He was the author of a book and two magazine articles, and moreover was a renowned speaker. He had selected for his subject as especially adapted to his audience, "The Moral and Intellectual Advantages of Refinement." Forty-five tedious minutes had been devoted to expounding the benefits to be derived, and no conceivable branch of human welfare had not been embraced. Then, in concluding, he mentioned Clarrington itself as a proof of his statements. He showed how it, in having adhered to the principles he was divulging, was enjoying universal reputation for its prosperity and happiness. Amid deafening applause, he bowed and retired. It was now the custom to discuss common events. In consideration of the fact that she had been appointed to read a paper at the next meeting, Miss Flaws, the deacon's sister, felt herself entitled to speak first. "Ladies," she began in a distinct voice, "I am sure we all believe what Professor Tabb has said about refinement. Nevertheless I regret to say that it has been neglected of late. There is an extraneous element in our little community, a strange boy coming from no one knows where. Even his parents are unknown and his actions and language are extremely inelegant. Mrs. White," she cast a deprecatory glance in her direction, "perhaps you are not acquainted with the fact that your daughter has been seen often with this stranger at your home and driving in the streets.”

She was

The woman addressed rose in a stately manner. beautiful, but with a face as cold and expressionless as marble. "I have been informed of this fact," she said, "but it shall not occur again. I have strictly forbidden Bessie to speak to him or to ride alone hereafter, and would advise you all to follow my example."

A din of voices succeeded her words. Shrill exclamations such as "My Will led astray," and "that is why Tommy was saying ain't" rose above the clamor, and none could grab their cloaks quickly enough to hasten home.

The next day was cold and dreary, and the little strange boy found his friends building a shack in Ted Billon's back

yard. He stole behind Ted, and slapping him on the back, shouted, "Good mornin'." Ted proceeded vigorously to nail down a board at a very crooked angle. "Say," laughed the newcomer. "ain't Ted stuck up with his new house!" Then as they all silently turned their backs to him, he sat down on the ground, his eyes sparkling as he waited for the joke. He let little rivers of sand slip through his fingers, peeking up occasionally with a queer, expectant smile.

Finally Ted said, "None of us are allowed to play with you any more.”

"Ain't that funny," chuckled the little strange boy; "I ain't allowed to play with you neither."

"There's no joke about it," Ted continued. "None of us can play with you any more, 'cause you're not a gentleman. Bessie can't even speak to you any more.'

Something in Ted's tone told him that it was no joke. The flowers fell from his hand, and he gazed vacantly ahead. Then he slowly turned and trudged up the road to where no one could see him, and lay down in the long grass with his arm across his face.

The boys nailed viciously without uttering a word. They felt a disagreeable sensation of meanness and disgust with themselves, which had not disappeared when an hour had dragged by. Suddenly they heard a clatter of hoofs and shouting down the road towards town. They were just in time to see a man leap from a phaeton as it tore along. People were scurrying out of the path of the runaway, and rushing through the dust in its wake. No one dared to stop it. The boys ran down to the fence and screamed wildly as the horse shot past. A little yellow-haired girl was crouching in the seat, pale as death.

Suddenly a little figure sprang out of the thick grass, a shabby, red-headed boy. Right in the path of the approaching runaway he stood, his head erect like a soldier, waving his arms frantically. He never stirred from his post, though the horse tore on towards him, showering stones and dust behind.

It was almost upon him when it suddenly reared, nearly upsetting the phaeton. Like lightning two little hands were grasping the bridle with a grip of iron, and two little heels were kicking like mad into the sand, as the horse plunged on. The weight of the boy dragging on his head swerved the beast gradually to the side of the road, where he soon slowed up in the marshy sod, and stopped exhausted.

The little strange boy sat down panting. People came running up now, and stood gazing at him, open-mouthed. Yet he did not notice them. He had risen and was standing beside the pale girl, murmuring broken words. "I heard it all, Bessie. I ain't no gen'lemen, an'-an' you won't forget me, Bessie. Some day I'll come agin rich like your father an-an-a gen'leman."

The little yellow-haired girl, sobbing, tried to hold him, but he was gone down the street, proud and independent as the day he had come. On out into the thick woods he went, where the wind was howling through the great oaks, shaking dried leaves fluttering about him, and where it was always twilight.

Samuel G. Ordway.

NOTABILIA.

It is time for it-the spirit of boyishness. Formality and dignity are appropriate occasionally, but now the spirit of boyishness becomes us as the light green leaves become the trees, that spirit which older men regret most deeply to have lost, and which we, while we may, should thus cherish the more. And what is this spirit of boyishness? It is merely the spontaneity of action, that manifests characterand character's third personality. At all times such a disclosure is desirable.-But to avoid any moralizing, there are advantages that inadvertently and necessarily arise from this spirit of boyishness. Foremost of all stands Unity. The spirit of boyishness is a unifying element superlatively subtle and supremely effective. The understanding resulting from a meeting where all are on common grounds, are one in lightheartedness, must be mutual. In fact this is the ideal camaraderie, born of informalities and unselfishness.

There is among us one great monument to the spirit of boyishness-the Fence. On May evenings this should be the common ground, where men touched more or less by the sentiment, stirred from them by the moonlight on the campus, by the sound of music, should understand themselves, and reach the mutual affection that cement the class into one. These Fence meetings are not to be neglected. They should be fostered by everyone. Last year the Orchestra and the Band gave selections, led the singing. May this happen again, and may organizations, whether Musical Clubs or the Classes as such, see to it that this cannot fail. Let us sound the key-note of the Spring Term with the spirit of boyishness, for it is a true friend to us all.

As the warm sun drives before it the lurking chills of winter, as optimism supplants the cynic's revery on the damnation of the New Haven climate, there are those who, with plenty of time at their disposal, do not incline towards

playing ball, nor towards running around the cemetery, nor towards any of the numberless diversions that appeal to others. Perhaps they have had enough of these diversions, perhaps they have never begun them. At any rate, the continued inertia brings on sluggishness and this in turn an unhealthy discontent. A good loaf is healthy. But a loaf while college exercises still require attention is not a good loaf. They who thus, dilletante fashion, walk the campus, must be unconscious of the shadows through which they pass. And among these shadows is the shadow of what was once the most beautiful building of the campus. Its former glory is gone-but let the Passer rid himself of such philosophy and push on through the doorway into the cool beyond. There let him rummage; let him delve deep. Let him do this once; let him repeat it again, and again. He will forget his apathy and these bright days will be some of the brightest in his college course!

The hand of Calamity has shown itself in most fearful form on our Western shores. We join with the Nation in offering our most heartfelt sympathy.

W.