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support. The red tile roofs seem to sag more in their saddles than ever before, and the Hauptstrasse was deserted even to the benches in front of the Red Hen and its rival three doors down, the Golden Lion.

It is a custom in Spires to solemnize the death of any member of royalty by the use of a certain combination of Chimes. reserved always for that sad occasion. It is also a custom to announce the passing of a criminal, a public menace, by a harsh jangle of bells, that rust in their frames from one year's end to another, for criminals are rara aves in Spires. With the Royal bells still ringing in its ears it is no wonder that Spires woke from its lethargy with a start on this day, when at the still hour of noon there rang out loud and clear these same Royal bells that had been quiet but a short twenty-four hours.

The streets filled with people and the worn cobbles grew hot under the excited tread of many feet all hastening in one direction toward the Mart Platz and the Cathedral. But wonder of wonders! The Cathedral doors fast locked, the bell ringer in the crowd, aghast, with the rest of Spires. The Chimes were ringing of themselves! Wonder of wonders; what did it all mean?

At this juncture a messenger stumbled into the square, breathless with running from the Palace.

"Curt is dead," he cried.

The crowd dispersed silently and reverently; filled with thoughts of the faithful Curt and starting at the slightest sound, half expecting an angel to appear and announce further miracles.

When the shock of the supernatural had passed, Spires returned to its accustomed busy idleness, but there was a change, a distinction, an air about the place, for did not Spires contain the most remarkable Chimes in all Europe? And as is customary on such occasions, the good people took a large share of the credit of the occurrence to themselves.

Time passed and the new Emperor lay sick in Spires. With all his power and glory he could not rid himself of the haunting memories of his unnatural actions toward his father. No Orestes was ever pursued more pitilessly by the Eumenides of past sin than was this proud ruler of the Holy Roman Empire.

For some reason the nerves of the burghers were all on edge of late, something brooded in the air, and the swallows had not chased flies for three whole days, but fluttered twittering to and fro under the overhanging eaves. Old Martha had told over and again to excited knots of listeners how she had been awakened at midnight by a terrific clatter on the cobbles, and how she had risen and peered from her shutters just in time to see passing a huge black coach drawn by black horses and carrying a grinning skeleton with a gold crown on its bony forehead. Men crossed themselves now when they were spoken to suddenly and children cried when the candles were blown out.

This general feeling of unrest furnished an explanation for the fact that several sturdy burgher wives were seized with hysterics when late one afternoon the Cathedral chimes crashed forth a hideous jangle of discord, sharp hellish clangings like cries of damned souls, that made women scream and chilled the warm blood of strong men. Each family gathered on its own doorstep and huddled frightened around the father.

"The Sinner's Bell," whispered Hans Wetter to Heinrich Spatz across the way, and as he spoke a whisper ran down the street, that again the Chimes were ringing without mortal aid, that the doors were fast-locked and the bell-ringer safe at home.

"God rest his soul, poor sinner, whoever he may be," muttered Hans, crossing himself.

"Got rot him," growled Heinrich; "if he is bad enough to have this clatter raised about him he will sure roast to a turn.'

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"Who can it be?" queried Rachel, his wife, true to her feminine instincts. "We have had no criminals in our jail these six months."

And as in answer, a herald clothed in black appeared at the head of the street, a priest on either side-"Silence the noise," he cried. "The Emperor is dead!"

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G. L. Stark.

CONCERNING
GARDENS.

It so often happens that the small things, such as a particular bite of a Baldwin or the evasive breath of some hidden flower, are those which give us the keenest pleasure. Some sweet melody will cling to the memory long after the opera is forgotten, and the lyrics of Shakespeare haunt us with their delightful charm. It is therefore a natural tendency in literature that the lyrics should be collected into an anthology.

Webster defines an anthology as a gathering of flowers. And truly it is a garden. Now a garden to be complete must contain a variety of flowers. Some are full of the joy of life, the warm sap courses through their beings, they lift their heads proudly to meet their lord the sun,—and there are others which are heavy with their own sweetness, which grow in languorous bowers. Between these extremes there blooms the delicate flower that scarcely seems to breathe, the clinging (this often a coquette), and the gypsy that owns no master. There are many others, but to the gardener all are dear. He waters and weeds them alike. They are his children. But the visitor finds among them some for which he does not care. Some perhaps he even dislikes. One must not expect to be equally pleased by all the flowers. ing-glory, while I gather the roses. robin in his buttonhole. Isabelle cherishes the lily. And so as though wandering in a garden we turn the pages of our book of verse and dwell with pleasure upon a stately sonnet or hasten to a song which by its grace quite captivates our fancy. Mr. Palgrave or some other is the generous gardener. In his garden there are many rarely sweet flowers. And yet they are not all there. The best of gardeners may never see the small arbutus peeping from beneath the blackened leaves. Ought not we therefore also to become gardeners, if only amateurs?

You fancy the mornTom must stick a ragged

Moreover after the great gardeners have departed, the flowers do not cease to grow. There are many, altogether charming, which have never been brought into a garden. Now and again we find a delicate orchid blooming in an out of the way forest glade, or, perhaps, a double wild rose springing in the very midst of a half-forsaken road. Are we going

to pass the chance trove by, trusting that it will be found by some careful gardener whose well-trimmed alleys we may some day happen on? Rather shall we not gather it? It is so easy, such little trouble, nay, if you are a true gardener, the gathering will soon become a pleasure. Your garden shall grow and become beautiful. It shall differ from those other gardens in that it shall bloom only with those flowers which are dear to you. You need include no others. And for your care there shall come to you a great love. for it is good to be fond of flowers.

You shall be happy,

S. M. Harrington.

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MEMORABILIA YALENSIA.

The Yale-Princeton Debate

Was held in New Haven on December 12 and was won by
Yale.

The Sheff. Society of Chi Phi

On December 12 announced the following elections from 1907 S.:

Denise Barkalow, Marshall Moore Bartholomew, Robert Lee Brewer, Charles Hall Chapin, Stanley Bailey Ineson, Gilmore Kinney, Jr., John Sherman Peck, Lawrence Clinton Phipps, William Starling Sullivant Rodgers, Jr., Ralph Holmes Stone, Arthur Van Rensselaer Thompson, George Warren Van Brunt.

The French Club

Successfully produced Molière's play, "George Dandin," on
December 13.

The Sheff. Class Day Elections

Were made as follows on December 12:

Class Day Committee-Morgan Herbert Bowman, Fred Mortimer Carter, Jr., Kenneth Percy Grant, Edgar Drewry Lynch, Alexander Scott McLean.

Senior Promenade Committee-Tilghman Edwin Johnston, Morgan Herbert Bowman, Henry Fay Grant, Ralph Parsons Kinney.

Cap and Gown Committee-Donald J. Defrees, George Augustus Haven, Alexander Scott McLean.

Supper Committee-Harold Neeves Scott, Shelton Edward Martin, Benjamin LaFon Winchell, Jr.

Graduation Committee-George Hall Baldwin, Charles Brearley Kennedy, Ralph Arthur Voight.

Triennial Committee-Joseph Irving Simmons, chairman; William McKinley Barber, James Bond Curtiss.

Class Book Committee-Douglas Satterlee Schenck, Stuart Clayton Hemingway, Joseph Edwin Lowes, Jr., Bernard Gilpin Marshall.

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