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who stands, pitchfork in hand, ready to pile and salt the fish as fast as they are cleaned, he will say, with a twinkle in his eye, "Yes, I s'pose it's dirty work, sir, but it makes clean money."

A. R. T.

-A drizzling, misty rain made the day dismal for the guests at the big hotel. Some of them, driven from the rocks, sought consolation in Miss Rewell's room on the third story. She herself made tea, not permitting any of her companions to do more than cut the thin slices of lemon, or use their fingers instead of the sugar-tongs.

In a similar apartment almost across the hallway, another guest was preparing to drive away melancholy, by recourse to a violin. This was the only instrument which he had attempted to master, this the only accomplishment which had aroused his ambition.

He lifted the violin out of the case with the tenderness of a veteran player. As a matter of fact his desire to become a musician had not been life long, nor had his especial preference for the violin manifested itself until the previous winter. Nevertheless his progress had been something unusual, so that after but six months' study he was already battling with Il Trovatore. It happened to be the Overture of the opera which he began to play as soon as he had adjusted his chinrest. He ran over the score rapidly at first, then he played it again more slowly, interrupting himself occasionally to catch the right bowing, or to repeat a doubtful run.

"Oh there's that young Mr. Gile murdering Trovatore,' sighed Miss Rewell among the circle around her tea table. "He has no more idea of time," she continued, “than the people on the Midway Plaisance. He plays that Andante Sostenuto just as if he were grinding a hand-organ. And just hear how he flats!"

"Margaret, why don't you send him a cup of tea?" suggested a friend whose ear was as sensitive to discords as that of her hostess. "It would certainly divert him for awhile."

A moment later Mr. Gile was just finishing the Finale, paying due regard to the indicated crescendo, when he became aware of the loudest of a series of knocks upon his door. He abandoned Trovatore at once, to find Miss Rewell's maid standing in the hallway; she offered him a cup of steaming

tea, together with a crisp yellow biscuit, underneath which lay the card of her mistress. He felt that his music was heard and that there were some who appreciated it. He understood the effort of Miss Rewell, a woman of position and peculiar prominence at the hotel, to brighten the afternoon for him, a new comer and almost a stranger. Mr. Gile played better after this little refreshment. The Overture seemed easier and his fingers accomplished the difficult runs with a new nimbleness. He realized the improvement and opened the transom, and even varied his program with the "Angels' Serenade."

Again he lifted the pretty Dresden tea-cup, and examined the bottom to see if the mark of the crossed swords was really there. Then he glanced at Miss Rewell's card, noticing the number of her house on Beacon Street, and the "Tuesday Afternoons" engraved in the left hand corner. He turned the card over and his eyes fell upon some writing which instantly aroused his interest: "Will Mr. Gile accept a cup of tea, and kindly postpone his practice, as Miss Rewell is entertaining some friends."

C. C. H.

It is only when you get inside the gate and have penetrated to the garden that you get a true appreciation of the House on the Corner. From the street it is only an old-fashioned brick structure, half hidden by woodbine and Japanese ivy, but in nowise is it either picturesque or even noticeable. Indeed the general sentence condemns it as dingy and decidedly unattractive, from the shabby gilt crosses on the cupola to the crumbled window cappings of the lower story, which are just visible over the high privet hedges. But once pass through the quaint archway in the hedge and you will surely prevent any hasty criticism you may have formed. In an instant you are carried back from the end of the nineteenth to the thirteenth century, the noise and dust of the streets is forgotten, only the faintest murmur seems to penetrate the enchanted walls of green; there is an indefinable air of antique solemnity, a glamor of medieval fashion and custom which blind one completely to the cracked masonry and creaking doors; you have eyes only for the strange, almost startling features in the life of the place, which come upon you like a chapter from some story of that moyen age always so interesting, so filled with beautiful romance.

That you have blundered into some monastery, perhaps Beaulieu itself, is your first and ever growing conviction. The black gowned figures on every side, some reading their breviaries, others gravely conversing, the little group in the corner, where an ancient man is expounding some text to eager listeners, the droning of some priest within the house whose voice rises above the deep boourdon of the organ, recall irresistibly the scenes made familiar by the writers of romance, and you sit spellbound, listening, watching, theorizing until the tinkle of a bell calls the brothers away from the garden and you are left alone.

Once outside the hedge you begin to look upon it all as a dream, but the glimmer of the crosses on the cupola, and the faint melody of the organ are still discernible, and you are forced to believe, almost reluctantly perhaps, in the reality of it all.

It is only a French Mission School, you are told, and the beauty of it is gone when you visit it again; but the pleasure of your first impression is one ever memorable. It is easier to forget the mouldy cornices and tawdry gilt of the little crosses than the quiet harmony of the organ and the voice of the old man teaching his French pupils the true theory of Life in the sunny corner of the garden.

E. G. T.

-The weather-beaten square topped steeple rose in peaceful solitude above the firm big maples. There was a touch of yellow here and there in the green leaves and the chill of the first fall day was under the cold clear sky; a long train of shifting flaky clouds were drifting across the hilltops at the head of the valley.

The road turns sharply up from the bridge a few hundred paces below and divides before the church. Along each branch of it are the closely scattered farms of Bethel Gilead-for so they called the old church neighborhood. The village itself is four miles away.

Up the steep stony road came the slow procession; the rusty old hearse that was almost as old as the church; the dusty country carryalls and buckboards, with here and there the more conspicuous teams of the "summer people," all following with decency and solemnity.

The pastor was gathered to his fathers, and those with whom he had lived out his life were following him to his earthly rest; the men and women he had married; the boys he had prepared for college, and as children, had sought to turn from sinful ways by gentle conversation; the neighbors of other congregations who had shunned his church but who had leaned upon his kindly sympathy; a classmate from Harvard—only two of them are left now: one, who wrote "The Boys died but a few years after"-preachers from the great churches in Boston, where his name was known in greater but in no more blessed sort than among the people of his old age.

They gathered about the open grave under the shadow of the church and the maples; the soft rose glow of coming sunset spread itself through the western clouds and shone down the shallow valley, over the patient farm horses hitched along the fence, over the weather-beaten steeple and the gray and white tombstones and over the faces of the people about the grave. Tears were there but sobs were few. The end of his faithful hard service had come; they were glad for him, but they grieved that they were left alone.

L. D.


The Art School Anniversary

Took place June 1, including a lecture by Mr. F. Hopkinson Smith, of New York City, on "Modern French Impres


The Banjo Club Elections

Resulted in the election of G. M. Howard, '95 S., President; F. F. Brooks, '96 S., Secretary.

The Yale Record Banquet

Occurred June 6, at Traegers. E. B. Reed, '94, acted as Toastmaster and the following responded to toasts: E. B. Reed, '94, H. G. Miller, Jr., '95, H. W. B. Howard, '92, R. D. Paine, '94, Prof. H. A. Beers, '69, E. H. Mason, '92, Gervase Green; '94.

The Yale Athletic Association

Held its annual meeting June 11. The following officers were elected G. K. B. Wade, '95, President; E. H. Cady, '95 S., Vice-President; S. Day, '96, Assistant Manager; W. S. Woodhull, '96, Secretary.

The Glee Club Officers

Elected June 11, are as follows: President, J. St. John Nolan, '95; Manager, F. H. Rawson, '95; Secretary, E. C. Lackland, '96.

The Base Ball Captain

For the ensuing year is F. Rustin, '95 S.

The Class Day Exercises

Were held June 25.

Loomer Hall, Orator.

Edward Bliss Reed was Poet; John
The Senior Promenade took place the

same evening. The Commencement Exercises of the Law School were held in the afternoon at Center Church.

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