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development. It rests in a great measure with us to determine the tone that is to characterize the Yale of the future. The old college spirit with its narrow limitations is necessarily changing and broadening. Are we to enter upon a new phase of our existence cramped and impeded at every step by the worn, threadbare garments of the past? If not, what is to replace them?

Henry Lane Eno.


In the falling snow

Where, nodding low

'Neath its winter's weight, the apple bough swings
Jack Robin puffs out his breast and sings

The old-new song,

That is never too long;

A song of trust and hope and love,

On the good earth here and in Heaven above,
And the peace that a true love brings.

By the fire bright,

Where its dancing light

Soft touches the beauty of budding years,
Penelope sits, as from fears she hears

The old-new song,

That is never too long;

A song of trust and hope and love,

On the good earth here and in Heaven above,

And the peace that a true love brings.

Warwick James Price.



HE air was very sultry and still; and the men who sat on the benches above the cliffs by the flag pole were fast being lulled to a state of gentle, reposeful somnolence. The sea lay flat and brassy beneath them. Even the waves seemed to have felt the languorous effect of the July heat and hardly raised their white heads as they paced back and forth behind the rock prison which binds their strength. Farther out on the strip of glaring, white sand that marks the beginning of the dreadful Ledges," a man lay, crouching with a gun. Those on the cliff above could see it glint in the sun every now and then, as the figure moved slightly behind his screen of seaweed. And even as they looked, they heard the faint report and saw the blue smoke curling up heavily, as the man came out to pick up a luckless plover that had ventured too near.


The incident half roused the motionless forms on the bench. They shifted their positions and sat up straighter, but nobody spoke save John Larned alone. "Shifless feller, that there Valentine. Don't do nothin' whatsoever but lay out there 'n' shoot peeps. Likely kind, he is!" The men followed his gaze mechanically, mentally half resenting his idle interruption of their comfortable, dreamy thoughts; but John was not discouraged. He was postmaster and principal storekeeper, so he had grown into the habit of talking and having other folks do the listening. Besides, he disliked and secretly feared Valentine, who was known to be keeping company with Cephas Spring's daughter, although John had long ago selected her as the most worthy successor of his first venture, and he hailed this opportunity for publicly expressing his scorn and distrust of his younger rival. He folded his arms and leaned back. "I always did hate shif'lessness anyhow," he said with slow emphasis; "we wasn't made to set out and do nothin' but not work,-at least some little." Still the men answered nothing, and

John began to get angry. "You fellers have gone plumb to sleep, I reckon. You're just as bad as Val there; shif'less critters, settin' here on th' bench! Of course," he added doubtfully, "there ain't anything for me to attend


Mail ain't in till two hours yet." A smile crossed over the hard faces along the seats like sunlight on rocks, but John did not see that. He was slowly buttoning his coat, prior to rising. "I must be gittin' home," he said, and stood up clumsily. "I ain't no part with such fellers."

There was no verbal opposition to his departure,—indeed, he doubted if they had heard him; but the repose of the bench was broken. One by one the men sat up, arranging their disordered clothes. Their minds still dwelt lazily on John Larned's remarks; they looked out at the sand strip with the black, inanimate shape lying there.

"John's quite took with Cephas Spring's girl, 't seems, ventured a voice from the end of the bench. The others smiled again, for they were quite awake now. It was David Edwards who answered. Guess Val's ahead there ; he's been courtin' her a matter of two year now. John ain't took long with her open but fer less 'n one."

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"That's so, David Edwards, but it don't prove nothin'!" Well, may be you're right, but I sh'd say that Val'd stand th' best chance. Anybody goin' my way?"

They all had exactly that intention, and David knew it even as he spoke, but he could think of no better way to signify his desire to leave,—indeed, when he thought it over, he decided that he had been rather clever than otherwise in lighting on that device and adopting it so easily. They strolled away; but out on the sand Valentine lay still shiftlessly, carelessly, thinking about John Larned and Cephas Spring's daughter.

The loungers had drifted slowly along past the bare looking lighthouses and had disappeared over the hill into the village. John Larned stood, all alone, with his hands in his pockets, watching them out of sight. He had about decided to speak to Roda Spring that very day, but was delaying merely on principle.

"There ain't no real hurry," he murmured; "she's been waitin' a year for me, 'n' I guess she can stand it awhile longer. But then I don't know-" He looked helplessly up and down the street in search of counsel, then slowly walked away, looking on the ground.

An hour later he was standing at the Springs' gate, and there was a doleful but still feebly hopeful look about his mouth and eyes. He was kicking at the lower bar of the fence, apparently at a loss for something to say. Just inside stood Rhoda Spring in her working dress, the sleeves rolled back over her round arms. She was smiling too at something which John could never quite understand.

"I don't much like that Valentine, Rhody," he was saying; "he's so almighty shif'less an'-;" then he stopped, for Rhody was looking at him, and the laugh had gone. out of her eyes.

"Well," she said, "what of it?" Always a hard little question, it seemed to John Larned at the time absolutely unanswerable.

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Why, nothing exactly," he said, examining the lock critically; "but then you can't say you really like shif'lessness in a body, can you now, Rhody?" He meant the body,—can question as a poser and started off confidently, but he failed when he saw the mockery in Rhody's face.

"I don't know in most cases," she said, looking far away; "but I do like his ways of bein' so. He asked me to marry him yist'day, Ye ain't mad with me, are ye, John Larned?" she added softly, fingering the rose leaves on the trellis beside her.

But John had turned away, and was lost to her sight behind the lilac bushes at the corner of the yard. Emerson Gifford Taylor.



E were coming down the "Great North Road," that fine old highway from Scotland to London. We had been leading a life half like the knights-errant of old, half like the gypsie of to-day-in other words we had been touring on bicycles, as free in our movements and as quick to change as the clouds above our heads. So it is not strange that we should have turned from our path to visit one of the sister universities from whom our own is more or less directly descended.

Long before we reached the town we could see it far away across the "Fens," that flat country once marshy in places but now rich in cultivation as only English land can be, and owned for many a mile around by the colleges. The town itself of Cambridge strikes one as picturesque, antique rather than venerable or ancient, its many quaint old-fashioned inns, its general air of quiet comfort reminding us of the days of mail coach and bluderbuss rather than of those earlier times when he who wished to study must needs ride up to the university on his own steed, his good sword by his side, a stout steel bonnet on his head and his slender luggage strapped behind his saddle. Along one bank of the river Cam where it flows through the town stand most of the colleges, though in rambling through the narrow streets we were never sure the next corner did not hide one that we had overlooked before. Beyond the river are the college grounds, walks shaded by long lines of grand old lime trees that lead the eye off to some tower in the distance, stretches of lawn where the ancient game of "bowls" has given place to the tennis tent, and little canals running back from the river. And this "river" with its many graceful bridges and the "Backs" of the colleges rising from the water's edge is the glory of Cambridge. Yet it is barely wider than one of our studies, so sluggish that it needs a close scrutiny to tell in which direction the soft green coating on its surface is moving, and what water there is can only be kept in place by locks below the town.

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