and ivy, nestling down amid their few acres of gardenlike ground! The quaint little parish church peeps at us over the tree tops. The people are as happy and gay as the sheep that speckle the hill sides. Can the cold snowstorms of winter ever rage here? The Rothay Hotel at Grasmere serves us our lunch. Then on again with fresh horses and fresh vigor. The afternoon has passed like a bird on the wing and 'tis eventide. The men are coming in from the meadows; the shepherds are going out to guard their flocks; all nature is saying good night. The lights at Lowood flicker through the trees, like fireflies. The coach rumbles and sways on after the tired horses. We are all quiet, all deep in thought. A little while and our journey is ended.

CANTER-
BURY.

The heavy gates open, we pass under the massive arch and stand within the close of Canterbury Cathedral. An unbroken peace clothes the cumbrous pile of buttresses and walls. The lofty center tower, like a watchman o'er the lapse of ages, to whom a century is but as yesterday, has been ever pointing man heavenward. The great stones of unequal size have decayed one into another, their individuality has been all but lost. It is after six o'clock. The cathedral has been closed for several hours, but the verger will open the door for us and unfold the sublime dignity within. No footstep on the stone floor breaks the hallowed silence. No voice is heard; the organ slumbers. But the worn aisles echo back to our souls the ring ing tread of many a prince, pilgrim and priest, lost and long forgotten. The tablets and monuments chant to us of saints, of soldiers and of kings, in harmonies now soft and heavenly, now joyous and triumphant and now in heavy minor chords. Gone is the shrine of Becket. bones have mingled with the dust; but his life sheds a shaft of light through the darkness of the Middle Ages, as the rays of the setting sun stream through the great windows, flooding the aisles with glory and tinting the air purple and red and gold.

His

Wm. H. Owen, Jr

THE TWO ROSES.

Two together side by side

Grew in modesty and pride.

When the warmth of dawn was shed
Thus communed the rose of red:

"I have drunk life's crimson wine,
All its hopes and joys are mine.

"Not for me the silent shade-
For thought and sad reflection made.

"I am here, the foe of care

To say that earth is young and fair;

"And that life should ever be
Red with hope and love, like me."

When the trembling shades of night
Had fallen, thus spoke the rose of white;

"Death's calm spirit breath'd on me
Its white and spotless purity.

"Not for scenes of merriment,

Unthinking laughter, was I sent.

"The weak I love, and those who be Hopeless in want and misery.

"And this my sacred mission here: To lie by some beloved's bier,

"And to teach the mourners by, Death is as white and fair as I."

Burton J. Hendrick.

NOTABILIA.

THE Yale-Princeton game played at Manhattan Field, must have been a sore disappointment to the enemies of football. It seems really unfortunate that those whose ire had mounted high the week before, and whose flamboyant utterances had been published throughout the country, should have their rage suddenly stifled and their ardor quenched. It is pathetic to think of the labor of compositors in re-setting editorials and communications written before the contest; still more are the authors themselves to be pitied, whose sentiments, if printed under slightly different circumstances, would have won from an appreciative public the laurels due to quasi-defenders of the health and beauty of American youth. And a word of sympathy is due to a gallant police inspector of New York. His motive was a lofty one in marshalling so large a section of the city's defenders around the gridiron, Yet he must have suffered chagrin that a small army of his followers were forced to leave the field before the close of the second half, owing to inclement weather, and to lack of opportunity to participate in the game. The officers, however, looked prettily against the pine background, and the Yale color even when enveloping the form of a burly policeman is always welcome at a Yale contest.

The amusing discomforture of the representatives of the press and of the civil authorities is a significant proof of the character of the game. If the scene at Hamden Park on the previous Saturday was repulsive to many, that at Manhattan Field was objectionable to no one. It is impossible not to compare two contests separated by an interval of a week. Newspapers were provoked, though hardly justified in their hot denunciations of what occurred at Springfield. Of deeper meaning was the fact that men returned to both Cambridge and New Haven disgusted at the sight which they had witnessed. Made more satisfactory therefore, to Yale

men was not merely the subsequent victory over Princeton, but the contest itself. It is unnecessary to describe the merits of the struggle. It was clean football. The captains of the two elevens had decided that the game should be of such a character and their decision was sufficient. The LIT. desires to thank the representatives of both universities for a contest which at a crisis in the history of football, showed the possibilities of the game and saved it from universal suppression among American colleges.

Even at this late hour the LIT. heartily congratulates every man who contributed to Yale's successes during the football season, and whose persistent work brought about new victories over Harvard and Princeton.

Contributions for the January LIT. will be sent to Lindsay Denison, Kendall Green, Washington, D. C., on or before December Twenty-sixth.

Contributors are requested to assign titles to all articles submitted for the Portfolio.

PORTFOLIO.

-There is one accessory-or rather a part-of a college room as essential to its completeness as the fence to the campus. It is that boon and blessing of all college mankind-the window seat.

If there comes a time when he has absolutely nothing to do, there he can do it to the best advantage. There he may dream if he ever dreams, and familiar ghosts of unanswered letters. may go their way unheeded.

Inside the time-worn and cracked walls of the Old Brick Row it finds its most suitable abode. Here, the moon is at its height, lighting up the gently swaying limbs of the tall elms, may thrust its stray beams through the thick branches and into the window. They fall across the cushions and over on the floor in most fantastic and constantly changing shapes. A man feels in the atmosphere the influence of the former lords of this habitation, who over a hundred years before knew just as well as he how to idle away their time. It is the feeling of a man in the bedchamber of his ancestral castle where the spirit of noble knights come to bestow their blessing upon him and entrust him with maintaining the honor of their house. Reverie often takes him in her grasp and there are indistinct impressions of blue eyes, tangled brown hair-and with the next cloud of smoke there rises a little prayer of benediction. He sees the bent figure of the old darky servant, standing in front of the house as the carriage disappeared down the drive-and there are those two great tears rolling down his black wrinkled cheek "'cause Mars' Henry's gwine 'way up Norf t' school."

One by one the lights go out along the campus, and one of the innumerable minarets on the old library has begun chopping pieces out of the full moon. Now it has entirely vanished and the hour chime rings to end his dream. M. G.

-I passed the house early in the evening, when the lamps were first being lighted. Upstairs all the windows were ablaze and through the curtains vistas of the scene within were revealed. One little window in the upmost story, which I well knew, was quivering with lamplight, as I felt the