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his head to see better the lighted face beside him. The charm of it-the wonderful feminine line of the profile-so simple, so appealing! It thrilled him to let his eyes slowly caress the white forehead under dusky mysteries of subtle-scented hair; to follow the perfect line of her nose, of the pouting, baby lips and sensitive chin that curved and vanished in the soft shadows of her throat. Ah, night; summer; in such stillness with this thrilling, wonderful thing! This was life! This was to live! He drew a great, exquisite breath as she turned, passion-grave, and leaned towards him to kiss.
From the meeting house over across the lake a faint light showed from one of the many-paned, old fashioned windows. Looking up and seeing it, the boy, faint and strangely embarrassed from the first contact with such lips, brokenly queried, "What's the light?"
“Oh, only the organist―he often plays there evenings," she assured him. "See, he's put the window up!"
But he did not hear her very well; the branches stirred with little puffs of freshened air and his heart was beating very loud.
"He's playing now!" she cried, and sat up to listen. But her mind was not on the music. She watched the boy and smiled with satisfaction. He had been easy. Clothes; the ready agreement to canoe on the lake; most of all his half-shy, half-confiding, home manner-all made him out to her as a "friend" quite worth gaining-and only his freshman year, he had said!
"That isn't half so pretty as what he played the other night!" She tried to provoke him into a first definite jealousy. But he heard her not at all and she humored his absorbtion in the faint, distance-softened music.
It had taken some time to follow its first haunting touches on his memory and then leap back with it, past the long, cold years in his New England school, to the far, far childhood times; sunny laughing days and warm nights of calm dreams. He turned again to the girl opposite him in the moonlight. He caught the sullen droop of the mouth, its corners empty of meaning, before she smiled. He caught the look of the greedy, hungry estimate in her eyes before she could crinkle them into merriment for him, and his own look of troubled pity grew into one of gentle but clear determination. He rose and held out his hand. Then to the consternation that suddenly broke
through the impudence of her smile, in a voice that had grown
old but strong,
"Come!" he said.
Ralph W. Wescott.
When the day is over and tired men gather together to sit and smoke before turning in, a fire takes the place of conversation. The loud bantering and exchange of stories that has been going on, ceases when night falls and when the red-glow of the firelight flickers on the stubby sun-blistered faces about it.
The bright light in front makes the light beyond seem blacker than it is, and a little world seems carved out of black impenetrable space, a little world in which we are the only ones living. The stars, the outlines of the great mountains, the trees, all are visible and we see only the dim-lit reminiscent faces of our friends. And we think in wonder that thousands of such little worlds, many thousands of such friends are scattered about the earth from the desolate Arctic Lands to the Great Sahara Desert. Houseless men from pole to pole, be they honest or dishonest, great or small, drive back the terror of night by such a fire as ours.
Come thoughts of bygone fires and dim images of friends now far away. As they troop before us we remember only their virtues, only what was strong about them, and their weaknesses being out of sight, we wonder why we have never appreciated these friends before, and resolve to know them better if ever we meet again. Almost any sin could be pardoned or any man loved, if thought upon only in the softening light of a wood-fire.
We think a little of our past and wonder sadly at our grievous shortcomings. We take a firm resolve that from now on we shall do nothing small or mean, nothing that would seem right if judged in the glamor of the firelight.
A log burns through and, falling, sends up a shower of sparks. A startled rustle from behind reminds us that there is after all a world outside our little circle. wind blows gently upon our backs. some one, and in silence we seek
The fresh moist night "Who's for bed?" asks our blankets, pondering
mystified on the vastness of nature, even as our primitive forebears pondered in the days when Life was young.
L. W. Perrin.
The "Yale News"
On February 10th, announced the following elections from the class of 1908: Thomas Hooker, of Hartford, Conn., and Charles Fisher Luther, of Providence, R. I.
The Track Team
On February 10th, won the relay race from Harvard at the Boston Athletic Club games.
The Dramatic Association
On February 20th, elected to membership the following: T. L. Bouscaren, 1906; G. Abbott, A. S. Mather, C. McCormick and W. Webb, 1907; W. M. Crunden, W. R. Dray, S. R. Overall, and H. Sturges, 1908; S. W. Holmes, M. O. Parry, R. Pierce, and H. Smith, 1909.
The Junior Class.
On February 21st, elected the 1906 LIT. Board as follows: W. B. Wolf of Chicago, Ill. (Chairman); R. M. Edmonds of Springfield, O. (Book Reviews); E. H. Lewis of Syracuse, N. Y. (Editor's Table); H. F. Bishop of Chicago, Ill. (Notabilia); R. E. Danielson of Brooklyn, Conn. (Managing Editor).
The Track Team
On February 22d, won the relay races from Pennsylvania at the meet held under the auspices of Company E, First Regiment, and the mile relay and high jump in the meet at Troy, N. Y.
The Football Officers for 1906
On March 1st, were elected as follows: H. S. Knox, 1907, President; F. O. Bennett, '08 S., Vice President; J. T. Foster, 1908, Assistant Manager; K. B. Welles, Secretary.
The "Yale News"
On March 3d, announced the following elections to its editorial Board: E. J. Curtis, 1907, of Clinton, Ia; J. B. Grant, Jr., 1907, of Denver, Col.; F. O. Mason, 1907, of Chicago, Ill.
During the past year we have received for review books of all sizes and colors, with subjects ranging from "The Religion of the Ancient Egyptians" and "The Eternal Life" to "The Foolish Dictionary" and "Teddy Sunbeam." We have been pleased to receive all that came our way. Some we have thus far kept; of these many we shall continue to keep. Some we have turned into cold cash at Judd's and elsewhere; others have yet to suffer that transformation. Books of history or law, essays, poems and the like, we have generally kept from a feeling that they may be of value; but the majority of the novels are now in other hands than ours.
Yet novels are without any question the best selling books of to-day; that is, contemporary modern novels. What is the cause of the vast popularity? Some are worth reading; "Partners of the Tide," "The Gardens of Allah," and "Squire Phin" are among these. Yet the first and last mentioned are not among the very popular books. Why not? And why the popularity of certainly worthless books?
This great favor shown to the trashy modern novel is a result and a symptom of our modern life. The modern man thinks his actions are much more important than his thoughts. He considers it a disgrace to show bodily sloth and only relaxes from the strenuous life when necessary. But though he refuses to relax in his activities of business, of the world, in his own thought he refuses to do anything else than relax. When he has a few moments for a meal of "literature" he does not want beefsteak; he wants dessert-and he wants it spiced. If he feels awake enough to go to the theatre he hasn't enough mental vigor for Shakespeare; he "takes in" a "comic uproar." He uses up his mental energy in his business; when that is finished for the time, he looks for relaxation.
As far as reading is concerned the modern man finds relaxation in the trashy modern novel. It requires no thought; it runs along smoothly; the characters need not be studied, the rapidly developed plot is the main thing. There is usually a dash of spice in a trashy novel as an appetizer-in about the second chapter. This keeps the modern man's interest up till the love scenes. In fact, the modern novel is a prime relaxation for the modern man. Considering the life of the modern man it is no wonder that the trashy novel is the popular book