Fortunately the policy of the faculty of Arts and Sciences during the last few years has been more and more governed by these considera- tions. Certainly nothing could have a more impor- tant bearing on the national influence of Harvard. The prestige which Harv^ard has and may hope for through excellence in its various departments will not only establish its claim to be called national, but will also be of incalculable service to higher edu- cation in other parts of the country where colleges and universities are doing the best they can to maintain standards in communities where a pres- 6i sure, that is often irresistible, is put upon them to keep their standards low. It is a very common thinf]j to hear college professors and school teachers in the west declare that although the certificate system of admission to college is the only practica- ble system for their part of the country at present, they would regard it as a misfortune for the whole country if Harvard should abandon its system of examinations for admission. Nothing can be more gratifying for a Harvard man than to see how his university is thus helping to hold up the hands of men engaged in educational work throughout the country, and how often Harvard is spoken of as a national possession, in the prosperity of which the whole country is interested. This feeling is some- times shown by frank criticism of policies that pre- vail at Harvard. Thus, a professor in a small west- ern college, who had had no connection with Har- vard himself, expressed regret that the department of learning with which he was connected was not better maintained at Harvard. It was not right, he said, that Harvard should have anything less than a first-rate department of and a first-rate man at the head of it; and he regretted that he could not advise more of his own pupils to go to Cambridge. Harvard men themselves are often imperfectly aware of the service to scholarship and to all the higher intellectual interests of the community which Harvard is rendering. The time-honored complaints about the ill-ordered choice of college courses, the prevalence of "snaps" and the conspicuous frivoli- ties of a very small minority of students, blind the eyes of even Harvard men to the real strength and domination of intellectual interests in the uni- versity. The experience of members of the Harvard faculty who have taught in the best small colleges in the country has been that even in the large ele- mentary courses a much larger amount of work can be had from Harvard undergraduates than from 62 those of smaller colleges. One Harvard instructor, now a professor in an excellent New England col- lege (this description has such numerous applica- tions as to conceal very effectively the identity of the person referred to) remarked that although he enjoyed his new work very much he missed ''the upper third of his Harvard classes." Another teacher with a similar experience reported that whereas he had no difficulty in appealing to the m- tellectual interests of a substantial majority of his Har\^ard classes, he found it difficult to do so in the small college where, he said, a professor could hardly hope to get on terms of intellectual sympathy with his students without first having or professing interest in their athletic sports. No one pretends that there is not a considerable minority of students in Harvard College whose minds are largely preoccupied throughout their college course by interests outside of their studies — athletics, social activities and numerous literary enterprises. But anyone who attends Harvard alumni gathermgs cannot help being impressed by the fact that however strongly these preoccupations may have been felt during their undergraduate days, most Harvard men, at the end of then* col- lege course, carry away a fairly accurate conception of the relative value of intellectual and spiritual interests. Though they are keenly mterested in athletics, and often outdo the undergraduates in enjo>dng the delights of athletic victory, their deepest interests and greatest sacrifices are reser\^ed for the things of the mind and the spirit. For dissemmating a better knowledge than now exists in many parts of the country concerning the real characteristics of Harvard, the graduates of other colleges, who come to Cambridge for graduate or professional study, are among the most important agencies. A member of the Har>^ard faculty who was discussing with the members of a western Har- 63 vard club the real supremacy of intellectual interests at Harvard, and also the essential democracy of Harvard's influence, was afterwards reproached by one of his hearers, a graduate of another university who also held a Harvard professional degree, for not having spoken more positively and emphatically about Harvard's advantages in these respects. ''Harv^ard men," he said, ''cannot appreciate ade- quately the best advantages of Harvard life, because their experience has been limited to a single institu- tion." There is no better evidence of Harvard's national character than its capacity for enlisting such loyalty to its ideals of liberty and truth in men who are also intensely loyal to other colleges. The desire to make Harvard a national university springs not only from a national desire for its glory, but also from a passionate belief that Harvard ideals can be of service to the American democracy. However we may interpret our ancestors' principles of liberty and equality, there can be no doubt w^hat- ever that American society has grossly undemocratic tendencies which, if unchecked, will result in a stratified classification based on sordid and material- istic principles. The universities and colleges of the country have a unique opportunity to exhibit in their community life the workings of that pure democracy under which men advance out of the general mass into positions of usefulness and dis- tinction without regard to anything but the merits of each individual. We of Harvard believe that our community is giving constant illustrations of this process, and that our graduates tend to spread its influence to the communities in which they live. Surely Harvard can have no better claim to be known as the national university than by its service in thus keeping alive the principles through which alone the democratic ideal of our forefathers can be pre- served and more and more nearly realized. Jerome D. Greene, '96. 64 PART II HUMOR "Molder of wings and shield of truth, God bless you Mother Advocated' Hermann Hagedorn, jr., '07, Advocate. THE MONTHLY TO THE ADVOCATE As custom long has made it proper, On birthday of mama or popper, For infant daughter to recite Some poem wise and recondite, So Mother Advocate, your daughter — Since blood is thicker still than water — A laurel sets upon your pate And rises to congratulate. So many years have rolled their course Since half by guile and half by force My tender spirit came, to light The darkness of collegiate night, — So long an age has passed, I say, That you, forever young and gay, May have forgot the fatal birth When / appeared upon this earth. Ah, you were young and fair, I ween, With eyes and lips of chaste nineteen — The following canto we shall skip, Remarking that there 's many a slip Twixt god and nymph that 's not a fall When both are sprites ethereal. And having spoke of Cupid's deed, To daughter's woes we now proceed. But, Mother, ever young and mild, Turn not away your loving child. Though much you blame and long you rue This unsought imp of twenty-two. Ah, who would guess you once were naughty, You who are sixteen at forty? 67 Alas, good dame, I ne'er was young, But born with serious mien, and tongue That lisped in Maeterlinckean numbers, And babbled Browning in its slumbers. And gave its youth strength to blow its Dark trumpet for Minor Poets. Forever have I borne the weight Of all the troublous tricks of Fate, Have nurtured Art and suckled youths And brought to men eternal truths. (In Paris go^vn and broidered fichu, A dozen Truths to every issue.) I am the Monthly and I come To make heads buzz and voices hum, For twenty years I seek a star Where only Httle Monthlies are, And I at last can rest content With my artistic temperament. Mother, I weary from my quest And fain would seek your warm young breast. Give me your old-time cup of mirth, I am too great for this small earth. Outside the eager millions throng For me to tell God where he 's wrong. Dear Mother Advocate, may time Deal gently with your kindly face. And may no somber shadows climb To veil the mirth, the blithesome grace. You point us not to infinite heights, Yet with your merry hands you show The pleasure of the tiny flights Before the giants pinions grow. Hermann Hagedorn, jr., '07, 68 THE W^ONG SCENT A COLD shiver passed through the manly frame oi Mr. Richard Randolph as he stood before an open box l>ing upon his center table and gazed with perturbed countenance at its contents. The hour was late; that is, it was about a quarter after six, which does not leave much time to spare when one is due at a dinner at seven, and must dress and get into Boston from Cambridge within the hour. But it was not lack of leisure that disturbed our friend; in fact, he claimed on ordinary occasions to be able after long practice to perform his toilet and array himself in evenmg dress in the ridiculously short space of seven minutes; it was not lack of time, I repeat; it was something infinitely worse. A short retrospection on our part will be neces- sary in order fully to understand the situation. L}TQg upon his writing table w^as an invitation from a certain society leader of Boston, asking him to dinner upon this very evening, to meet a young and attractive damsel from Balthnore who hap- pened to be visiting her. Richard had of course joyfully accepted, and then as carefully dismissed the whole thing from his mind ^ith his usual non- chalance, only remembering his engagement a few moments before our story opens. "It's lucky I happened to remember that dinner,'' he remarked mentally as he endeavored to find his dress suit. "Mrs. Tyler would have blackHsted me ! " After a fruitless search in his chiffonier, which failed to reveal any signs of the aforesaid wedding garments, Mr. Randolph realized vdth a sinking heart that this being his first appearance in society for the season, since it was early in the autumn, his evening clothes were still carefiilly done up and put away in a box at the top of his closet. "They'll be ruinously creased! I should have sent them to the tailor's ages ago!" he ejaculated as he hastily 69 carried the box into his study and untied it. Then, as he removed the cover, his courage departed from him. There lay his poor dress suit, creased and crum- pled. But that was not all; a strange and noisome odor rose from the box and filled the air — an odor hated of all men — a perfume like the mingling of checkerberry, kerosene, and Charles-River-flats-at- low-tide — the odor of those inventions of Satan that women put in men's clothes to keep out the moths. The smell floated calmly up and tickled the nostrils of our wretched hero; it pervaded the room, hung about his head and infected his person. He was paralyzed with horror. He remembered how in the spring he had told the ** goody" to put away his dress clothes for him, and he now perceived with what thoroughness she had performed her work. Her very words on that occasion returned to his mind: *'Dar now, Marse Randolph, ise done fixed yo' clo's so dey ain't no kind of insec' can tech 'em. Ise put in some ob my 'moth-balls'!" And he recol- lected that he had thanked her for her thoughtful- ness. He looked at his watch and found that it was just a quarter after six. At first he thought of giving the whole thing up and feigning sudden sickness; then he remembered the Baltimore girl, and resolved to go at all hazards. First, he subjected the clothes to a vigorous beating; then he hung them out of the window and let the autumn breezes fan them while he got ready to put them on. Nevertheless, after he had dressed, the clothes seemed as odoriferous as ever; the smell was absolutely fiendish. In despera- tion, he seized an atomizer and deluged himself with vaporized cologne; but, strange to say, this seemed to have no eft'ect — in fact, if anything, it appeared to put an edge on the already sufficiently penetrating perfume. All the way into Boston he stood on the front platform with his coat off and tried to air himself, 70 and as he felt the wind whistling through his coat tails, while the car buzzed over Han-ard Bridge, he began to feel more at ease. He thought of the beau- tiful girl from Baltimore, and reflected that he had been in worse predicaments than this before, and lived through them. Randolph arrived in good time, and was intro- duced to the damsel for whom the dinner was given, and then followed a tete-a-tete, during which he shuddered and tried to look pleasant by turns. To his excited imagination the room seemed already full of the odor of ''moth-balls," and he waited with feverish anxiety the moment when it should be dis- covered by the rest of the company. He did not have long to wait. Mrs. Tyler shortly betrayed signs of nervousness. "I wonder what is the matter Tv^th that lamp!" she exclaimed, glancing at a tall piano lamp in the comer. Dick w^as on the qui vive in an instant. "Let me fix it!" he suggested, endeavoring to get as near it as possible. The lamp proved to be in a fairly normal condition, however, and Mrs. Tyler apologized for the unpleasant odor, saying that the lamps were always getting out of order. Dick mean- while mentally hugged himself and tried to turn the conversation. The host, who was a trifle late, now entered, and after greeting his guests, turned to his wiie with, **Er, Mary, what is this pecuHar odor? Is there anything the matter v/ith that lamp? Pray have it fixed as soon as possible." During the confusion of going out to dinner, Richard congratulated himself upon his escape, yet quaked with apprehension at the thought of what later tortures he might have to endure. His un- easiness was not diminished when he found himself placed beside the girl from Baltimore. There was a good deal of conversation at first, and our hero flattered himself that perhaps his 71 trials were over, but the hope was in vain. A curious and peculiarly searching perfume began to make it- self evident most unmistakably. Dick fairly per- spired wdth agitation, being, as he was, absolutely helpless. He wished the house would catch fire, but this was improbable. The girl from Baltimore was seized with a fit of coughing, which did not improve matters. The hostess beckoned to the butler, who carefully examined all the gas jets and then shook his head dolefully at her from the pantry door. The guests moved a trifle uneasily. Conversation lan- guished. The servant who passed Dick the soup turned away and stifled a cough. Someone started to tell an anecdote about General Grant and forgot what he was going to say when he had reached his descrip- tion of how "the general sniffed the powder-laden air," and stopped in a plainly embarrassed manner. Presently there came a dead silence. Dick was racking his brains for a pretext to excuse himself, and had resolved to have an epileptic fit if something did not happen within two minutes. Fortunately or unfortunately, something did happen. He was seized with an uncontrollable desire to sneeze. He felt it coming and whipped out his handkerchief in time to save himself, but to his horror found that three little white balls had flown from his pocket at the same time, and were now rolling and bouncing about the table, to the amusement of the startled com- pany. For a mom.ent there was silence, then fol- lowed an hilarious burst of laughter. Dick, seeing that it was all over, laughed confusedly with the others, and resolving to throw himself upon the mercy of his hostess, got up and told the whole story of his sufferings and begged to be forgiven. His ac- count of the matter was received with much mirth, and he was granted complete and final absolution by all present. ''But Mr. Randolph must write this up into a story," cried someone. 72 Scent, J 7j "Yes, yes!" resounded on all sides. "But what shall I call it?" gasped Dick. "Call it," murmured the girl from Baltimore, glancing slyly at our hero, "call it 'The Wrong Arthur Train, '96. THE MAVERICK He's the maverick, he, Wid a hand that is free, And a foot that is light for the dancin'. Wid the girls is he smart, Wid his hand to his heart. And an eye that is bright in the glancin*. He 's a tongue that is quick For a jest or a trick. But a voice that is soft in the sighm', A love that is strong. And a hope that is long, And a heart that is true till the dyin' ! Richard J. Walsh, '07, AN INTERNATIONAL AFFAIR "Mr. Rolfe, what is the time?" inquired Lady Mitford rather anxiously. She and the young Amer- ican were sitting on the west terrace, feeding, in turn, themselves and two splendid peacocks Ts-ith tea and cake. Lady Mitford was a placid old woman, quite contented with her bridge, her orchids, and, occa- sionally, her matchmaking; she had the unfortunate habit of going to sleep at dinner parties and for- getting which of her friends were divorced and which were not. Other\\dse she was rather clever. Just 73 now she raised her lorgnette to see how far the clear- cut shadows of the oaks had crept out upon the bil- liard table of a lawn. The young American, sitting easily on the gray balustrade, sv\nang his leg thoughtfully and guessed it was about six o'clock. "Don't be lazy. Look at your repeater, sir," in- sisted Lady Mitford. ''Well, since you must have it, it 's exactly four and a half minutes after six," he answered resignedly. "Oxton ought to be here by this time. He's due on the five-thirty, and I sincerely hope they met him." "TheDukeof Oxton?" "Naturally. Mr. Rolfe, I want you to help me while he's here!" "My life is yours to command, dear lady!" "No nonsense! What I want is this. Before Ox- ton goes Friday week, he must have offered himself to Muriel!" "Is he really going to?" "That's why I want you to help me. Oh, don't you understand? Stupid ! ' ' "A light faintly glimmers in my dull brain. My lord is to be given every opportunity to — ah, en- tertain Lady Muriel, while I — while /, flirt madly, persistently, outrageously, with Doris! That right? " "If you want to put it in that disagreeable way, yes. But you know what I mean." "Your every wish is my law!" observed Rolfe, waving his tea-cake like a plumed hat. "But may I be permitted to venture the remark that perhaps Lady Muriel can't hook him? — pardon my gross- ness — I mean perhaps Oxton won't happen to fall desperately in love with Lady Muriel. " "When a man's left continually alone with a charming, eligible girl for an entire week, it usually happens that he does. Besides, they like each other already. They've met, of course, in London." 74 "Exactly. They like each other. Like rarely changes to love, sadly but truly." ''Bosh! Here come Muriel and Doris. I don't see why I ever in\dted Doris down for this week an}^-ay. Please give me your arm and take me to the lift. IMeet Oxton when he comes, and tell bim I never wait for anybody that's late. Thank you." And they disappeared into the house. Just as they were gone, Doris came rushing up the steps, followed languidly by Lady Muriel. ''I hope they've left tea," said Doris, hungrily. "They have. And cakes, too, plenty of them. Why on earth did they all skip off so? I don't believe your aunt Ukes me," she continued, pouring two cups and eating a scone whole. "Aunt is so very conserv'ative. I think Ameri- cans are a little beyond her, perhaps. I wonder if Oxton has come?" "Oh, Oxton. The duke of course? I am interested in him. Just think — a real hve duke! I used to see lords sometimes at Lenox, but a duke — never! He's vounoj, is n't he, and awfully handsome? His pictures certainly are!" " Dear child, you're quite — quite mistaken. He is som.ewhere over thirty-hve and rather stout — such an ordinary looking person! And he intensely dislikes Americans." "The old brute!" remarked Doris, feehngly. "Particularly young .Americans," continued Lady Muriel, carefully examining the point of her shoe. "He does, does he?" cried Doris, bristling. ''I'll show him! Just let me have at him and 'blank be him who first cries' aiid so forth!" "I'm afraid, love, your methods wouldn't be quite successful -^^ith Oxton," cooed Lady Muriel, sweetly. "Look here, my girl!" said Doris, suddenly. "Here's a chance to show your sporting blood. Did n't your father win in the Derby once? Well, 75 now's your turn. I'll bet that pearl brooch j-ou liked so much at Tiffany's last fall to — let's see — oh, yes, to that stunning collie of yours we saw this morning that I can get Oxton to propose to me within the week! Is it a go?'' *'You're foolish, dear. He won't. He hates Americans." "Quitter! Where 's your sporting blood? Come on!" Lady Muriel closed her long eyes and thought that, after all, this young thing running after Oxton might play him into her liand; she herself would utilize the indifferent, carefree, maddening st)de^^ in contrast to the crude efforts of Doris. After all, he hated Americans, and it might be better so. Yes, on second thought, it would. "Just as you please, child; to humor your fool- ishness, that's all. He's evidently come, anyway. I'm going to dress." "Oh, I've not nearly finished tea yet," answered Doris, pouring out her third cup. "Good-bye." "Don't be late,, dear; he insists on punctuality," was Lady Muriel's final warning as she drifted into the house. About five minutes later a good-looking, grizzled man in a light suit and carrying a cane appeared on the steps of the terrace and saw, instead of the white-haired old lady whom he expected, a very pretty and stylish young girl, drinking her tea in solitude and looking very much at home. As he came up she glanced brightly up, finished her cake, wiped her mouth, and then observed: "You're Oxton, aren't you? They're all dress- ing for dinner. They think you've come already." "My train w^as late. You are — ?" "Doris Walters. I'm a mere American, who met Lady Mitford in London. Perhaps I oughtn't to have told you that. Lady Muriel said you hated Americans." 76 "Lady Muriel?" "Yes. Do von?" "Do I what?" Doris tapped her foot impatiently. "The question is: Do you hate Americans?" The duke grinned. "No," he said, "only when they wear diamonds at four in the afternoon and talk like engine whistles. Do you do either of these two objectionable things? " "It's now seven. I am dressed as I was at four, and vou know I don't talk like an engine whistle. Tea?'" "Thank you." "I'm afraid it's cold, but then it's still much better than nothing. Ever been in .\merica? " "Xo. ^ly experience has been limited to the im- ported article." "Of course you know our ancestors were Indians and that we hunt buffalo in the streets of New York?" "Of course!" "You're the first Englishman to whom I've made that remark that's taken it correctly. x\ll the others looked scared or bored. — No, you can't have another cup, but you may have one more cake, a little pink one. — No, only one. — Here, put back that scone! If you don't you '11 utterly spoil your appetite for dinner. WTiich reminds me that I must dress instantly. Shall I wear pale pink or black? " " Pale pink, by all means. It 's my favorite color ! " "I shall wear black. Au revoir!" and she ran quickly doTvm the terrace, disappearing toward the south ent^>^ Lady :\Iitford came out a few minutes later to find him eating a scone in profound meditation. "Here at last!" she exclaimed. "And you look bored already!" "My dear Jane," he said, between bites, "I 77 can truly say that I anticipate a most delightful week!" *'Will you bring me my coffee on the balcony, my lord? It's so warm in here, and," sotlo voce, "I can't stand Lady Muriel's piano playing!" ''With pleasure, Miss Walters," answered Oxton. ''Two liunps, I think, and a little liqueur? Right? Here it is, and may I smoke a cigarette?" "You may. Isn't the moonlight divine on the terrace?" *'Yes," he said, abstractedly, as he lighted his cigarette. "Oh, yes." "Come over here to the railing. You can see the river like liquid silver among the trees. Oh, England is beautiful, is n't it? WTiat brand are you smok- ing? Ageptos? Give me one, please." "I did n't know you smoked!" "Always, when Lady Mitford is n't around. She's asleep, isn't she? And Benny 's listening to Muriel with his soul in his eyes." She sat down and leaned her white arms on the cool gray stone. "I'm sorry I'm going tomorrow," she said, and then, "I mean I'm glad, avirfully glad." "Why?" He sat so near her that his sleeve brushed the spangles of her gown. "Haven't you enjoyed every minute? Every second?" " I 've enjoyed myself — yes." "Answer me. Haven't you been happier than ever before?" "What an absurd question!" she began, but then she raised her eyes and saw his face. With a slight shiver she suddenly arose. "Doris!" he said very calmly, and took her in his arms. "No, you mustn't!" she cried eagerly and pas- sionately, yet never raising her voice. "You must- n't! I — I can't be your wife! I can't — I can't!" 78 ''Why, dear?" *'It's impossible, simply impossible! Oh, of all dreadful things this is the worst!" and with a little sob she sank do^\Ti in her chair. ''Is it — anything I have — ? " "No, no, it's my fault; all, all my fault. Oh, Lord Oxton, I've been a very mcked, foolish girl! I bet — yes, I bet — do you realize it? — I bet Lady Muriel a pearl brooch against a collie dog that you would propose to me before the week was out! You see, I've trifled T\'ith your feelings — I've done an infamous thing." He stood stiff and silent. *'You know now why it is impossible for m^e to marry you. I — I think I'll go inside." Her dignity was fast breaking do-\^Ti. "Was this — wager — after I met you?" came from, him in a curious tone. "Heavens, no! Not that! Oh, I ■\;sish I had never seen you!" She was sobbing quite openly now. "WTiy?" he asked. "Because — " she rushed for the window, but he stopped her. "Here comes Lady Muriel. Oh, let m.e go!" He looked over his shoulder and bit his mustache. "Damn Lady Muriel I" exclaimed the Duke of Oxton. And the next minute Doris was crying all over his shirt front. E. B. Sheldon, 'o8. DOWN BY THE STREAM "Rest and fresh air," concluded Bruce, \\dth a tone of authority, "is what you need. Get on a trolley car, go 'way out into the country and walk. That's what the jolly fellows in the college stories 79 do at tliis time of year, and I don't see why you should n't take the tip.'* Rollins was one of those people who clutch at advice like a tramp at free beer. "Great!" he ex- claimed, with so much enthusiasm that his eye- glasses tumbled off his futile little nose. "It's aw- fully good of you to bother about me, and you're perfectly right; I have been working much too hard. As for going out and getting back to nature, as it were, it's a splendid idea — just the thing for me. Why don't you come along with me?" "Sorry, I've got to go down and row. Besides, you 'd much better go alone — you '11 probably fmd your affinity sitting under a tree sticking ferns in her hair or something — that 's w^hat happens in the stories." "I'm afraid there aren't any beautiful damsels about," said Rollins, smoothing his pale hair and attempting to look gallant, "only factory hands and Radcliffe students." "You never can tell what these wild New Eng- land college girls will do in springtime," said Bruce as he picked up his cap. "I guess I can take the risk," laughed Rollins, with the nearest approach to a blush which his sallow complexion w^ould allow. "Thanks ever so much for the suggestion. I think I shall start right off. Walking toward the Square?" They went downstairs and across the Yard to- gether, and Rollins boarded a Waverley car. "You're looking better already," said Bruce as they parted. "Remember to rescue all maidens in distress, and don't eat toadstools by mistake. Come tell me your adventures when you get back." The college bell was clanging as the car started, and Rollins pitied from his heart the poor unfortu- nates straggling to their two- thirties. It was May; everything was drenched with mellow sunshine, yet there was just enough breeze to stir the frothy elm- 80 tops, and the sky, vibrating blue, was dotted with a few cottony cloud-puffs. It would be immoral to stay indoors in such weather ! The woods and fields "fairly screamed" at him from the distance; it was all he could do to wait for the last of the flimsy little paint-and-scroll-saw houses to swirl past down the track. When he finally reached a stretch of country with- out a building in sight, Rollins signaled the con- ductor, sprang lightly off before the car had come to a stop — and landed sprawling in the gutter. The passengers tittered and the conductor shouted back a jeering remark as he twdtched the bell rope. Or- dinarily Rollins would have been angry and ashamed; now he merely laughed and sat complacently in the dust while he groped for his eyeglasses and wiped them. Close to the road ran a brook; Rollins got up and, slapping the dirt off his natty serge suit as he went, followed it across a stretch of tender grass into the wood at the end of the pasture. When his clothes were reasonably clean he turned his attention to his shoes, which had gathered a considerable quantity of gravel in his fall. Sitting down on the bank of the brook, he took off his shoes and shook them out. As he was about to put them on again a long-forgotten memory flashed into his mind; he almost blushed at the idea, and looked furtively around. There was no one in sight. After a pro- longed struggle he gathered up his courage and, ^^th the joy of a naughty child in a forbidden action, deliberately pulled off his socks, rolled up his trou- sers and stepped into the brook. For a few seconds he gasped and hopped gingerly from one foot to the other; then, with his socks hanging out of his pockets and his bright new yellow shoes dangling around his neck by the strings, he started up the bed of the stream, stepping cautiously for fear of pointed stones. His feet tingled and sent delicious thrills up his spine; the soft, cool mud oozed between his toes and drifted off in murky clouds; startled minnows scooted past his legs. He was too happy even to sing. At a turn in the brook an apple tree in full bloom leaned out over the water. Rollins buried his nose in a mass of pink-tipped blossoms, closed his eyes, and breathed in the warm fragrance till his head whirled. A voice aroused him; around the bend in the stream floated a vision. It was white, and femi- nine, and it was wading toward him down the brook. The rest was indistinct, because at the first sound he had jumped, and his everlastingly annoying eye- glasses had been swept off by a branch and had "plopped" into the water. He stooped to look for them, and the vision, seeing his plight, stooped like- wise. Her hair brushed his cheek as their heads came together, and anxious as he was to find his glasses in order to get an adequate idea of her beauty, he found the proximity so pleasant that he hardly knew which he wanted most: to recover his glasses or to continue the search. The dilemma did not last long, for the vision, with a little cry, picked the dripping glasses out of the stream, dried them on her skirt, and handed them to Rollins. With tremb- ling fingers he adjusted them. The vision materialized into a tall, dark woman, straight-backed, long-limbed, deep-chested. Only the sweeping lines of her figure and the smallness of her joints prevented her from looking unusually large. Her dress was opened at the neck, her sleeves were turned back to the elbows, and her skirts were gathered up to the knees. She stood with her head thrown back, smiling down at him from under her curling black lashes. There was nothing alarming about her expression, and her nose had a reassuring upward tilt; none the less Rollins was afraid. Her hair was so black and her lips were so red; as for her skin, it was impossibly white. It was not her 82 beauty merely that was startling. She had some- thing about her that was disconcerting, almost un- canny. He felt helpless before her; whatever she commanded, he must do. Not only his presence of mind but his will melted completely. He stood gaping, with quaking knees and an empty feeling inside, almost expecting to reel and see blackness. It was like standing opposite a file of soldiers, waiting to be shot. Of course she did not shoot. She looked at him awhile, evidently amused by his confusion. Then, as he made no move to pass or to speak, but merely stared and stared, she quietly sat dowTi upon the bank and gazed at her pink toes as she dabbled them in the water. Rollins sat down too, with a sigh of relief. It was not so terrifying to sit beside her as it was to stand and look up at her. "I — I'm awfully sorry," he stammered. "I'm afraid you'll think I'm awfully rude. I don't mean to be, though. Only you see it's awfully un- expected, sort of — that is — you are — I mean I did n't expect to see you — that is, I did n't expect to see anyone, and if I did, I did n't expect anyone like you." He stopped for breath, and went on more confidently. *'You see you're not the sort of person one would expect to see in Massachusetts, in broad daylight, wading in a brook." She laughed helpfully, and asked, ''Where should you expect to see me?" "Wliy, you ought to be something Oriental — l^-ing on a divan, being fanned by a slave, with lots of green gauze and squiggly gold things, and pearls — just ropes and ropes of pearls — and a big emerald on your forehead." For the first time he had courage to look at her unflinchingly. "You seem to think I am an advertisement for Eg>"ptian cigarettes," she remarked, sarcastically. RoUins's grooving self-possession vanished. 83 "No — no, really," he protested. ''Cleopatra, or the Queen of Sheba, or — or Astarte; not cigarettes." With a gesture that said, *'0f course, I under- stand; I was only fooling. Go on — you're doing much better now," she laid her hand upon his arm. Instead of going on he picked up her hand and looked at it. The bare arm was firm and rounded with veins showing blue through the fine skin. There WTre no rings and no marks of any on the long, tapering fingers, but the nails were neatly polished. It was a strong, slender hand. Reverently he raised it and touched the finger tips to his lips. She murmured something about a cavalier. ''I never did such a thing before," he explained, slowly, without looking at her. "I've seen foreign- ers do it, and it always seemed silly. But w4th you it was different — it seemed the right thing to do." " It 's very sweet of you to say that," she answered. "Only you must remember that we're children. It's all very well to be courtly and make pretty speeches, but as long as we're wading in the brook and acting Hke this, I 'm just a little girl and you 're a little boy — a Kttle boy who has run away from school." Rollins squirmed. "You're not really a child, I know," she went on. "Much less am I. I 'm ever so old — a great deal older than you. For the present, though, we're children. So come on w^ith me, and I'll show you some lovely places up stream a way — fairy places." "Don't let's go," objected Rollins. "I'd much rather stay here and talk to you. Besides, I'm tired." "Tired?" she repeated, and her manner changed. "Oh, that's too bad. You do look pale; you must have been working too hard, and worrying." Rollins felt very uncomfortable. Apparently this woman understood him at a glance, while she re- 84 mamed a mystery to hiin. It was not that so miicli as her refusal to take him seriously and treat him like a groTvTi-up man; first she wanted to pretend they Y.'ere both children, and now she adopted a motherly attitude. Neither course suited him at all. As he had feared, though, resistance was useless; she must have her way. "I have been working hard,'' he admitted, *'and getting very little sleep. That's why I came out here." "Very sensible!"" she said, "There's some nice soft moss imder that tree over there — just the place for you to take a good rest, with me to take care of you." Meeldy he followed where she led. Arranging a comiortable place for him to lie, she sat down, took his head in her lap and made him close his eyes. Gently she stroked his hair, humming to him softly. He felt like an idiot, but she did everything in such a fascinating, natural way that there was nothing to do but comply. How much was earnest and how much was play he could not tell; perhaps she was making fun of him.. What matter, though? No one need ever know. He was not good at con- cealing things, but Biiice would have no reason to doubt anything he told him, An3^way, this was no time to bother about what he should say when he got back. The air was soothing, and her hands and her voice were soothing. He had not realized how ven/ tired he was. She might think it unapprecia- tive of him, but it was her own suggestion. And he really was a^A'fully tired. — With thoughts like these xevohdng slowly and more slowly in his head, he quietly fell asleep. When he awoke the air was cooler, the shadows W'Cre longer, and he was alone. He sat up, and was about to call out. A noise arrested him. Crashing tov/ard him through the bushes came a burly red- faced man„ Remembering that his feet were still 8s bare, he hastily curled them up under him. The fat man stopped, and grunted a greeting. ''Seen a woman?" he queried, panting. "A woman? N — no, not lately," faltered RoUins. ^'I 've been asleep, you see. Are you looking for a woman?" The man grunted again. *'What sort of a woman?" "Big. Black. White skin. White dress. No shoes and stockings. 'Scaped early this morning, while they were dressing." ''Escaped?" echoed Rollins. "Where from?" The fat man pointed over his shoulder with a jerk of his thumb. "'Sylum. Big one. Full of 'em. Lots of trouble lookin' after all of 'em. Don't often get loose, though — " "Is this a crazy woman you are looking for?" asked Rollins, trying to contain his emotion. "S'posed to be," went on the burly man, seating himself on a rock with a porpoise-like exhalation. "I don't think so. Just foxy — foxy as they make 'em. She's a Klep." "A what?" " Klep — Klepto — Kleptomaniac. Steals things. Dangerous woman. Got to catch her. Can't get far — no money, no shoes. Got to stop her before she can find anyone to beg, borrow or steal from. Smart w^oman." With rolling eyes and guttural groans he heaved himself up from his seat and floundered off into the w^ood. Meanwhile a furtive examination had revealed to Rollins that his watch, his pocketbook, his scarf pin, and his cuff links were missing. His new yellow shoes and his socks, too, were gone. F. SCHENCK, '09. 86 A ROMANCE IN RED Galton had gone over the whole route from the Touraine to the Lenox, calling at every stop, and still he could not find his friends. They had agreed to meet him at nine-thirty, in the Touraine, down- stairs. He was not sure, now, that it was the Touraine, but he was positive that it was downstairs. After waiting for a quarter of an hour he began to fear he had made a mistake, so he tried the Thorn- dike, then all the others, but without success. They must have stayed in Cambridge, he concluded, or else they had gone to a show. It was twenty minutes past ten as he boarded a Subway car at Exeter Street — he would go back to the Touraine and reserve a table in hope that they might turn up. This sort of thing was constantly happening to Galton. He never managed to meet people where and when he expected to. It could n't be that they tried to give him the slip: if they did n't want him they need n't ask him to go with them. No, every- one was always pleasant to him and seemed to want to have him about. It must be his own fault. He was absent-minded and forgetful, in fact, stupid. These introspective thoughts so absorbed Galton that he forgot to get off at Boylston Street. At Park Street he dashed out of the car and up the steps, intending to hurry back to the Touraine. He decided, though, that it was n't worth while, and started off aimlessly in another direction. Once more his mind returned to his shortcomings. What a shiftless, absurd sort of creature he was! Absolutely irresponsible and vague. It was lucky he did not have a great deal of money. Anyone could impose on him. Although he had not extrava- gant tastes and rarely bought anything for himself, his money seemed to go. People knew he was an easy mark the minute they looked at him. Perhaps his hair gave him away. Galton's hair was the color 87 of a \vcll-cooI:ccl buckwheat cake. His friends called it red; his family stoutly denied this allegation. He himself was incUned to deny it, but in his heart of hearts he felt it was true. Of course his hair was red; he had a red-headed nature. There was the whole thing in a nutshell. That w^as a comforting thought. Meditation on his owTi character ordinarily plunged Galton into the depths of gloom, but this time the color of his hair came hke a beam of cheerful ruddy light and dispelled his somber thoughts. With a brisker step he advanced down the street. What street was it, by the way? He had not noticed where he was going since he left the Subway, and now he had no idea of his whereabouts. As he was about to stop a passer-by and ask for directions, he noticed a little restaurant, and went in. The restaurant was well lighted and, superficially, clean. None of the tables except those in the al- coves had cloths, but the few cloths were reasonably spotless. The swarthy waiter who leaned against a pillar in an Attic attitude carried a perfectly fresh napkin over his arm, and the ample shirtwaist of the lady at the desk was like a gently heaving snow- drift. Galton was satisfied. It was twenty minutes of eleven — he would stay. A sound from one of the alcoves caused him to turn around. Over the table leaned a woman, her head in her hands, sobbing. Her face was hidden; all that was visible under her black hat was a mass of hair the color of new tan shoes. Galton confirmed this fact with a glance at his own feet. She was young — not much over twenty, he esti- mated. Her dark gray dress was very simple, but there was no sign of poverty in her appearance. She wore a ring — he did not recognize the stone — which looked fairly expensive and her shoes gave unmistakable evidence of respectability. Galton was not a connoisseur of women ; still, he had learned to judge by shoes. After all, that is rather ele- mentary. , , ^ J ^4.1, Galton looked at the waiter and the lady at the desk. The waiter was still posing gracefully, look- ing vaguely at the ceiling, and the lady seemed, from the steady rise and fall of her expansive shoulders, to be sleeping as she sat. Three or four nondescript people at the far end of the room were eating stolidly. Apparently no one cared what happened to the poor girl Galton took off his hat and stood a moment undecided. Then a peculiarly despairing sob broke through his tunidity, and he found hunself sitting beside the girl with an arm about her shoulders. ''What's the trouble?" he asked. The girl started, showing a pair of very tearful eyes between her fingers. ut i, ^ .- "WTiat's the matter?" he repeated. i hate to see you cry like that." Her answer was a renewed outburst ot tears. Her voice struggled through the sobs. ''They said- it was red — and — " "Wliat wasred?" "My hair," and she wept bitterly. ^ , , . .„ " W^o said it, and what business was it of theirs? inquired Galton, hotly. "I wanted to go on the stage. I came down from Vermont on purpose — and I tried the chorus to begin with—" her words came slowly, interrupted by sounds of choking—" and they took a lot of freaks- ugly old things, you ought to have seen their legs— and they wouldn't have me — because they said jny hair— was red— and everyone laughed at me— She was off again, weeping like Niobe. "I know," said Galton, soothingly, they say mine 's red, too, and people laugh at me — " The girl straightened up and looked at him. bhe was young, and she had great big dark eyes. "I'm really awfully sorry—" said Galton, get- ting a httle embarrassed under her scrutiny. 89 *^0h, I'm so jTjlad you've come," said the ^rirl. She leaned toward him till the tan-shoe-colored hair mingled with the buckwheat-cake-colored hair. For several moments neither spoke. ^'Wouldn't you like something to eat?" asked Galton as her sobs subsided. "Yes!" she said. ''I'd forgotten all about eat- ing." It took a tremendous effort, but she managed to smile. "Waiter!" said Galton, disengaging himself. The statue sprang into life. "We'll have lobster," said Galton, "and tomato salad, and radishes, and claret — everything red on the bill-of-fare. Waiter, bring oyster cocktails to start with, and show me the wine card — it 's nearly eleven." The girl meanwhile straightened her hat and tried to regain her composure. "It's all on account of the folks at home," she explained. "They didn't want me to try, but I told them I was sure I could make good. So they let me come, and hired a room for me, and gave me some money. But it's nearly all spent, and if I can't even get into the chorus I don't know what I can do. Really, you ought to see the painted frights they took — voices like a busted phonograph — could n't dance any more than a cow — " "You don't seem like a country girl," said Galton. "Oh, I lived in New York till I was twelve — • and Montpelier 's not such a smxall town." The waiter bustled up with the oyster cocktails, and smirked and scraped and flicked off imaginary crumbs till Galton sent him to get some cayenne pepper. The girl liked the idea of a red supper — she said it sounded Hke Paris — but she would not drink anything and was afraid she was n't accustomed to lobster. So they had only radishes and the tomato salad after the oysters. QO "It's awful for me to sit here wath a strange man this way," said the girl as she attacked a tomato, *'but it was so good of you, and I am hungry — and I always trust people with your color hair." Now that she had cheered up again Galton no longer felt at ease. He had never done anythmg of the kind before; he hardly knew what to talk about. Fortunately, she kept the conversation going. None the less he was reheved when the waiter brought the check. "WTiere do you live?" asked Galton,^ as the waiter showed them out, wrigghng with gratitude for his liberal tip. "Not very near here; but let 's walk, if you don't mind." Galton said he preferred walking, so they set out dowTi an unfamiliar street. "I don't know what I'll do," said the girl. "I wish there were some people like you in the theatrical business; but there are n't — all black-haired and Jewy-looking." "WTiy don't you go back to Montpelier?" said Galton, seriously. "You would n't like the chorus." "Perhaps not," she sighed. The rest of the way they walked in silence. It was a dingy-looking doorway where they stopped, but the people, she said, were "nice fat old things." Galton felt in his pockets. He had one gold- piece, and his carfare — that was all to the first of the month. Yet he unhesitatingly fished it out and as they shook hands he left it in her palm. "Oh, no!" she said, offering it back to him, "I could n't take money from you!" "You've got to get home to Montpelier," he said, backing away from her. "No — I can write — " "For the color, then," said Galton, persuasiv.4;. ; "it's red gold." 91 "ReaHy, it's too good of you!" said the girl cf- fusiveiy, slipping the coin in her pocket. And once more the tan-shoe-colored hair mingled with the buckwheat-cake-colored hair. She broke away with, a sob, and he turned sadly toward the car line. F. SCHENCK, '09. THE MURDERER " Come here, you blasted rascal ! " Thorpe, who was lolling deep in an armchair'^s leather lap, in front of a pleasant log lire, blew a thick blue lather of smoke from pursed-up lips. Then he turned his little fat bristly head, and squinted his watery green eyes in the direction of the butler. The latter — who was very knock-kneed and small, and topped by an abnormally large red head — approached, tray in hand, his blue eyes blinking, his pink lips drawn with terror. "What's your name?" snapped Thorpe, "William Saucer, sir." "How long have you worked here?" "Eight months, sir, please sir." "I don't please sir; and don't stand there gaping at me like a blue-eyed baboon, but fetch me a pint of chianti. Do you understand?" The little butler trembled and scurried off noise- lessly over the thick carpet. Thorpe, having solidly snipped the ash from his cigar with a heavily ringed finger, settled himself to reading the financial page of the evening paper, while the black mission clock resonantly tick-tocked on the mantelpiece. In the pantry, Saucer sniffed and rubbed his eyes. "The sev — th seventh time," he blubbered whiningly, "the seventh time he has asked me my name ! Oh dear, oh dear ! How can a — can a hard-working-man-sta-nd such treatment?" 92 He took Thorpe the chianti and then returned, softly closing the door behind him. Sniffing again, and gently passing his coat-sleeve over his eyes, he took off his apron and hung it up in the closet, stand- ing on tiptoe to do so. This time he seemed partly to recover his good spirits and ran his eye over the wine shelves, craning his white thin neck now this way and now that. He spent some minutes doing this, rubbing his hands together all the while, and inwardly purring with satisfaction. What a splendid, gHttering array, after all! With childish glee he enumerated the bottles on his fingers, remarked where this was bought, and how old that was, and wondered with his large head critically thro-^^Ti back, and his eyes screwed up, whether the third vintage was as good as the fourth. A smile crept tiptoeingly onto his lips. Gracious! Here was enough wine and cham- pagne to intoxicate an elephant. One elephant? Two elephants! He could easily imagine those two elephants he had seen the day before at the circus — drunk, both — and rolling dissolutely about under the tent vdth hysterical snorts. One of them he clearly saw careening against a tent pole, lifting his trunk in an ecstatic squeal and merrily winking with his left eye. At the thought he began laughing softly, and wagged his head back and forth. "Oh, my imagination—" he began — and then stopped short, with a jump, and staring eyes. He smiled, a little incredulous smile; and, as if it were a viper, watched his o^tl hand crawling up towards — a bottle. Then, falling into the wicked spirit of the thing, he backed his hand up, heart and soul, and swiftly poured the bottle into a glass. His eyes t-^dnkled, he lifted the glass high in the air, laughingly whispered a "hellth" to Thorpe, and poured the sparkling contents down his throat. For some seconds, paralyzed \\4th fear, he gaped with his mouth and clutched at the empty glass. 93 In the next room he could hear Thorpe turning the pages of his newspaper. Otherwise there was no sound, the club was quite still. The tin alarm clock, ticking busily by his shoulder pointed to eight-fifteen, and apparently had every intention of ticking for some time. Everything was as it should be, there wasn't the slightest danger of detection; suddenly he broke his theatrical attitude and poured the glass full again. The second draught trickled down his throat even more pleasantly than the first. It was followed, in turn, by a third, a fourth, and a fifth. And a jovial warmth began blooming in his stomach and throat. ''Perhaps — I'd better put the glass down," he remarked slowly. He did so, with a motion at once deliberate and dignified. After that he sat do^\Tl in a spider-backed chair and nodded sleepily, folding his hands peacefully across his breast. ''Very pleasant warmth," he murmured, drowsily. His breathing became regular and deep, he sank lower and lower into the chair, and his thin little legs crawled, like inlets of the tide, gradually out over the floor. Ten minutes later Thorpe called to Saucer and got no answer. With an oath — because one of his feet was asleep, and felt crawling with ants — he limped into the pantry, uncorked a bottle with a succulent pop, and bore it away. He did not wake Saucer, because he was rather ashamed of himself. Then he settled himself again in his chair and sipped from a glass and read the newspaper and blinked at the fire, continually, over and over again. With a sleepy smile he listened to the mission clock ticking out its iambics; it sounded marvelously Hke a one- legged man stamping along with a crutch. The next minute he was dreaming about Treasure Island and about one-legged John Silver; or a mixture of John Silver and Pew, blindly tick-tocking about on a frosty road, at dead of night. 94 Saucer awoke a little later with an unpleasant, sneering feeling on his lips. He was conscious, above all things, of being drunk and ill-tempered, and felt a good deal unbalanced. WQien he opened his blue eyes, they fell, as if by the design of God, upon an enormous hunting-knife which someone had struck by the blade into the wall. He fancied it was still quivering, as it hung there at an angle of sixty degrees, apparently upon the point of clattering to the floor. But on the contrary, it did not fall. He spent some minutes staring at it stupidly. He was sure it had not been there when he had fallen off to sleep. Someone, evidently, had entered the pantry, had discovered the butler in a drunken sleep, and had used the knife in opening a bottle. Then, in his hurry, he had left the knife hanging here in this striking and odd position. Saucer's mind worked very slowly and circumspectly. Thus far it had successfully encompassed the dilemma and had suf- ficiently proven the knife to be no hallucination. Now, the question was, who had put it there? He shaded his eyes and scrutinized it closely, hop- ing to recognize it; but he was certain he had seen it never before! And then — he thought of Thorpe. Hal Thorpe! Saucer stiffened in his chair and gripped both arms of it very firmly. Thorpe — the knife; the knife — Thorpe. The two paired them- selves instantly in his befuddled brain. They came forward together, dancing a barn dance, revolved, bowed to each other, and retreated again. Thorpe! All the hundreds of insults and indignities which he had suffered at the hands of this gentleman presented themselves to his mind in human form, for inspec- tion. In company, they passed well for a fancy dress ball; except that they were all sad of face and querulous of voice. This train of pleasant thought, which was trickling very, very slowly through Saucer's brain, was all of 95 a sudden abruptly shattered by a sonorous snore from the next room. Saucer stared at the knife. Then he shoved off from the chair, clutched the haft of it, which was at first inclined to elude him and slip water-like through his fingers, and, as stealthily as might be, opened the great oaken door, breathing hard against it as he did so. At the same instant the mission clock boomed out nine o'clock, and Saucer jumped nervously. By the fourth stroke, however, he had recovered control of himself, and stepped tremblingly into the drawing-room, his footsteps deadened by the heavy carpet. Thorpe, as he had foreseen, was fast asleep with one great fat leg flung awkwardly over an arm of the chair. He hesitated, darting suspicious glances about the room and pricking his thumb with the point of the blade. Why should he be afraid? One quick downward stroke and it would be all over. Thorpe's heart and pulse would cease ticking forever, his eyes would never again open, his feet would never again touch the floor, his voice would never again squeak orders. There would be an empty niche in the Hall of Life. And he — Saucer — what would happen to him? Nothing, absolutely nothing. He would take the first train away, nobody would dis- cover Thorpe's body till noon of the next day; and there would be no more Thorpe to plague him and make miserable his life. In four steps he had reached the very middle of the room, beneath the great pearl-colored globe of a soft electric light. The blade sparkled in his hand, he turned it this way and that. How very auda- cious it was of him! Just think of it! He, Saucer, a murderer ! He was sure that Isabel would admire him all the more for it; and he, in her eyes, would immediately, by that action, become a hero. Three more steps and he stood directly behind Thorpe's chair, leaning over him with a yellow- toothed grin. He lifted the hunting-knife with a 96 little shiver of pleasure. When slowly Thorpe's head revolved, his face turned upward, and he re- marked thickly: "You'd better not do that. You'd better not." Saucer gasped and staggered backward. At the same time Thorpe rose with a hideous deliberation and sloTVTiess, turned around in a leisurely manner, stepped nearer, loomed large, then swelled enor- mously like a bubble — and burst into a thousand sparks. Saucer leapt bodily from his chair, rubbing his eyes. He blinked about him stupidly, in the pantry. Yes, there was the bottle he had emptied. He felt singularly light-headed and feathery, and drifted like a cloud toward the door. He trembled with terror as he opened it and peered into the drawing- room. Then a chill sweat broke through the skin on his forehead. The bottles were tumbled about on the floor amid fragments of the evening news- paper, the fire was whiffling softly among the coals. And Thorpe, with his feet on the fender, was snoring steadily and deeply in the armchair. Saucer crumpled to the floor like ash. Then, huddled in a black little pile, he began to weep. C. P. Aiken, 'ii. VIGNETTE A tea: The hostess suavely circumspect, Three score of ladies, and a score of men; A well-bred hum of smiling platitudes ; The day "just lovely, — but so hot, my dear." Soft clicks of cups, and whir of fevered fans; Eau de Cologne and orchids; faint, the mild Remonstrance of a weary orchestra; The drowsy nod of boredom — four to six. Wm. C. Greene, 'ii. 97 THE BLIND BEGGAR ^Un sou, m'sieur? Ayez pitie Du pauvre aveuglel'' Yes, it is he, The little man with snow-white hair, Still sitting in his broken chair Beside the church of Sainte Marie. The ragged children climb his knee Where once their fathers played in glee; They know him with his plaintive prayer, " Un sou, m'sieur?'' The passers-by pause at his plea. And coppers jingle merrily. At nightfall home he steals, and there His eyes pop open, free from care. — Tomorrow it's "Ayez pitie Un sou, m'sieur?" Wm. C. Greene, 'ii. ARCADIAN SKETCHES {Piping Corydon) Ahead, beyond the village, there is a smooth straight bit of road, bordered on both sides with giant poplars whose leafy caps almost touch over- head. Through the trees bits of the Arcadian coun- tryside are seen, neat green bits, with here and there little brown houses sheltered by oaks or more poplars, and surrounded by geometric patches of garden land. Down this road at even time come sedate herds, marshaled by a chubby lad fero- ciously brandishing a stick, or by some brown and white dog who marches along, head and tail erect, with eye always alert for some laggard from the herd. Here, too, one meets Arcadians, with smiling 98 faces and good-humored greetings, whose sun- browned limbs flash out superbly from their white graceful robes. It was down this road that we passed at noon, my dainty guide and I, she neat and alluring in the flowing garb of Arcadia, I dark^and somber in the garb of the West. The sun was bright, each bit of clustered foliage seemed to hold its sing- ing bird, some chattering merrily, some more tender and wistful, piping in sweet, long-drawn-out cadences. And now and again my companion, in the sheer joy of the morning, would throw back her head and sing the tender songs of Arcadia. Ahead, over the crest of the hill, light smoke was streaming out of some noonday chinmey, ascending in vague, fantastic clouds that seemed just formed to complement the quaint regularity of the fields and the tapering outline of the trees. From over the crest of the hill, too, came music, the sound of pipes, far away still, and faint. I hurried ahead, smiling at the thought of some modern day Pan or vaunting ]Mar>'sas. ^ly companion, too, heard, and with a smile of recognition hurried along at my side. Over the hill. . . . Below, there was a hut, brown, in the Arcadian fashion, with a chimney smoking, yet more merrily and exhaling enticing odors of "herbs and other country messes." The music of the pipes was louder, and a gentle voice w^as heard, coming with it from behind the trees. jMy companion raised a hand in warning. Softly we stole around behind a hedge, over a rock. . . . On a stump sat an old man, with streaming white hair failing carelessly over his bent shoulders. At his lips were the pipes, upon which he blew lustily, with much puffing of old cheeks and wrinkling of brows. And at his feet, on a plot of the greenest of turf, two pigs were dancing. One was brown, pom- pous, heavy with years and dignity, who went at a slow, serious step, in a sort of minuet. The other, 99 white, coquettish, with a bow of blue about her neck, tripped merrily a porcine fandango. The old man cast on them eyes of love, followed every move- ment smiling, nodding with pleasure at each grace- ful pirouette. Or, now and again, when a step was awkward or a turn missed, he would take the pipes from his mouth and address them chidingly: "I prithee, Iphegenie, more lightly," or '^ Hector, Hector, thou wilt break thy old master's heart with thy clumsiness." Then the piping again and the lesson went on. After a moment we stole away unobserved. And as we went on, toward the blue hills of the West, the gentle sound of the pipes came still to our ears, softer and softer, till finally it died away, and only the birds were left to make music for us. P. R. Mechem, '15. THE CASE OF CLARA (A Comedy) Scene: Bitherto comfortable bachelor apartments in complete disarray. Rugs rolled up in a cornier, furni- ture covered with gray shrouds, ^^ September Morn'^ fiat on the floor, with face cracked in several places. In the middle of the room, two bulging valises, and lying on top of them, a leather case, apparently con- taining a gun. At the right, a telephone, over a mussed- up lounge, and by the lounge a mysterious case, labeled in large letters: ^^ Live Stock! Handle with CareV^ Jack is discovered pacing the floor and kicking at the valises as he goes by. Apparently something is on his mind, for at every turn he threatens to take down the telephone — then changes his mind and stamps away. Finally he stops short in the middle of the room, thinks hard a moment, then clinches his fist and rushes to the telephone. 100 Jack {emphatically, into the receiver). — Hello, hello. Central 4404, please. — Yes, 4404. Short pause, during which he pulls nervously at the fringe of the lounge. Jack. — Hello. Central 4404? Might I speak to Miss Browneil? Thank you. I'll wait. Caroline (at the other end of the wire). — Hello. Jack, — Hello. Is this you, Caroline? Caroline. — Yes — Oh, it's you. Jack. Jack. — Yes, . . . Eh — how are you? Caroline, — Quite nicely, thank you. . . . You found that out this afternoon, you know. Jack. — Oh, to be sure. So I did. I know, I know. But, I — I want to ask you something. Caroline. — You may. Go ahead. Jack. — Thank you. You know I 'm leaving early tomorrow, to go hunting. Caroline. — Yes, and I. . . . Jack, — Of course, of course. Never mind that. I know you want me to be careful and keep my feet dry and always be careful it is n't loaded. . . . Caroline (a bit defiantly). — I don't care. . . . Jack. — Thanks. But never mind that. I want to ask you something before I go. Caroline. — Very well. Jack. — Here goes. . . . Enter Roger, very debonair, arid whistling " In der Nacht " a trifle of key. Jack turns angrily, placing his hand over the receiver. Jack. — Hello. . . . What do you want? I — I'm telephoning, Roger (smiling). — So I observe. I just dropped in to say good-bye to you. Jack (hastily). — Oh! Good-bye, old fellow, good- bye. Shake my hand quickly. I — I'm telephon- ing. Roger. — All right, I can wait. Jack (impatiently). — It — it may take me some time. Good-bye. lOI Roger. — No. I have something to say to you. I can wait {looks at his watch) ten minutes. Jack. — Oh ! Put your watch down there so I can keep track of the time. Roger puts his watch down on the lounge, by Jack, and starts walking around care- lessly, almost kicking the mysterious case. Jack. — I say, look out for that. {Into the re- ceiver.) Hello. Caroline. — Hello. Where have you been? Jack. — Eh. . . . Someone just came in. Caroline. — I see. Well. . . . Jack {nervously). — I — I hope your mother's well today. Caroline {surprised), — You saw her just this afternoon. Jack. — Oh, so I did. She — she looked well. Eh — did you have a nice time at the Stantons' last night? Caroline {sarcastically). — Perhaps you have forgotten that we talked that all over this afternoon. Jack {glancing down at the watch). — Oh, so we did. Has your brother come home from college yet? Caroline. — Stupid ! What on earth is the matter with you? Are you going to ask me something or not? Jack {looking apprehensively at Roger , then at the watch). — Oh, good Lord! Here goes. Roger noticeably pricks up his ears and takes notice. Jack scowls at him. Jack {slowly). — You see, it's this way. {Hesi- tates, then blurts it all out suddenly.) It's this way. Aunt Grace has died. That is, she died some time ago. Caroline. — Aunt Grace? Jack. — Yes. Eh — my dear Aimt Grace, you know. Caroline. — I did n't know you had an Aunt Grace. Jack. — I haven't. That is — that's just the I02 point, you see. She 's dead. You must n't make fun of such serious matters. Caroline. — Make fun ! . . . Jack. — And she left me something — money — you know. A sort of leg — legacy. And you know, my dear Aunt Grace was very fond of cats. Caroline. — Fond of cats! Jack. — Yes, just like you. That is, like you are. . . . And she had one particular favorite — oh, a very particular favorite. It was a — a — a — you know the kind of cat that makes crosses . . . ^Maltese, of course. His name is . . . Clara. And . . . well, it's all part of the legacy. Do you follow me? Jack looks anxiously at the watch, Roger is ob- viously much interested. Caroline. — No — I think you're quite crazy. Jack. — But you will. You see she left this cat to me with the money. I was to keep the creature, nourish it, you know, and brush its tail and all that sort of thing. . . . Wait a minute. Looks at the watch again. Jack {loud, aside). — Only one minute more. I must hurry. {To Caroline.) Where was I? Oh, yes. . . . Well, I've done all that and that . . . and I don't get the money unless Clara is alive and sopping up nourishment on my twenty-first birth- day. That's next week. No, it's the day after I get back from the woods. You know we've been packing, packing, you understand, things in moth balls, and all that sort of thing. . . . Caroline. — In moth balls ! Jack. — Yes, in moth balls. And, quite by mis- take, Clara swallowed three. Caroline. — Swallowed three! Jack. — Yes. Is n't it terrible! I was in despera- tion, then it occurred to me that you were fond of cats and might know something. . . . Please, what can I do for poor Clara? 103 Caroline {doubtfully). — Perhaps quinine might be good for camphor balls. Jack {hastily). — Oh, it's not the camphor balls I 'm worrying about, it 's the cat — it 's Clara. I tried giving it brandy and soda through a rubber tube and the poor thing has been chasing three tails all the afternoon. Caroline {laughing). — Are you quite crazy? What is the matter with you? I don't believe a word. Is your aunt really dead? Roger gets up, seizes his watch angrily and stalks out. Jack. — Thank God! At last! He's gone! Caroline {angrily). — Who's been feeding you brandy and soda through a rubber tube? I'm going to ring off. . . . Jack. — Don't — please — please, listen. Caroline. — Be quick if you expect me to listen much longer. Jack {triumphantly). — I haven't any aunt. I never did, and she is n't dead. She never had a cat, anyway. It's all because of that damn fool Roger. He would not go, and I could n't — well, I could n't while he was here. Listen, I 've spent all the afternoon getting my nerve up. Do you want to get married? Long pause, Caroline. — Well. . . . Jack. — Oh, please. Caroline. — Well. . . . Jack. — Please. Then I can use my gun to shoot Roger. Caroline. — I give in — (laughing) if you promise to use the other barrel on Clara. . . . You'll be right up? Jack. — Of course. Damn the Maine woods ! Jack rings of frantically and prances around the room in his excitement. Suddenly the mysterious case catches his eye. With a hurst of laughter he opens it and pulls out a decoy duck. 104 Jack (jubilantly). — Good old bird! I shan't need you now — but we '11 just about name you Clara and keep you in honor of the occasion. Though — (hesitates) I don't really know whether you are a duck or a duchess. Good old bird! How we did fool Roger! Snatches a hat and rushes out. Quick curtain. P. R. Mechem, '15. SONG Sun a beatin' on the deck, Sea's a summer blue, Land a-shimm'rin' in the heat, Not a thing to do ! Seaweed floatin' in the tide. Slowly drifts along. Ripples slappin' on the side Croon a little song. Solemn gull a-flappin' by, WTiite against the blue — Just a-sailin' dovm. the bay, Nothin' else to do! A. Gregg, 'ii, MARY — NOT MARIE Though she was a little French girl, her name was neither Marie nor Jeanne — it was just plain Mary. She was christened after Bonmamma, who came from America — away across the blue part of the map, the home of Indians and Harvard. Mary knew about the Indians from an English book her older sister owTied, with a man on it named Hawk- Eye, who dressed up like a bear; and she knew 10; about Hansard because Uncle Paul had been there, and had a beautiful red banner with the name in large white letters. There were other un-Frenchy things about Mary besides her name and her grand- mother; for instance, she hardly spoke any French, though she was nearly eight. She and all her little cousins gabbled delicious English with a French- Irish accent — the compound result of inheritance and Dublin governesses. In winter Mary lived in a horrid shut-in house in the great city, with only the gravel paths of the park for a playground, where troops of horrid boys in black aprons, that one might not speak to, whipped tops, and flatfootedly ran games of tag. Mary much preferred the cozy nursery with its coal grate and shelves of delightful books ; the princesses with their cherry and milk complexions, and the princes with spun-gold hair, and the wicked fairies who could hold apples between nose and chin made Mary forget the cold weather outside. On the whole, she almost preferred the fairy world to the real world ; govern- esses and rude little boys were only wicked fairies and goblins in disguise and if one could only transfer to fairyland it would not be a second before a prince or a fairy godmother (like Bonmamma) would come along and turn them into rats and mice. You see, after all, Mary was quarter part American, and did not always mind her governess the way nice little French girls do. But summer rather made up for the rest of the year. It was then that real events happened to one — out at Bonmamma's big chateau — when fine officers, with lots of gold lace, almost as beautiful as fairy princes, sometimes took one to ride in front of them, and when there were almost daily automobile rides, and one came to luncheon, with all the aunts and uncles, even if there was company. Then there were tricycle races with the cousins, or if it rained one could always read Bonmamma's io6 wonderful picture-books, which were even better than those in the nursery at home. This particular summer Mary had been out at the chateau for a long delightful time; the warm weather had almost made her forget the smoky city. But fewer exciting things had happened to her than in other summers, so she was particularly thrilled when her nurse told her that a new auto- mobile had arrived, mth two American men in it. Mary scented adventure at once, and ran out to the garage as soon as she finished breakfast the next morning. She loved automobiles, vaguely appre- ciating the real romance in them that most people, particularly gro\\Ti-ups, never think of; then, be- sides, they made noises and breathed smoke a little like dragons and were delightfully greasy. This was the funniest looking auto Mary had ever seen. "Oh, la la!" she exclaimed, admiringly, and opened her gray eyes wide and pursed up her lips. A man in blue overalls looked out at her from be- hind the automobile; Mary knew it must be one of the queer American men, who came without any chauffeur. "Hullo!" said the man. "Oh! it's such a nice auto!" said Mary. "Do you think so?" said the man, quite pleased: "well, I do, too." "Can I watch you fix it? I like nice autos." "Sure," answered the man. "Want to fill some grease cups?" "Yes," said Mary-, delighted. She did not know what grease cups were, but the grease part sounded alluring. In a few minutes she was busily screwing and unscre^dng round, silver things, and smearing nice, thick, yellow grease into them as the American man showed her. Then she dropped the silver things, and they fell with a rattle into what the American man called the "pan," and he laughed and crawled underneath to pick them out, and got up with his 107 face all black (like Grimes, the chimney-sweep, in the book called ''Water-Babies"), which made Mary laugh. Wlien they were all through greasing the auto, the American Man told Mary to press some buttons, and suddenly a lot of electric lights went on, and a horn blew. Mary wriggled with delight and said, "Oh, la la! It's an electric auto 1" and snapped the buttons in and out. Mary felt quite friendly with the American Man after this, and when they were walking toward the house she asked him something that she had been thinking about ever since the night before. "Have you ever seen a buffalo or a bear in America? " "Lots of 'em," said the American Man, "great big grizzly bears as big as horses." "Oyes" said Mary; when she said this, it was not "Oh — yes"; she ran the two words together and spoke them with a little quaver — half ex- clamatory and half questioning, accenting the "O." (You see, I did not put any punctuation point after "Oyes," not even a comma, because I should have to invent a new kind to make it right. And no one but Mr. Roosevelt, or Mr. Kipling, or Professor Copeland would dare do that.) "/ know," said the American Man, "let's just you and I go out this afternoon, and I'll tell you all about the bears and buffaloes in America, and you can help me run the automobile, and perhaps we'll see a bear." "Go out in the big electric auto?" cried Mary. "That will be so nice!" "Only we won^t tell anyone about it," said the American Man, "because they would want to come, and that might scare all the bears away." At luncheon the American Man smiled at Mary, and Mary felt all expectant and thrilly down the back, and wondered if she could get to the garage without nurse's seeing her. She did not know that 1 08 the American Man had already consulted with Aunt Elise, and consequently she felt triumphantly wicked when she ran down the back stairs and out to the garage, while the stupid gro\sTi-ups were drinking coffee. You see, the American quarter of her was the most important, after all. The American Man was not there yet, so ]Mary put on all the electric Hghts and sat holding the big wheel and pretended she was racing through the air with the Arabian Nights' man on the magic carpet. She grew so excited at almost skidding into a tree-top that she never saw her friend till he ap- peared beside her and said: "Hi, there, miss, you're pretty quick. Now let's hurry up and start out to seek for Eva." Mary of course did not know w^ho Eva was (any m.ore than I do) but she was all ready to go, and laughed at him out of her gray eyes, round which the skin dimpled up into tiny wrinkles, just as though she did know. The American Man pressed a button and stamped on a pedal; there was a pumping noise like a giant, with a cold in his head, breathing, then a low whir, and a minute later they were out in the sunlight coasting do^^Tl the avenue from Montmery — ^lary in the American ]Man's lap, steering madly. WTien she grew tired she sat on the seat beside him, and he told her wonderful stories as they slid through cream and red villages, deserted except for a few chickens, and over long, poplar-bordered roads that stretched away in a straight line till they ran up a hill out of sight. The stories were all about bears and buffaloes and Indians, except that some of them were funny rhymed stories, such as ^lary had never heard before, all about an Owl and a Pussy Cat and some funny people called Jumblies who went to sea in a sieve, and a poor man nam^ed Pobble, who had his toes stolen. But the only animals they passed were big faun-colored Limousine cattle with long curling horns and herds of silly black-nosed 109 sheep, watched by old women knitting, and sleepy dogs ; they did not meet a single bear, although Mary looked carefully. At last they reached the top of a high hill and the American Man stopped the auto. ''We have n't met a single bear yet," said Mary. She had often been out automobiling and had never seen anything more extraordinary than today, but somehow it had all been different this time, and the American Man had said they might see a bear. ''That's so; I 'd forgotten all about them," said the American Man; "but perhaps they're all mopsikon-flopsikon bears around here, and you never can depend on them; you know, don't you, about "The Old Person of Ware, Who went out to ride on a bear, When they asked, ' Does it trot? ' He rephed, * Certainly not. It 's a Mopsikon-Flopsikon Bear.' Yes, I'm sure all the French bears are mopsikon- flopsikon ones, and it's no use to look for them." Mary was not quite satisfied with this explana- tion and did not understand a good many of the words. The American Man was pulling something out from the back seat. "Never mind, Mary," he cried, "I've got things a lot nicer than bears in here," and he pointed to a wicker basket. Mary's appetite was in the American quarter of her, and the steaming chocolate and egg sandwiches (just like the ones the grown-ups had for their tea when there were guests) made her forget all about the delinquent bears. (Of course, Mary did not think "delinquent," because she did not know that word; I just put it in because I was sure all American boys and girls would know.) They sat underneath a big tree while they ate the contents of the basket; below them was a stretch of miles and miles of grain fields, with roads cutting no across them from two little villages, lying tightly drawn in, like two red-backed spiders. Mary felt all loose in the joints and contented, and soon forgot the American Man as she nibbled thoughtfully on an egg sandwich (to make it last longer) and v/atched the windows of IVIontmery, away off on another hill, grow red in the afternoon sunHght. She wished the windows of the chateau would always stay that color. Then she heard the American Man singing: " It 's thirty years ! we must go home ! it's thirty years, or more, And everyone '11 say how tall we've grown, For we've been to the lakes of the Torrible Zone, And the Hills of the Chankley Bore." which was part of the poem about the Jumblies, only twisted round a httle, and Mary knew it was time to go. It was quite dark when they reached the avenue leading up to Montmery, and Mary snapped on all the electric lights. Just as they were turning into the gateway something ran out from the roadside and stood up in front of the auto. The American Man gave a kind of jerk all over, and the auto stopped up just a few feet away from a big brown animal. ''Oh, la la," cried Mary, clapping her hands; ''it's a bear." "Yes," said the American Man, repeating her, *'it's a bear, it's a bear, it's a bear; and, by Gosh, it isn't a mopsikon-flopsikon bear either; see it trot!" The bear had disappeared into the darkness, trail- ing a long piece of chain. "0-0-00," said Mary, sitting quite still. "He "was a nice bear; I'm sorry he ran away. He was just like the man called Hawk-Eye in the book." The American Man slowly started the auto. "Let's not tell anyone about the bear; they might not beUeve it, and it's more fun for just you and me to know about it." Ill ''Oyes" said Mary. So Mary did not tell her nurse or any of her cousins about her big adventure, and every time the American Man smiled at her, the next day at lunch- eon, she knew just what he w^as thinking about, and she smiled back at him so that all the little wrinkles came round her eyes. The American Man went away before Mary, and he had a chance to go on another bear hunt, but the next Christmas, when Mary was cooped up in the house with a cold that stopped up both noses, a big package arrived from America addressed to Mile. Mary de Luze. Inside Mary found a woolly brown bear, a meter high, with a piece of paper pinned on his back. The Grown-ups laughed when they read it and said they did not understand it; Mary did not understand it very well herself, but she knew^ it came from the American Man, for it said: "I'm a Mopsikon-Flopsikon Bear, A species exceedingly rare, Though I 'm gentle and kind, You'll please bear in mind, That I 'm simply unable to trot, I simply csinnot, I frankly canwoi, I utterly can't do a trot." LiTHGOw Osborne, '15. ADVICE TO POETS Although it's but a simple thing, This song I 'm going for to sing. Yet mind you there's a Moral! Descriptive of a Reader's woes, And feelingly addressed to those Who wear the local Laurel. For, you'll observe, there's scarce a Bard Within a mile of Harvard Yard Can truthfully deny 112 That all the themes on which he's -vvTit Are just precisely three, to wit: The Sea, the Stars, the Sky. Now I '11 admit that Skies, you know, Are pretty things, as such things go, And worth our admiration; While Stars lend quite a pretty touch To what, ^^thout them., has n't much Nocturnal animation. And lastly, as regards the Sea, Now, there's a thing appeals to me! I love it madly, wildly; But when you never find a page Sans "sun-kissed surge" or ''rock-ribbed rage" It's dull! — to put it mildly. Yes, all these three have been thy curse, O Cambridge School of English Verse, And all you 've had the scope for. If only you would write of Rats, Or Sealing Wax, or Jam, or Cats, Or anything that's nev/ — but that's Too much, alas, to hope for! H. Pow^L, '09. A FRESHMAN BEER-NIGHT Smiley, '09, nerv^ously looked at his watch: it was quarter of eight. He was invited to a Freshman beer-night at eight. Surely it was time to be start- mg. For the last time he brushed his black suit and straightened his flowered white tie. He had written to his famJly in a nonchalant way about this beer-night, but as he stepped out into the street, his throat was pulsing with excite- ment. 113 His invitation had said Plympton Street. When he turned the corner from Mount Auburn Street, he stopped in horror — he had forgotten the number. If he went back to his room it would make him late; even as he pondered, far down the street came a wailing song; as this coincided with his idea of a beer-night, there must be the place. With his heart in his mouth he mounted the steps and rang the bell. The house was old and rickety, and on the door was draped some black crepe — "to intimidate green Freshmen," he thought. A large red-eyed Irishwoman opened the door. "Upstairs front, sor." Smiley stumbled up the dirty stairway. A cracked oil lamp gave a dingy light. He knocked timidly upon the brown door that opened off the landing. " Come in, whoever yez are." Fifteen or twenty flush-faced Irishmen were sit- ting about the cheaply furnished room. On the pine center table were ten empty whisky bottles. His invitation had said "to meet some of your class- mates and a few upperclassmen." Perhaps these were the upperclassmen. " Er — my name is Smiley." A man with rather dirty shirt sleeves handed him a cracked tumbler full of rank whisky. "'Tis welcome yez are; sit down." For a time there was silence; then a man in the corner arose and remarked: "He was always a good lad. Let's give him another chant." A long yowling resulted. Smiley supposed it to be a new football song, and made a mental note of learning it. Next to him sat a rather young man, with a large nose and greasy black hair. Perhaps this was a classmate. Resolving to make a sporty impression, he asked, "Is the beer in the next room?" "It is that. He passed away in there." 114 Smiley nodded knowingly. It gave him a de- licious thrill to be at a party where someone had really *' passed away." For himself, however, he resolved never to drink too much. The man with the dirty shirt sleeves then spoke: *'I would loike to call upon Mr. Smiley for a few choice woids as might be appropriate fer th' occa- sion." Smiley got on his feet, trembling. He felt that the honor of the Freshman class depended upon his making a good sho'^ing. In his despair he remem- bered a poem. It had something to do with a man's passing away. Perhaps it would do. He cleared his throat, clenched his fists, and began : "Listen, my friends, and you shall hear Of an old time race for a glass of beer, On the Ides of April, in sixty-five — Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year. "Then Rome was a most disorderiy place, But one thing lessened the town's disgrace; At eleven they shut the town up fast, Not a drink, not a song, v/hen that hour was past. "Just at ten-forty-five on this famous date Bad Nero sat in the Senate-House gate, And gazed on the Hghts of the town below, Where the Senate's mandate forbade him go. They decreed his crime a burning shame And put him on Prob — or the Roman name. "He said to his friend, while the latter did shrink, 'I'll ride down to town for a good old drink. In case I 'm discovered, just hang out a light Up here, I can see your signal bright, — One if sober, and two if tight.' "But e'en as he spoke, they heard the bell Ring from its neck a solemn knell Telling it was a quarter of ten And Nero fiddling in his den. "5 "But he called for his steed and mounted to ride; Down the Via he clattered in racing stride. The king of the nation was riding that night, The ears of his horse kept him on in his flight. "It was one minute of, by the Forum clock, When he galloped up to the gilded cock Where the sports of these historic times Drank in booze and culture and rhymes. "'Ten drinks,' he gasped, of a Roman name — And the rest of his night is lost to fame. I must tell, to bring the verse to an end, How he thought of his words to his faithful friend — "'One if sober, and two if tight! ' As flash after flash crossed his aching sight, For Rome was in flames on that fatal night." Smiley sat down amid a stupefied silence. A fat individual mounted the table and said: "Frien's, the funeral is Saturday. Mr. Smoiley, yez irreverent divil, yez ain't invited." ^'What a funny upperclassman," thought Smiley. The air began to get oppressive. With a sigh, Smiley remembered that it was not polite to stay too long. He got up and shook hands all around. To each man he said, ^^Do look me up, 712 Perkins." As he reached the street, from across the way came a crash of broken glass, and "Here's to Johnny Har- vard, fill him up a full glass" reverberated in the air. With a little tinge of conscious pride, he thought of the decorum of his hosts. W. Goodwin, '07. SPRING The birds have begun to sing, The bees have begun to hum, The little sidewalk orchestra Plays tum, tum, tum. 116 The trees are in the bud, Spring at last has come! The little sidewalk orchestra Plays turn, turn, turn. The tramps are on the move — The tramps are stricken dumb To hear the sidewalk orchestra Play bum, bum, bum. James L. Pennypacker, '8o. THE BEAUTY IN THE SECOND ROW It is difficult to classify accurately all the trouble of college theatricals, but the main impediments, outside of the stars, may be grouped somew^hat as follows- First, the literary and musical, compris- ing the author who objects to the cutting of his favorite lines and total wreck of his plot, the poet who thinks the composer should fit the m.usic to his "words, and the composer who insists that Gilbert and Sullivan always worked the other w^ay. Second, the professional, including the costumer, who de- livers strange things, the imbecile who comes with them at the beginning of the first act, the drowsy sceneshifter and the calcium-light man, who gets -very drunk. This second class, however, used to be tempered vdih Charley Garey, Charley o' the Wigs, w^ho, having ^'made up" the performers for thirty odd years, was the mainstay and comfort of every first night, always cheerful and hopeful. I trust he still continues his ministrations. The third class is the fool chorus. I do not mean all the chorus; they are all more or less bad, of course, but there is always one group that is worse than the others, and therrfore par excellence the fool chorus. It is generally the girls' chorus, and was undoubt- edly the girls' chorus in the matter here to be re- 117 corded. This particular collection were Greek maidens in the first act and Trojan in the others, and a riotous, unruly, conceited lot tliroughout. They made trouble from the beginning, and would have broken up the play had not the stage manager been a man of exceptional determination. The stage manager was a Norseman, or of Norse parent- age, and was therefore called the Swede; because it always pleases the Norwegian so much to be called a Swede. After the first week of rehearsals, he was called the Angry Swede. The girls' chorus paid at- tention to everything except their own ''job." They criticized everytliing and everybody, and reduced Ernest Gray, the librettist, almost to tears. "Who wrote those words, anyway?'^ was the comment whenever a new song was given them to learn. Then they would advise Gray not to answer, as an answer might tend to incriminate and degrade him. "Just listen to these observations — 'We are merry little maidens and blithely dance and sing.' Is n't that original?" "And how is a merry little maiden like Jack Rat- tleton going to blithely dance -with legs five feet long?" "And feet that don't track." "Never mind, Gray," said Stoughton on one oc- casion, "it makes no difference what the words are. No one in the audience can distinguish them." Gray had spent hours over the words of that par- ticular song. "They could if you braying asses woidd sing them properly," retorted Gray. "No they can't," corroborated another. "I'm going to sing my notes in Phil. 2. They go beau- tifully to that air 'Observe there is no panacea, but the problem is not without hope.' It's a very good way to learn them." "Last year Jack Rat chanted some sound doc- trine about Yale," said Randolph. "A girl in the 118 front row heard him, and he took her in to dinner the next evening. She had a brother at Yale, too." "She did n't hear anything of the kind," drawled Rattleton. "You told her to say she heard me." "She couldn't have helped hearing you. You always finished alone, a lap behind the bunch." "Stop your noise there and go over that opening chorus again," the Angry Swede would break in. At rehearsals they were bad enough, but during the performances they became insufferable. Always late, always obstreperous, always bungling some part of the play. Once, at the opening of an act, they were in a line across the front of the stage and stood too close to the curtain. The roller, in rising, caught their dresses. Burleigh was operating the curtain, and had his back to the stage; at least so he claimed afterwards. He was throwTi to the floor, in the nick of time, by the Angry Swede and two other men, while the audience shouted for an encore. But the worst trouble occurred at the first per- formance in New York. In those days we used to hold forth at the Berkely Lyceum. Underneath the stage was a gymnasium which serv^ed as a green- room. Situate, lying and being in this gymnasium was a swimming tank; and hence this tale. The Swede might have knowTi enough to have had this tank covered; but the Swede was a busy, busy man that night and could not think of everything. Of course, the gymnasium was put into use for a " winter meeting" by the assembled troupe while waiting for the performance to begin. A number of events were successfully held, including sparring bouts between Greeks and Trojans. Then Satan brought to the idle hands a rope, and therewith inspired that girls' chorus to challenge the well greaved Greeks to a tug-of-war. "Just for proverbial verisimilitude," suggested Randolph. 119 The straining bands swayed back and forth until the ladies happened to come directly in line with the tank, with their backs toward it, and close to the verge. Then the treacherous Achaeans, with a glad shout, let go. It was not as bad as it might have been. The head men on the rope fell down in time to save all those in the rear — except the man on the extreme end. That was Dick Stoughton, and he went in fully, fairly and without reserve. His companions expressed their satisfaction. Stoughton seldom oc- cupied a prominent position of this sort, though often the cause of it in others. Indeed his astute- ness of mind, combined wdth a dark complexion, had won for him the sobriquet of Machiavelli the Dago. Therefore the diversion, in this instance, was especially pleasing. Then came the question, "Who is going to break this to the Angry Swede?" But ill news travels by itself like the wind. The Angry Swede was busy upstairs trying to rouse the calcium-light man from a drunken stupor. To him thus occupied came a rumor, "The Trojan maidens are in the tank." The Swede at first paid no heed to the rumor fur- ther than to express an earnest, even a devout, wish that the Trojan maidens were all in the tank and would stay there — it was the best place for them. But the rumor came again with more particularity, "The Dago's a drowned man." Then he gave the calcium-light man a last kick and went leaping downstairs. There was Dick up to his arm pits, his floating draperies puffed up around his shoulders by the air beneath like a blooming water lily, as Burleigh as- sured him. His friends were all gathered around the sides of the tank with calisthenic bars and In- dian clubs — not to draw him to the bank, but rather to keep him in midstream. The Angry Swede inquired with a good deal of 1 20 fervor what under Heaven (a long way under) Mr. Stoughton was doing in the tank. Dick, floundering and sputtering, repHed to the effect that he was playing croquet; and added an opinion of the Angry Swede, in four words, perfect in clearness and force. Then the stage manager opened on him and on the girls' chorus in general. *'0h, Mamie, ain't he awful," cried one of them. "The idea of talking that way to a lady. Let's go home." The mob drew back, however, and allowed Dick to clamber out. ''Wring yourself out," commanded the Swede. ''You have twenty minutes to drain before you go on." "Before I go on! You darn fool, do you suppose I'm going on like this?" "You bet you are. Do you think I am going to have the whole stage grouping upset and made un- even just because you're a Httle damp? You can dry out so it won't show much." "The devil it won't! These skirts are all cling- ing round my legs, and the paint will run all over my face." "Oh, you are a beastly sight!" assented the chorus. "I'll tell you what to do!" exclaimed Burleigh. "It must have rained sometimes in Troy, and they didn't have umbrellas. Play there has been a shower. It'll be a startling and reahstic innovation. Put 'em all in the tank." Burleigh's part in this play was to pull up the cur- tain. He generally managed to get positions of that sort and was always helpful. His proposition did not meet with general favor, however; in fact, Stoughton was the only one who gave it hearty support. "Go sit on the radiator and let Charley Garey repaint your ugly mug," directed the Swede. 121 "But I am end man," protested Stoughton. "Next to the audience. You don't want me to keep that job too, do you?" "No; you can move back to the middle of the line, where you won't show much. Everybody else can move up one. Only remember, all of you, if you have sufficient intelligence, that your positions are changed so that you pair off with different men. Now, all the men's chorus on the stage," called the Swede, and returned upstairs. "Aha, this puts me on the end," chuckled Jack Randolph, whose position in the chorus had been next to Dick. "That will be a great improvement over the low, ignorant Eyetalian." "By Jove, Jack Randolph!" exclaimed the gen- tleman referred to, as he stood with his back against the steam radiator, "I believe this is all your work! Now I think of it, you proposed the tug-of-war, and you let go the rope just when those d — Greeks did. I believe you told them to! You low, sneaking traitor! And you did it just to do me out of my end place, and get the job yourself, so that you could flirt with all the girls in the house. By thunder!" And Stoughton's breath forsook him for indignation. " I fling the base accusation from me. Your words in your teeth, sir!" replied Randolph. "Upon my word, Dick, I did n't know you were next to the tank. I had no idea who was going to be elected." "Then you do admit treachery to your fellow- maidens, anyway!" cried one of them. "And he's the very worst man for the end that could possibly be picked out," added another. "Always looking at every girl in the house, instead of listening for his cues. He'll mix up everything." And thereunto they all agreed. Stoughton's revenge came speedily. He had dried out to some extent, but not enough to avoid leaving small puddles here and there on the stage, wherever he stood for any length of time. One of 122 these wet tracks was near the footlights, and Ran- dolph, in trying to execute a pirouette, slipped in it. It was generally alleged that at the time he was looking toward the fourth seat in the second row, instead of attending to his business. This he denied; but, at any rate, his heels went up and he went down — down over the footlights and into the orchestra, where he landed vdih a burst of sound in the kettle- drum. He was in a doubled-up posture and was ex- tracted with some difficulty. ''Don't mention it, old man," he said to Stough- ton, when recei\Tng congratulations between the acts. "Your name was on the programme, you know, in this position — No. i of the girls' chorus. You will get all the credit, but I don't grudge you a bit of it, my dear boy, not a bit." "Gosh!" exclaimed Dick in paling accents, as the situation dawTied on him. "I never thought of that! Foul scandal may grow out of this. It may even get to the Dean. Wliat the blazes will he think?" "Presumably that you were under the influence of liquor. That's all. That's all anybody would think. No one would be justified in supposing any- thing more than that, old man, I am sure." "Good Lord!" groaned Dick. "Wasn't it dreadful about that Mr. Stoughton. They say he is such a nice young fellow, too, other- wise," went on Randolph. "Look here. Jack, this thing is getting serious. This is no joke. Of course, you'll explain to the Powers that Be that it was you, won't you?" "The deuce I will," replied Randolph. "I don't see why I should go up to the lion's den and volun- teer explanations before they are asked. That would look fishy. Wait until you get a summons, and then I'll thmkit over." "It may not be a summons. They may just chalk it up to my score and no questions asked." 123 "Very likely/' assented Randolph. And Machiavelli retired to the radiator to evapo- rate and reflect. That was at the end of the first act. Between the second and third Stoughton was still expostulating with Randolph, when Burleigh came up with a piece of paper carefully folded and addressed to Mr. Stoughton. It was a note penciled on the back of a programme and ran as follows: My dear Mr. Stoughton, Will you not give us the pleasure of your company at a small supper that I am giving this evening after the performance? I fear you will think me very bold to send you this invitation when I have never met you, and indeed have never seen you before; but you know we southern girls are allowed preroga- tives. I have even deceived my chaperon and let her think that I know you very well, so you must carry out the deception if you come. I have asked Mr. Holworthy and Mr. Hudson also, although I don't know either of them, and I do hope you will all come. You will find us at Delmonico's, in one of the small rooms upstairs. Ask for Mrs. Douglas, my chaperon. Sincerely yours, Ella Pinkham. P. S. Please forgive me for laughing when you fell into the drum. When Dick had finished reading he gave a long whistle of satisfaction and his face lighted up. ''This comes straight from Heaven," he remarked. *'Come over in the corner, you Johnny Reb, and I '11 show you a zephyr from the sunny, sunny south. It 's a fair wind, too, that blows a great deal of good. You have n't entirely ruined my reputation." ''By Jove!" exclaimed Randolph, admiringly, when he had read the epistle. "She is a crack- 124 ajack, whoever she is. ^lust be the one in the second row. I felt sure she was southern. (He was himself a \'irginian.) Of course this is intended for me/' he added. ''Oh, it is, is it?" replied Dick. "How long has your name been Stoughton?" "Why, don't you see, Dick, she took the name from the programme. The postscript makes it per- fectly clear who is m-eant." "Different from the Dean, isn't it?" observed Dick. "I suppose you think you were picked out for your looks, just because she included Steve Hudson and the handsome Holworthy, the lead- ing star. Let me tell you that a name coimts for a great deal, too. She probably included me in the beauty show on account of my distinguished family." "Stuff! You woolly westerner, she would a great deal rather meet a man named Randolph. !Man alive, you can't accept an in\dtation that is n't meant for you. WTiat do you want it for, any^-ay? You never go near a girl." "WTio said anything about accepting it? I am going to regret that I have an engagement." "Well, that is the most dog-in-the-manger thing I ever heard of I" "See here, young fellow," said Dick, after fur- ther argument, "if I give you this bid and allow you to m^asquerade under my honored name, you know what you will have to do?" "I suppose you want me to explain things to the Dean. All right. I intended to do that anway." "Sudden reformation. You will first comince him thoroughly as to the mistaken identity. After that you can make such further explanations to him on the liquor question as may commend themselves to you; I leave that part entirely to you. Xow, do you know my Aunt Jane Prudens who lives in Dor- chester? No? Well, I will take you out there to 125 lunch some Sunday. You will make it all perfectly clear to her." Randolph demurred somewhat at Aunt Jane, but finally agreed. ''Then there is Cousin John, pastor of the Third Baptist Church of Chestnut Hill." '' You 're lying. There is no Third Baptist Church in Chestnut Hill." "Then it's the Second Methodist; that's quite immaterial," pursued Dick. "■ D — it, I did n't know you had so many rela- tions in Boston," complained Jack, after Dick had named half a dozen others; but he accepted the terms in full, the more readily as he entertained doubts as to the genuineness of the Dago's alleged family. "Now I will do you a further favor," said Dick. **A piece of good advice. Keep out of this thing. Don't go." "Why not?" "You'll get into some kind of an awkward posi- tion. It does n't strike me as quite comme il fauL In fact, it strikes me as very improper." "Rot!" was the argument in reply. "Who gave you that idea? Aunt Jane or Cousin John? That girl is splendid." "Who are the Pinkhams anjrway?" queried Stoughton. "First families of Virginia?" "I can't quite place them, but I know I have heard the name before." "It's an idiotic name — Ella Pinkham." "It's nothing of the kind. It's a charming name." "And it's a very unladylike handwriting. Al- most illiterate." "Stop your rude tongue; you don't know a lady's chirography when you see it. It's full of character." And Randolph went off to find Holworthy and Hudson. 126 They had received similar notes. Holworthy re- gretted that he had another engagement and could not accept, and was thereupon accused by Jack of falsehood, insincerity and putting on airs. But Hudson was enthusiastic. They all three wrote their replies on scraps of paper and gave them to Burleigh to deliver at the proscenium door to the usher who had brought the notes. Hudson, peering out through the only hole in the curtain, reported that the notes had been delivered to the beauty in the second row. Then the Angry Swede drove them all back to the greenroom, and called the men's chorus for the third act. After the performance, Hudson, not having worn his evening clothes to the theater, said he would go home to dress and would meet Randolph at the supper. Randolph hurried around to the hotel to do the same thing, refusing a pressing in\dtation to supper from Rattleton and Burleigh, while the Dago Stoughton made sarcastic comments. When he had finally removed the paint from his face, and arrayed himself to his satisfaction, he hastened to Delmonico's in full apparel, and at the door inquired for Airs. Douglas's room. He was at once ushered upstairs. The door of a room was thro\\Ti open. He, entered, and found sitting in a row with their chairs tipped back against the wall and an eager expression of appetite in their faces — the Gang. "That girl is splendid," obser\^ed Burleigh, with his eyes on the ceiling. ''You might know she was a southerner." "I did n't go home to dress, Jack, for fear of being late," explained Hudson. "I changed my mind and thought I would come after all," added Holworthy. "It's a charming name — Ella Pinkham. One of the first families of the south," put in Gray. 127 **Is she any relation of the lady who is noted for health or something or other?" drawled Rattleton, *^ Pretty handwriting, too. Lots of character,'' said Gray. ''I warned him he might get in an awkward posi- tion," said the Dago. "Never monkey with Machiavelli," said Bur- leigh. And Randolph paid for the supper. W. K. Post, '90. HOW THE PROFESSOR MADE BOTH ENDS MEET One cannot tell just why or wherefore Things happen on this world we're in, Why this you like and that don't care for, WTiy this is thus and that not — therefore This ballad has its origin. For in this classical location There lived a Prof most erudite Who, though harsh Greek was his vocation, Was troubled by the strange temptation — An inward, odd, infatuation — To leave his Cambridge habitation And be a missionary light. He took his leave next day and started Off on his trip through Southern Seas; He left his home, sad, broken-hearted, With no farewells or cheers departed And few of the formalities. He left a note of explanation, His will, his fur-lined coat and soap (The last without premeditation, 'T was mislaid on the way to station.) 128 And after months of na\'igation He landed full of expectation Upon the Friendly Isles of hope. He started well as a beginner, But learned w^ithin a single week A cannibal was every sinner, And hinted reference to dinner Made him both full of tact and meek. He labored then without cessation To break them of this heinous habit, And added to ''Talks on Salvation" *'\\Tiat One Should Eat," as peroration. He hated the anticipation Of entering some preparation Like Soup, Club Sandwich or Welsh Rabbit. Alas, 't is best the sooner stated — This tale's a tearful tragedy; The poor Professor's end was fated, WTiich end was not enumerated, He perished in totality. They serv-ed the man of erudition In some Sea Island dish of note. They did not pause for his permission, But baked and boiled him with precision; And in this modified condition He occupied the chief position That day upon the Table d'Hote. But stealthily revenge came stealing. Harsh Greek had left its bitter sting. Soon o'er the diners crept a feeling. And indigestion sent them squealing With groans of anguish deafening. They curled up in excruciation For Soda Mints were unknown then — 129 They cursed in vile vituperation The author of their inflammation, But in this very defamation He gained his worthy aspiration — They vowed they W ne ^er eat man again. E. L. McKlNNEY, 'l2. THE EX-PRESIDENT OF THE RUSSIAN REPUBLIC I don't know what impulse it was that made me seek out Mme. Guyot's cafe. I had been sitting all day in the studio of my friend, Jarniere, watch- ing him paint his dynamic expression of Venus, and I think it must have been the impossibility of her left foot that sent me out into the cool night air of the Boulevard Mont Parnasse. Mme. Guyot's cafe is the smallest and most squalid of all the many cafes that are sprinkled about that celebrated quarter of Paris. But Mm.e. Guyot herself is an angel — or was in the days of Puvis de Chavannes, when she had posed for St. Catarine. The cafe was deserted sav>e for one person, who sat under the flickering gaslight on the sidewalk reading a journal. As I passed, the reader heaved a profound sigh and puffed out a great cloud of smoke. She was a curious figure — huge, thick, with large hands which gripped with a singular tenacity the smudgy sheets of the issue of L'An- archiste for August i, 1930. Her clothes were the filthiest rags and hung about her like tattered draperies; over her head and veiling absolutely her face was a dirty mantilla of some very ancient period. ''Bon soir," I said, sitting down at the next table. Mme. Guyot's was so small that one spoke to one's neighbors as a matter of course. 130 The face was raised from the pages of VAn- archiste and I felt a pair of searching eyes scruti- nizing me from top to toe. I feared the lady dumb, as she made no reply, and was about to pick up my journal when with a greater puff of smoke than be- fore she answered — ''B' soir!" Her voice was a deep masculine rumble! I started in my seat in surprise. This colossus was no woman. "You sighed!" I said, hoping to draw the reader of UAnarchiste into an interesting conversation. Again I was looked over with the same thor- oughness. When satisfied as to my character, my neighbor suddenly thrust the paper in front of my eyes. "Voyez done!" he muttered in a suppressed voice. "Do you see what they're doing now? Ah!" and he took a long pull at his pipe. I read the flaring headlines — " Russian Empire Reestablished. Another Chance for Us, Brothers." "Ah!" I replied, "I had not heard definitely. The Republic then was a failure?" My companion looked carefully about him. Then he flung back his mantilla, satisfied that we were alone. I looked into a great dark face, lined with wrinkles — a powerful face and that of a man long past middle age. His hair was still black, how- ever, and shrouded his head like the shaggy coat of a Newfoundland. "Do you know me?*' he asked, leaning forward. "You're surely not Didon, the man who threw the bomb at Edward VHI?" I questioned, draw- ing back in repulsion. The great figure uttered almost a sob. "M'sieu, you look into the features of Kovkovcko, late Presi- dent of the Russian Repubhc!" "You?" I said doubtfully. I was racking my brains to remember the name. It seemed entirely new to me. " Will you — tell me? " 131 The ex-President of the Russian Republic moved over to my table. The chair creaked under his weight. At my command Mme. Guyot brought another vermouth and soda and left us to go and snore away the evening in her parlor. ''It's a simple story," began the ex-President, alternately sipping his vermouth and puffing at his great black pipe. "It was the last year of the great European War which broke out against Germany in 19 14. I was then First Chamberlain to the Tsar, his most trusted friend and confidential secretary. I exerted some strange fascination over the Emperor. He would not smoke a cigar or taste a dish or drink a glass of vodka without first having me try them. How he loved me, my liege! ''Eh bien, the war, as you have read, was unpopu- lar everywhere. Especially the Russian people hated it because it made still more miserable their miserable lot. The people murmured all the fall; in the winter the murmur had become a roar; by February the insurrection in St. Petersburg began in earnest. " On the twelfth of the month the Tsar entered the city by aeroplane to celebrate his birthday. All the next day a crowd gathered in the great square, the front of the Winter Palace. The soldiers were powerless against them, and soon their numbers, which increased hourly by the thousands, were press- ing against the barriers of the palace gate. The entire Square, colossal as it is, was jammed with a black mass that seemed almost coagulate. "I can hear their roarings now. They are not great singers, the Russian people, but not less than five times I distinctly heard the Marseillaise sung in G flat with a hatred that rendered the Square side of the Winter Palace very unpleasant. "The Tsar was frankly nervous. He changed from one uniform to another and took off and put on his decorations and orders with the most mar- 132 velous dexterity and perseverance. His valets by noon were completely exhausted. I was kept busy the entire day taking the first puff from each of his cigarettes. He smoked incessantly. "By five o'clock the terrible din outside began to wear on me. I took the Odessa Police Gazette to the river side of the palace and there lay down to read, the subdued cries of 'Glatschiscka' forming a pleasant accompaniment to my story." "Pardon," I interrupted, "but what does lat — er — glater — what does that word mean? " "Glatschiscka?" queried my companion. "Blood!" I shuddered. The ex-President of the Russian Republic continued after a long pull at his ver- mouth. "At a quarter of sLx a frightful crash resounded through the palace, but as I thought it was only the Tsarevitch taking pot shots at the chandeliers in the Throne Room, I continued reading. "Two minutes later, however, the door to my room was thrown desperately open. The Tsar stood in the doorway. He was dressed as an ad- miral of the Norwegian na\n^, covered from head to foot vdth. decorations and medals. This was the forty-eighth uniform that he had put on that day. "'Sire!' I cried, laying aside the Odessa Gaz- ette in some annoyance and standing erect before him. "'Kovkovcko,' he replied, his teeth chattering so that my name sounded Hke a runaway horse on the concrete pavement of the Nevsky Prospekt; 'Kovkovcko, they've c-c-c-come!' "I was thinking of the American caviare that I had ordered the day before. 'Has the Lord Chef ski put them in the icebox?' I asked. "'Kovkovcko,' chattered His Imperial Majesty, 'it's not the c-c-caviare, it's the people!' "'Oh!' I replied blankly. 133 "I wondered what we ought to do. "We listened, but the Tsar's knees knocked to- gether so loudly that all other sounds were inaudible. "'Your Majesty/ I said with the greatest polite- ness, 'be seated/ *'The Tsar complied, but total quiet was not re- stored until at my solicitatk)n he slipped a sofa, pillow between his teeth. "We could hear the people below us, above us, all around us. They were hacking, hewing, shouting, screaming, laughing, tearing, thumping, scratching — it sounded like a chorus from 'Elektra.'" Here the ex-President of the Russian Republic laughed a ventral laugh. He referred, I suppose, to the long-forgotten opera of Strauss. "I saw that som.ething had to be done quickly. So I seized the Tsar in my arms, and, strong though I was, I staggered under the weight of his decora- tions, for he was wearing considerably over eighty pounds of medals. His crown alone, which he carried in his hand, weighed thirty- two pounds. "My only idea was to hide him somewhere in safety. I carried him out of my study on the river side and hurried to the Tsarina^s apartments. Something dark and motionless lay huddled in the middle of the room. The Tsar gave a fearful cry and dropped his crown on the floor. It went bumping down the stairway at our feet and stopped finally against Her Majesty's rubbers after shedding over forty million rubles' worth of jewels on the trip down, "I certainly could not hide the Tsar there. "I staggered with him into the Coronation Hall, now a scene of frightful carnage, for they had been there before us. The colossal room lay in ruins. Part of the throne hung from the great chandelier. The Tsarevitch's sword and hi? right shoe gave circumstantial evidence of his sad fate. "The Tsar picked them up and burst into fresh sobs. I hastily carried him into the Picture Room, 134 where were the portraits of every Romanoff ruler. Each picture had been systematically ruined, for someone with devilish ingenuity and a blunt pen- knife had decapitated the rulers of Russia for the last two hundred years. Forty-eight Grand Dukes lay piled one on top of another in the center of the hall. "I hurried desperately from one room to another. Everywhere, everywhere the same story! Not a place to hide the Tsar in! Carnage, blood and destruction surrounded us on all sides. I felt a little faint: the Tsar was inert. "Then I conceived a brilliant idea. 'I have it, Sire! We'll hold a Referendum.' "His Majesty looked vague. "'A public appeal. We'll go out on the balcony and refer you to the people!' "'But supposing I get vetoed!' chattered the Tsar piteously. "'This is not time for guesswork,' I cried, and dragged him to the great balcony overlooking the Square, where Peter the Great had received the plaudits of his nation after Pultowa. "I went out on the balcony first, dragging the prostrate form of the Tsar after me. "'Good people of Russia,' I shouted, silencing them with a gesture. 'Regardez, mes Enfants! Le Petit Pere!' "And with this I raised up the crumpled form of the Tsar and propped it against the balcony's railing. "A thunderous, snarling roar arose, sliivering the chill winter air. It beat against the skies, it rever- berated in the mines of Siberia, it reached through the stricken halls of the palace and burst on my ears like a great whitecap breaking on a desert shore. "There was a simultaneous movement among the crowd. "I stepped a little to one side and the Tsar raised 135 his hand feebly to adjust the crown that was no longer there. ''Then came the crash. ''One hundred and twenty thousand men stood in the Square of the Winter Palace that February night; one hundred and twenty thousand men at exactly the same moment leveled one hundred and twenty thousand revolvers at the Tsar and fired one hundred and twenty thousand shots, winged on their fatal way by the hatred of years of oppression and poverty!" The ex-President of the Russian Republic leaned forward and almost hissed in my ear — "And everyone of those shots took effect." "Nom de Dieu," I gasped, "every one?" "Everyone!" returned the grim figure. "When I turned the Tsar was no longer by my side; the balcony was quite empty. Look!" Here he fum- bled in his skirt pocket. "I picked this up on the balcony floor." And he showed me a tarnished medal with a tattered ribbon attached. "That," he added significantly, "that is my master, the Tsar of Russia." He laid the Tsar's remains on the dirty table and I stared at them. " Imperial Caesar, dead and turned to clay, might stop a hole to keep the wind away!" I murmured. My friend the ex-President smiled grimly as he restored his master's remains to his pocket. "And then — ?" I suggested. "And then," he continued proudly, "then I was the man of the hour. I was acclaimed on all sides. One said that I had brought the Tsar from his hiding to justice. I was made a popular idol, and when it came election time I was chosen President by a vast majority. The little father," he said intro- spectively, "never knew he was going to do me such a service. He was a good master, though — I haven't touched a cigarette since that day!" My 136 companion patted almost reverently the pocket in which the tarnished medal lay. "And your presidency," I asked, "was that glorious?" The man beside me laughed bitterly. "Glorious?" he repeated. "Glorious! Who can say? It was too brief." He paused. I kept silent, wondering. At length he said in gentle voice, "I was Presi- dent of Russia for just two days. They declared that in that time I had falsified the accounts of the nation to the extent of fourteen million rubles." "Fourteen million rubles in two days!" I cried aghast. "That's the most atrocious implication that I have ever heard." The ex-President of the Russian Republic looked at me curiously. "Implication!" he cried, "Bah! the pigs! I spit on them. To think that I, Dmitri Kovkovcko, who for thirty years had falsified the imperial accounts of the greatest empire m the world should have been discovered by some miserable pigs of RepubUcans — and only fourteen million rubles at that!" The great body of the ex-President of the Russian Republic shook with genuine sobs. He laid his head down on the second table from the right in Mme. Guyot's cafe and sobbed like a child. One by one the city clocks struck the hour of eleven. Putting a five-franc piece by the great clenched fist of my friend the ex-President, I stole silently away. Robert Cutler, 'i6. THE DREAMER OF THE MOUNTAINS Above towered the gaunt, snow-capped mountain; below lay the emerald-tinted lake — deep, mys- terious and ice-cold; everywhere was the sepulchral silence of the solitude. 137 **Yes," repeated the old man, '"t's about forty years now that I've been out here prospecting." "Any partner?" I inquired. "No," he replied, "I figure that all a partner is good for is to take half the profits. I've had all the work, and I'm going to have all the reward." On we climbed up the almost indiscernible trail, our sure-footed cayuses stepping over fallen tree trunks, feeling their way through treacherous roll- ing stones, and treading gingerly along narrow ledges. "Where do you call your home?" I asked. "England," he answered, "most everybody here in British Columbia comes from England. You see, my father was a squire, but like many others he had very little except his land. I was his youngest son, and — well, there seemed to be a good deal more chance over here than there was at home. I was so infernally certain that I was going to make my fortune, that I married just before I sailed and brought my wife with me. This country is a bit rougher than we expected, and Gertrude was n't very strong, and — and she could n't stand it for more than two years." In the pause he pulled out his pipe and I passed him my tobacco. Then he continued: "Since then, I've been prospecting through these mountains, and I've found something — yes, I've found something — this claim I'm going to show you is worth a hundred million dollars, anyway; I can show you that much that I've already un- covered. Underneath there must be billions and billions. This is one shaft here, right above us; I'll prove that I'm telling the truth." We dismounted and clambered up to a shallow cave. "Here," said the old man, knocking off a piece of the rust-colored rock with his hammer, "take this and see if it is n't just as rich as I say." "I'll be glad to have it analyzed," I agreed. "Have you ever had it tested before?" 138 "No," lie admitted, ''haven't, but I gness I've seen enough ore to know when it is rich." " But how will you carry it out of here? It must be fifty miles to the railroad." ''The Kootenay River is only thirty-five miles, and I thought that maybe you could build a railway line up here. It's not more than a two-thousand- foot rise." '"WTiewM" I ejaculated, " you M need your hun- dred million ail right." "Well/' he suggested, ^'you might take it out "with pack horses." ''But the time, think of the time! It would take about ten years to get out enough to pay for yonr liorses. I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I can't buy. Still, if I see anybody whom I think would be in- terested, I'U tdl them about it," " Good-bye," called the old man as I started down the mountain again, leaAdng him standing in front of his log cabin, '"'remember tha.t there's a hun- dred million dollars right in sight." "I'll remember," I mused, " that a man may have a hundred xnillion dollars and yet be penniless." The sun sank beliind a rugged peak; far away a coyote howled; over ever^lhing settled the im- penetrable, relentless spirit of the mountains. T. TiLESTON Baldwin, js., '12. THE PICKLE OF THE PAST A PICKLE-LIME 's a little thing. And seldom used in lofty rhyme; Though poets very often sing Of grapes that rare enchantments bring, Of olive trees in shady ring. Of ruddy apples mieliowing — They never know w^hat thoughts can ding About the humble pickle-Hme. i39 Yet I remember, with a sigh, That happy, but far-distant time, When she and I one day did buy Four golden pickle-limes, to try And suck them absolutely dry. Upon her cheek some juice did lie, So. with my lips, politely I Removed those drops of pickle-lime. The apple red and fair may be, The laden vines that cling and climb Are useful, we must all agree, And I respect the olive tree; But none can bring such thoughts to me As surge from far antiquity Whenever I may chance to see A humble penny pickle-lime. H. A. Bellows, 'o6. CASTLES IN THE AIR To-day I wandered forth across the down, At peace with Hfe I laid me in the grass; I marked the towering clouds high-heaped pass And mused an ancient tale of old renown: How on the backs of clouds that earthward frown Are proudly borne in lofty-builded mass Huge citadels and lords in brave cuirass And ladies fair of form and rich of gown. At length I homeward trudged, but dreaming yet, Me thought I lay upon a filmy cloud And listed to a tinkling rivulet. And gazed upon a cloud-borne maiden proud — But then a mortal maid I chanced to see That teased me from such foolish company. ScoriELD Thayer, '13. 140 ON THE DECORATION OF COLLEGE ROOMS Quid leges sine morihus vance proficiunt ? — Horace, Odes, HI, 24. I HAVE at hand a letter originally intended as a communication to the Crimson, I judge, basing this decision on its general style and structure. For the sake of the printer and readers, as well as the author, I shall not quote it entire. The general purport, however, is that the correspondent de- sires me to preach in reference to the furnishing of college rooms. He inquires as to the present fashion, as to the passing of the poster and as to the present rank of Charles Dana Gibson as an interior decora- tor. My readers mil not, I hope, seek to refute the statements which follow by referring to the rooms of their friends at present. It is not the style of decoration just now in use, but the general tendency, that should be considered by all conservative Fresh- men. Thus fortified, I pronounce my dicta. The gen- eral tendency is toward "mission" morris chairs, French clocks, rope fire-escapes, old brass, the Crimson (draped over wire hooks) and ''Portland Street prints." Incongruous, you say? Of course. Each article is appropriate in its place, but the com- bination is, to say the least, grotesque. Yet the possessors of these treasures deem themselves con- servative! Deducing from such obvious details, we may expect to see, after a year or two, kerosene lamps, spider-legged escritoires, WTiistler prmts, tea sets and the Monthly universally used. There may even be a return to the pretty pink sea shells of grandmother's time! As to the poster fad, of recent years, I may cite a case in point. Perhaps it will clear up other ques- tions by the way. I know a man who, w^hen he en- 141 tered Harvard last year, was neither a yard-room holder nor a bondholder, so he rented temporarily an cight-by-twenty hall bedroom, about a mile from IMemorial Hall. "Go to," said he. *^This is my college room, and collegiate it shall be," and he furnished it accord- ingly. Some very nice weathered oak, some flam- ing theater posters, a school flag and some antago- nistic pillows looked well, but incomplete. He cast about him to find the finishing touch. He found it one evening, in the gutter. It was a placard read- ing thus: LOOK OUT, paint! ''A novelty, in sooth," quoth the Freshman, as he tacked it on his chiffonier. Then, taking his new banjo (an article of furniture no longer necessary to the '^ college man"), he sat in his new morris chair and tried to play "Up the Street" in a new key, all the while admiring his effect. "Breezy as — as March hair!" he cried, being an observant fusser, and something of a punster. "How 'twill startle the landlady! How 'twill de- light my college friends when they call!" But, alas! Only two guests ever traveled that weary mile, and on each of those occasions he hesitatingly concealed his placard! He w^as not quite sure of the custom, you see. Some months later, he moved into a dormitory room with another "poster fiend," and by consoli- dating property the two contrived to set off their crimson wall paper very effectively. Friends ex- claimed (principally, it must be confessed, at the profusion of posters). Popular music on the piano and some steins completed their display. Custom now had them fast in its hold. This year the hold was scuttled. Behold their room today. Dark paper, oriental portieres, Bee- 142 thoven sonatas, plaster casts, chocolate cups pre- dominate, and the friends that marveled formerly now say, "How much better it looks! I always did hate posters. It's so literary, too!" There is the keynote. Literary! Shifting custom decrees today that even the athlete and the grind must seek to be "literary." Witness the falling off in attendance at Gore Hall, and the increase at the Union library. That custom, I think, accounts for the present decoration of college rooms. As to the popularity of Mr. Gibson, I refer the correspondent to Life and Collier^ s. The editors of those papers may consent to extol the merits of the work of that student of straight-fronts, drunken faces and advertising schemes. The publishers' announcements, however, say that no "den is com- plete without one of Gibson's drawings." One is enough, this implies. Yet here I inquire whether a college room is to be called a den. Recent letters concerning subscription collectors prompt the in- ference that the graduates, at least, think our rooms dens — of thieves. Summing up this fragmentary article, I may reply to the question, "What makes the custom of which you prate?" Our reputation outside makes our custom here. I know of two witty Juniors who told their class-day guests that they stayed up all the previous night decorating and altering in order to meet the ladies' requirements for a college room. There is more truth in that than in most class-day small talk. For as the fair damsel thinketh in her heart we are, so must we be. Today I know full well, Tomorrow — who can tell? R. J. Walsh, '07. 143 DOLLARS The lobby of the great hotel was deserted, save for a group of four men in one corner. Traveling salesmen they were, all of them, of the type known as drummers ; and they were whiling away the hours toward midnight by means of the customary prac- tice of ''swapping yarns." Three in turn had told their tales and had been applauded; the third had just finished speaking, and now all eyes were turned toward the fourth. He was a small man, dressed in a sober suit of gray. Of him it seemed that no great things were to be expected in the story-telling line. But one can never tell about these little men who dress in gray — Napoleon was such a one, and so is Tyrus Cobb. They are apt to be heard from at un- expected moments, to the surprise and discomfiture of us tall fellows in brown. For a few moments this particular gentleman in gray said nothing; he merely rubbed his right ear in a thoughtful manner. Then his face brightened, and he flicked the ash from the end of his cigar. Turning to the company, he inquired, "Do any of you fellows happen to know the value of a Mexican dollar?" The man at his right drew a notebook from his pocket — one of the sort in which you can ascertain anything, from the weight of a gallon of water to the diameter of the moon — and consulted it. "Forty- five and forty-nine hundredths cents," he replied. "It used to be," said he of the gray suit and the diminutive stature, "but nowadays, with these daily revolutions going on in Mexico, and the gen- eral scarcity of money as a result, no man on earth can say what it is likely to be worth in a given place at a specified time. Now a friend of mine had a rather queer experience with that very thing awhile ago, and if you fellows don't mind, I'd like to tell it to you." 144 There was a chorus of "Go ahead!" and the narrator, lighting a fresh cigar from the old one, took up his tale. "His name was Alf — Alf Jordan. Anybody here know him? No? I thought maybe some of you might. He was in the soap line. Fine fellow, Alf. He was as straight as a die, and as honest as the day is long. If he had any fault, it was that he w^as a bit too fond of the foamy Budweiser, but outside of that he was all right. Well, anyhow, about two years ago Alf was covering a route down in Texas. Things were going badly — what with all the fighting and excitement across the border, nobody had any use for soap — and one day Alf blew into El Paso with just one solitary American dollar to his name. He was hard up for fair. He could n't sell his sam- ples, he had no cash and as far as he could see he couldn't pay his hotel bill unless he pawned his socks. "Being thoroughly blue, he thought he'd have something to cheer him up, so he hiked for the nearest saloon and called for a scuttle of suds. The barkeep shoved the drink across the counter, took in Alf's lonely httle dollar and handed him back a Mexican dollar and a five-cent piece. "'Hey!' says Alf, 'don't I get any more change than this?' "'Not if I know it first,' says the barkeep. 'An American dollar is worth a Mexican dollar and ten cents over. Ten minus five leaves five. There's your Mexican dollar, and yonder 's your nickel. See?' "Well, of course, Alf w^as considerable peeved at that, but he could n't do anything about it. So he finished up his drink and went out feeling bluer, if possible, than he did when he came in. Have any of you ever been to El Paso? No? Then perhaps I'd better explain the lay of the land. You see, the town is built right on the banks of the Rio 145 Gmnde, and on the other side is Mexico. There 's a bridge about a half mile long that leads across, and at the other end of the bridge is a little Mexican town called El Paso del Norde, or something like that — anyhow, it's 'greaser' for 'The Path to the North.' Well, just to say he'd done it, Alf started out to walk the bridge, and stand on foreign soil. It was a long walk, and the sun beat down very hot, and when he got to the other side he was warm and tired and thirsty. He hunted up the one saloon in the place and ordered a drink. Then, instead of paying for it with his nickel, he handed over his Mexican dollar, probably to get rid of it. The man behind the counter gave him back an American dollar and another nickel. '"Hey, wait!' says Alf, 'you made a mistake.' Alf was honest, even if he did sell soap. "'No, senor,' says the Mexican barkeep, 'no mistake. The Mexican dollar, he is scarce in the country, and he is worth the American dollar and ten cents over. I take out for the drink. Is it not all right, senor?' "Alf stood and looked at him for about ten seconds, and then a light began to dawTi on him. He let out a w^hoop, gulped dowTi his drink and started back across the bridge at a two-forty gait. The barkeep stood and looked after him, and then made some remarks to the atmosphere about the craziness of gringos in general, and this one in particular. Five minutes later Alf prances up to the bar on the American side looking like a lunatic. 'Give me a drink!' he yells, 'and give me the change in Mexican ! ' He got it. "Then he sat down and drank slowly, so as to figure out where he was. As near as he could see, he was right where he had started from, and he was three drinks and fifteen cents to the good. All he had to do to get some more was to walk the bridge again. It looked pretty good to him. 146 '^Well, gentlemen, Alf kept that up until he got so that he could n't see the cracks in the bridge when he went over them, and he was walking like the hor- rible example in a temperance lecture. That day he earned enough to pay his hotel bill, and the next day he went at it again, after he had sobered up. Altogether he must have walked thirty miles a day, at ten cents a mile, and as much as he wanted to drink thro\\Ti in. If they had had a five-and-ten cent store in the town he would have cleaned it out, but as it was, he took to buying candy by the nickel's worth and distributing it to the kids in the street, until he had a crowd of followers most as big as a circus-day parade. He would have kept it up indefinitely, but about four days later a lot of Mexi- can money came up and flooded the town, and the values went back to normal again. Then Alf left town. "When he got to thinking about it later, the thing that puzzled him was : who paid for all those drinks and that candy, and to whom did all that extra money belong? The saloon keepers did n't lose anything, because they could go out in the town and get any- where the same values for their money that they had given Alf. Alf himself certainly was n't out of pocket, because when he quit he was some six dollars better off than when he started in. The ques- tion is, who lost on the deal? ''Personally, I long ago gave up trying to figure it out, and I don't think anybody else can. What? Twelve-thirty? I guess it's bed for mine. By the w^ay, if any of you find a solution for that thing, I wdsh you would tell me in the morning. Good- night!" They are still thinking about it. W. L. Prosser, 'i8. 147 THE FOURTH CASE "Heard the news?" cried Ken Monroe, throwing open Harry Dabney's door. ''They're fumigating over at the Lower School." Dabney, lying on the window seat, turned his head. "Who's caught it now?" he asked. "A new kid — named Dawson, I think. And they say that if four get it, St. Timothy's will close and everybody be sent home for a month." ''Who said?" demanded Dabney incredulously. "Mr. Garth told Clark Harding that's what the rector has decided. And this new kid 's the third." "Scarlet fever's mighty contagious," Dabney ob- served. "There ought to be a fourth." "Yes, but it will be just our rotten luck to have it stop with only three," Monroe replied gloomily. "Would n't it be great to have a month's vacation now — get away from this beastly March weather and the exams and everything!" "Would n't it though!" said Dabney. They gazed idly out of the window at the storm of snow and sleet; they were a congenial, idle pair. " Is the new kid's case a bad one? " asked Dabney. "No; light, like the others. They say Kelvin and Harris have n't really been sick at all; just shut up in the Infirmary." "If there were only a way of getting somebody to sacrifice himself and make a fourth!" sighed Dabney. "Some useless new kid." He glanced round his room wearily. It was the most luxurious room in St. Timothy's, but to Dab- ney now it seemed cramped and tiresome. It had always pleased him to think himself and to be thought precociously aesthetic. Hence the swing- ing bronze censers of mediaeval design and work- manship, hence the old silver and brass candlesticks, 148 and the Persian rug, ver>^ thin and decrepit, that was tacked on the wall. Hence also the quills which rested on the silver inkstand and which Dabney sharpened with his penknife, sapng that he hated pens. His reputation as a humorist saved him from derision; the boys admitted that Dabney's affecta- tions amused no one more than himself. He was good-natured and popular and quite lazy and selfish. The weather depressed him; the fact that he had that morning been caught in promoting disorder in class contributed to his dejection. The master had turned a suspicious eye just as he was slipping a pinch of snow down the neck of the boy in front of him. And now Dabney was condemned to spend an hour of the afternoon recess in expiation. The bell rang, summoning him and other male- factors and delinquents to their task. On his way he passed the Infirmary and glanced up at the scarlet fever wing. In his glance there was no com- passion for the inmates. "I wish there were four of you/' he muttered. The next hour he spent in the schoolroom writ- ing out the line ''Timeo Danuos et dona ferenies'' some three hundred tunes. In the mechanical monotony of the task, an idea floated into his mind; and when the hour was up he went in search of Ken Monroe. That evening he called on Mr. Garth, who had charge of the dormitory. ''Oh, Mr. Garth," he said, ''I wanted to ask you; it's awfully dull this time of year, you know; it's not so bad for us Sixth Formers, because we have rooms and can live in a more or less civilized way. But for the little kids in alcoves it's aw^ul." "Oh, it is?" said Mr. Garth, who was disposed to be satirical and suspicious. "WTiat's up? Get- ting altruistic all of a sudden?" "No, sir," Dabney repUed respectfully. "But I was just thinking "that here we fellows have all 149 tlie privileges and the little kids don't have any. And I was going to ask if I could n't invite six or eight of them up to my room tomorrow and give them a blow-out — beg pardon, sir, I mean some crackers and jam. Ken Monroe and I will see they don't get into mischief." "Ti?neo Dahneyos et dojta ferentes,^^ said the master. Dabney laughed with such appreciation of this witticism that Garth relented. "I'll put you on your honor," he said. "No noise, no disturbance. I'll try to believe that for once you want to do a kind and virtuous act." "Yes, sir," said Dabney. "And may I go down to the cook and get some beans? " "Beans? What do you want with beans?" "To play games with, sir. Little kids always like to play games." "Oh, all right," said Garth condescendingly; "go and get your beans." Dabney bowed himself out, murmuring his grati- tude. Ken Monroe was waiting for him on the stairs, and Dabney, going passt, clutched his arm convulsively. Then they clattered down together. Dabney received from the cook a handful of white beans and carried them up to his room. One of these he smeared with ink; then he put it and seven others into a box. He and Monroe made out a list of eight little boys worthy to be bidden to the feast. They were none of them more than thirteen years old, and they were chosen with regard to their appearance of docility and obedience. The next afternoon Monroe collected his guests and led them, chattering shrilly, up the stairs. Although he knew what to expect, he could not help being a little startled when Dabney opened the door. The room was darkened; heavy curtains had been drawn over the windows, and the only light 150 came from the censers and candles, and was dim and yellow. Strange, oriental odors pervaded the air with a heavy sweetness. The chatter of the little boys was hushed. "Come in," said Dabney hospitably. "I can't have much light on account of my eyes. You'll get used to it in a moment. I thought it would be good to have something to eat, after the awful messes they give us at meals. I've got chocolate brewing here and potted chicken and strawberry jam and crackers." ''Oh!" breathed Freddy Robinson in long accents of delight. ''I love strawberry Jam," stated Lucius Quinby. ''Potted chicken's great," Val Adams announced. "Oh, saltines!" cried Freddy Robinson raptur- ously, as Dabney drew out a large tin box of crackers from under the window seat. Then all the little boys began to talk at once. They struggled clamorously round the cracker- box; then, retiring with their broken spoils, they clustered about the jar of jam and urged one an- other to hurry up with the single knife. All except Val Adams, who had spoken up in praise of potted chicken; he was permitted to retire with his luxury into a corner and there to gorge. Meanwhile, Ken Monroe and Harry Dabney were mixing the choco- late in cups for their guests; the water for it was boiling on the little gas stove. "I wish I hadn't eaten any lunch," complained Phil Densmore. "Oh, my, but you're piggy!" exclaimed Lucius Quinby. "You've got more jam than cracker." "That's the way to eat it," Dabney assured them genially. "Now, who's ready for chocolate?" "Me!" "I spoke first!" "Oh, come off, you didn't!" "Yes, like a hen!" This last expres- sion was from Bob Eaton. The little boys were evidently begining to feel at home. 151 ''Quietly now," said Dabney. ''I told Mr. Garth you'd be quiet. Besides, in a Sixth Form room you 've got to show manners. Now then, you — let's see, what's your name?" "Eaton." *'Well, you're first; here you are. Carver, here's yours. There's the condensed milk on the table if you want it sweeter." When they had all eaten and drunk, Dabney adroitly led the conversation to the subject of scarlet fever. "Did you know," he said, "that if there's one more case, we'll all be sent home for a month?" No, the little boys had not heard this; they showed the most eager interest. "Yes," said Dabney. "And we'll escape the exams and we won't come back till spring has begun, and all the sports outdoors — rowing, and tennis, and baseball, and swimming. Would n't it be great?" "I wonder if there will be another case?" said Freddy Robinson hopefully. "They're all such light cases," put in Ken Mon- roe. "Kelvin and Harris haven't been in bed at all." "They're awfully lucky really to have it," ob- served Dabney. "Because it is this light kind of scarlet fever, and it makes them immune — so that they'll never be in danger of having the harder kind." "Yes, really, when you come to look at it that way, anybody that can get it now is in luck," said Ken Monroe. "Would n't you all like to get a month's vacation now?" asked Dabney persuasively. "Would we!" "Oh my!" the little boys an- swered. "It would be a good chance for somebody to be a hero and get the fourth case," Dabney remarked. 152 ''Everybody would treat him like a hero afterwards, and yet it would n't really be so heroic, because he'd be having a vacation himself, with such a light case, and novels and things to amuse him; and besides, he'd be making himself immune forever. It would be just about like getting vaccinated so as not to have smallpox." "It wouldn't be much worse than that," said Monroe. ''If it was n't for being a Sixth Former and hav- ing to study hard all the time for my college exams, I believe I'd volunteer myself," Dabney continued. "It would be easy enough to get exposed. Do you know what I'd do? There's a ladder kept in the shed back of the study; I'd get that out some night and take it up to the Infirmary. It's a light little ladder, you know, but it's long enough, for Kelvin and Harris are in the wing this way, and you know how near the ground the windows are. And it would be easy to climb up and open the window and stick your head into the room for a few minutes; that would be enough." "But if one of the masters should see you?" sug- gested Val Adams. "Oh, it's taking the chance of that that would make it such sport," replied Dabney. "Of course the best way to do would be to steal out of dormi- tory after everybody else is asleep. It would really be great sport — and the fellow that did it — well, he would make a name for himself. Would n't he, Ken?" "I should think he would," answered Monroe. "Why don't you do it, Eaton?" suggested Val Adams. "Yes, and get you a month's vacation?" retorted Eaton. He reverted to his impolite expression, "I will, like a hen." "Joe Car\xr would like to do it," Freddy Robin- son announced. 153 "Ah, my neck!" said Joe Carver in emphatic denial. "Scarlet fever's no fun." "Oh, but this kind is!" asserted Dabney. "You see, it's the very light kind, and you have novels read to you, and you play games and get excused from studies and exams, and have lemon jelly and ice cream and oranges; why, it's great. And when it would mean so much to the whole school to have a fourth case — why, I should think somebody would be glad to do it." He waited, but there was a not very encourag- ing silence. "You see, all of us older fellows have done some- thing for the school at one time or another," Dabney resumed, growing more impressive. "It's the duty of every one who comes to St. Timothy's to do something for the school. Now here's a chance for one of you younger boys to distinguish himself. It would almost certainly make him the most popular fellow in school. It would be something that nobody would ever forget. Now here you are, eight of you, with this chance open. I'll tell you what; let's draw lots and see who gets it. What do you say, Quinby?" He had cunningly picked out the most reckless of the httle boys, and by offering him leadership in the matter he practically pledged him to the scheme. "Oh, I'd just as soon," said Quinby. "Is there anybody that's afraid?" asked Dabney. "Robinson, are you afraid?" "No, of course not," quivered Freddy Robinson. Dabney put the question impressively to each one in turn; they all said, whispering, that they were not afraid; but they had suddenly become quite wretched in their minds. Now the solemn gloom of the room, the weighty significance of candles and censers burning with their yellow light, the subtle heavy odor of Dabney's perfumes, were beginning to produce their effect; the little boys 154 were becoming cowed and oppressed with the sense that a binding ceremony was about to be performed. The lively chatter of a short time before had been stilled; only Dabney's solemn voice and the low responses of his victims broke the silence. Val Adams, to keep up his courage, took another cracker and began crunching it. "Now," said Dabney, and his voice was posi- tively sepulchral, "there must be no misunder- standing. To the 'words which I am about to pro- nounce, each of you in turn must reply, 'I will.' Now listen and be prepared to answer. In case you are chosen by lot, will you within twenty-four hours secure access to the scarlet fever wing of the In- firmary and there expose yourself? Quinby?" "I will," murmured Quinby. "Robinson?" Freddy Robinson nodded and gulped and then said, "I will" Two or three began to murmur among themselves. "Silence!" said Dabney sternly, fearful lest they should hatch out opposition. The whispering ceased, and the others in turn all answered, "I will." Dabney opened a drawer of his bureau with great deliberation and took out a small box. "I have here," he said slowly, "eight beans. Seven of them are white and one is black. I will put them into this hat and then pass the hat, be- ginning with Robinson and ending with Eaton. Each of you will take one bean. Whoever draws the black bean will perform the task according to his oath." He had got only half way round with the hat when there was a hysterical little cry and laugh from Freddy Robinson. "I — I got it ! " he said. He was holding up some- thing between his thumb and finger. Dabney pulled the curtains and let in the light. 155 There was no mistake; Freddy Robinson had drawn the black bean. "Good work; congratulations!" said Dabney, grasping his hand. "Now youVe got your chance, Robinson." "Yes," said Freddy Robinson, trying to speak bravely. "Yes." But his face was white, and for a moment his lip quivered. When the little boys had departed, Dabney ex- tinguished his candles and censers and opened the windows to air his room. "Do you suppose he '11 really do it?" asked Monroe. "Oh, no," replied Dabney. Now that the fun was over it seemed a little tame. "Look at this!" — he kicked the empty cracker-box — "the little brats have eaten me out of house and home. And I waiting on them all the time, and not having a chance to take a bite! My, but I'm hungry!" "So am I," said Monroe. "If I only had a chocolate eclair!" said Dabney. "Don't you love chocolate eclairs? It seems years since I've eaten one. Look here." He drew out his watch. "I'd almost forgotten this is a half holiday; we have two hours yet. Time enough to go into town." "If we can get permission," said Monroe doubt- fully. The rector was in a compliant mood. "Yes, you may go," he said to them. "Under the usual rules, of course." This meant that they were not to visit any candy or cook-shop. "Under the usual rules!" exclaimed Dabney satirically when they had started. "He must think I go to town for my health!" The storm of the day before had ceased, and the hard dry crust of snow crunched pleasantly under foot. The boys trudged along the road, now and 156 then stepping aside to let a sleigh skim by; Mr. Garth, driving a speedy mare, was among those who passed. ''Garth must be out to see his best girl," was Dabney's irreverent comment. The confectioner's shop which tempted St. Timothy's boys to many transgressions lay at the corner of the main avenue of the town and the road leading out to the school. Dabney and Monroe glanced up and down, and ha\'ing assured them- selves that no master was near, stepped inside. While the shopkeeper was tying up the box of eclairs, a cutter drew up in front of the store; the driver handed the reins to his companion, a pretty girl in furs, and alighted. "It's Garth!" said Dabney, deeply shocked. There was no possible escape, and as the master entered, the two boys touched their hats pohtely. "Replenishing your larder, I suppose," said Mr. Garth, producing the little red book in which he set down the misdemeanors of St. Timothy's boys. "Yes, sir," Dabney replied. "I've been buying some chocolate eclairs." ''Very feminine food, I think," said Mr. Garth. *'You will find plenty of them left, sir," returned Dabney; and again touching his hat, he went out. "I suppose I'll get it for impertinence, too," he said to Monroe. "Well, I don't care." "I wonder," said Monroe, "w^hy a pretty girl like that will go dri\'ing with such a brute." They took their way, somewhat despondently, back to St. Timothy's. When they reached the school it was supper time. "Come up to my room after supper," said Dab- ney. "I'm not going to eat my dessert — and you'd better not either. Leave plenty of space for eclairs." The dessert that evening was stewed cherries and gingerbread, a combination of which Dabney was 157 sincerely fond, but he abstained. Prayers were held in the hall immediately after supper, and then the younger boys went to the study, the older ones to their rooms. "We'll have time enough to eat just one Eclair together," Dabney whispered to Monroe. ''Then you can take half of them, and I'll keep the rest." They rushed up the stairs three steps at a time. Dabney pulled the box out from under his bed, cut the strings, and raised the lid; there, nested together upon soft tissue paper, were row upon row of fat, luscious-looking brown eclairs. Monroe took out one, Dabney another. Then, ceremoniously raising them aloft, they saluted each other. ''Prosit ! " said Dabney, who had been abroad. Monroe was by a fraction the first to bite; then, with his mouth full, and the oozing fragment in his hand, he uttered a bitter cry. His jaws worked rapidly and repugnantly upon the morsel while he made his way across the room and dropped the large, creamy, oozing eclair in the slop-jar. "Sour!" he lamented. "Sour!"^ Dabney ruminated over his specimen. "No," he pronounced at last; "not sour. But the cream is just on the turn; they would n't keep long, certainly." "They can keep forever, for all me," declared Monroe. But the sight of Dabney continuing to eat en- couraged him. "Let me have a taste of yours?" he asked, and Dabney offered him the other end. "It's just as bad," Monroe said dolefully. "It's not altogether good," admitted Dabney, "but I try to think about the chocolate and not about the cream. And I love chocolate." Monroe looked on aggrieved. "What a roast!" he complained. "Snagged getting them, and then to have them turn out sour ! " "You'd better be going to your room," said 158 Dabney. "Garth will be prowling round here in a moment. Do you want some of the things?" ''No, thank you," Monroe answered. ''Have another party for the little kids tomorrow and give 'em my share." When a few minutes later Mr. Garth knocked and looked in, he found Dabney sitting alone, ap- parently absorbed in study of his Virgil. Satis- fied with what he saw, the master continued on his rounds. As a matter of fact, within the familiar covers of the ''^Eneid" was a paper-backed novel entitled, "Murder Will Out!" to which Dabney was giving his rapt attention. And once m.ore left in solitude, he drew out his box of eclairs and placed it on the table within reach. There was much determination of an ill-directed kind in the youth Dabney. He had made up his mind to eat all the eclairs for which he had risked and sacrificed so much; and since they were already, as he expressed it, "on the turn," the task must be accomplished that night. He had devoured one, Monroe had thrown one away; there remained ten. Had they been in prime condition, this would have been for Dabney no difficult gastronomic feat. As it was, he hoped, with the aid of a thrilling novel and a palate singularly sensitive to the charms of chocolate, to forget the treachery of cream. Up to the SLxth eclair he succeeded pretty well. From that time on his way was laborious. He felt cloyed and oppressed; the chocolate was tasteless in his mouth, and the character of the cream grew more and more assertive. After the eighth eclair he would have given up had it not been for a dogged sense that he ow^ed it to his character not to stop, and also for a wish to have triumphant and amazing news the next morning for Ken Monroe. Just before eleven o'clock, when all lights had to be ex- tinguished, he finished the last eclair. 159 He did not know what time of niojht it was when he awoke, feeling very, very sick. The room seemed to be whirling round and round, and also to have the rocking motion of a boat. He rose and reeled to the window-seat; there, lying down, he put his head out into the cool air. "I suppose I'm not so awfully sick, but I feel as if I were about dying," he groaned to himself. Then he saw a figure moving slowly across the wide white expanse of snow that stretched from the study building to the Infirmary. In the moonlight it gradually revealed itself as a boy dragging a ladder. Sick and inert as he was, Dabney gazed now with an awakening comprehension. Yes, the boy was moving toward the scarlet fever wing; it was Freddy Robinson. At sight of the child actually preparing to ex- pose himself, Dabney knew that he had never really anticipated or desired this. He had talked nonsense about the ''light kind" of scarlet fever; and here was this boy going maybe to catch his death. And if a fellow felt so dreadfully ill as he himself did, from mere indigestion, what pangs a sufferer from a real sickness, however light, must endure! A sudden remorseful and unselfish im- pulse stirred in Dabney's bosom, and he drew his breath to shout to Freddy Robinson in warning. But then he realized that to shout would rouse the masters and bring down punishment on the boy's head. With another unselfish perception, he saw that he must use more quiet means. In his slippers and bathrobe, just as he was, he stole up the corridor; an intolerable giddiness assailed him, but he kept on softly past Mr. Garth's room and then down the stairs. He slid back the heavy bolt in the outer door; the cold air of the March night curled round his bare ankles and streamed up under his robe, and he had an instant foreboding of the 1 60 probably fatal complications that would be intro- duced into his malady. But he ran bravely, weakly along the icy path to intercept Robinson, who was now in the shadow of the Infirmary. ''Robinson!" he cried in a low voice; and the boy, turning with a start, dropped the ladder in the snow. "Come here," said Dabney; and Freddy Robin- son crept near, afraid and trembling. Dabney's words came jerkily; his teeth chattered. "It was only a joke; you were n't really to do it. Go back to bed — don't get snagged." Dabney himself returned to the building, stole safely past the room of the sleeping Garth, and getting into bed had a violent chill. After this he fell into a peaceful slumber, from which he awoke the next morning quite fresh and weU. Freddy Robinson was less fortunate; the master at the Lower School happened to be awake and heard soft footsteps at half past one o'clock; he rose, and Robinson was "snagged." When Dabney heard this, he went to the rector and made a clean breast of the affair. "The little kid ought n't to be punished," he said. "I put him up to it. Mr. Garth 's arranged to keep me busy with Latin lines all this afternoon; and tomorrow afternoon, if you don't mind, I'll do Robinson's lines." "I'll excuse Robinson's lines," said the rector. "Oh, sir, you are almost too good," Dabney pro- tested effusively. Monroe saw him as he came out of the rector's study. "W^at are you throwing out your chest about?" Monroe asked. "I didn't know I was throwing out my chest," said Dabney with humility. "I don't take any credit to myself. It was only what any honorable person would have done. It was n't anything special." i6i ''What are you talking about, you nut?" asked Monroe. ''What happened?" But Dabney would not answer. "Oh, Ken," he cried, casting upward a pious glance, "if I could only bring you to realize the happiness of being good!" A. S. Pier, '95. 162 PART III ADVENTURE Toward fame and honor, love and TRUTH Our earliest course was run, Predestin'd paths John Harvard points To every Harvard son." W. G. Peckham, '67, Advocate. PIECES OF THE GAME We are but actors, Lord, we know, Who strut an hour and bow away; The world cares only for the show, And not if we be grave or gay. We play at peasants and at kings, At jesters, too, with lesser art; But whether peasants, jesters, kings, The act must close, and we depart. If ermine, then, we wear, and gold — Or smock of humblest citizen — Or but the fool's poor wand we hold. Grant, Lord, we play the part as men. P. A. Hutchinson, '98. QUATRAIN It is so wide, this rolling, trackless sea. The sun may sink ere any port we make — But we have felt the good ship riding free, And seen the dawn o'er purple islands break. P. A. Hutchinson, '98. FROM THE CLASS POEM There 's trampling of hoofs in the busy street. There 's clanking of sabers on floor and stair, There's sound of restless, hurr>^ing feet. Of voices that whisper, of lips that entreat — Will they live, will they die, will they strive, will they dare? — The houses are garlanded, flags flutter gay, For a troop of the Guard rides forth today. 16s Oh, the troopers will ride and their hearts will leap, When it 's shoulder to shoulder and friend to friend — But it's some to the pinnacle, some to the deep, And some in the glow of their strength to sleep, And for all it 's a fight to the tale's far end. And it's each to his goal, nor turn nor sway, When the troop of the Guard rides forth today. The da^^^l is upon us, the pale light speeds To the zenith with glamor and golden dart. On, up! Boot and saddle! Give spurs to your steeds! There 's a city beleaguered that cries for men's deeds, With the pain of the world in its cavernous heart. Ours be the triumph! Humanity calls! Life's not a dream in the clover! On to the w^alls, on to the w^alls. On to the w^alls, and over! Hermann Hagedorn, jr., '07. MORNING The wondrous fields lie open to the dawn Awake, Awake! The bending hills throw off their cloaks, The low winds rustle in the oaks And kiss to life the silent lake. Awake, Awake! God and the day are at your door — Awake ! The first light trembles to its dawn — Awake, Awake! The first song quivers in the leaves, The first call echoes from the eaves, 166 The first wing dips into the lake, Awake, Awake! The low waves call you from the shore — Awake ! Hermann Hagedorn, jr., '07. DRYAD KING I HAVE caught them in the twilight Of the dawn and opening day, I have kissed away the darkness, I have kissed my care away; I have lured them from their shadows, I have lulled them at my side, Heard the chants of dryad magic, Felt the touch that deified. Oh, the forest boughs were swaying. And the forest depths were still, As they crept up soft and kissed me — Kissed me as a sweetheart will. Oh, the swaying boughs were golden, Forest carpet was a throne, As they danced about and crowned me, Sang their mystic monotone. Ruler of a dryad kingdom^ Of a strange, eternal band — Peer am I among immortals, Gods, reach out the brother hand! Yea, the gods have heard and answered, But their brother gift is woe — They have sent a face that vanished. Sent a voice that whispered low : 167 "Leave your dryad-realm and find me, Loving mortal, take thou me." And I seek the wide woods over One strange face I may not see. And the forest knows no singing. Knows no dryad's joyous tread — For the magic realm hath crumbled As a tale when all is said. Hermann Hagedorn, jr., '07. WHEN THE SHADOW FALLS When the star breaks in the melting sky. And the last dawn glows on a shattered world, To some new garden, peace-unfurled, Our never-ending souls shall fly. Because we loved, and loving knew A greater strength, a greater hope, Than lies within man's mortal scope And fear-bound, death-encircled view, We two shall find immortal days — Not in the gray ethereal heights. But in a world where old delights Shall wait on unforgotten ways. Let scholars speak of death that blends Men into one enmantling soul — For you and me the final goal Must re-create the life it ends. In some far island we shall learn The mysteries and runes of earth — Until beyond another birth, Homeward, as one soul we return. Hermann Hagedorn, jr., '07. 168 TO TORQUATUS (A Translatioji of Ode 7, Book LV, of Horace) Winner of the Sargent Prize The snows have fled; and leaves and grasses now Return to trees And meadows ; earth is changing for the plow, And streams decrease And flow beneath their bands; and nightly where None look askance, With naked nymphs the sister Graces dare Lead forth their choral dance. n But reckon not on immortality — So warns the year. And this brief hour which snatches greedily The day so dear: The frosts are now dispersed by zephyrs — aye, But summer fain Would trample spring; and autumn soon is nigh To pour the grain And fruitage from her horn, and by and by Dull winter comes again. Ill And though the rapid moons shall ever mend With heavenly fire Their high vicissitudes, when we descend WTiere linger sire iEneas, Tullus, Ancus — we shall be But shades and dust! WTio knows if the high gods will add a free Tomorrow to our trust? 169 IV So gratify yourself; life soon will pass; And what you spend Will foil an heir's hot clutches. But, alas! When you descend, And Minos makes his proud arbitrament On each offense. Then, dear Torquatus, neither high descent, Nor eloquence. Nor all your piety and good intent, Will serve to bring you thence. V Nay, for not even Bian's self could free Hippolytus From Hell, nor Theseus wrench death's slavery From dear Pirithous. Edward Eyre Hunt, 'io. THE BLIND ANGEL High in heaven an angel dwells, Palest, fairest, of them all. Though she sing not Israfel's Melting, golden, madrigal; She is loveliest, fairest far — Though no garland be entwined In her hair; and there a star Glows in peace, for she is blind. Though her fingers ne'er have spanned Humming harps of paradise; Though two angels take her hand When with perfumed wing she flies; Yet the star upon her brow, On that brow of purest light, Shines on earth, so far below. Where we dream in endless night. 170 All the blind, of prayerless lips, Worship her with folded hands, And she guides the wandering ships Mutely unto sunlit lands; All who see, yet cannot see, Following her sweet face, may find Rest and peace eternally: For the blind shall lead the blind! C. P. Aiken, 'ii. THE WARRIOR'S PRAYER I DO not ask for peace and quiet sleeping, Or that the current of my days may be A waveless stream through flower-hushed meadows creeping, Washed with the moonlight's dim pallidity. I do not ask a heavenly cloak to hide me When swift temptations lurk along the way, Nor for the touch of unseen hands to guide me Far and aloof beyond the battle's sway. I only ask that I may still be climbing, Meeting the shock of foes with broken sword, When at the last the solemn bells are chiming, That call my soul unto Thy judgm.ent. Lord. W. A. NoRRis, 'i8. THE SUMMONS The storm-clouds plunge in the wild northeast, The leaden sea is torn to foam, The fog is rent by snarls of wind, The ship drives on where the breakers comb. 171 To leeward rocks — five fathoms deep, Four fathoms! — three! — by the swishing lead; She strikes, she reels, the waves crash home, "Oh, sea, I come to thy summons — dead!" Wilder Goodwin, '07. THE LARK Hark to the lark! How it twitters and trills, Up soaring! Down pouring Its melody thrills — " Twitter-wink, twitter-wink ! " Like a rope of seed-pearls, That flash through the curls Of an Indian dancer. Then, ''Wink, twitter-wink." So he twinkles and trolls Such a sally Of grace-notes, That all down the valley The ecstasy falls Into city-bound souls, Till they answer the crystalline echoes and calls Of the bird on the heights Who, when purple twilights Entrammel the mountains with nets of gold haze, Sings, "Clink, and clink, and clink twitter-wink!'^ F. BiDDLE, '09. AFTER DEFEAT Yes, I have lost. But be not sad for me. Because your pity falls unheeded quite; Others have won, but none may censure me In that I did what lay within my might. F. BiDDLE, '09. 172 ISEULT I HAVE wandered through the woodland, Heard the bells of evening ring Through the perfumed lilac twihght Of the flower-wreathed spring. I 've seen many a summer sunrise Tint the fleeting summer dawn, And the clouds, like ships of silver. Throng the skies to greet the morn. W'Tien the alchem^ist October Changes green to golden haze, I have dreamed away the noontide Of the burnished autumn days. In the silent T\-inter midnight, WTien the embers grayer grow, I have seen the sparkling starlight Glisten on the drifted snow. With a hope that never falters. As away the old life streams, I have watched and longed and waited In my Citadel of Dreams. Harold W. Bell, '07, LA GIOCONDA Whence comest thou — what distant land con- ceived thee — And how art thou alive these many years. While drifting centuries have come and vanished Before thine eyelids of a thousand tears? Strange sins and stranger virtues hast thou tasted, Unsolved is thy grave and subtle air; On thy pale forehead mystery is -^Titten, And twisted in the twining of thy hair. 173 Did silver-singing flutes enchant the twilight, And dost thou hear them still on thy lone isle, Unheard by us, that thou hast made eternal That gently curved and faint archaic smile? I am enamored of thy poisonous beauty, Encircled in a spell beyond control; Sweet sorceress ! turn away, thine eyes consume me, And burn into the marrow of my soul! With thee before me all else is forgotten ; Stars fade away; thou, thou art all my world! Let us go forth like haughty, vanquished victors, With the proud banners of our love unfurled! Proud, rippling banners, borne adown the valley, Rosy and golden in the morning light ! Yea, let us go! one universe is narrow, Too narrow far, to hold the infinite ! Harold W. Bell, '07. PHEDRE A GOLD-VOICED vision, white with passion's fire, And golden like a daughter of the sun — A throbbing pulse of agonized desire That cannot die till Love's dear pain is won. Voluptuous murmurs, long-drawn melodies That shimmering float upon the perfumed air — Low flutings — as across the violet seas Some bark with silver oars, with banners rare, Steals onward to the Islands of the Blest — While 'neath the wine-red sail a siren sings And, floating by upon a magic quest. The white throat quivers as her high voice rings And trails the liquid sweetness of her song Far to the golden westward — far and long. R. J. Walsh, '07. 174 IN THE FOREST In the night the tree-tops shake and shake, Whose hand is this that stirs them so? All moanmgly they quake and quake; O be still, be still, or my heart will break! Whose hand is this that stirs them so ? None knows half so well as I; It is the death-"v\ind sweeping by. Claude C. Washburn, '05. THE EXPLORER Upon the last horizon-line I stand And clear-eyed peer into the distant haze. The tiny world contracts before my gaze; I shatter all your dreams of fairydand. R. J. Walsh, '07. AT SEA Down from the ship's black side, Do^^Ti in the eventide, Where the gurgling eddies go sliding past, We lowered him over, a hasty prayer — And we left him to God and the ocean there, For the ship was sailing fast. A star came up from the sea, Marking his grave, and we Swning on through the starlight winter night. A thin ice moon on the frosty sky. The sound of the water swirling by, On through the cold moonlight. Joseph Husband, '98. 17s S.\LVAGE The timbers of a derelict May stout and sturdy be, Though the hull lies crushed and broken Upon the scornful sea. The timbers of a battered wreck, Shaped to a hull anew, May breast the waves of conflict, As the old ship failed to do. Wilder Goodwin, '07. GOTT MIT UNS (War Prize) No doubt ye are the people: Wisdom's flame Springs from your cannon — yea, from yours alone. God needs your dripping lance to prop His throne; Your gleeful torch His glory to proclaim. No doubt ye are the people: far from shame Your captains who deface the sculptured stone Which by the labor and the blood and bone Of pious millions calls upon His name. No doubt ye are the folk: and 't is to prove Your wardenship of Virtue and of Lore Ye sacrifice the Truth in reeking gore Upon your altar to the Prince of Love. Yet still cry we who still in darkness plod: " 'T is Antichrist ye serve, and not our God!" C. H. Jacobs, '16. 176 LITTLE COAT-TALLS It was old Luis who told me the story, standing in the arched doorway that opened into the big court. He shifted his huge hat repeatedly from one hand to the other as he explained the matter at great length. Trinidad, who died last week of the cough, was his brother. Trinidad was a good man, very^ good, but also he was very poor. He had a little son who would soon be nine years old, and a young wife who was very poor and could not support the little boy and herself. They had spent much money for Trini- dad's funeral, and had no corn, nor clothes enough to keep them warm at night. The little boy was very strong and could herd the pigs do^vm in the field and leave Mateo to take care of the calves, which was enough surely for one boy. The little one could take the pigs do-v\Ti in the fields in the morning, and all day he could keep them out of the turnips, and at night he could bring them back and shut them up in the big pen. I expressed very positive doubts as to the ability of ''the Httle one" to do any such thing. Ah, but the padron did not know how brave the little one was ! He was very strong and -wise for his years, and knew all about pigs. Trinidad had once owned a pig. The little one could run very fast. He would work for a real a day, just enough to buy corn for himself and his mother. I told Luis I would give the boy half a real a day, and would try him for a week, not a day more unless he did the work well. Very good, and many thanks, and would the padron lend two reals in advance on the boy's wages to buy him some clothes? This I flatly refused, but I gave Luis an old gray *' cutaway" coat, that I could not bring myself to wear, even in the seclusion of the ranch. 177 "Tomorrow morning," said I, "let him come with Mateo, and go to the pasture with the pigs." Luis took the coat with a grave "Muchas gracias," and went silently across the patio. Early the next morning, when Mateo started down between the two big corrals with the calves and the pigs, I saw that he was not alone, but in the twilight of the daw^n I could not see my new em- ployee. It was not until I rode down the fields after breakfast that I saw the child in all his glory. At first I saw nothing but my old gray coat, sur- mounted by a sugar-loaf straw hat, dancing wildly about, apparently in a fruitless effort to head off three young porkers that were making for the turnip patch. I turned my pony toward them and drove them well out of the way of mischief, then looked back. The gray coat was standing motionless. 'Xhiquito," I called, '^Veng' aca." (Come here.) The child came, slowly at first, then, as I motioned, breaking into a run. He stopped ten yards off, then crept nearer. My first thought was to curse Luis for a liar. Certainly the child could not be more than five years old. The tails of my old coat were touching the ground, and the sleeves were rolled back more than half their length to allow the tiny hands to protrude from them. His face was perfectly round, and at first glance showed nothing but a huge pair of brown eyes. The nose and mouth were as insignifi- cant as raisins in a plum pudding. He looked up at me, then down again with a comically demure ex- pression. He wore nothing but the coat, his hat and a pair of white cotton trousers. I had no faith in his ability to manage the pigs, but I told him where I wanted them to feed and ordered him to keep them within bounds. "Do you understand?" I asked. "Si, Sefior," he chirped. "What is your name?" 178 "Salome." There was a suggestion of a lisp, and a curious intonation in his voice, the last syllable falling almost to a wail as he dwelt on it. As I rode off I looked back twice and saw him still stand- ing exactly where I had left him. For the rest of the week the hacienda was over- run with pigs. They were rooting about the patios and wandering into the dairy. They were in the cow- sheds and stables, stealing feed from the other animals. They were in the corral at milking time. They were snorting and grunting about under my windows. For three days I swore and raved at "Little Coat-tails," as I had begun to call him; then I told Luis that it would not do. Luis begged so earnestly that I consented to one more day's trial. That day the pigs were out of the way. After breakfast the next morning, as I sat on my pony in the big gateway, a drove of squealing pigs shot by me and went galloping down between the corrals. Ten feet behind was my old gray coat, flopping madly along in a desperate effort to keep up. They went down the road on a dead run as far as I could see them, until the big, round dust cloud of their passing hid them from sight. When I went down to where the men were cutting sods for the new corral, the pigs were feeding peacefully far below the turnip patch, and Little Coat-tails was sound asleep on the sunny side of the ditch. At sunset they came back in the same way, hurling through the big gate like a cavalry charge, straight across the patio and into the pen, where they began a fearful struggle over the trough of buttermilk which was waiting for them. Every morning and every evening came the same performance. The child must have run a mile and a half every day, just as fast as his little legs would move mth the gray coat- tails flopping round them. Pigs and mules were the only creatures on the hacienda that had ever, to my knowledge, showTi any real spontaneous 179 activity, and never before had I seen a true son of Mexico try to keep up with them on foot. I began to wonder how long Little Coat-tails would keep up this desperate chase. One evening, as I sat in my barred window at sunset, watching the glow fade from the white top of Popocatepetl, I saw a host approaching in a film of dust, delicately reddened by the sunset light and trailing off like mist over a marsh. I thought at first from its slow movement that it was the calves, but as it came nearer I saw Little Coat-tails march- ing sedately ahead of it. Then I saw the pigs huddled timorously behind. He stopped, and the pigs stopped and crowded back a step. He marched on, and the pigs marched after. For miles the fading plain stretched away to the surrounding hills. Fantastic masses of clouds were piled about the horizon, and the two gigantic volcanoes towered above them. A tiny twinkling light far to the south marked Ojo de Agua, another in the east was all that showed of San Juan de Labor. And in the midst of it all Little Coat-tails marched at the head of his cohort of pigs. He marched as if flaring trum- pets were in front and victorious legions behind. Gradually the pigs crept nearer to the trailing coat; then an old sow made a dart to pass him. He turned like a flash and threw a stone which caught her fairly in the side, and she resumed her place. I went to the doorway of the outer patio and saw them come slowly up to the big gate. There he stood aside and they charged into the pen. "Bien hecho (well done), Chiquito!" I shouted. He stopped and looked at me a moment, then trotted home. After that he never let the pigs hurry him, and I am sure he never hurried them. For two or three weeks I saw nothing of him or the pigs except when I happened to meet them in their coming and going. He never came to the office with the men on Saturday nights to draw his pay. i8o His mother came, always just as the others were going, and took the money with a timid " Gracias, Senor," and hurried away with her rebozo across her face. I could see clearly where the child got his rabbit-like demeanor. One warm noon, as I was taking my siesta in the east T\4ndow, in the company of a binocular and a cigar, I saw Little Coat-tails far do^vn the fields engaged in some curious movements, the meaning of which I could not make out for sometime. He seemed to dart for^-ard and then turn round and round as fast as he could, a dozen times or more, then stoop and examine something on the ground. At last I saw that he had my pet litter of little pigs, and was s-wdnging them one by one by their tails until they were dizzy, then kicking them with his little bare feet to see them stagger as they ran! I jumped for my pony and ca.me thundering down on him before he fairly knew what had happened. My entire vocabulary of Spanish curses I launched at him ^Aithout bringing a shadow of an expression to his little plimi-pudding face, so I dismounted and cuffed him, explaining that the next time I would certainly kill him. '^ Do you understand? " I asked. ''Si, Senor," he lisped, absolutely unmoved so far as I could see. I rode off and left him, standing in his tracks, until I turned the comer of the corral. When I looked for him -^nth the binocular he was not to be found — probably asleep in the ditch. It had never occurred to me to tell Little Coat-tails that he was not to s'^'ing the little pigs round by their tails. I began to wonder how many more of the things it had never occurred to me to forbid he was doing ever>^ day. The conclusion I came to was that it was about time to begin fattening those pigs for the market, and I gave orders accordingly that they were to stay in the pen, and be fed on com and skimmed milk. i8i In spite of their increased rations this plan did not suit them at all. Twice during the forenoon of the first day of their confinement I found them rooting and grunting about the courtyard. Both times Little Coat-tails, who had been sitting in a sunny angle of the court, did a man's w^ork in rounding them up again. When I found them at large for the third time I began to look for cause. Wrathfully I demanded of the boy w^hether he had opened the gate of the pen and let them out. "Si, Sefior," he chirped. *'l told you to let them stay inside," said I. "Si, Seiior." I cuffed him and went to look at the gate of the pig pen. It had been blocked with a big stone that Salome and three others like him could not have moved. I went back to him and asked him again if he had opened the gate. He gazed at me with terror. "Si, Senior," he whispered. I called to Nicanor, who was washing milk cans by the well. "Ask the little one if he opened the gate of the pig pen," said I. He put the question quickly to Salome in, so far as I could see, the exact words I had used. Salome denied it vigorously. Then I began to understand. Certainly I could not remem- ber a single intelligent answer he had ever given me except to tell me his name, and the only orders of mine he had obeyed had been conveyed to him through Luis. Without doubt he could manage the pigs when he wanted to. When his occupation was taken from him, Salome took to sitting in the sun by the gate of the pig pen. Day after day I saw him sitting there as I went in and out, always in the same place, always with the same expression of dreamy content in his big eyes. Down by the big gate Francisco's chil- dren harnessed an old hound to a soap box cart and drove up and down between the corrals. Salome 182 heeded them not, but sat in the sun and attained Nir\'ana. They put a canopy of jute sacking over the cart and drove like ^Maximilian to Chapultepec, but Salome paid no heed. One morning Francisco killed a sheep, and as I went out I bargained with him for a hind quarter. It was Salome who brought it to my door, coming silently and startling me ^sath his Httle wailing voice : "'Qui 'sta la came." (Here is the meat.) I hung it on the steelyards, but before I had weighed it he piped again: "Que de me siete reales." That meant that he wanted seven reals. The amount was correct, and I handed him the money. He fairly ran with it to get away from one who said things he did n't under- stand, and then cuffed him. In ten minutes he wailed again at the door. "Que de me la tapa!" In his haste he had left behind a precious yard of cotton cloth in which the meat had been wrapped. I gave it to him and he ran again. It was the last time I saw him. For three days I looked for him by the pig pen, then I asked Luis where he was. " Gone, Senor," he replied. "WTiere?" "Over there, Senor," pointing vaguely toward San Sebastian. "WTiy have they gone?" Luis shrugged his shoulders. "Pues, quien sabe, Senor?" R. P. Utter, '98. 183 TRIPOLI {The Lloyd McKim Garrison Prize Poem) The laws of God are iron, The ways of God are clear, Who murdereth shall pay with death, Who thieves shall pay with fear; Not in a red hereafter, But now, our sins we sell; And they who steal, on earth shall feel The punishment of hell. The theft is done, the city won, And all along the sleeping sea, Above the heat of court and street, Flutters the flag of Italy. Her music blares across the squares. Her battleships at anchor lie. Her ancient pride shouts far and wide — Imperial Rome shall never die! The theft is done — but just begun The certain punishment of fate; Think not to boast a conquered coast Because the nations smile and wait! The Moslem sleeps, but still he keeps The law he dares not disobey. And he shall wake. For Allah's sake Mohammed bids him rise and slay! Along the sea of Barbary The veiled Senussi's word shall run; Beyond the wall your men shall fall Silently, suddenly, one by one; Grim death shall stand at each right hand And flaming fever touch your brave; The desert-sea to you shall be An indistinguishable grave. 184 The laws of God are iron, The ways of God are clear, Your trading-men shall sicken then, Your troopers disappear; The sea shall choke your divers, Your glory shall be dust; For every day on earth we pay The price of broken trust. F. L. Allen, '12. ETTca IlTepoevTa — WIRELESS MESSAGES Brothers we are to the wind — Yet we go where the wind would die; Brothers we are to the snow That whispers adown the sky ; Brothers we are to the clouds — But their swiftness to ours is naught; Children we are of men — We are the wings of thought! We slip betwTxt the continents. We pour across the world; Swifter than meteor's hot-breathed rush, Or bolted lightning hurled; High, high above the shrunken earth We soar and float and glide, Whispering down the truths of men To listeners far and wide. When blue skies arch a purple sea With southern breezes warm; When waves run high and thundering, Foam-lashed beneath the storm — When stars burn clear on snow-clad hills, Or brilHant lightnings fall — Still, still we hasten ever on. Before our maker's call. 185 Sweet women hear our word of hope, And dry their tear-stained eyes; Like Sleep and Death, with light-blown breath. We whisper, when one dies; Far-flo^Ti, we bear the tale of war, The trumpet's gathering blast; Yet the song of peace we never cease To sing, when wars are past. Brothers we are to the night — Falling, again we rise; Brothers we are to the whirlwind That blasts and sweeps the skies; Brothers we are to the dawn — Swift to the sky it springs; Children we are of destiny — We whisper the truth it brings! C. P, Aiken, 'ii. THE RECLUSE Kneel beneath the marble dome, Era Ilario ! Where unholy thoughts of home Ne'er may stray and ne'er may find thee. Sink the sin-stained world behind thee, Let thy sacred promise bind thee, Fra Ilario! 'Neath the Virgin's gilded altar Era Ilario ! Pray with lips that never falter, 'Neath the Church's golden treasure Vow denial to worldly pleasure — Seven years of silence measure, Fra Ilario ! i86 Far from men whom God made brothers, Fra Ilario ! Far from God whom priesthood smothers, Pray lest thy deep meditation, Crushing human aspiration, Sink thee in divine stagnation, Fra Ilario ! Rudolph Altrocchi, 'o8. PRAYER Send us a scorching sun; Send us a stinging rain; Give us this day our daily bread, Yet keep us humble, heart and head; Grant us o\ir daily pain. Henry Gary, 'go. THEIR LOT (to j. m. g.) Ten men set sail on Easter Day From Dover to Calais Against the channel's choppy might The transport nosed its way. From Essex and its yellow fields These brawny fighters came, In each the spirit of a child Belied a warrior's frame. Ten days have passed, the battle's rack Has left the chamel pen, In twisted shapes, dread forms they lie, All of that glorious ten. For six are counted with the slain, And two are all but dead, Seared, blasted forms that move and sob, Which all that see must dread. 187 And two have lost the day's blest light, And creep with sightless ken — The gate is locked, the key is lost, For these who once were men. What power dares to sacrifice These souls to human hate? May mortals ruthlessly destroy What man may not create? J. Gazzam, '17. BY THE FLARE OF THE NORTHERN LIGHTS In the frozen silent Arctic, Where the Great Cold rules in might, Where the day is ice-blue whiteness From the snowfield's blinding light; Where the night is frozen stillness, And the cold stars twinkling gleam, And the frosty skies are lurid With the Northern lights astream; Violet, blue and yellow. Copper and rose — they glow, Flickermg, ghostly, flaring, Silent, they come and go. Weird, and dim, and haunting. They gleam on the ice-packed range, 'Til the gaunt ice-crags and ledges, Flare, and color, and change. There — in that endless silence, At rest — forevermore, There sleeps a band of the vanguard, Who trailed to the Northern shore. 188 They sleep through the frozen darkness, While the stars watch overhead, And the streamers flame in the heavens, Sapphire, copper and red. No earthly care shall harm them, They shall rest, while the world grows old, For their guardian Spirit watches, The pitiless Northern Cold. At rest — with the stars above them, In the silent, long, long nights. We'll leave them there in God's ovm care And the flare of the Northern lights. W. C. Sanger, jr., 'i6. CHILDREN'S LAND Come where the children play, There shall you know Dreams of another day. Long, long ago; When in the Golden Land Likewise you played, And on the Magic Sand Joyously strayed. Oft from your present road, Dreaming — you glance Back to the old abode. As in a trance, And in your longing eyes Softly the tears Tell you that bygone ties Hold — through the years. Come to the Land of Dreams, Memory Land; Warmly the sunshine gleams; Forest and sand, 189 Orchard and shady grove, Hillside and plain, Call to their early love, Come back again. City and harbor vast, Tideway and rail, Call you to turn at last Back to the trail. There in the misty light. Tower and wall, City of wondrous height — Hark to its call. So to the Land of Spring Youthful and fair; Come — it will surely bring Rest from all care. Bright is the Magic Sand, City and Plain, Come to the Children's Land, Dream — once again. W. C. Sanger, jr., 'i6. THE JAP DOLL Look, matte, look, there a-tween the shrouds f Catch the glint Tian Sun. George W. Gray, '12. A LITANY Our songs have lost the lilt of youth. We have not w^on the peace of age; We seek, but dare not find the truth. Nor face tomorrow's heritage. A heritage of squandered wealth. In land and lives, in heart and soul; A nation flushed mth fever-health Mole-groping for a hidden goal. 21^ From naked living growing blind, Wind-driven by each idle pen ; We drift — yet, hopeful of our kind, We hold the dream that made us men. Send Thou a prophet robed in fire To wield the whip of urgent need, To guard the port of our desire. To weigh the worth of Christ and creed! Send Thou a prophet tongued with flame To scourge our ancient self-content; Our souls have felt the dawn of shame, Send, Thou, and teach us to repent! Harold Trowbridge Pulsifer, 'ii, THE ACOLYTE My body is a sacred thing, A shrine of flesh and bone. Wherein the dear God comes to sing The songs I call my own. My spirit burns with limpid flame, I pray with blinded eyes, Unknowingly I chant the name That is all Paradise. I am the silent-footed priest, The temple and the bell — A star within the blazing East That out of Heaven fell. I am the star-born morning light That pales beside the sun — I cannot see the blessed sight Since God and I are one! Harold Trowbridge Pulsifer, 'ii, 216 usQUEQuo do:mine ? I FOLLOW when the blossoms call To where the mountain-shadows shake In silence over Como's lake; WTiere vines make sweet the yellow wall, To lie through lingering afternoons Of lily-sweet Lethean days, And watch the soft ensilvering haze, All drowsy on the dim lagoons; Or in the storied Apennines, Shrouded in summer glooms, to trace Some tower's scattered stones, to pace Some antique sacristy of pines. Not yet, and still not yet, dear Lord? Must the cold sun forever set In civic haze — forever yet And for long waiting no reward? Van Wyck Brooks, 'o8. LECTURES A BOY sat on the end of the long bench outside the Dean's office, twiddling his thumbs and listen- ing expectantly for the periodic "come" sounding behind him. Finally the Dean's door opened and the previous delinquent came out. The Dean re- ceived the newcomer very cordially, went over with him his attendance record in the book of fates, ad- monished him to do better and ushered him out with the remark : "If you were in a business house this number of absences would mean dismissal, and you must con- sider your college work as seriously as business." The boy walked briskly over to his eleven o'clock, opened his notebook and waited for the professor to begin. At the end of the hour he took the notes 217 to his room and compared them with a passage in the professor's book. "The old man forgot one thing this year," was his mental comment; and then he sat smoking through the next lecture, trying to think what was the businesslike thing to do. There are a few men in the United States who can make twelve good speeches a week. There is hardly another body of men who could keep up so good an average for such a tremendous volume of speech-making as the lecturers in Harvard Univer- sity. It hardly seems fair to have these men say over year after year, not the facts or ideas that they themselves have discovered or thought out, but a series of facts the greater part of which are in any encyclopedia. A professor who should give to his class the maximum number of dates and events or chemical formulae in a fifty-minute period and nothing more, might just as well be a talking ma- chine; might better be a book. His personality counts for nothing. His originality has no oppor- tunity, and his individuality is smothered. If the lecturer's duty is to give out a given quan- tity of information in a given time, no business man ever performed his task with more conscientious exactness than do some of the lecturers in Harvard College. If the work of the students is to get this information in a businesslike way, most of them may likewise be credited with a good performance. They find the most accessible list of these facts and learn them. In some courses the most accessible list is their own lecture notes; in others the professor's book or possibly printed notes (either for the cur- rent or the previous year). It is but natural that these embryo business men should take the shortest route to their goal. By letting other people do their work they can, of course, save time; but in this case, they do not reach the goal, although they often believe that they do. 218 "But," it is objected, "such criticism of the pres- ent lecture system is unfair. Take for one example the work of Professor James. There is no doubt that his personality and individuality are strong in every lecture." True enough. We all know it and take pride in it. But because it exists simultaneously with and under the present system does not prove that it exists because of the present system. It exists, rather, in spite of the present system. Harvard professors Vv^e have always considered as more than ordinarily learned men. Yet many of them are doing work w^ll within the abilities of mediocre scholars. No other modern industry keeps its capable men at the necessary but mechanical jobs. Why should we not allow the instructors, with the aid of books, to see that the students master the list of facts, even as the less important workers in any other ^industry with the aid of machinery do the bulk of the rougher preliminary work? With this foundation prepared, the lecturers could build great things. They would have an opportunity to use those qualities of mind which raised them from the ranks. The students of Harvard College would never hear a lecture which was not prompted by thought (as distinct from memory) and which was not calculated to inspire — or at least to afford op- portunity for — a like quality in them. They could have access to the qualities which differentiate these professors from mere collectors of facts and formulae. The advantage of the personal element, which they now miss three times a week, they could have in reality then at least once in that period, for it is the contact with a man's mind, and not with his mem- ory, which is instructive. Our present method seems but a wasteful one, for we have our best men doing work which others could do just as well. If w^e had the instructors to do what they are capable of doing — making the stu- 219 dents learn the facts; and had their work reduced within the Hmits of human possibility — for but a few men can make three good speeches a week on three or four different aspects of a subject — then we should be conducting college work on a business- like basis. We should be getting better results from the students and therefore better results from the faculty. This is the forward step which President Woodrow Wilson has made at Princeton. There are some courses in Harvard College run partially in this way, and some to which this system w^ould not apply. Yet there are many of our courses which would be infinitely more profitable under such a system. A. Page, '05. THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN In a literal sense, a citizen is one who owes alle- giance to his government and, reciprocally, is en- titled to protection from it. In our own country, such allegiance comprises the duty and the right of the male citizen to vote at the polls, to fight — if called upon — in war, and of all citizens to pay taxes as legally assessed, and to obey the statutes. In that restrictive sense, the government of the United States accords citizenship to many millions. But in the larger sense, a citizen is one who owes to his fellow country men all public service of his special capacity and, reciprocally, is entitled to opportunity from public opinion to perform such service. That special capacity will chiefly depend on his vocation in the community. In this larger sense, public opinion in the United States recognizes men and women of special capacity in numerous vocations as "leading citizens," or ''public servants. . . ." 220 Considering, therefore, the extraordinary public influence, for good or for evil, inherent in the dramatist's profession, is it not pertinent — is it not timely — to inquire into the attitude of public opinion toward the drama, with a view to ascertain- ing what standards of responsibility and efficiency, if any, determine the dramatist's practice of his profession? First, then, how far does pubhc opinion realize the extraordinary public influence, for good or for evil, of the dramatist's profession? Secondly, how far is public opinion ready to accord to the dramatist's profession equal oppor- tunities with other professions of leadership? Thoroughgoing answers to these questions would account, I think, for the status and standards of the dramatist's profession in our country today. In the present paper I can but suggest a few paths of thought, which I hope may lead others far better qualified than I to detect and marshal the signifi- cances of a subject among the most neglected and important of our time. "Neglected " — a neglected subject? Have I not made a questionable assertion? Is there a single other subject which consumes as much wood- pulp per annum in the columns of our new^spapers as the subject of the theater? Is there a single other denizen of the side-fences — not excepting Sapolio — as ubiquitous as the play poster? Into the Pullman windows of the Sunset Limited, it cries aloud from the wilderness. Even the indigent ash barrel shares its fame. WTierever two and two are gathered together, the topic of the theater is the very ointment and Omega Oil of conversation. Is, then, the subject of the drama neglected? In one sense, no; decidedly no. The drama, as a social and commercial fact, is everywhere super- ficially discussed. But the meaning of the drama as a contemporaneous civic force is rarely imagined or 221 considered. Plays and players, as wares of the thea- ter, are wonderfully advertised; but the theater itself, as perhaps the mightiest potentiality for civic enlightenment and education in America, is almost nowhere studied and criticised |with a view to its higher status as an institution. Its actual status is simply accepted as inevitable, and all discussions of the problems and progress of the drama are di- rected toward what the drama can do under the circumstances. There is no concerted rational plan to change the circumstances themselves for the better. Consequently, from decade to decade, this or that player or dramatist, or theatrical producer, according to his special efforts, is the object of praise or blame from public opinion, while the basic commercial conditions of the institution, which has brought player and dramatist and theatrical producer into being, are simply ignored. Under these circumstances, of course, progress in the drama is limited to the basic conditions of the theater as an institution of private speculative business. Now an institution of speculative business is not the same thing as an institution of civic enlighten- ment. That platitude has been rammed home for American citizens to their cost, in cases of more than one great business enterprise gone awry, as witness the insurance investigations. That same platitude is being ignored by American citizens in the case of the theater, but with this important difference: Intelligent investigation of the insurance companies revealed pernicious conditions which touched only the vest-pockets of the people. Intelligent investiga- tion of the theaters will reveal pernicious conditions which strike deeper — into the very hearts and minds and souls of the people. Again, have I made a questionable assertion? Or am I, contrary to your probable opinion of me, about to wield the proverbial muckrake in a new barnyard? Neither, I assure you. Do I, then, 222 mean that the controllers of the theaters in America are shamefully abusing a public trust? Not at all. They have received no public trust. They have no such thing to abuse. Do I allude, then, to militant business combinations in the theater? — to Syndi- cates and Anti-S>Tidicates? No, still less, for these are of very little importance to our subject. Still, I have alluded to "pernicious conditions" in the theater: to what conditions, then, do I refer? In Le^ds Carroll's ''Through the Looking Glass," Alice desires to reach a particular vie^\point on a distant hill. But every time she attempts to make toward it, she walks instead into her owa doorway. Therefore, explains the author, "she thought she would try the plan of walking in the opposite di- rection. It succeeded beautifully. She had not been walking a minute before she found herself in full sight of the hill she had been so long aiming at." To reach my particular viewpoint, I also will re- sort to this looking-glass method, in hopes of reach- ing — by a process of reversal — the desirable hill- top, with a bird's-eye \dew of my meaning. Review^g the present theatrical situation, it seems but yesterday that we in America were walk- ing in medieval darkness and superstition. Let us, for a moment, briefly set forth the status of the thea- ter in our countr}" today, that we may compare it, in recollection, with the status of yesterday. In the first place, today in every important city of the land there is erected, at a convenient central point in the community, an ample and beautiful building, capable of seating an appropriate pro- portion of the population. This building, by the simple grandeur of its architecture, is seen at first glance to be the permanent home of a vital ci\dc institution: an institution vital not merely to chang- ing seasons of a cult of playgoers, but to the con- tinuous generations of citizens. This is inmiediately evident to the casual observer by the fact that the 223 only other public buildings comparable to it, in solemnity and permanence of design, are the Court House and the City Hall (or Capitol), with which it is architecturally grouped. This municipal building is the Theater; not Jones' theater, nor Rosenbaum's, nor Robinson's, but the Theater; the house of the conscious life of a free community. Here, foremost, are focused the highest efforts of all artists. Here, in visible symbol for the thronging people, the sculptor has recorded in stone and bronze the noblest traditions of the people's life: their civic leaders, among whom are seen, harmonious, their statesmen, their artists, their soldiers, their scientific inventors and philoso- phers — the liberators of men, gazing on whose perennial forms the meanest of the crowd at their pedestals may hope one day so to be beautifully recorded. Here the artist painter, collaborating with the dramatist in a new technique, devotes his crafts- manship to the creation of new stage-settings, up- building fresh traditions in his art by permanent masterpieces, beside which the bric-a-brac wings and drops of yesterday show like the ephemeral make- shifts of children; here, too, he competes with his fellow artists for the honor of executing the perma- nent frescos, which add a lighter loveliness to the solemn spans of the auditorium. Here the musical composer correlates his special art with that of the painter, and subordinates it to the objects of dramaturgy. Here the dramatist, the focal artist of this focal art of the community, competes with his fellow dramatists in executing, for the selective approval of his peers, dramas which shall most splendidly express, by passion, imagination, beauty and delight, the vital significances of the people's history — past, present and prophetic. Here the actor, disciplined in the old and new tra- ditions of the play, chosen by competition with his fellow actors, by standards of native insight, ex- 224 perience, adaptability, excellence in movement, pantomime, gesture, eloquence, speech — embodies the passion, imagination, beauty and delight of the dramatist's conceptions. Here other technicians in arts which yesterday were latent or unconceived — the masker, the tapi- cer, the leader of pantomime and dance, the master of lights and disappearances — ply their expert crafts, like practiced members of an orchestra, under the viewless baton of the theatrical director. Here, most of all — the object and the instigator of these combined efforts of artists — the audience holds its civic ritual. Is it not strange that, for more than two thousand years, the communal desire of occidental peoples should have dispersed itself in factions, and found no single harmonizing instrument to express itself, until — in the evolution of the American democracy — the theater once more, as in ancient Greece, ex- pressed the oneness in vdll and character of a nation? But at last in America, in the twentieth century, when the church had long since become moribund, split by many sects and schisms, and essentially unadapted to express the unity and variety of na- tional consciousness, and while the national con- sciousness of the democracy itself was becoming enlarged and uplifted by an unprecedented impulse of civic pride and regeneration — the true potential- ities of the theater, long dormant, were realized by the leaders of public opinion. These leaders then perceived that in the nature of the drama itself there lay ready to their hands a form and t^pe of expression adapted to harmonize religious impulse with civic growth; to give to na- tional progress vital and visible symbols. But these leadeis also perceived that this potentiality of the drama could never be realized until the theater, the drama's communal instrument, should be dedi- 225 cated to public, not private ends. This light was slow to break upon the minds of those leaders. When at last, however, its full meaning dawned, then — almost as with the passing of night — there was commenced, quietly, unostentatiously, inevita- bly, that reformation in the status of the playhouse which has converted our theaters into cathedrals of communal delight and our dramas into rituals of civic aspiration. Now in reality the theaters belong to the people. In some instances wealthy citizens of the com- monwealth have presented to the city the building, with a maintenance fund in perpetuity, and so per- petuated their own fame, like that of Rufus Hol- conius of Pompeii, whose beneficent gift of a theater to his city has conserved his name in the ashes of two thousand years. In other instances, the munici- pality itself — through channels analogous co those of the public-school system — has authorized the expenditure of public funds for the building and perpetual endowment of its theater. In still other cases, significant organizations of leading citizens — such as the National Institute of Arts and Letters — have stood sponsors for raising and establishing the needful foundation fund. In all cases the public theaters — being established for the civic welfare of their communities — have been safeguarded by re- liable and perennial trusteeships. For occasions of dramatic performances (which regularly occur four or five nights in the week) seats are provided — sometimes gratis, sometimes for a nominal sum — through a special ofiice, whose function is the equitable distribution of seats. Thus endeth the tale clipped from Tomorrow evening's Comet. (The tails of comets are prover- bially nebulous.) I wonder whether tomorrow's newspaper — like tomorrow — never comes! But now, having by these meteoric methods alighted on our looking-glass hill, we may sit down 226 and look back upon the two questions which sent us forth. First, how far does pubHc opinion realize the ex- traordinary public influence, for good or for evil, of the dramatist's profession? I think the answer has been suggested. Either public opinion realizes little or nothing of that vast influence, or public opinion is inexcusably remiss in failing to direct that influence into the channels of civic welfare. Of this alternative we must certainly assume the former to be true. Public opinion does not realize the vast scope and significance of the dramatist's profession as a civic influence. There- fore it has become one of the important responsi- bilities of the dramatist as citizen to help enlighten public opinion with regard to the fitting status of his profession. And this leads to our second ques- tion: How far is public opinion ready to accord to the dramatist's profession equal opportunities with other professions of leadership? The conomercial experts of the theater are right when they say that the theater, as an institution, is what you make it. They are not concerned by self- interest, however, to inform you that, if you will take the trouble, you can m.ake it a very different and a better institution. For obvious and sensible rea- sons, the commercial experts themselves will not take the trouble. If you expect that, you will wait forever and deserv-e to wait. In fact, you have been waiting, and doing little else. That is the dead- lock in the drama's progress. But if you yAW take the trouble to analyze theatrical conditions dis- passionately, you will see that the first step necessary to permanently establish the dramatic profession on a basis of civic dignity and usefulness, is to change the logical incentives of the profession: to change its prime incentive from one of private speculation for personal profit to one of public service for the 227 highest reward of citizenship — the honor of wise men. Public opinion has accorded this wiser incentive to other professions. Why does public opinion with- hold it from the profession of the dramatist? Perhaps because the dramatist's profession is it- self a factor in creating public opinion opposed to its own higher interests. For its own survival, it must needs exemplify attributes which conduce to a low opinion of its nature. A more fundamental reason for the lethargy of public opinion toward the drama is that this is an inherited tendency of Anglo-Saxon communities. There is yet a third potent reason which is em- bodied in the old adage: ''What is everybody's business is nobody's business." Everywhere it is everybody's business to seek enjoyment; in the theater it appears to be nobody's business to show them how to do so, to their owti best advantage. Yet it is precisely this "Nobody's Business" which is undertaken, with organized system, by our universities, art schools, medical colleges, churches, cHnics, public schools; and for this ''Nobody's Business" hundreds of millions of dollars are donated in our country, by communities and individuals, as a free gift for the cause of educa- tion: the cause of how to be happy wisely. Is not this equally the legitimate cause of the theater? If so, then where is a single million, as a free gift, for the cause of the theater? The drama is splendidly capable of reconciling the best ideals of the Puritan, the Greek and the Cathedral-builder; of blending — in one lay relig- ion — the service of the state and the service of God. The drama, I say, is capable of doing this, in a thea- ter free to do so ; but the drama is not able to do this, in a theater compelled to do otherwise. We may yet as well begin to realize now — as later it shall be universally realized — that this ques- 228 tion of freedom for the theater is an issue far larger than concerns the theater alone. It is an issue ^ as comprehensive as the relation of art itself to citi- zenship. Is art useful to the state? If so, shall opportunity be accorded for art to perform its highest public service? Shall our artists, as artists, be responsible citizens, or time-servers and hangers-on in the democracy? Shall the stigma of dilettantism be removed from the vocation of the artist, and the stigma of showman's wares from the work of the dramatist? Shall art merely survive by chance, and individual emolument, or shall it be fostered, sus- tained and cherished by the organized will of public opinion? On the other hand, shall our average American citizen continue to be stigmatized as a Goth — and a vandal in imagination and taste? Or shall our leading citizens take forethought and action to raise the aesthetic average of citizenship, as they have already taken steps to raise its average in narrower fields of education? Shall America herself, so long taunted by the Old World for her lack of artists, begin to realize why she lacks artists, and begin to remove natural competition from her fields of culture as assiduously as she removes it from her fields of agriculture? Or shall our crop of artists remain meager and sporadic from ignorant neglect, while our crops of corn and wheat are plowed, sown and protected by masterly intelligence? These are questions, the rational answers to which are planks in the platform of that sane and pro- gressive revolution, which is today deeply at work to extirpate all economic servitude from our body politic. Percy Mackaye, '97. 229 PART IV LOVE " Now you-all better not write many verses on love. Write of something you have had more expe'ience of." — Arthur W. Page, '05, Advocate. Speech of "Advice to Young Editors." WAR IN FLANDERS My lover has gone to Flanders, My lover has gone to war — And left me here To weep and fear, And find my peace no more. For with the hosts in Flanders He laughs and drinks his wine, And sings and sips Of Flemish lips, But thinks no more of mine. My lover has gone to Flanders, And cried out as he went, "Ah, pity me To go from thee To war's grim banishment!" Oh, warring hosts in Flanders, That fight and drink your wine. What wound of sword Or bioken word Is half so deep as mine? Hermann Hagedorn, jr., '05. JEALOUSY How Botticelli could have drawn Slim-fingered you, all saintly eyed! It makes me glad that I was born — And glad that Botticelli died. H. T. P., '00. THE CRAFTY MRS. CARTON Mrs. Carton, I have a surprise for you!" "Pleasant or unpleasant?" "That, like everything else in this vale of tears, depends on the point of view." *'I suppose I may as well be prepared for the worst!" And Mrs. Carton smoothed back her soft gray hair with a pensive rise of the eyebrows. '*I'm engaged!" suddenly remarked Sally, with a rush and a blush. ''You needn't tell me to whom," answered her chaperon, by way of congratulation. ''Now don't be disagreeable when you can be so nice. If / could make people happy simply by pat- ting them with dimply white little hands, why I 'd do so to everybody, including even disobedient, frivolous, altogether unworthy young females. Now won't you pat me?" Sally put her hand pleadingly on Mrs. Carton's knee. Miss Norton was a New Orleans belle, and such are difficult to resist (others knew this besides the long-suffering Mrs. Carton). So the end had come. "Heaven alone knows why I submitted to the proposition of guiding your infant footsteps over Europe. The fact that I am your mother's friend has nothing to do with it. I refused to go to Bar Harbor with my own nieces, who have n't your — hum — New Orleans nanner, and I 'm considered a wise woman, which is saying a good deal in Boston. But Sally, my siren, your beaux yeux were^ too much for me, and I've regretted it ever since. How can I enjoy the works of one Sandro Botti- celli when I'm haunted by the thought of you and an indigent Italian count, loitering a room or two behind? How can I delight in Bartet at the Comedie when you and a titled Russian are flirting with the slow, steady hum of two amorous bumblebees? And here Devonshire is ruined for me by the suc- cessful machinations of an English baronet! How can I go home and look your mother in the eye?" "Dear Mrs. Carton," murmured Sally, "it'll be so charming for you to visit me at Northcote Hall. Just think!" "I am thinking! He's old." 234 **Just forty. He's merely beginning to mellow, that's all." "Bah! He dyes his mustache ! " ''I'm thankful it is n't his hair." ''He's the kind of man that sulks through an entire dinner if the soup 's cold, and makes the first day of every month like a breath from the lower regions." "But," observed Sally, arranging her bangles, "he 's a baronet and 'Lady Northcote' sounds too alluring to pass by." " Now if you really cared, I would n't say a word," continued Mrs. Carton. "But you don't, you only think you do, and you'll live to wish that you'd never been born." "Oh, I admit that I can see him enter the room without feeling weak about the knees, but then I've never met the man who has made me — made me — well, you knovy\" "That's not saying that he doesn't exist, my dear," responded the Uttle old lady sagely. "When the time comes, you'll know. By the way, my nephew is in England. You never met him, did you? Harv^ey Bennett, of New York? I think," she added slowly, "I think I'll write him a good long letter." "We have just an hour before the motor-car comes. It's really half an hour, but Scrimshaw evidently considers anticipation as far, far sweeter than realization. I shall occupy the time in writing to my forthcoming bridesmaids." "Better not tell them his name, Sally." "Why?" "It might save you the trouble of writing new notes later on," chuckled jMts. Carton. "Now run along!" "I don't beheve Camille wall ever bring us to the top of this hill, say rather this mountain." 235 *'Why do you always call the car 'Camille'? I can't see the connection." "Are n't they both French, and of precarious health, and has n't each a dreadful cough? There, just listen to the poor thing. I said we'd never get to the top!" And Sally, like a satisfied Cassandra, settled back in her seat, as the machine slowed up and then stopped with an exhausted sigh. ''What's the matter now, Scrimshaw?" asked Mrs. Carton. "I think she's rather tired, mum." "Well, give her some alcoholic, petrolic stimu- lant, address her softly in her native French, appeal to her sense of responsibility, do so?nething and do it quick!" commanded Sally. "I'm cold and it's six o'clock, and w^e can't spend the night up here on this black hill with sheep for hosts. Think of our rooms at Windermere!" "Something tells me we shall never see those rooms tonight. Our tires are gashed," said Mrs. Carton mournfully. "What?" exclaimed Sally. "How do you know? They're not, are they. Scrimshaw?" "I felt them go pop. Yes, that's right, get out and look at them, Scrimshaw," said Mrs. Carton in some haste. "No, Sally, there's no necessity for you too. It's so — damp." "You're right, mum," came a voice from below. "Both clean gone. We'll not reach Windermere tonight." "What shall we do?" wailed Sally. "I thought tires always went off with a terrific bang." "Not always," said Mrs. Carton easily, "do they, Scrimshaw? Dear me, the situation is a trifle strained, is n't it? Alone, on a bleak Cumberland moor, at least five miles from Allston! That's the nearest town, is n't it. Scrimshaw? And night com- ing on! Far, far from Windermere — and they say the inn at Allston is unendurable, don't they, 236 Sciimshav/? We certainly are in a bad way. What shall we do?" ''Scrimshaw, go and walk to Allston and get a horse to tow us in." ''What! And leave us here at the mercy of every passing brigand? Sally, I am surprised and grieved!" "Well, we have n't a thing to eat, except marrons glacis, and they are n't exactly the very thing for arctic expeditions, which this seems to be. It's getting colder and colder," shivered Sally from the depths of her motor-coat. "Scrimshaw, why don't you do something? Sitting there \\*ith a grin won't help us any!" The plump and devoted chauffeur started to speak, but Mrs. Carton laid an unseen and restrain- ing hand upon his arm. "My dear," she said, turning to Sally, "he can't manufacture new tires out of rain ; surely your edu- cation has taught you that! And you wouldn't have an extra tire or two on the car, you said it spoiled the general chic. There's nothing to do but sit still and await some kindly disposed passer- by." "Mrs. Carton, I never knew you so resigned to fate. WTiat's the matter?" Then suddenly, "Listen!" Far from below, in the mist and dark of the road beneath them, came an unmistakable sound, the chug-chug of a car. "The road 's not so deserted after all," remarked Mrs. Carton placidly. "But they may refuse to stop," breathed Sally. "Oh, I think they will." The sound came nearer and nearer. Finally the machine turned a sharp curve and they saw it at last, a big red Mercedes, containing a single figure, the driver swathed in rubber and fast-goggled. He stopped just behind the ladies, and, dismounting, 237 came up to offer his assistance. Mrs. Carton raised her veil to reply, and Sally was startled by the for- ward rush of their rescuer. "Why, it's Aunt Ruth!" he exclaimed, and seized Mrs. Carton's hands over the mud-guard. ''Why, Harvey!" she cried with the greatest sur- prise. ''You here? How very, very fortunate! Allow me to present my nephew, Sally — Miss Norton, of New Orleans, you know, wdth whom I'm traveling. How lucky you happened to come by! Why did n't you write me you w^ere up here?" "I'm very glad I am here," he answered. "Your tires gone? Better get into my car and I'll send someone back from Allston to bring along your car and the chauffeur. We'll make Windermere to- night without any trouble at all. May I help you out, Miss Norton?" "You certainly are the deus ex machina" said Sally to him as they rushed on through the night, down the long heather-covered stretches of hill. "I admire Mrs. Carton's taste in nephews." "Aunt Ruth," he said solemnly, glancing back at the long-dormant figure in the tonneau — "Aunt Ruth is the most capable woman I know. She does n't belong in the twentieth century, Miss Nor- ton. Her field of action should have been medieval Italy, and yet she comes from Boston!" "Poor Mrs. Carton!" He changed the subject abruptly. "I've heard of your engagement. Miss Norton. Allow me to offer my congratulations. I'm glad you're engaged, if you don't mind my saying so. You can have ripping good times with engaged girls — such a perfect understanding, don't you know. So I think our three or four days at Windermere — before I go up to Scotland and you to the west ca- thedrals—well, I think they'll go very pleasantly for me." He was a boyish-looking giant, and Sally had felt 238 tenderly toward boys from her dancing-school days. "I've not been engaged long," she admitted, " and I have n't seen Sir Robert since three months before it happened. Telegrams and letters are very convenient nowadays — when the man 's in Smtzerland on business and the girl's in England on a motor-car. So I'm apt to forget it sometimes. In which case," she finished hurriedly, "a flaw is likely to occur in even a — perfect understanding. Mrs. Carton, wake up — quick — and join in the conversation, and don't be a female dormouse if you possibly can avoid it!" "These five days have meant a lot to me," he said after a pause. "I hope my childish antics have succeeded in amusing you. I have to make the most of my op- portunities, you know. Staid, married ladies have to limit themselves somewhat — even in their desire to see others happy." "I've been an ass!" he said savagely. "I knew I ought to go away three days ago, after w^e'd been out rowing on the lake in the moonlight. But — I could n't — I simply could n't. And now — " "And now?" whispered Sally. Then — ''Oh, do be careful!" she exclaimed. "You cruel man, look where you're going, don't look at me! Why you nearly fricasseed that innocent chicken!" "I can't say what I want to say when I'm driv- ing a car," he answered. "And perhaps it's all for the best," he added, -^dth a queer little laugh. "And so you felt that if conditions remained un- changed you would have to leave?" she asked with- out turning her head. "Yes." Sally gazed at the quaint little houses of Winder- mere. One gabled roof seemed to fascinate her completely. 239 '* You were n't the only one who thought so and — did n't leave," she slowly said. ''Miss Norton — Sally!" "Here we are at the post office. Please stop, I have an errand. You needn't come back, I'm going to walk up to the hotel by myself." An hour later Bennett came up on the veranda of the Belvoir. Mrs. Carton was sitting placidly in a big, cushioned chair, gazing down among the trees and flowers to the lake which twined its silver way among the low encircling hills. Her knitting lay in her lap. "Come and sit down," she commanded. "I haven't seen you by yourself since you've been here. You've neglected me shamefully. Now let's have a good long chat." "I don't want to chat." But he sat down. "You'd better. We're going this afternoon." "Going?" "Yes, Sally wants to. But—" Here Mrs. Car- ton took up her knitting. "But what?" "Sally sent a telegram this morning on her way home with you. And it's to Switzerland — Well, what's the matter now?" "Where is she? Quick!" "What about our good long chat? Of all the un- grateful nephews! But I'm an old woman and I suppose I must retire, unwept, unmourned, to the closet-shelf." Then she added in resigned tones: "I think, young man, you will find her by the sun- dial at the bottom of the garden." E. B. Sheldon, 'o8. 240 "POVERTY IS NO SIN, BUT TWICE AS BAD" {Russian Proverb) Katerine Ivanovna sat on a rude bench at the door of her hut, a miserable affair built of sun- baked bricks; at its back, and supporting it, the north wall of the Samtavro Monastery. Her arms hung loosely at her sides, and the hands, palms out- ward, in an attitude of despair, beat restlessly against her skirt. In front of her the somber valley of the Arag\^a cut its way back through the darkling foothills until it was lost at the base of Kasbek, in the very heart of the frosty Caucasus. Below her at the left lay Mtsket, the ancient capital of Georgia, its hideous dilapidation shrouded in the kindly Uyi- light. Katerine looked beyond it all to the glitter- ing dome of the mountain. But her eyes, seeing, saw not. In mind and body she was too weary to care either for the ugliness or the glory of the world. Her hands beat ceaselessly. Occasionally her head dropped forward only to be lifted again, slowly, painfully. Once or twice she sighed. As she sat there the darkness grew deeper over the foothills; the pearl white of Kasbek flushed to rose. But day or night mattered not to the woman sitting on her rude, wooden bench. Katerine was not even thinking, except as un- bidden pictures moved across her mind. And only one picture occurred again and again, the one of all that she most wanted to forget. She saw a long line of flat rocks flanking the edge of the river, on each a woman kneeling, herself among the number. All were swishing their pieces of linen ceaselessly back and forth in the blue-white river water, or pounding them with stones to dry them. She heard the shrill chatter of those who still had strength to talk, and noted the hopeless faces of the others, those whom toil and misery had crushed into silence. Her own face was one of these. The sun beat pitilessly on all 241 the drooping figures. Occasionally a harsh call or the cries of children came down to them from the half-deserted city. Then, suddenly as it had come, this picture of the day's toil, the pitiless toil that marked all the gray days of the past since her father died, and of the future until Vladimir should come or death merci- fully come to deliver her, this picture faded unbidden and in its place she saw her soldier lover. For the first time a faint smile played over her drawn mouth and she closed her eyes the better to see her picture, A happy face was his, true Russian with its ruddy color and clear blue eyes, its northern stolidity softened by a life in the warm Caucasian sunshine. Katerine almost laughed with pleasure as she noted in her picture the scarlet epaulets lying gallantly on the broad shoulders of his white blouse. The vision was so still and clear that she held out her swollen hands to it and called softly "Vladimir." But then a new face appeared, that of an old man, the village priest whom, as a girl, she had loved next to her own father. There was now no kindly expression in his eyes; he did not join their hands as he had used to do and say ''Saint Vladimir and Saint Katerine bless my two dear children." In- stead he caught his son by the shoulder and pulled him roughly away from her, his eyes glittering with cruelty and greed. Katerine forgot that what she saw was only a vision and jumped forward, hands outstretched, to stop him. Then she remembered and opened her eyes on a world that was almost dark. Only Kasbek stood pale and clear against the sky. She stood a moment, hands still outstretched as though in supplication to the mountain, her friend. Then she turned wearily and groped her way, stumb- ling into the hut. Inside she lighted a piece of tallow candle and set it on the table. She looked for a moment at the hearth with its black kettle hanging from an iron 242 spike at the side, but the fire was out, and shaking her head wearily, she turned away and drew from the cupboard a half loaf of black bread. Then she threw herself on a great bed at one end of the room and began mechanically to break and swallow the hard bread. For some time she lay there, her eyes wandering aimlessly over the bare walls of the room. The dreariness without had driven her in, but the desolation and silence and utter loneliness within bade fair to drive her out again where at least she might have God's bright stars for company. She put her arm about the carved post of the bed and patted it lovingly. It at least was an old friend, the only one she had kept in that dreadful day so many months ago. She remembered it all so vividly; how she had heard unusual noise in the street and had peered fearfully through the curtains of her own dainty room; then how she had thrown herself on her father's body, how they had dragged her away and told her that he had fallen dead on change in Tiflis when the scheme in which he had madly ventured had fallen through. The Jews had it all now. The Jews and Armenians. The fair house in Mtsket, the old pictures, the sacred eikons, the linen and the silver, all were sold, and she, Katerine, the heiress, lived in a hut under the monastery walls and washed clothes in the river to earn her crust of bread. She laid her cheek against the bedpost and thanked God for the one kindly Jew who had paid the price and let her keep it. The Armenians had wanted to take it again and sell it. Many had been the times — today another — when she had wanted to end it all, when the jeers had been unbearable, when her destitution seemed worse than the grave. But she was young and strong, she loved, and the undefined fear of death was always at last more terrible than the definite fear of life. Today she had heard news that filled her cup of happiness to the brim — Vladimir, her 243 soldier lover, was coming home — and then, when trembling she had raised the cup to drink new joy into her shriveled veins, a childhood friend had dashed it from her. '*So, heiress of dreams," she had cried, meeting her on the street, ''your faithful lover wanted your money, not you, and comes home to marry the rich Georgian woman." The silence of the night was accentuated by the ceaseless roar of the river. Again Katerine saw the toiling line of washerwomen. She sat up in an agony of misery. ''Why must I see always this work ahead of me, work stretching into the years when I shall be bent and twisted and have to beg my bread like ragged Anna from door to door? Why now, when Vladimir is coming, must I think only of work? Will he marry the Georgian after all? " Her thoughts reeled. She cried aloud, tearing at her blanket. " No, no, no ! Is not a Russian better than a thousand Georgians? Is he not pledged to me? Am I not fairer?" She caught sight of her coarsened hands, cracked and blistered with the washing and the sun. Chat- tering incoherently she wrapped them in the blanket to hide them from her own frightened view; then, fascinated, and shrieking with mad laughter, she waved them before her eyes. Why had he not come? Her thoughts rushed on, confused, tumultuous. The train from Batum was in hours ago — years, perhaps. The marriage papers with the rich Georgian were being drawn while she lay impotent and poor, miserably poor. Was there no justice? Before God and the Tsar, was there no mercy? She struggled to her feet and began to search the room — for what she knew not clearly, for some- thing to protect herself with, to avenge herself. She passed her hands over the bare walls, and through the empty cupboard. She felt over the table and knocked the candle to the floor. The 244 darkness frenzied her. She fell and lay groveling, mumbling to herself, and clawing at the rough boards. Then the door opened. A man stood framed in the pale night light. "Katerine Ivano'vTia," a voice said, "are you here?" She was clutching the leg of the table and stared only half comprehending at the figure. ''Katerine Ivano\Tia," the voice repeated. Then she found words. "Vladunir Petrovich," she said, ''you are welcome." With a joyous cry the man stepped into the room, but stumbled against the table. "Light," he cried. "This is a strange welcome, Katerine." "Your visit was unexpected," she answered. "I was about to go to bed." She thought of the bare- ness, of her tattered dress and torn hands. "Aren't you glad that I have come?" he ques- tioned. "Have you forgotten me, Katerine, our childhood love?" "Does the earth forget the sun?" she cried. "Do the rivers forget their sources? I long for you as the seed longs for the rain in the spring, Vladi- mir, if" — her voice faltered — "if you return, as you went." "Surely I return as I went," he cried. "A man does not change so much in two years. I am older. I have seen the world, men and women. Why should that make any difference in our love? '' "It should not, dear. I wondered only if you loved me still. You have seen beautiful women, rich women. Am I still the one woman, I, poor and miserable — and ugly? And then, they told me things of you." ''What did they tell you, Katerine? I did not love your money. A boy and girl together do not think of money. You are miserable. I am here to ' make you happy. You are not ugly, for you are 245 young and a Russian. Is that why you fear the light?'' ''Yes, dear, yes," she cried piteously. ''I am afraid. They have mocked me and cursed me and struck me. The sun and the water and the work have burned and bent me. At first I was brave — for you. But later — the tim.e was so long — and it is so hard to be pretty in rags." He growled angrily as a wild animal growls in defense of its mate. He struck a match and held it up. Katerine held her hands before her face, then suddenly remembered how red they were and dropped them. While the match lasted they faced each other. In her excitement and unconscious de- fiance the blood fiamed in the woman's cheeks and her eyes glittered. She saw the same handsome, boyish face and forgot the years and her own wretchedness. Then the light fell and Vladimir caught her in his arms. "You are more beautiful than ever," he whispered. She laughed softly, her cheek against his shoulder. "Now we will have a light," she said. "Now I am not afraid. The candle is under the table. It fell." He groped in the darkness, found the candle and lighted it. Then the two sat down together on the edge of the great bed smiling into each other's eyes. "You are the same," she said softly. "And all the waiting and sorrow and pain is over." She laid a hand in one of his. He took it up and kissed it, but Katerine winced as she saw that he noticed how led and swollen it was. "I have worked so hard," she said apologetically. " I know," he answered. " I know. The beautiful hand that was once so soft and white." He kissed it again, but very lightly, almost coldly, it seemed to her. Then he put it back in her lap. "You do not like my hands because they are blistered with the washmg?" she questioned timidly. 246 "Oh, yes," he said, and laughed, but she noticed that he did not look at them again. There was a long silence. ''Tell me about your travels," she said wistfully. ''Father was going to take me to Rostov, and Mos- cow, and Petersburg. But he died, and now I do not even go to Tiflis." "Lly travels are not interesting," he answered shortly. "Just the usual soldier's life in barracks at Yalta and Sevastopol. Why don't you go to Tiflis?" There was a sharpness in the question that startled her. "I don't know," she faltered. "I have no money for the train. It is too far to walk. And then I don't want to go. The silver- workers would not show me their buckles any more — they are Armenians you know, and father owed them money — and the police would turn me from the shops because I am ragged and they would think I was there to steal. And then people used to know me in Tiflis, and Madame Richter at the Hotel de Londres always saved hei best chicken for me and gave me he^ sweetest wine — but now — " She shiv- ered and drew closei. "You are not listening, Vladimir. Are you sad? You do not speak to me. Let us rather talk of happy things. Will our wedding be soon?" She got up and drew a box from under the bed. "See," she went on, opening it, "I have still a pretty dress, white, w^th red Circassian em- broidery. And I saved all my kopecks to get a bridal crown. I only bought it yesterday. Is n't it beautiful?" She laid the gay headdress on his knees and leaned back to watch his pleasure. But Vladimir tossed the crowTi aside and stood up suddenly. Katerine watched him with frightened eyes, all the joy draining away from her face. "We can't be married now," he said hoarsely; "at least not right away. I may be drafted for this new war in the East. I have no work and your money 247 is gone. We must wait, girl. You love me and I love you, but we must wait." "Your father will marry us," she continued dully as though she had not heard. "And then we will live in the little house by the Cathedral, and — " "I tell you, Katerine, it is impossible," he broke in. "We must not ruin our lives." "Ruin our lives." She echoed the words, hardly comprehending the thought. Then she laughed shrilly and in bitter mockery. "Ruin our lives! Oh! What is there to ruin — for me?" Again she laughed, then went on suddenly. "Is it my hands? They are not white any more, but it was all for you, Vladimir, all to save money for the bridal crown. And they will grow white again, indeed they will, dear." "Don't be absurd," he cried. "Poverty is al- ways rough-handed. And are you not poor?" He glanced contemptuously over the bare walls. She cowered before him, her body cringing as though expecting a blow. They stared at each other, Katerine only piteous now, Vladimir defiant but w^avering between his love for her and his fear of poverty. Without warning, the door burst open and the village priest strode into the room. He looked sharply at them, then bowed low and crossed him- self before the holy eikon. "You here?" he said sternly to his son. " I was searching for you." Then to Katerine, "God bless you, daughter." He seated himself on the one chair of the room and motioned them to sit before him on the bed. For a moment there was breathless silence. "You kept your old bed, I see, Katerine," the old man said at last. "It was said that your father fell into the hands of evil men. Do you miss your old home?" "I work," she answered. "I know, daughter," he said. "You have taken 248 up the struggle of life bravely. Many would have given up and died — or worse. In the day of trouble you remembered my teaching." "You gave me no help," she said bitterly. "I worked for love of your son." The priest winced. Vladimir listened stolidly, looking from one to the other. ''You chose to live far from the town," the old man said apologetically. "The hill is steep for my old limbs and I knew you had the holy monks to comfort you and counsel you. The parish is too poor and I must work hard to collect the tithes that I may live and lay by a little money for my children. But I have sorrowed for you, daughter, and I sor- row for you now if you thought my son could help you. He, too, is poor and has no money for you." "Money!" she cried. "Money! Am I a beggar? I wanted sympathy, just one word of comfort, one little word from a friend — and you say you have no money. What do I care for your pitiful earnings or Vladimir's? All I ask of him is love. If he were the general in Tiflis I should not ask for money. Will it cost him to love me still? When we were chil- dren we loved and we promised to marry. Am I asking for his money or yours when I ask him to remember his promises?" "You were never betrothed, daughter," the priest interposed. "You have no claim on my son. He is poor. He is a soldier of God and the Tsar. He shall not ruin his life nor give up his holy calling from anj) mistaken sense of duty bound up in childish prom- ises." "I do not ask him to give up his profession," she cried. "I only ask for his love in return for mine that I have given so freely — and would you, a priest of the Church, call a promise less sacred be- cause not made before a crowd of smirking wit nesses? If I were still rich, would you say the prom- 249 ise was not binding? No, a thousand times no! But I am poor and you are greedy. Forget my pov- erty and think for once of the happiness of your son. I will work for him, slave for him. I will make his home the happiest in Mtsket, because it will be a house of love. I will send him to the wars with a glad heart, braver and stronger for my devotion. I too am a Russian, and I love my Tsar and my country and my God as he does. Remember that, Father; in the name of the holy saints, remember that." She was pleading for her life now, but her very eagerness hardened the priest's heart. "You mistake," he said harshly. "The call has come tonight for troops in the Orient." Vladimir straightened and Katerine paled. "My son must go with the others, and if you love him would you have him go, poor, unrespected, in his old uniform, his pockets empty? Is not your love — if love it is — big enough to give him up for the sake of his happiness and his country? Would it not be nobler to give him to another who will send him away with a full purse and a heart free from the care lest his wife at home suffer?" Katerine sprang to her feet and stood menacingly before the old priest, her eyes flaming in her drawn face. "The Georgian woman!" she cried, throwing out her arms. "You, a Russian, would marry your son to a Georgian, soulless, rich in the spoils of the poor, famed only for her vicious life, at heart an enemy to Russia. And all for money ! Here — I have saved ten rubles. Let him take them. Sell my bed, my bridal crown, my dress, all, to give him money. Only give him to me and save him from the Georgian woman. Would Vladimir find happiness in the rubles of such a one? Is her faded beauty a recommendation in your old eyes? Look at me. I can still be beautiful. I am young. I can give him children who will be Russians and the joy of their father. He loves me, too. He repeated it to- 250 night. He loves me — and married to another, would not the thought of my lonely wretchedness, of my unloved death, add misery to the thought of coming home to a wife he despised, and fawned on for her money?" The priest put out his hand warningly, but she brushed it aside in the violence of her pleading. Then she fell to her knees and clasped the old man's hands. ^'What have I done?" she protested. " What crime have I committed that you treat me so? I have loved him with a love that will raise him to be the glory of his people. I am poor — yes. But is poverty a crime?" She gazed at him piteously, but his heart was hard. "It is no crime, child," he said, coldly, ''but it is worse. It leads to degradation, moral and physi- cal. It fetters him who would climb, and drags doA\Ti the valiant heart. No love can survive the cruel test of poverty." She leaned far back, her hands high over her head. "You lie!" she shrieked, and the priest started to his feet, drawing away his robe as though he feared pollution. " For the sake of money you lie and try to make your son a liar. Thank God for the day when my want showed you as you are. Thank God, too, that Vladimir loves me and is true." The old man strode to the door and opened it. *'You have cursed the Holy Church in me," he said. "The curses of the Church descend on you in turn. May you fall to the depths of vice and m.ay the saints mock you. Vladimir is a man. He will not be turned by your witch's words." The door slammed. Katerine sank to the floor, sobbing. Vladimir paced back and forth in the room. Katerine grew quieter after a few moments and pulled herself up to her knees. She watched him silently and fearfully, conscious of every step he took, conscious of the monotonous roar of the river, conscious of the wind whistling through the cracks 251 of the hut, and yet thinking of only one thing. He was still with her. His love was true. "You should not have spoken harshly to my father," he said at last. **He is an old man and a priest." She laughed. **When the keystone is forced from the dam does the water stay in the lake, or the river dry up when spring melts the snow? For two years I have lived, forsaken and despised. Your father has never once visited me or even sent me a kind word. Lonely, lonely, lonely, I have crushed my thoughts and waited for you. And now at last you are come. Then the priest, my childhood friend, your father, comes to me. And for what? To bless me in my joy? To kiss my cheek in token of the love of Christ? No. To lure away my lover, to taunt me with my poverty. Is it just? Would you have restrained yourself? If I had been struck dead, I must have spoken out." Vladimir listened distractedly. When she stopped, gasping for breath, he repeated obstinately, "You should not have spoken harshly to my father." Katerine rose slowly to her feet and seized his arm, walking up and down with him. He tried to shake her off but she clung desperately. "I was wrong," she pleaded. "I did not know what I said. I was all blazing with love and cold with tenor. I just trusted wholly in you. It was not too deep a trust, was it, dear? You do love me?" "Yes, I love you," he answered. She gave a glad cry. "We will go to your father and I will tell him I am sorry. And then you will marry me? You will never desert me for the Geor- gian?" He stopped in his walk. "My father said I must think of my country and my Tsar first." "But I too am a Russian," she cried. "Love and duty shall go together." "He said," Vladimir continued, "that I must go 252 to the Orient. I cannot go penniless. I cannot take your money and leave you to stance." "I shall not starve," she protested. *'I can work and work happily because it will be to keep me safe for you." '' Perhaps," he went on, unheeding, "perhaps it would be better to marry the Georgian woman, and for me she will help you while I am gone. I will ask her as a marriage favor." Katerine recoiled, pushing him away from her. "You would marry her and ask her to support me," she stammered. "Your father made my poverty a sin. You make it a sport. Better far to be cursed than mocked. Oh, I am calm, Vladimir, because my heart is dead. And this is the end of it all." She smiled faintly. "See how my poor hands are torn because I kept myself pure and slaved for you. And because my hands are thus and I work for your love instead of greeting you in my old, silk-hung parlor, you make a sport of love. If I had sinned the Church would have forgiven, and you, perhaps, if I had come to you v-ith hands full of gold. But my poverty God himself cannot forgive, much less a poor, weak man. Go to your Georgian woman, \ladimir. Take from her the price of your dis- honor and my destruction. March to the wars in your new uniform, and when you are fighting for your country, your Tsar, and your God, think of your foreign -^ife at home, cheating the poor and plotting against the fatherland, and think of me, sometimes, starving, hopeless before the face of a merciless God, Go now, I want to rest. Good-bye." "Katerine," he cried, "you do not understand." The midnight bells in the monastery pealed out and there came stealing softly the sound of the monks at prayer: " God have mercy upon us. God have mercy upon us." He took a step toward her, but she shook her head and held out her hands, motioning him away. 253 " Go," she repeated brokenly. " Go." He took up his cap and stumbled through the door. For a moment Katerine stood there. Then her hands dropped, and shivering, she crept after him. She peered out into the empty blackness of the night. Then, suddenly, she shrieked his name, "Vladimir," but her voice was caught by the wind and carried away. The sound of the chanting mingled with the rush of the river. Again she saw the old, old pic- ture, a line of flat rocks, on each a woman kneeling and swishing her linen in the blue-white river water. Some talked shrilly; others were silent, crushed by poverty and despair. She was one of these. From the monastery chapel the wind caught the last chant of the holy monks: "God have mercy upon us." W. R. Castle, jr., 'oo. POPPIES Barbara Brattle Philip Castle Mary, the maid The scene is a parlor in the Brattle home. Near the window Philip is standing in an attitude of waiting. A cluster of flowers lies on a rosewood table near the door. Enter Barbara, Barbara {extending her hand). — Why, Philip, good afternoon. I am so glad you came. {They shake hands.) Philip. — Thank you, Barbara. I have brought you these flowers. {He hands the flowers to her.) Barbara. — Flowers? Oh, how thoughtful of you. {She takes them.) Philip. — Yes, I picked them myself. Barbara. — I just love poppies. 254 Philip. — I walked hurriedly, but they seem to be fading already. Poppies wilt so soon. Barbara. — Oh, they will be as fresh as ever presently. {She goes to the table near the window and puts the poppies in a vase.) This will revive them. Philip. — Oh, yes, they'll revive; but I want to revive something else, Barbara. Barbara. — Why, what can you mean? Philip. — Do you remember the last time I was here in this room, and the conversation we had? I want to revive that. Barbara. — That's ancient history. I thought the discussion was ended then — the last time. I told you the thing is impossible, impossible to settle now — unless you want it settled definitely and forever. Philip. — That 's a big word, Barbara. Barbara. — Do you want me to say no? Philip. — Never. Barbara. — Then don't make me say anything. Philip, — Very well, we are to go on talking about everything under the stars except ourselves. Barbara. — I'm sure we've talked about our- selves on several occasions. Philip. — Begun to, you'd better say. Barbara {stiffly). — Oh, well! I suppose my preferences — Philip. — There, there, Barbara! — I promise never to — never again ! Barbara. — Never? Philip. — Never. Barbaila.. — Splendid! Then we shall be friends, Philip; just perfect friends. You will enjoy your- self much more then, and your visits will be ever so interesting. Philip. — Very well, as you say. . . . What shall we friends talk about? Jane Addams, or Maude Adams, or H. G. Wells? — I 'm up on all of those sub- jects. 255 Barbara. — Poke fun, will you, Silly? We'll talk on none of them, but about yourself. Tell me what courses you are going to take next year. Is that horrid zoology to continue? Philip. — No. Barbara. — Thank goodness! Perhaps that is a necessary subject, but it's perfectly demoralizing to study it. It makes one so hard-hearted. Philip. — Have you been studying it? Barbara. — Certainly not. But tell me: What is your program for next year? Philip. — Nothing. Barbara. — Nothing? What can you mean? Philip. — I'm finishing this June. I'm getting through college this year. Barbara. — Finishing? — This year? Philip. — Yes. I made it in three years. Barbara. — You never mentioned that before. I thought you 'd be here all next year. Philip. — I get out in June. Barbara. — Then — {She is musingly silent half a minute.) Why — {looking up suddenly) Why, Philip, you have scarcely four months! Philip. — Hardly four months. Mighty short time for this Platonic friendship. Barbara. — I was thinking of that. . . . Where are you going to live, Philip? Philip. — I can't decide. It's a hard thing to settle. Where should I go? Barbara. — This is all very sudden. We had better talk it over. Philip. — Yes, perhaps we had better. Barbara. — Have you decided what you will do? Philip. — Oh, business of some kind, I suppose. One can't settle these questions hastily. Barbara. — We had better talk that over too. Philip. — I might get a job in my uncle's paper mill at East Walpole. Barbara. — What could you do there? 256 Philip. — Oh, I'd be put in the rag-picking de- partment for the first year, and in the second year I'd probably be promoted to the pulp-house. One has to learn the business from the ground up, you know. Barbail\. — Oh, don't try to be foolish. The very idea! — picking rags — Philip. — Well, I 've thought of remaining in Boston. My uncle will give me a chance in the bank, perhaps. Barbara. — Oh, not Boston, Philip! There is that trying Gordon Gainsboro here. I can't endure the same atmosphere that he moves in. Philip. — Then we'll change the atmosphere. There's New York, or even Chicago. Barbara. — Don't decide yet. Let's talk it over. Enter the maid bringing a cluster of carnations which she gives to Barbara. The Maid. — They were to be delivered to you directly, he said. Barbara (rising and taking card she reads). — "Mr. Gordon Gainsboro." Why — (to maid) is he waiting? The Maid. — No. They were delivered. Barbara. — Very well. Put his carnations some- where. Philip (pointing to the vase). — Look there, Bar- bara, the poppies are wilted. Barbara (turning and looking). — Dear me, what can be the matter? (She goes to the table and takes the poppies frofn the vase.) Why, Philip, no wonder! There is n't a drop of water in this vase. (The maid hands her the carnations and takes the dead poppies. She places the carnations in the empty vase.) We will let the carnations fade now. (To the maid, who is going.) Wait, Mary; I'll take the poppies. (She takes them and the maid goes out.) Philip. — Had n't we better go out in the garden? 257 Barbara. — To talk it over? Philip. — Yes, to talk it over. Barbara. — Perhaps we had better. Shall I take these? Philip. — Oh, the poppies? Barbara. — The poppies! {They go out.) George W. Gray, '12. TINTAGEL Queen Iseult sits and spins her idle thread, Queen Iseult sings in the land where she was wed, "Tintagel, Tintagel, how moves the sullen sea?" She sees the sunset sky burn crimson-red Beyond the barren isle where she was bred, ''When will my wandering love come back to me?" Queen Iseult sits and spins her idle thread, Queen Iseult sings in the land where she was wed, ''Sir Tristram, Sir Tristram, the jealous ocean frets!" The sunset sky has long since lost its red, But who is there to tell her he is dead. Sir Tristram tangled in Tintagel's nets? D. MacVeagh, '13. THE PLAYER O MOCK me not with winsome smiles; In vain, in vain your haughtiness; Old-fashioned girl, I scorn your wiles, For they are but caprice, I guess — Yes, they are but your part. Queen Bess. 258 When you were but a romping girl And I a boy who called you "Queen," We lived a dancing, giddy whirl In dreamy regions never seen — And I was king and you were queen. Long sped, fast fled, and far behind: I do not know, for long unrest, How dreams of you have led me blind Through this swiit world of swifter quest — But dreams were good — ah, they are best. Yes, they are best, are best, my heart; And you will count them good, Queen Bess, When life is tired wdth playing a part. And sorrow waits, and restlessness Of nights and days and you, Queen Bess! George W. Gray, '12. OLD LOVE OR NEW? Old love or new? — Old love or new? The spring clear-skied and blossom clad, The autumn melancholy sad; Which is the fairer of the two? Old love or new — which of the two? The sensitive hot love of youth And touch of lips ! Ah what, in truth, Remains of lo^^e when this is through? Sweetheart, trembling is thy hand; Thy cheek is closer pressed to mine. Think'st thou the years true love confine, Time or the running of the sand? 259 Young hearts shall dream, old hearts recall, Though youth in pageants of romance Seek love and win at point of lance, Old s>Tnpathies shall outlive all. Old sympathies — old smiles and tears. The past and all its memories That strike the soul's deep harmonies ! Old love, it knoweth not the years! Old love or new? — Which, sweetheart, say Is truer love? Spare, dear, thy fears. Our love shall deepen with the years As shadows with the close of day. J. Hinckley, 'o6. SONNET I RODE, a stranger in a distant land. And watched the melting of a prospect rare In wondrous loveliness: and none was there Of my own tongue my thoughts to understand. The tender beauty of a sunlit strand Slipped by the window, many hillsides fair Of terraced vineyards; now we shot in air Above a river like a pearly band. Across the way another sat — but we Were not of kindred speech; at length he sought My gaze; our eyes met for a fleeting while. To both of us a sudden sympathy In all our feelings left unsaid was brought — The world-wide understanding of a smile. P. W. Thayer, '14. 260 THE BURMESE SCULPTOR Under a bamboo thatch, in leafy shade — *T is very hot without — he toils away, With ringing cut and mallet's rhythmic play, And a smoke of powdered marble round him sprayed. Clinkety-clink the biting chisel goes — The work is nearly done, save for the face; Pressing his lips, the sculptor leans to trace The smiling mouth, -vvdde eyes, and faultless nose. Silent and placid, now, the thing must squat Like a marble cobbler, peaceful and at ease — Nay, I would swear the fellow 's going to nod! When, flinging aside his chisel, reeking hot, Sudden the sculptor falls upon prone knees In babbling prayer — the image is his god! Conrad Aiken, 'ii. FRIENDS Strong though the wind may blow, He will not break or bend. Stronger than all, I know He is my friend. Dark is the slander and grim, Cunningly shaped and planned; Yet I can tell it to him — He '11 understand. H. NiCKERSON, *II. DAWN IN THE CITY The long, long streets are desolate and blank, The river-wharves beyond loom bleak and gray, Through chilly vistas shining far away With blinded windows the " Orphans' Savings Bank'* Catches the first faint ray 261 Shot from the cloudy dawn, windy and breaking Along the east, along the abandoned goal; Far up the river the solemn whistles roll As if the souls of men from dreams awaking Cried out to the world's soul, As if the hearts of men cried out to man, Here in this breathless moment one at last, In the deep terror before the dawn has passed One soul, sad and alone, under the span Of the terrible, starless vast. And now in the strange fear before the day The unsuccessful harlot's tired feet Echo, strangely vehement, down the dumb street, The sounds of drunken laughter, pathetically gay, Reecho and retreat Between the deserted rows of gaunt, gray houses. And all the world is stiller than the tomb, Only a shutter there in that darkened room Opens, the first, white ray of morning rouses The walls out of their gloom, Showing a few soiled chairs and a faded picture. The corner saloon in the first chill of night Stands out, garish and wind-blown, cold and bright. The arc-light swinging from the black, iron fixture Pales in the growing light. And all the morning in my spiiit, too. Shines like a fiery sunrise, or a cloud Shot through with day, as from a shattered shroud. My soul with the white dawn shot through and through. Rises, singing aloud. 262 Till the new love within me, surging and mad, Yearns toward all human things that here draw breath, The dawn and the gray city underneath. So sordid, so ridiculously sad. But grave with love and death. John Hall Wheelock, 'o8. HUMANITIES Many things are deep and high That have no word for such as I: Thoughts as strong as strong gods are Spring the way from star to star. Would you have my love thus, even Big as earth and big with heaven — So forgetting the sweet days We 've played at loving, different ways? What have gods and stars to do With You love me and / love you ? Many things are deep and high That have no word for such as I. Van Wyck Brooks, 'o8. VISTAS Beyond the dark, -wide sea be the enchanted isles, Beyond the long horizon music calls me — I see it in the sadness and smiling of your eyes, I hear it in the far-off rustling of the sea. sweet lands lost at birth, that we shall never find ! glad life passing by, and things that cannot be 1 1 see it in the sadness and smiling of your eyes, 1 hear it in the far-off rustling of the sea. John Hall Wheelock, 'o8. 263 A THOUGHT Even though I love you dearly, Yet I sign myself sincerely ; If you are an old friend merely Still the letter ends sincerely; Or, perhaps, my arch-foe — nearly, Yet my notes are signed sincerely. Strange why people act so queerly With their dear and yours sincerely! Though Heav'n knows I love you dearly. Believe me ever, Yours sincerely. F. B. Thwing. IBI REQUIESCAT The heat, the strife, the weariness of day, A long-drawn hush, the evening-song, the bell; A moment's pain — the quick relief of tears, A moment's vision of the grave, the sod; A soul upon its unseen, starlit way Where cloud-shapes in the vast stand sentinel. And then thou liest, comrade of the years. Faint, trembling on the bosom of thy God. F. B. Thwing. WITHOUT RHYME She 's as fair as she is fickle. Is my Lady, And she 's very, very fickle. Is my Lady. Yet at heart I cannot blame her, For of suitors she 's a-plenty, And they one and all adore her, For she's fair, as she is fickle, Is my Lady. 264 There is tall and pensive Harry, And there 's fat and jolly Jack, And there's I, the least of any, And the least of any to her. But ne'er the less I love her, For she's fair, though she is fickle — And she's ver}^, very fickle, Is my Lady, T. J. Putnam, '15. THE KENTISH SAILOR While year by year the seas he plies On constant business bent, And never a month but he descries The Severn or the Trent, There follow hun in changing guise Old memories of Kent. WTien the buoy's moans are in his ears, The breaking waves in sight. And round the Goodwin Sands he steers, And heeds the warning light, A sound upon the ^ind he hears That blows ofi Kent at night. And it makes him yearn for the hea\y trees Above the thatch-roof high, And the hop-\ine smell, mixed on the breeze With salt of the sea close by. For the daily toil, and the nightly ease, And the old stars in the sky; For August time, for harvest time, WTien all the hop-fields ring ^ With laughing toil, till even-chime Makes end of harvesting And sets folk reading the sweet rhyme With lovers' whispermg; 265 For the western window where he prayed By his mother's knee, for all The lengthening afternoons he played And watched the shadows fall Slanting across the lawn to shade The peach-bloom covered wall; For the shaded plot where one now dwells Deep in the earth so brown, Nor hears how every evening swells Over the rolling down The sound of golden curfew bells In Canterbury town. D. L. MacVeagh, '13. THE CHARLES AT NIGHT A STAR-LIT night, The wind just right, We drift along, away From noise and light. Till out of sight We lose the fading day. The cold gray stream All 'round, we seem Alone upon the sea, And like a dream That distant gleam A light, for you and me. The darkness blue. Cool breeze, and you Bring joy and sweet content. A beach floats to Our light canoe, And now we 're homeward bent. H. C. Greene, '14. 266 THE MAIDEN AND THE MEADOW I MET a maid upon the way That leads To meads With flowers aglow. And she had decked her bonnet gay With all the fairest flowers that grow Upon a simimer's day. Now I was bent the mead to find WTiere blows The rose, A burning star; So to the maid I low inclined, Then hastened to the field afar And left the maid behind. But plucked I not a flower, I swear, Where sweet Her feet Had lately pressed; And not a flower I saw was fair, For she had gathered all the best That blossom any^^^here. J. A. Macy, '99. CHANSON DU CE.EPUSCULE On moore and hill Song's echoes die, And from the still Blue vault of sky Comes whispering sweep Of swallow's wings — Forget to weep Remembered things! 267 Why sigh and grieve Beloved eyes? On some great eve These saffron skies Must see the sun Fade in the west — On all we won From our brave quest. We may not take Beloved — there, For memory's sake, This golden hair; Each look and smile Must pass from sight — We love awhile, And here — ^^ Good-night I ^^ And when the spring In rapture strews Rich garnering. Her softest dews Shall deck the grass O 'er each fond head, And ere she pass Lament us dead. Thus at Love's close Dreams dearly bought Fade, as the rose. And come to naught; Life's gayest flowers. Her sorrows deep, Her sweetest hours. Lie hushed in sleep ! W. G. Tinckom-Fernandez, 'io. 268 SERENADE Lady of the jasmine ^'indow, And the fragrance of the rose — Know you how the white moon throws Dancing spirits on your 'window, Jasmine, rose-encircled window — WTiile the lulling stars crown nightly Your repose? Love, around your curtained T\^ndow Close the rose and jasmine cling — But your moon-white fingers fling Winderness not from your window, From your dusky, loveless window, To the stars that crown you nightly, As I sing. Lady of the loveless window, Are you dreaming then of me? Aye, then dream — and go ye free To me through the jasmined window, Through the friendly, jasmined -window — While the stars and I watch nightly, Dream of me. Hermann Hagedorn, jr., '07. CHIMES Ring, bells of Christmas, send out swift Your winged intervals of tone; Clear, thrilling messengers of sound That t\^'ine your circling notes around Our senses, which you gently lift To heights they could not gain alone. 269 Bells that trip down, then up, the scale, As children run from the topmost floor At a father's voice, then up again Dragging their father in their train To hear the promised evening tale Of fairies, giants, knights of yore. S. Ervin, 'o8. ESTABLISHING A MOTIVE "Well, did you see father?" inquired Edyth Carrington, as Harold Borden came into the room. "I saw father," answered Harold dejectedly, sinking into a chair. "Well then, what did he say?" Harold waved his hand in despair. "Edyth," he said, "whatever happens, remember that we are engaged!" The girl stamped her foot in her impatience. " Can't you trust me at all? " she cried. "What did father say?" Harold Borden took one of her hands in both of his in the conventional manner. "Sweetheart," he began, "it may be that this will be our last meeting." He cleared his throat and went on. "Your father says that I am not to marry you — not even to call on you — until I can show him that I have earned ten thousand dollars.'* Edyth started up as if to interrupt him. Harold motioned her to be silent. "More than that, my dear," he went on quite calmly, "if I have not fulfilled his conditions within six months, your father is going to release you from my option on you and throw you into the open market!" The beautiful girl yawned discreetly behind her handkerchief. 270 "Well, Hal, what are you going to do about it?'' she inquired. Borden took her in his arms and kissed her thoughtfully; then he stood up before her and gazed at her as if she was helping him solve his problem. "My dear," he mused, as if to himself, "I'll have the ten thousand dollars in half of six months. I'm going to T\Tite a short story. There's a lot of money in writing short stories." The girl's face brightened. "VvTiy of course there is," she agreed; "why didn't we think of that before? You'll begin to- night, won't you? You must, because it's going to be fearfully dull -^dthout you around here every afternoon to take tea. But if you 're going to write a story, why, you ought to have ten thousand dol- lars before very long." Borden stroked his chin. "All right, my sweet, I'll start the story tonight. Gee, I wish you could help me! You see, I never wrote a story. Well, I've got to leave you now. Yes, I've got to. I'll have to find a plot, you know. Sometimes you can't find one, and then you have to invent one yourself." He took the girl in his arms, and kissed her as passionately as he could. "Good-bye, little girl! Good-bye, perhaps only until next Vv^ek, perhaps" — he shuddered — "for- ever." Harold Borden fled from the big room, ran do-^m the front steps, and was off in search of his plot. That night he worked at his story as hard as Gold- smith ever worked to wTite him.self partially out of debt, or Dr. Johnson to pay for his mother's funeral. By da^m his efforts were rewarded. The story was complete. "I'll have to get it typed," he muttered to him- self. "That'll cost at least two dollars, and I've only got ten to last for three weeks." 271 After breakfast he took his masterpiece to a public stenographer, and at eleven it was all ready for the mail. Harold mailed the manuscript to McGuire's Magazine^ which he understood was a periodical of particular literary merit, and sat down to wait for his check. At this point let me tell you what Harold's story was about. He called it ''The Marital Auc- tion Block." It told the story of a pretty telephone operator who was in love with the elevator boy in a large hotel. The girl's father was a salesman in a cigar store, and he very naturally objected to his daughter's marriage outside of her own class. He, therefore, told the elevator boy that if he could become hall porter in three months, the girl was his. Otherwise he must never see her face again. The poor elevator boy was unable to meet these condi- tions, and at the end of the time allowed, he at- temped to call upon Arline — for that was the girl's name — but was refused admission to the house by the father. The unfortunate fellow immediately shot himself on his sweetheart's doorstep. A few weeks later Arline killed herself by jumping from the top of the hotel where she was employed, and her parents spent the rest of their days in an insane hospital. Borden ended the story with the father of the girl racing about in a padded cell and shouting, *' Curse you, take my daughter! This is Hell!" Harold realized that the story was a good one and that he ought to make a lot of money out of it. At the same time he realized that with the best pos- sible luck, he should n't be able to see Edyth for at least a week, and this irked him. He had been accus- tomed to do as he pleased, and waiting for anything was positively disagreeable. In about four days he received a letter from McGuire^s Magazine like this : "Dear Mr. Borden, — We enclose our check for $350 in payment for your very good story, "The 272 Marital Auction Block." We are also enclosing a contract blank which calls for ten stories from you within the next year, for which we will pay you $3,000 upon receipt of the signed contract. Sincerely, McGuire's Magazine." Borden read the letter in disgust. "Is that all they pay?" he snorted. "Why at that rate I'll not be able to get married for a year!" He stuffed the check into his pocket, signed the contract absently, and waited for the magazine to appear. In two weeks more McGuire's was on the stands. Harold bought a copy to see how "The Marital Auction Block" looked in print. It was prefaced by an "editor's note" which introduced Borden as a "new but distinctive writer," and it was illustrated by a famous pen-and-ink artist. Over the news-stand, there was a placard announc- ing. All the Favorites ! Bernard Shaw, Rudyard Kipling, Harold Borden, Hall Caine, and Ida M. Tarbell. 15 cents. Harold bought a newspaper, and almost the first thing he ran across was: Mothers! Are you selling your girls? Young men! Are you being held to a price Read! Think! Act! Harold Borden's story, "The Marital Auction Block" will start You thinking. "What the world has waited for." — Times, "Right up with the tunesV' — Post. McGuire's for June. 273 Harold smiled. "They'll have my face on playing cards before long, and they'll accuse me of smoking 'Bull Dur- ham-Duplex/ Of something," he mused, ''but I wish they would send me more money." Upon arriving at his home, he found nine letters from editors who wanted him to sign contracts for all the way from $2,000 to $4,500. He threw them all aside and picked up one from McGuire's, It read: *' My dear Mr. Borden, — You may be aware that our success depends upon keeping our sub- scription list down to a point where our advertising can pay for publishing the magazine. Your story in the June number has so swamped us with sub- scriptions that ruin seems imminent. We must stop them from coming in. "Our offer to you is this: We will pay you $10,000 if you will release us from our contract with you, and publish a story in the pages of Worst's, our hated rival. We will send you our check as soon as we see the story in Worst's.'' We do this because we desire to see that magazine fail, and we think your stories are popular enough to cause the failure of any periodical. Yours very truly, S. S. McGuiRE, Pres." *' That's more to the point," commented Borden, as he went to his room to begin his second story. Two days later he sent "Not Guilty, your Honor," the story of a real boy, to Worst's, and received therefor a check for $500 and an offer of $5,000 for twelve more stories. Worst's came out soon, with Harold as a top- liner. McGuire's immediately thereupon sent their check for $10,000 as they had promised. Then Harold started to call on Edyth. 274 _ "I knew you could do it, Hal," cooed the sweet girl admiringly. "So did I," agreed Harold unconcernedly, ''but when shall we have the wedding?" The girl turned the question aside. " Oh, we '11 wait a few weeks or so. But Hal, what are we going to do when this ten thousand dollars is gone?" Harold smiled upon her, and then kissed her. "Oh, that's all right! I just got a letter from Scrihler's, offering me $20,000 to let them publish my stories in a book!" F. C. Nelson, '16. AS YOU (Vv^ON'T) LIKE IT Young lover, pray listen a moment, and heed Some advice for the cure of your passion: In choosing a wife, trust the half that you read. For pastorals are n't in the fashion. Don't seek for a princess in shepherdess guise; Time proves but a sober old warden; And when bargains are cloaked, they are apt to surprise — And it's far to the Forest of Arden. Don't trust to the wisdom of swains newly wed; Don't dip into honied romances; For women are creatures who have to be fed, And not wholly on kisses and glances. Choose, therefore, a wife who is homely and staid, And whose housekeeping asks for no pardon, Whose thoughts are domestic, whose wits never strayed — For it's far to the Forest of Arden. 275 Don't dream that a shepherd can live at his ease Writing sonnets for days without ending; Though mutton is good when you serve it with peas, As sheep it has need of some tending. A wench from the country is soonest to fade, And the softest of voices will harden ; So, though Phoebe may ogle you, leave her a maid — For it 's far to the Forest of Arden. A widow? — perhaps; if she is n't too young. And can bring you a neat little fortune, And has n't a quip at the tip of her tongue And a baby or two to importune. Let your Rosalind wait at the trysting gate With the dreamy old flowers in the garden. Take Juliet instead, and be married in state. . . . For — it's far to the Forest of Arden. Edward Eyre Hunt, 'io. DAWN Awake, awake/ a shadow strikes the dial; The swallows twitter in a lighting sky: Afield we '11 drink the dewdrops on the rye And barter kisses twice at every stile. Awake, awake! and roam with me a while: We '11 hunt the rainbow's end, for treasures lie There in a pot of ruddy gold — but I Will give my share to win your archest smile! Awake, awake I forgive my jealous thought And leave it in the clutch of hateful night. Harsh words leap from the lips and not the heart: If love is stung with nettles, heal the smart With roses, and his smiles are thrice as bright! Awake, awake! and learn as Love has taught! Edward Eyre Hunt, 'io. 276 I TOO HAVE BEEN IN ARCADY I TOO have been in Arcady, And all the air was sweet With hints of vanished memories And longings incomplete; And all the hills of Arcady Were white with flocks that used to be, And all the vales of Arcady Were bright with garnered wheat, I too have been in Arcady, And all the sky was blue — A dome of vanished mysteries, Of things that once were true; And all the pools of Arcady Were full of tears that used to be, And all the streams of Arcady Were fed with vanished dew. I too have been in Arcady, And all the lovers there Were bred in vanished courtesies And things that once were fair. But all the songs of Arcady Were plaintive, so it seemed to me; And all the loves of Arcady Were fraught ^^ih old despair. Edward Eyre Hunt, 'io. JEAN When dust shall turn to dust — in life's December, When ail that 's left is cheerfully to die, I '11 pray to God above I may remember The passions that were sounded in your sigh. 277 With lips apart, and widened eyes that glistened, You met my kiss, and sighed — I hear it yet; And if there is a God, He must have listened, And having heard, forbids me to forget. So then, when I am old, worn out and broken, When Strength, and Youth, and Hope, and Love, are spent, Let me remember, dying, as a token, That sweet, fierce sigh: and I shall be content. Alfred Putnam, 'i8. IN MEMORY Or Richard Hall, an American Volunteer, Killed in Alsace by a German Shell on Christmas Eve, 1915. We saw him turn to us and wave. We sped toward home ; and he turned back To breast the shell-torn mountain track, And find in France a soldier's grave. Music for us, and to its swell Moved the fair figures of the dance. ^T was Christmas Eve; and there in France A Red Cross Knight, our hero, fell. We drank to them on Christmas day; The wine of France gleamed in our glass While raged the battle in Alsace. And in the snow our hero lay. Embattled mountains fringe the sky, Where march our friends in sorrow mute, And wondering Alpine troops salute, As slow the gun-cart rumbles by. 278 Knight of the Cross, Crusader true. Two banners mourn a noble friend; And o 'er thy bier their colors blend In Friendship's badge, red, white and blue! M. F. Talbot, 'i6. THE CLOSE OF MASS The holy candles fade and flare \Miere the slow priest -^-ith swaying tread Moves, and the organ shudders there And the dumb people bow the head. The body of Christ is dead. His hands hang bleeding on the wall; O the white loin-cloth streaked ^ath red, O the pale body, stript and tall! Yet though you wail these words you said, The body of Christ is dead. Weep and moan, weep and moan. Body and soul are both of God, Can you keep the soul when the life is gone. Shall not the body through flower and clod, Strive sunward through the sod! O common world, O world of men. Have you no answer, are you dumb, Who bore us Christ and shall again Bear us a Christ when the time is come? Where is your voice — are you dumb? They crucified him when he cried And mocked him standing underneath; Shall they tear the son from the mother's side, Shall they call him God ^dth profane breath, Shall they rob a man of death? 279 They have crown 'd him with a fire of light, With all the heavens for his seat, They have made him awful with might of might. Where are the man's eyes still and sweet, Where are the tired feet? The silence aches, but through the reeds Of the organ, through choir and arches dim, The echoing world grows loud and pleads, With rough, hard hands and thorny diadem, *' Where is my Christ, what have you done to him?" John H. Wheelock, 'o8. A MURDERER You say it is the chair, Your Honor? — Well, I hardly care; I knew I'd be condemned — I knew it as I watched him from the street. While he was standing at the counter there And talking to the woman at his side. I knew what kind she was — I saw him pay A hundred dollars for a little jewel To buy her with. . . . And then I felt my knife To see that it was sharp. — I had to strike With all my strength, because the coat he wore Was lined with heavy fur to keep him warm. Why did I want to kill him? — Well, you see, He owns the factory where I used to work. And every cent, Your Honor, that he has. Belongs to men like me. ... On cloudy days They would n't give us light — it cost too much. And then they fired me when I could n't see To do my work. They did n't give us more Than half of what a man should have to live — 280 And I was married — and my wife was sick: That sealskin coat, Your Honor, that he wore, Was bought T^dth what I earned. He stole from me All that I asked — the wages I deserved. I ought to know the sacredness of life? — My God ! Your Honor, if he were alive, I 'd strike him down again. ... I watched him take A hundred dollars from his pocketbook To throw away — money he'd robbed me of — And robbed my wife as well. ... A little part Of that, Your Honor, would have saved her life! SONNET My love, I know you, and in knowing you I know the meaning of all things that are: Why in star-dusty heaven glints afar The Light that leads, and doth our hope renew. The dark arcana of the night I view All unafraid. Let Life and Death make War. I pierce the earth-bound fantasies that bar, And find that you, and I, and love, are true. 'T is good to know that things — all things — are good, And not some mad god's heedless mockery. No more I fear the vastness of the flood. Nor stand appall'd 'neath night's black vacancy. For one brief moment I have understood; In one heart-throb outlived eternity. Frank Dazey, '14. THE MAN WHO PAID He went out in the streets to buy a soul, He had gold and was willing to pay; So he purchased a pair of scarlet lips And a twist of hair like the gold that drips 281 From the hive on a summer day; And a face that smiled Like a little child, Though the eyes were cold and gray. He clothed her in silks of rare device, With gems like a princess of old, And he gave her the best of all he had, The good that remains when a man is bad — Still her eyes were gray and cold, Though he fought and strove With the strength of love To make them bright with gold. But "all men kill the thing they love," It's the end of the game we play. And he 'd paid with his soul for the soul he'd bought So he had the right to do as he wrought When her eyes were cold and gray — He could bring no light So he brought the night To those eyes so cold and gray. F. H. Dazey, '14. CONSOLATION The seas swing deep, the seas break steep, In thunder bursts the spray; The rocks run wet, the sun has set, And a wind mourns out the day. Yet over the shroud of the rising cloud There hangs one star for me — And far on the dim horizon's rim The lights of a ship at sea. R. MacVeagh, '10. 282 SONNET Onward ! men cry, and into darkness peer, Searching the secret night for any sign To guide their footsteps to the inmost shrine, Only to turn again w^th little cheer. But some there are, more brave, who persevere, And for a space amid the darkness shine: Even unto them are closed the ways di\'ine. And back they also come, confused with fear. And so they labor onward. Onward? Who Of men is strong enough by toil alone, Forsaking earth, to pass the portals through That keep Love's heaven? None guard the holy fire, Nor worship in the splendor of the throne, Who are purged by tears and great desire. Harold W. Bell, '07. LA ESMERALDA Amid the fire glow in fantasie You danced ^dthin the changing light and shade WTiile all were silent, mute in ecstasy, And lissom images about you played. You loved a Phoebus and he passed you by With but a glance like many another sun, But like a heliotrope imploringly You followed him until the day was done. We hear poor Djali's melancholy bleat, The Place de Greve stands desolate, alone — No more the sounds of twinkling childish feet; No more the shadows leaping on the stone. E. L. McKiNNEY, '12. 283 IN THE BATONS HAREM "It is out of the question!" declared Captain Talbot to his daughter Inez. "Why, the very idea of that brown-faced Dato Morang daring to offer us terms of peace upon the condition that I give you over to him to marry! I'll riddle him with bullets the very first chance I get ! " ''But father," protested Inez, "you know the garrison can't hold out much longer. There are only twenty or so able-bodied soldiers left. . . . Why do you suppose Major Davis insisted upon taking off two thirds of the post on a hike, when the natives were so restless? Let me go to Dato Morang. I can take care of myself. Then you will be able to get in touch with Camp Dixon, and rescue me in several days — it is the only thing that'll save us, my going to Dato Morang." Father and daughter had been arguing while seated upon the veranda of their little nipa quarters, and neither had noticed until now that Lieutenant Thomas was waiting near by. "Yes, Bennet; what is it?" demanded the cap- tain. Whereupon Inez asked Dicky Bennet to come up on the porch. With a friendly nod he ac- cepted her invitation and said a trifle awkwardly to her father: "A — messenger from Dato Morang is waiting for an answer to the Dato's proposition. ... Of course, you won't stand for it. Captain?" "Bennet, you ought to be shot for even asking such a question. I — " "Dick," interrupted Inez, addressing Bennet, "tell the messenger that Captain Talbot accepts the Dato's offer." Her father snorted his disapproval, and started to force her into the house, when Bennet's words checked him. "You know none of us would allow you to do 284 such a thing, Inez. But I have a plan. It just entered my mind." A plan! Anything which might save them from the cordon of Moros which surrounded the garrison would be most welcome at this precarious time. "\\Tiat is it?" questioned Inez and her father to- gether. ''It is this," began Bennet, his voice vibrating with eagerness. "You remember those two Aus- tralian vaudeville performers who drifted in here a few days ago to try to make a little money off the soldiers? They are over at the soldiers' quarters now. They could n't get away on account of the Moros. In one of their ' turns ' one of the men dressed up as a soubrette. He is just about my build, and why can't I dress up in that costume and go in your place to Dato Morang? The old devil does n't know beans about the way white women dress and look. I shouldn't be a bit surprised if you were the only one he had ever seen, and then he saw you at a distance. The short soubrette skirt will be just the thing to hike through the jungle in." Captain Talbot seized Bennet's hand. ''You're a genius! You have saved us!" he exclauned en- thusiastically. "They might pull off your vdg or something," cautioned Inez. "Oh, but Dick, think what they might do to you if they find out the truth." "Don't worry your little head over that, Inez," consoled Bennet. "I'll make some bride for the Dato, all right, all right!" "You darling!" exclaimed Inez in admiration, and in her exultation she forgot all proprieties, and throwing her arms around his neck — kissed him. It was about seven o'clock in the morning, after the first tranquil night in five days, that the little garrison of Tassigan gathered around Lieutenant Richard Bennet, to bid him the best of luck on his dangerous undertaking. And what a sight he was! 285 Over a blonde wig he wore an old Panama hat of Inez's. He was dressed in a pink dancing dress, which barely came to his knees. The rest of his costume was made up of a long pair of black stock- ings and a heavy pair of army shoes. Tucked away in his bosom was a Gillette safety-razor and a stick of shaving soap, which he hoped to get a chance to use, or else he might develop into a bearded maiden, and arouse the Moros' suspicions. And just before he left with his dozen Moro escorts, he gave a vivid description of himself when he said jokingly to Inez, "I must look like a freckle on the face of nature." A few minutes later, as he was entering the jungle with his Moro captors, a cheer from the garri- son reached his ears, a cheer which made him feel all would turn out well. Camp Dixon was only thirty miles from Tassigan, and he knew that by afternoon the former garrison would be notified of his danger, and a rescue party would then soon be after him. The realization of this kept his spirits up wonderfully. They had not gone far into the jungle before they met groups of Moros who, having heard that peace had been declared, were hurrying back to their vil- lages. While the natives looked daggers at Bennet, they all nodded their heads in respect to him, for was he not to be the new wife of the great Dato Morang? Many of them joined Bennet's party, and when they camped that night he was the object of a hundred or so curious eyes. At the first signs of dawn, which were usually heralded by the crowing of wild cocks, the party started on its way again. During the rest of the journey Bennet rode a pony which the Dato had sent for him. And he was glad to ride, for his stockings had been ripped to shreds by the underbrush, and his calves were scratched and sore. When Bennet was still a number of miles away 286 from Oulang Oulang, Morang's village, the faint, distant thuddings of tom-toms reached his ears. As he approached nearer, the noise grew louder and louder. Evidently he was to be received in royal fashion. Such was the case. As the party reached the outskirts of the village, curious children and women were seen peeping through the bushes. When Bennet and his captors entered Oulang Oulang, there were throngs to greet him, while the tom-toms gave forth deafening noises. Presently there was a shout and the crowd divided into two parts, as Dato Morang, escorted by a slave holding an umbrella over his head to keep the sun from his royal highness, who in reality no sun could affect, however hot, came forth to greet his white wife- to-be. What an actor Bennet was! He feigned the bash- ful but trusting maiden to perfection. And it was no easy thing to do under the circumstances. The Dato was so pleased with him that he immediately made a speech about his new bride, not a word of which Bennet understood. When he finished speak- ing, he led the way, with Bennet clinging woman- like to his arm, to his huge nipa shack. A few minutes later Bennet found himself in the house, and on their knees before him w^ere the Dato's other wives. He suddenly realized that he was the queen of Morang's harem. Never in his wildest dreams had he ever dreamt that he would be a member of a harem — but here he was. And what a filthy place it was! The floor of the room was made of bamboo; and dirty, woven mats were strewn over it. The room was hazy with the smoke from a small stone oven. Over in a corner was an old hag crooning to a babe. Sprawling over the floor were several naked youngsters. Thomas bade the six wives of Morang arise. Their tongues and lips were red and their teeth black from chewing betel-nut. They wore tight-fitting jackets, and for 287 skirts pieces of brilliantly hued calico, wrapped around their waists and extending to their ankles. In the gloaming they resembled spooks, and Bennet decided that he would never spend a night in such a place as this. A few hours later followed a dinner, present at which were only members of the Dato's family. Morang drank much tuba, and became quite amor- ous of his new wife. Spasmodically he hugged her and grunted love-sayings in Bennet 's ear, while the latter wished his friends could see him and enjoy a good hearty laugh at his expense. Dinner was followed by a big dance and feast in the open, which was to celebrate Morang's approach- ing marriage. Only the women danced. Keeping time with the tom-toms, they would extend an arm covered with bracelets, then possibly follow this by wiggling a toe. Whereupon, if the audience was pleased, it would manifest its pleasure by applaud- ing and yelling. This kept up for hours, when suddenly the Date arose, and taking Bennet by the hand led him out into the dancing ground. Immediately the women began to chant and the tom-toms to beat very faintly. Then Dato Morang began to dance the '' lover's dance" about Bennet. Affectionately he touched various parts of Bennet's face. He felt of his lips and shouted wildly, whereupon the women screamed, only to resume their dismal chant a moment later. The Dato felt of his bride's eyes, and the yelling and screaming was repeated. The next time he rested his hands affectionately upon Bennet's wig. As he was removing his hands, one of his be jeweled brass rings caught in the masses of blonde hair, and the wig was jerked back off his head ! A death-like silence followed, during which the Moros realized they had been duped. Bennet looked frantically about to see where he might best break through the circle of angry natives. But 288 they perceived his intentions, and with savage yells rushed upon him. Bennet seized Morang's bolo and whirled it round and round his head, cutting down several Moros. But he was soon overcome by the number of natives attacking him, and he probably would have been slashed to pieces if it had not been for the Dato, who ordered them not to harm him. Morang was furious, and after mercilessly jabbing his bolo into his victim's arms, he had several Moros take him off. Bennet spent that night King in the center of the village, his wrists and legs tightly bound, while near by two natives dug a hole in the ground. Bennet knew what his fate was to be: they were going to bury him up to his neck ; then, after pouring a sweet syrup over his head, dump a red ant hill over him. Red ants bite like hornets ! And red ants like syrup ! Bennet was not placed in this hole of torture that night nor the next morning. There seemed to be divers opinions among the Dato and his wise men as to what they had better do with him. Some sug- gested that he be taken back into the hills and killed there ; while others argued that if their prisoner were killed, a long interval of guerilla fighting would follow, for the Americans saw that any wrongdoers were punished. However, the natives were suffer- ing the anguish of having been duped, and they finally concluded that the ''Christian dog" had better die. Their decision ran rampant through the village, whereupon the women and children began to nag and humiliate Bennet: they spat upon him, they kicked him, they poked him and pulled his hair. In the early afternoon, when the time came for him to be placed in the hole, he was almost thankful, for he would be spared this painful nagging. He was lowered into what he considered his grave with his wrists and legs still bound. A syrup made from sugar cane was poured over his head and was care- 289 fully rubbed into his eyes and ears. Presently, two women, with a sack of dirt, teeming with red ants, gleefully poured it over his head. In order to breathe he had to shake the dirt aside; then sud- denly he felt as if a nest of hornets had lit upon his face and head. There came sting after sting. Wild with pain, he cursed the Moros, and as he opened his mouth to swear, ants craw^led in. In a few mo- ments his tongue, purple and swollen many times its natural size, was protruding out of his mouth. He tried to break his bonds ; he struggled; he squirmed; he cursed; he pleaded, but only to add to the glee of the Moros. Then with one final effort to free himself — he swooned. Unconscious, and slowly being bitten to death, he was unaware of the commotion caused by the news that the Americanos were hurrying upon the village. He was not able to shout a word of warn- ing to his countrymen that the village was not deserted, as the natives tried to make it appear by hiding in their huts and among the neighbor- ing trees and bushes, so that when the soldiers were in their midst, they might rush upon them from all sides and take them by surprise. He did not know that the soldiers had rescued him from his predicament, before the little brown devils had rushed upon them. Nor did he know of the terrible fight which was waged around him; nor was he able to thank the soldiers and praise them, when the Moros were driven screeching into the hills and jungles. For when he did gain consciousness he was in a comfortable army bed at Camp Tassigan. On one side of his bed w^as a physician, and on the other was Inez. For several minutes he lay still, and peered through his swollen, burning lids at her. His eyes were so swollen that she could not tell whether he had opened them a little or not, and she sat there look- ing into his face; while he found gazing up into her 290 pretty, sympathetic countenance a great anodyne for his misery. Finally he whispered, ''Inez!" At the sound of her name she gave a sli^^ht start and coloring a trifle, while her eyes told him somel thing which could not help but make any man re- gam his health rapidly, she said, "Sh! dear boy!" L. Wood, jr., 'i6. ^'ADVICE TO THE LOVELORN" My dear Miss Fairfax: (so it ran) / '?njusi; eighteen, and all this summer, Well, I've been going with a man, A wealthy plumber; But now Fve seen him at the rink With other girls where once he took me. Please tell me do you really think That Percy's shook me? The answer talks of patience — bah! The best ''advice" can profit never The girl who finds men really are Deceivers ever! The villain plumber proves it true; But greater men were false as Percy; For Heloise was jilted too, And so was Circe. • A. W. H. POWEL, '09. 291 14 DAY USE RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED LOAN DEPT. I^L'Thi,^ ^^ Ke^,,--w. -, , Tel. No. 642-3405 Renewal may be made 4 days prior to d^ ^ - R^»ewed books are subiect ^o ^^J^l^flf^, 1£^ «•* ^tC'0 LO JAN 2 4 72 =4 PM 9 1 /•£^^i^~^°"^-8.'71 ,, .General Library (P6572sl0)476-A-32 University of California Berkeley