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The Editor received a brief halo-crested note from Saint Elihu this month, instead of the usual visit. The Saint explained that he had gone out to Central Africa to superintend for a time the magazine of Lobengula Memorial University.

Much as the Editor regrets that the Saint has fallen into the coaching habit, he feels that there are reasons why the good patron is to be envied. He does not read the daily papers; he cannot be forced to believe, as we who are not so fortunate have been forced to believe, that there are Yale men who knowingly offer for sale the fair name of Alma Mater.

Last week Mike Kelly, a professional ball player, died quite suddenly in New York. Kelly built up his reputation in a legitimate calling, and had attained wide popularity. He never coached a Yale team, nor so far as tradition records did he ever set foot on the Yale campus, though doubtless, there are many of us who are sorry-the Editor, for one, is thoroughly sorry -that the jolly laugh and the quick rough wit are quieted for always. much for the facts.


The day after his death there appeared in two of the city newspapers an article in the form of bona fide news to the effect that a Yale University meeting had been held under the auspices of the Base Ball Association to offer resolutions of sympathy to Kelly's relatives and friends. Upon investigation it was found that the story had been sold by Yale men-whether undergraduates or not is immaterial.

If those who fathered the story intended merely to create amusement they were guilty of a grave indiscretion-for if the editors of the papers took the report seriously, why should not any one who is not a member of the University?..And they were guilty of bad taste, to say the least, in such treatment of the memory of poor Mike Kelly.

There is no true son of Yale who has not more than once been hurt and angered by reports and articles of far greater importance than this sorry jest. The Editor recalls an article headed "Yale Licentiousness," that appeared in a prominent New England daily during Commencement week, and was "work of an infinitely more harmful sort.

But, forsooth, the men who have written these things answer to him who ventures to remonstrate-and there is a world of indignant and injured protest in their tone-" we must live." In other words, we can make our bread and butter and tuition easiest by selling reports about Yale, without regard to their literal truthfulness or shameful exaggeration, or to the credit or disgrace they reflect upon the college."

To such men the college from which they have graduated is no more than the world into which they were helplessly born-unless perhaps it is the subdivision of that world out of which they can most easily get the greatest amount of money.

No university censorship, no press association, can reach down to this spirit; only one thing can touch such a class of men. If those who love



The growth of our exchange list has compelled us to fix for it some arbitrary limit. We have, therefore, dropped all our exchanges, except those published monthly, and no copies of the YALE LIT. will be forwarded to other publications after the November number.

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Yale want Yale respected by the reading public, the agent of sensational college "news" must be driven out of the business by a scorching hot college sentiment.

College verse of the month is of a quantity and moreover of a quality more encouraging than usual:


But a cheerless glow where the sun has gone;
And in the dusk

Aster and golden-rod, pale and wan,

And the sound of the frogs but a sobbing-sobbing.-
Through the ghostly cornstalks, dry and sere,
Rustles the wind,

Timing his song of the dying year

To the pulse of the fall night, throbbing-throbbing-.

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Briskly now the spinners go,
To and fro, to and fro,
Following the whirling spindles,
While the sun the East enkindles.

Fast they join the breaking strands,

Quick their steps and sure their hands,
And the spindles seem too few,
Hearts are light and day is new.

Patiently the spinners go,
To and fro, to and fro,

Though with step less quick and ready
Still they follow, follow steady;

Morning's flush has changed to noon,
And the night will come too soon.

But as yet the day is bright,

And the labor still is light.

Listlessly the spinners go,
To and fro, to and fro,

Night approaches, dark and dreary,
Hand and brain alike are weary.

And they walk with heavier tread,

As they join each breaking thread,
Toiling patiently, until

Evening comes, and all is still.

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-Brown Magazine.

A rosy hue above on all the sky,

A rosy hue below on all the sea.

The falling tide creeps down the silver sand,
A bird chirps softly in an old pine tree.

A thrill of light along the far-off coast,

The sky and sea with fiery glory burn!

The birds burst out in a glad thrill of song;

"Day's here! The sun is up! The tide has turned !" -Vassar Miscellany.

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