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CONTENTS 

Ivy  Oration       .        '  » 

October  .  .  . 

Overture  to  the  Sea  in  Storm 

The  Laugh  of  a  Sportive  Spirit 

In  the  Lane 

Shepherd's  Discontent 

Your  Books       .  .  . 

The  Heart  of  the  Wood  Nymph 

Mamie       .  .  . 

The  Purple  Heather 

Margaret  and  the  Butterfly 

The  Truant 

Maxfield  Parrish's  Pictures 

Imagination 

Finite       .  ^  .. 


Marion  Hines 

Ruth  Cobb 

Paula  Louise  Cady 

Helen  V.  Toolcer 

Dorothy  Oehtman 

Angela  Richmond 

Mira  Bigelow  Wilson 

Frances  Margaret  Bradshaw 

Eatherine  B.  Nye 

Margaret  Louise  Farrand 

Mary  Louise  Ramsdell 

Anna  Elizabeth  Spicer 

Marion  Delameter  Freeman 

.     Bertha  Viola  Conn 

Marion  Sinclair  Walker 


1913 

1 

1914 

& 

19U 

7 

1915 

8: 

19U 

15 

191Q 

lo 

1914 

16 

1916 

16 

1915 

17 

1914 

20- 

1915 

21 

1914 

23 

1914 

24 

1914 

25- 

1915 

25 

SKETCHES 

The  Third  Triumvirate  .         Mary  Coggeshall  Baker  1916  26 

I  Will  Lift  Up  Mine  Eyes  unto  the  Hills    Leonora  Branch  1914:  31 

Good  Night  .  .  .  Hyla  Stoivell  Watters  1915  31- 

The  Rector's  Study         ...  .      Ellen  Bidley  Jones  1916  32 

Pretendin'    .  .  .  .  Eleanor  Louise  Halpin  1914  40- 

ABOUT  COLLEGE 

The  Little  Maid  of  the  Fountain      .  Jeanne  Woods  1914  41 

A  Round  Trip        .  .  .        Marion  Sinclair  Walker  1915  41 

Formality    ...  Dorothy  Vaughn  McCormick  1915  46 


HEARD  ON  THE  TAR  WALK 
EDITORIAL 
EDITOR'S  TABLE 
AFTER  COLLEGE       . 
CALENDAR       . 


4» 
54 
56 

m 
u 


Entered  at  the  Post  Office  at  Northampton,  Massachusetts,  as  second  class  matte? 
Gazette  Printing  Covipany,  Northampton^  Mass. 


THE 

Smith  College  Monthly 

Vol.  XXI  OCTOBER,  1913  No.  1 


EDITORS: 
Lois  Cleveland  Gould 
Leonora  Branch  Anna  Elizabeth  Spicer 

Margaret  Louise  Farrand         Marion  Delamater  Freeman 
Rosamond  Drexel  Holmes  Frances  Milliken  Hooper 

Margaret  Bloom  Dorothy  Lilian  Spencer 

Ruth  Cobb  Dorothy  Ochtman 

Eloise  Schmidt 

business  manager  and  treasurer 
Ruth  Hellekson 

assistant  business  managers 
Esther  Loyola  Harney 
Bertha  Viola  Conn 


IVY  ORATION 

MARION   HINES 


When  the  reward  of  achievement  is  upon  us  we  realize  for 
the  first  time  that  the  joy  we  have  anticipated  does  not  lie  in 
the  attainment,  but  rather  in  the  effort  and  struggle.  We  have 
become  conscious  only  gradually  of  the  growth  which  has 
resulted  from  that  struggle,  but  the  significance  of  its  fruition 
we  cannot  grasp  for  many  years.  There  are  human  enterprises 
which  check  the  current  of  events  and  transmit  their  conse- 
quences not  only  to  every  moment  of  our  future  living,  but  also 
bring  results  in  everything  which  we  attempt.  They  are  judged 
not  so  much  for  what  they  are  in  themselves,  but  rather  by  the 
ever-widening  influences  which  radiate  from  them.  We  see 
their  importance  and  call  them  great.     College  is  such  an  expe- 


2  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

rience.  It  holds  for  us  the  culture  of  ages  ;  shields  us  for  a  few 
years  while  we  attempt  to  make  the  past  our  own  ;  gives  us 
therefore  a  new  understanding  of  the  hopes  and  aspirations  of 
our  own  time ;  sends  us  out  into  a  new  world  and  bids  us 
succeed. 

What  right  has  college  to  demand  success  when  from  every 
side  comes  the  ringing  criticism  that  college  life  is  abnormal  ? 
The  so-called  normal  world  was  the  first  to  formulate  such  a 
criticism  which  later  was  echoed  by  educators  themselves  until 
the  conception  is  familiar  to  all  college  students.  If  we  have 
not  thought  it  we  have  felt  it,  especially  during  vacation  periods 
when  we  meet  those  who  are  not  interested  in  the  things 
in  which  we  are  interested.  Our  critics  have  not  sought  an 
explanation  of  the  keen  joy  which  youth  finds  in  such  an 
abnormal  atmosphere.  It  is  wholesome  ;  it  is  large-hearted  ; 
it  is  free.  Each  girl  stands  upon  her  own  merits.  She  is  not 
asked  whence  she  has  come  or  whither  she  is  going.  We  only 
say,  ^'Are  you  worth  while  ?"  The  girl  who  comes  from  the 
small  towns  and  villages  finds  college  life  variegated  and  inter- 
esting. It  holds  for  her  a  greater  liberality,  a  keener  sympathy 
with  her  aspirations  than  she  has  known.  She  enjoys  the 
freedom  of  such  a  life  in  comparison  with  the  critical  atmos- 
phere of  her  normal  existence.  For  her  who  comes  from  a 
larger  community,  the  abnormal  wholesomeness  and  frankness- 
of  college  is  preferable  to  the  routine  of  her  earlier  years.  She 
enjoys  to  the  full  the  freedom  from  conventionalities.  Does 
not  college  thus  hold  an  experience  vital  for  the  fuller  growth 
of  each  individual  ?  No  one  questions  whether  we  have  enjoyed 
the  living  of  the  last  four  years.  But  there  are  those  who  ask 
whether  there  is  any  vital  relation  between  college  activity  and 
the  work  of  the  world.  The  question  comes  to  us  as  we  look 
forward  to  the  days  in  the  coming  years.  They  seem  to  many 
devoid  of  a  clear,  familiar  color  and  meaning.  In  spite  of 
present  criticism  I  believe  there  is  a  great  similarity  between 
the  life  in  college  and  that  which  awaits  the  college  woman 
afterwards.  May  not  a  translation  of  our  present  living  into 
terms  of  that  which  is  to  come  help  us  receive  our  degrees  with 
more  joy  than  we  have  expected  to  have  ? 

When  we  came  to  Smith  we  found  an  established  order.  It 
was  determined  not  only  by  those  traditions  which  had  grown 
up  within  the  college,  but  also  by  those  which  have  been  gath- 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  3 

ering  through  more  than  the  thousand  years  during  which 
colleges  have  existed  in  some  form  or  other.  We  made  an 
effort  to  understand  it  and  to  conform.  We  learned  to  read  the 
signs  in  the  note-room  because  we  had  missed  a  division  play. 
We  accepted  the  Smith  system  of  dates  and  bought  a  pad. 
Later,  whether  we  were  accustomed  to  walking  or  not,  we 
walked  and  wore  sensible  shoes  with  sturdy  heels.  A  new 
appreciation  of  the  beautiful  became  a  part  of  our  every-day 
living.  We  learned  to  watch  for  the  sunset  and  to  expect  a 
change  in  the  clouds  every  time  we  passed  the  library  and 
looked  across  to  the  hills  beyond.  We  learned  to  love  the  out- 
lines of  Mount  Tom  and  Mount  Holyoke  in  their  varied  cloth- 
ing of  Fall  and  Spring.  We  know  how  silent  and  dark  they 
are  across  the  meadows  when  the  stars  are  bright  overhead. 
Although  we  accepted  some  conditions,  we  rejected  others  and 
even  at  times  created  a  new  spirit.  We  no  longer  stand  in  line 
to  draw  for  game  tickets.  We  dance  at  Junior  Promenade  in 
the  Students'  Building  and  in  the  Gymnasium.  A  new  atti- 
tude towards  the  Christian  Association  has  been  created.  We 
understood  the  order  into  which  we  had  entered  ;  we  loved  it 
and  therefore  wished  to  make  a  contribution  that  would  keep  it 
at  its  best. 

But  greater  than  this  was  the  knowledge  of  our  fellows  which 
came  to  us.  W^e  had  wondered  how  they  could  call  this  one 
who  laughed  so  much  serious-minded  and  that  plain-looking 
one  marvelous.  We  found  many  who  knew  as  much  as  we  did 
and  others  who  knew  more.  We  took  the  attitude  of  one  who 
learns  and  yet  teaches  at  the  same  time.  This  is  "  the  give  and 
take"  of  college.  Each  of  us  was  of  some  use  to  the  others  and 
a  part  of  the  whole,  which  of  course  could  go  on  without  us, 
but  being  a  part  of  it  was  joy  for  us  and  our  friends. 

When  we  approached  our  last  year,  we  realized  in  our  work 
the  pleasure  of  following  minds  far  greater  than  our  own. 
Special  subjects  became  fascinating.  A  peculiar  phase  of  life 
interested  us  and  there  welled  up  within  us  the  determination 
to  become  masters  of  that  subject.  We  longed  to  specialize, 
really  to  know  something.  We  pursued  kindred  subjects  with 
a  new  zeal  and  counted  that  time  most  happy  when  we  could 
make  our  contribution.  We  were  anxious  that  this  vision  of 
usefulness  touching  the  inner  life  should  find  some  expression 
in  our  outer  activities.  Within  our  souls  the  dawn  of  our  new 
relationship  to  the  work  of  the  world  was  breaking. 


4  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

When  we  entered  college  we  lost  ourselves  in  the  order  pecu- 
liar to  Smith,  we  recognized  the  intrinsic  worth  of  our  fellows 
and  we  created  a  place  through  our  own  activities.  These  three 
processes  of  development  in  college  are  like  the  situations  which 
will  greet  you  in  the  years  following.  You  are  to  enter  an 
environment  in  which  there  is  an  established  order.  Fresh 
from  college,  its  mistakes  may  be  more  evident  to  you  than  to 
those  who  are  living  in  it.  But  a  constant  attempt  to  interpret 
its  spirit  may  convince  you  that  its  hardened  shell  has  protected 
something  fragile  and  sacred.  You  may  have  a  part  in  bring- 
ing to  light  its  true  spirit  and  in  establishing  a  new  order  for 
its  expression.  And  yet  it  must  not  be  accepted  without  ques- 
tioning the  efficiency  of  expression  for  its  real  spirit.  The  atti- 
tude of  one  who  investigates  need  not  be  that  of  open  revolt ; 
but  may  he  not  gather  and  record  his  information  quietly,  con- 
structively criticising  the  existing  conditions  and  offering  a 
new  solution  ?  If  you  find  that  the  spirit  of  the  law  has  left  its 
ritual  as  a  form  without  meaning,  be  brave  in  asserting  that 
the  spirit  is  gone  and  that  the  custom  needs  to  be  dropped. 
Does  it  lie  within  the  scope  of  educated  womanhood  to  under- 
stand, to  criticise  and  to  patiently  create  ? 

There  are  two  general  classes  of  people  whom  you  will  meet, 
those  with  whom  you  work  and  those  who  are  the  objects  of 
your  benevolent  love.  How  will  you  regard  them  ?  You  have 
had  four  years  of  cultural  training.  New  methods  of  approach 
are  habits  with  you, — a  breadth  of  outlook  and  a  sympathetic 
understanding  of  conditions  not  your  own.  You  meet  for  the 
first  time  those  who  are  experts.  Their  methods  have  narrowed 
their  lives  to  such  a  point  that  they  can  see  only  those  manifes- 
tations of  life  which  that  point  touches.  They  know  how  to 
make  a  living  while  you  have  been  learning  to  live.  They  will 
have  little  use  for  faith  and  enthusiasm,  your  sympathy  and 
imagination  ;  but  they  know  the  value  of  a  trained  mind  and 
of  a  skilled  hand.  Does  not  the  highest  service  of  educated 
womanhood  in  democratic  society  demand  a  breadth  of  interest 
as  well  as  a  depth  of  technical  reach  ?  Does  it  not  also  require 
an  unquenchable  ardor  for  the  best  things,  a  spontaneous  delight 
in  work  and  play  and  a  many-sided  enthusiasm  ?  Fortunate 
are  they  who  learn  the  professional  mode  of  work  and  manner 
of  application  and  yet  retain  an  ever-renewing  enthusiasm  and 
love  for  the  work  Itself  ! 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  5 

Besides  those  with  whom  you  are  to  work  there  are  those 
whom  you  will  endeavor  to  help.  They  too  have  been  working 
while  you  were  in  college,  although  they  do  not  have  much  to 
show  for  their  labor.  What  shall  be  your  attitude  toward 
them  ?  May  we  not  turn  to  that  which  once  controlled  your 
regard  for  your  fellow  students  ?  At  that  time  you  knew  that 
you  might  learn  from  each  woman  in  college,  whatever  her 
birth  or  previous  training.  When  you  spoke  of  all  of  them 
you  used  the  pronoun  "we."^  It  is  the  democratic  attitude 
rather  than  the  aristocratic  which  is  needed  in  the  normal 
world,  too.  Let  the  college  woman  speak  graciously  of  her 
environment,  of  the  people  of  her  group  as  "  you  and  I."  That 
is  the  spirit  which  enlarges  living  and  keeps  it  interesting.  I 
do  not  disregard  the  unequalities  of  living  ;  they  will  always 
exist.  But  their  bitterness  can  be  overcome  by  a  large-hearted 
sympathy  which  must  become  a  part  of  your  womanhood.  I 
believe  that  there  is  no  one  so  lowly  who  within  his  honest 
heart  is  not  proud  to  share  his  meagre  experience,  if  you  wish 
to  learn  of  him.  You  may  possess  this  spirit  which  demands 
of  you  a  self-renewing  belief  in  human  nature  coupled  with  an 
enthusiasm  for  living  itself.  As  college  women  you  may  radi- 
ate the  open-heartedness  of  true  democracy. 

There  remains  the  work  of  which  the  vision  came  in  college. 
Such  a  work  should  be  founded  upon  adequate  knowledge, 
endowed  with  undaunted  courage  and  enriched  by  love.  Col- 
lege itself  has  given  a  foundation  in  its  intellectual  training ; 
but  preparation  cannot  stop  there.  It  is  a  continuous  process. 
Whether  it  is  prepared  for  in  a  professional  school  or  whether 
proficiency  is  gained  through  individual  effort,  you  must  possess 
a  thorough  training  before  that  which  you  hope  to  do  is  your 
own.  But  work  along  any  line  as  the  execution  of  a  theoretical 
plan  falls  short  of  the  ideal.  If  its  realization  has  left  but  the 
usual  gap  between  itself  and  its  ideal  men  will  grant  you 
success.  If  not  it  is  failure.  After  all,  it  matters  little  what 
men  may  say  ;  for  "  our  business  in  the  world  is  not  to  succeed 
but  to  fail  in  good  spirits."  If  all  you  live  for  goes  to  pieces  in 
your  hands  begin  again  and  rejoice  because  of  the  courageous 
spirit  which  undaunted  builds  anew.  That  does  not  mean  that 
failure  is  preferable  to  success,  but  more  significant  than  either 
success  or  failure  is  the  courage  with  which  the  struggle  is 
renewed.      It   is  the  "love  of  your  work  which  will   lift  you 


6       THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

above  the  fatalities  cf  time  and  chance  so  that,  whatever  befall 
the  labor  of  your  hands,  the  travail  of  your  soul  will  remain 
undefeated  and  secure." 

Is  there  not  a  striking  similarity  in  the  underlying  principles 
of  living,  whether  they  be  found  in  college  or  out  of  it  ?  That 
which  is  unique  in  college  is  only  a  form.  It  is  the  manner  of 
eating  and  drinking,  of  rising  by  bell  and  retiring  at  ten.  The 
laws  which  have  governed  your  life  together  are  those  wnich 
will  continue  to  govern  you  wherever  you  may  be.  The  end  of 
college  demands  that  you  link  the  experiences  of  these  four 
years  to  what  is  to  come  and  recognize  that  each  part  has  made 
a  fuller  living  of  the  whole  possible.  The  spirit  here  may  be 
translated  into  forms  and  conditions  unknown  as  yet  and  you 
may  have  the  joy  of  being  translators.  Each  year  may  bring 
new  thoughts  and  new  forms  for  their  expression  because  you 
have  had  the  gift  of  college.  They  will  find  their  fruition  in 
the  fulfillment  of  the  vision  of  usefulness  which  you  have 
seen  here. 

"  The  best  is  yet  to  be, 

The  last  of  life,  for  which  the  first  was  made  : 

Our  times  are  in  His  hand 

Who  saith,  'A  whole  I  planned. 

Youth  shows  but  half ;  trust  Grod  ;  see  all,  nor  be  afraid ! '" 


OCTOBER 

RUTH   COBB 

Oh,  it's  yellow  tops  the  hillside 
And  the  branch  is  brown  between, 

Where  the  crow. 

Flying  low, 
Glints  bis  jet  and  satin  sheen. 

Oh,  it's  red  is  in  the  hollow 
Where  the  oak  and  maple  grow  ; 

Ruby  red 

Overhead, 
Amethyst  below. 


OVERTURE  TO  THE  SEA  IN  STORM 

PAULA  LOUISE   CADY 

Low  over  the  stormlashed  twilight  sea 

Is  flung  a  heavy  pall  of  thick  black  shadow  massed 

And  from  its  stillness  to  the  leaping  water-waste 

Stretches  a  vasty  reach  of  gray  dark  gloom. 

Sad  is  the  night  dusk  that  floats  drearily 

Out  of  awful  boundless  void — from  dim  infinity  ; 

Black  are  the  shadows  that  drift  wearily 

In  the  black-green  light  of  the  stormy  sea. 

Is  it  the  heaving  of  the  rising  waves 
That  makes  dark  shadows  in  that  black  strange  green  ? 
Or  are  those  long  lithe  bodies  sea-born  forms — 
Rolling,  swinging,  diving,  floating — 
The  woe-bringing  court  of  the  lord  of  storms  ? 
Do  strange  fierce  stirrings  quicken  in  the  air 
Thrilling  with  wild  alarms? 
Are  those  flashes  of  foam  on  the  crests  of  the  sea 
Or  glimpses  of  corpse- white  arms  V 
Are  those  dark  sea-weeds  pitching  in  the  surf 
Or  wild-flung  matted  locks  of  snaky  hair? 
And  is  it  water  hurled  above  the  rocks 
That  seems  like  kobolds  in  the  gloom-filled  air, 
Leaping  to  look  expectant  past  the  ocean's  bound, 
Peering  with  comprehending  evil  stare  ? 

A  slow  low  moan  o'er  the  tossing  waves — 
Fear  and  Dread  and  Pain — 
The  breakers  leap  and  roar  and  shout ! 
And  a  moaning — 
Swelling  and  dying  again. 

Then  a  wind  sweeps  in  with  a  wailing  "  Hail !  " 
The  combers  curtsey  low, 
The  thunders  artillery  roar  salute 
To  this  courier  of  the  Gale  ! 
The  rush  of  the  blast  follows  fast,  follows  fast ! 
Beneath  it  the  bounding  waves  flee, 
And  it  swoops  along  with  a  stirring  sad  song 
On  the  road  between  the  sky  and  sea. 
And  its  song,  its  song,  is  that  slow  long  moan 
A  heart-breaking  terrible  tone, 
Screams  snatched  from  the  lips  of  drowning  men 
By  the  Gale  and  claimed  for  its  own  I 

The  night  has  darkened,  darkened,  darkened 
Like  that  first  Darkness  when  blind  chaos  ruled. 
Ah  !   through  its  denseness  feel  the  flying  Gale  ! 
Out  of  invisibility 

Hear  the  death  cries  throbbing  through  your  heart ! 
And  mourn  the  sadness,  sadness,  sadness  of  the  sea. 

1 


THE  LAUGH  OF  A  SPORTIVE  SPIRIT 

HELEN   V.    TOOKER 

"*  Thanking  you  for  letting  us  see  the  story,  we  remain  sin- 
cerely— /  Bah,  just  the  same  old  printed  formula  that  every 
magazine  in  the  country  uses."  Charles  Quent  tossed  the  man- 
uscript on  the  desk,  and  leaned  back  moodily  in  his  chair. 

The  rejection  coming  as  it  did,  the  fourth  in  a  week,  brought 
to  him  a  feeling  of  utter  despair  and  hopelessness.  It  was  as 
though  he  were  struggling  against  some  malignant  force  bent 
upon  destroying  him.  His  work,  he  truly  felt,  was  good.  It 
was  certainly  not  trash  ;  it  had  truth  in  it,  and  strength  and 
art  and  an  intangible  something  which  goes  to  make  literature. 
Much  of  it  had  been  published  from  time  to  time,  and  highly 
praised  by  both  editors  and  critics  ;  but  the  path  to  public 
favor  and  the  resulting  humbly  receptive  editors  he  had  not  yet 
stumbled  upon. 

During  the  past  year  he  had  had  only  one  story  accepted. 
Story  after  story  had  been  returned,  and  there  had  been  times 
when  the  dread  of  returning  home  to  be  greeted  by  the  familiar 
large  envelope  had  kept  him  walking  the  streets  till  late  hours. 
Moreover,  he  needed  the  money  badly,  and  the  strain  was 
beginning  to  tell  upon  him,  and  his  work  now  was  anxious, 
hurried  work.  It  lacked  the  old  spontaneity,  the  terse,  sweep- 
ing power. 

He  sighed.  ''  It's  good  work,  I  Ivnoiu  that,"  he  said.  ''A 
start  is  all  I  need.  If  only  I  could  make  the  public  realize  that 
I  am  here,  that  I  am  just  longing  to  spend  my  time  in  making 
them  laugh  and  weep,  why,  I'd  be  a  blooming  millionaire  in  a 
couple  of  years."  He  snailed,  an  ever-ready  optimism  shaming 
into  silence  the  passing  depression.  "And  I'll  do  it  yet,"  he 
exclaimed.  "Confound  it,  I'm  not  going  to  take  sass  from 
editors  all  my  life.     Just  wait." 

As  he  turned  to  the  desk  to  re-address  the  story,  a  headline  in 
the  evening  paper  caught  his  attention. 

*'  Stockton  Writing  Stories  in  the  Spirit  World,"  it  read. 
'*  Professor  H.  S.  Whiting  says  that  well-known  author  is  cre- 
ating light  literature  for  the  spirits.     Professor  Whiting  made 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  9 

the  statement  this  morning  that  he  had  recently  been  in  com- 
munication with  the  late  novelist  and  short-story  writer,  Frank 
R.  Stockton,  and  that  the  latter  is  very  pleasantly  whiling  away 
his  time  in  Heaven,  or  wherever  he  is,  by  creating  light  litera- 
ture for  his  companion  shades.  More  than  this  Professor  Whit- 
ing is  not  now  prepared  to  say.  We  hope  that  Mr.  Stockton 
will  find  profit  in  creating  light  literature  for  such  a  spirited 
public,  and  wish  him  all  success." 

'^Well,  the  sheer  cheek  of  some  people,''  Quent  burst  out. 
*'  They  can't  be  satisfied  with  having  everything  their  own  way 
in  this  world,  but  have  to  keep  it  up  in  the  next.  What 
wouldn't  I  give  for  just  a  bit  of  Stockton's  talent  for  getting 
himself  read  I  If  only  he  would  give — "  he  broke  off  suddenly 
as  if  overwhelmed  by  the  rush  of  ideas  which  an  idle  thought 
had  called  up.  '"'I  would  explain  afterwards,  of  course,"  he 
spoke  aloud,  and  slowly,  then  he  gave  himself  an  impatient 
shake.  "Bah,"  he  flung  out,  "Are  you  a  common  thief?" 
And  again  he  defended  himself,  saying,  "It's  not  common 
thievery.     It's — ." 

For  over  an  hour  Charles  Qaent  sat  in  his  chair,  fighting 
with  the  tenacious  idea  that  had  taken  possession  of  him  !  At 
the  end  of  that  time  he  rose  deliberately  and  took  his  hat  from 
the  desk.  "Of  course,"  he  said  to  himself  as  he  went  out  the 
door,  "it  is  only  a  wild  idea,  and  nothing  can  come  of  it,  but 
there  is  no  harm  in  my  just  finding  out." 

It  was  a  strange  evening  that  be  spent.  He  saw  stranger 
sights  and  heard  stranger  sounds  than  he  had  ever  before 
dreamed  of,  and  at  midnight  he  crept  home,  awed  and  ashamed, 
feverishly  repulsing  the  alluring  idea  that  had  so  charmed  him 
the  night  before.  But  in  the  more  matter-of-fact  mood  of  the 
next  morning  he  laughed  at  his  mental  cowardice,  as  he  termed 
it,  of  the  previous  night,  and  plunged  eagerly  into  his  scheme. 

After  that  evening  his  impressions  of  the  cold,  work-a-day 
world  were  vague  and  hazy.  He  seemed  to  be  going  about  as 
one  does  in  dreams,  not  touching  the  ground,  but  gliding  along 
just  above  it  without  effort  or  voluntary  motion. 

Then  one  night  as  he  sat  in  his  room  there  was  a  quick  knock 
at  the  door,  and  at  his  answering  call  a  man  entered,  crossed  to 
the  desk  in  three  strides,  shook  Quent  affectionately  by  the 
shoulders,  and  cried  aloud,  "  Congratulations,  man  I  It's  great, 
great,  do  you  hear  ?"  It  was  Frank  Doyle,  editor  of  the  People's 
Age,  and  a  personal  friend  of  Quent. 


10  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

**  I  couldn't  wait  to  tell  you/'  he  continued  a  few  minutes 
later,  "because  I  knew  j^ou  had  been  pretty  discouraged  at  our 
turning  down  so  much  of  your  stuff  lately ;  but  you  certainly 
have  struck  the  real  thing  this  time,  and  no  mistake.  Every- 
one at  the  office  is  enthusiastic  about  it,  and  we're  going  to  rush 
it  right  through.  Why,  man,  do  you  know  what  we  think  ? 
That  it  is  going  to  be  the  same  kind  of  a  big  success  that  'The 
Lady  or  the  Tiger  ? '  was.  Big  excitement.  Everyone  talk- 
ing. Reputation  made.  That's  all  jom  need,  of  course.  Once 
get  a  name  and  you're  all  right  if  you  don't  slump.  Speak- 
ing of  'The  Lady  or  the  Tiger?'  though,"  he  said  musingly, 
"  that  story  has  quite  a  Stocktonian  tang.  Did  you  notice  it  ?" 
He  looked  inquiringly  at  Quent. 

That  was  the  first  acceptance.  The  story  was  published  three 
months  later  in  the  August  Fiction  number,  and  fully  justified 
Doyle's  prediction  by  the  furor  it  created.  Everyone  was  dis- 
cussing it,  and  no  one  agreed  with  his  neighbor  as  to  its  inter- 
pretation and  its  merit.  Consequently  everyone  read  it,  and 
all  the  stories  which  Quent  sent  out  to  magazines  at  that  time 
were  quickly  accepted. 

So  for  eight  months  he  went  about  in  the  excitement  of 
attained  desire,  and  worked,  worked  hard,  and  worked  cease- 
lessly, partly  because  of  a  feverish  desire  to  follow  up  his 
advantage,  and  partly  from  a  fear  of  the  little  black  demon 
that  buzzed  questions  of  why  and  how  in  his  ear  whenever  he 
attempted  to  have  a  restfully  lazy  evening. 

Then  came  a  night  when  the  work  would  not  go,  and  charac- 
ters and  situations  got  hopelessly  out  of  hand,  and  the  little 
demon  at  his  ear  became  teasingly  insistent.  "  Had  it  been 
worth  while  ?"  he  thought  frowningly.  And  how,  how  was  he 
to  clear  himself  with  his  own  conscience  and  with  the  public  ? 
He  laughed  mirthlessly.  Yes,  surely,  get  up  and  tell  people 
that  they  had  been  duped,  hoaxed.  That  was  simple.  And 
after  ?  He  shivered  as  though  he  were  cold.  He  must  have 
been  mad,  insane,  that  night  and  all  the  days  that  followed  to 
have  even  dreamed  that  a  simple  explanation  would  satisfy. 
No,  certainly,  he  could  never  tell  how  he — . 

A  rap  sounded  sharply  at  the  door,  and  before  he  could  speak 
Frank  Doyle  stood  in  the  doorway.  Quent  saw  the  anger  and 
wondering  incredulity  in  his  face,  and  the  first  thought  that 
passed  through  his  mind  as  he  rose  mechanically  to  meet  him 
was,  "  How  did  he  find  out  ?" 


THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  11 

**I  had  rather  stand,"  Doyle  said  quietly  in  answer  to  Quent's 
greeting.     *'  Did  you  really  do  that,  Charley  ?" 

There  was  nothing  but  hopeless  pleading  in  his  voice,  and  as 
he  spoke  Quent  asked  himself  in  bewildered  self-wonder  how 
he  had  ever  conceived  such  a  plan,  but  Doyle's  tone,  justifiable 
as  it  was,  hurt,  and  he  flung  his  head  back  with  a  defiant  "  How 
did  you  know  ?" 

Doyle's  face  flushed  angrily.  ''I'll  show  you,"  he  said,  and 
going  to  the  door  called  some  one  who  stood  outside.  A  little 
old  man,  thin,  straight  and  spider-like,  darted  past  him,  and 
-stopping  himself  almost  under  Quent's  nose,  shook  his  fist  in 
his  face  and  burst  out  into  a  sobbing,  scolding  tirade.  "You 
impudent  scoundrel,  you  black-tongued,  lying,  faking  hypo- 
crite, pretender,  imposter,"  he  bawled,  his  small,  reddish  eyes 
narrowing  and  broadening  as  he  screamed.  "How  did  you 
dare,  dare,  dare,  bah  I "  his  voice  broke  with  anger  and  he  drew 
off  from  Quent,  folded  his  arms  and  stared  at  him  in  sudden 
dignity.     "  Worm  of  the  earth,"  he  snarled. 

"Charley,"  said  Doyle,  "this  is  Mr.  Scrabner.  Mr.  Scrabner 
claims — " 

"  Claims,  sir,  claims  I  "  shouted  the  little  man.  "  By  Walter 
Scott  and  Theocrites,  no,  I  assert,  sir,  I  know  I " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Scrabner,"  Doyle  continued. 
"  Charley,  Mr.  Scrabner  says,  in  plain  words,  that  that  story  of 
yours,  which  everybody  made  such  a  fuss  over,  was  a  steal. 
He  says  it  is  one  of  the  first  stories  Frank  Stockton  ever  wrote, 
and  that  it  was  published  in  some  country  newspaper  when  he 
was  quite  a  young  man.  The  Enterprise  Gazette,  was  it  not, 
Mr.  Scrabner?" 

"The  Enterprise  Gazette  for  August,  1855,  and  here  it  is, 
imposter  !"   and  the  little  man  fairly  threw  the  paper  at  Quent. 

It  was  indeed  the  Enterprise  Gazette  and  on  the  back  page 
the  familiar  title  seemed  to  leer  vindictively  up  at  him.  As  he 
glanced  down  the  columns  and  noted  the  familiar  phrases  and 
expressions  his  first  emotion  was  an  instinctive  resentment  that 
anyone  should  have  printed  his  story  here  in — then  the  realiza- 
tion of  his  foster-parent  relation  to  it  drove  him  to  seek  refuge 
in  impotent  anger  against  the  real  parent.  "He  had  no  right 
to — "  he  burst  out,  but  Scrabner  knocked  his  words  aside. 

"  Right  I     Who  are  you  to  talk  of  right  ? "  he  screamed. 


12  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

"  Frank  Stockton  himself  gave  me  the  right,"  Quent  answered 
loftily.  ''  I  suppose  he  thought  he  would  get  funny  and  play  a 
practical  joke  on  me,  that's  all.  Well,"  he  continued,  not 
heeding  the  bl-ank  expression  on  the  faces  of  the  other  two  men, 
"  it^s  just  a  bit  too  blame  practical  for  me." 

''Man  alive,  what  are  you  talking  about  ?"  asked  Doyle  in  a 
bewildered  tone.  "  Stockton  couldn't  have  told  you  that  story. 
He  has  been  dead  ten  years,  and  you  never  knew  him.  Try  to 
tell  us  where  you  got  hold  of  it.     Didn't  you  see  this  paper  ?  " 

"Never  saw  the  fool  paper  before  in  my  life.  And  for 
Heaven's  sake  don't  take  that  tone,  Frank.  I'm  not  crazy,. 
even  if  Stockton  is  dead.  I  saw  some  blame  spiel  in  a  paper 
about  Stockton's  writing  stories  in  Heaven,  and  I'd  been  getting 
my  work  back  from  everywhere.  I  thought  if  I  could  only  get 
one  story  to  go,  and  go  hard,  I'd  be  all  right,  and  perhaps 
Stockton — well — perhaps  he  would  have  the  goods.  I  went  to 
a  medium,  or  whatever  you  call  the  creatures,  and,  well,  it 
wasn't  a  pleasant  experience.  But  I  came  back  with  a  story, 
and  I  sent  it  out  to  you.  I  had  no  idea  it  had  been  published 
or  even  written  on  earth,  which  is  where  Stockton's  little  joke 
comes  in,  I  suppose.  I  meant  at  first  to  tell,  sometime,  and 
then  somehow  I  didn't  see  my  way  clear.  That's  the  whole 
tale."  He  squared  himself  defiantly.  "Now  say  what  you 
please,  I  don't  care." 

"  But  you  will,  you  will,"  gleefully  cackled  the  little  old  man, 
whose  face,  while  Quent  was  speaking,  had  taken  on  a  diaboli- 
cal look  of  virtuous  and  vengeful  triumph.  "We'll  do  you 
yet,  we'll  show  you,"  and  he  drew  himself  up  into  a  dignified 
attitude  and  flung  his  arms  out  grandly,  "that  you  cannot 
unpunished  tamper  with  the  works  of  great  men.  We,  we 
who  love  and  reverence  them,  will  rise  in  their  behalf  and  will 
defend  them  with  all  our  strength,  aye,  with  our  lives." 

Quent  made  no  motion,  but  stood  stolidly  waiting.  Doyle, 
however,  moved  restlessly. 

"Don't  you  think,  Mr.  Scrabner,"  he  began,  "that  perhaps  it 
would  be  better  in  every  way  to  let  the  matter  rest  ?  It  would 
be  a  most  delicate  matter  to  explain,  and  it  would  mean  so 
much  to  Mr.  Quent,  and  to  me  also,  as  editor." 

"Sir,  if  you  are  not  willing  to  do  your  duty,  and  cry  out  the 
shameful  case,"  Mr.  Scrabner  replied  haughtily,  "I  must.  Never 
wittingly  will  I  permit  a  man  to  plagiarize  with  impunity. 
This  is  my  heaven-sent  duty  which  I  must  perform." 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  13 

For  an  hour  the  two  men  argued,  hotly  and  stubbornly, 
while  Quent  stared  stonily  out  of  the  window,  and  at  the  end  of 
that  time  Mr.  Scrabner,  by  virtue  of  his  obdurate  vengefulness 
and  perversity,  triumphantly  bore  away  Doyle's  promise  of  a 
complete  disclosure. 

For  the  next  few  weeks  Quent  lived  in  a  state  of  mingled 
dread  and  relief — dread  of  the  day  that  should  hurl  knowledge 
at  all  the  gossiping  world,  relief  from  a  responsibility  which 
had  slipped  from  him.  When  he  thought  of  his  work,  and  of 
the  new  book  which  would  soon  be  at  the  mercy  of  public  and 
critics,  and  of  his  own  future,  despair  gripped  him  and  turned 
him  sick.  He  realized  now  the  inconsequent  foolishness  of  his 
act,  by  which  he  had  thought  to  gain  his  prize  by  a  sudden 
clever,  strategic  move,  rather  than  by  sheer  toil  and  perse- 
verance. 

The  explanation  was  to  be  made  in  the  July  number  of  the 
People's  Age.  It  would  come  out  on  the  twenty-fifth  of  June. 
After  that  date,  he  told  himself,  there  would  be  no  future  for 
him.  He  had  committed  an  unforgivable  sin,  and  the  public 
would  demand  his  atonement.  He  would  be  an  outcast,  ostra- 
cized ;  his  career  would  be  blown  to  the  winds,  and  he — well, 
he  would  find  something  to  do.  He  might  take  up  farming. 
Then  a  revulsion  of  feeling  would  sweep  him  in  the  opposite 
direction.  Surely,  all  this  could  not  be.  Something  would 
happen. 

The  twenty-fifth  of  June  came  at  last  and  with  it  the  July 
People's  Age.  At  the  sight  of  the  familiar  brown  cover  on  the 
subway  news  stands,  Quent's  knees  grew  weak,  and  he  paced 
the  platform  restlessly,  watching  the  stand  uneasily  from  the 
corner  of  his  eye.  He  did  not  go  to  the  oflBce  that  morning, 
but  took  the  train  for  the  country,  not  much  caring  whither  it 
took  him,  and  wildly  cursing  the  sportive  spirit  whose  mischief 
had  led  him  into  trouble,  he  hid  from  the  world's  accusing 
finger  for  the  space  of  three  days. 

On  the  fourth  day  he  returned  from  his  seclusion,  haggard, 
but  quieted,  and  half-reconciled.  He  walked  into  his  room 
that  evening,  and  found  Doyle  sprawled  out  in  an  easy  chair, 
reading  a  paper  and  blowing  curly,  lazy  smoke  into  the  air. 
Before  Quent  could  summon  up  a  protesting  and  unfounded 
sense  of  resentment  Doyle  was  shaking  him  vigorously  by  the 
hand. 


14  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

'*  Have  you  seen  the  papers  ?"  he  demanded  eagerly. 

Quent  shook  his  head.  ''  I  don't  care  to  very  much,"  he  said 
simply. 

Doyle  nodded  understandingly.  ^'They  have  handled  you 
pretty  kindly,  though,  for  some  reason.  You  ought  to  be 
grateful  to  them.  But,  Charley,  this  thing  has  boomed  you  tO' 
the  skies."  He  leaned  forward  excitedly.  " '  The  Dyer's  Hand*" 
has  sold  out  one  edition  in  the  last  three  days." 

Quent  started  forward  and  gripped  Doyle  by  the  shoulders. 
"Do  you  mean  that  ?"  he  demanded  sternly.  '*Is  that  true  ? 
Didn't  they  break  me  ?  " 

"It's  true.  And  you  had  better  say  they  made  you,  not 
broke  you.  Coleman  thinks  that  this  is  only  a  beginning. 
The  second  edition  is  already  almost  bought  up  in  advance." 

Quent  sat  down  suddenly,  as  if  all  his  strength  had  slipped 
from  him.     For  a  while  both  men  were  silent,  then  Quent  spoke. 

"And  I  have  been  eating  my  heart  out  for  the  last  three  days. 
I  thought  I  would  take  to  farming,"  he  laughed.  "What's  all 
that  mail  on  my  desk  ?  " 

"Humble  editors  at  your  feet  begging  for  stories,  stories, 
and  more  stories,  probably.     Try  and  see,  Quent." 

Quent  tore  open  an  envelope  and  glanced  down  the  sheet,, 
then  he  looked  up  smiling.  "  It's  Irving  Bradley,"  he  said  con- 
tentedly. "  He  wants  to  see  some  of  my  work  as  soon  as  I  find 
it  convenient.  He  returned  me  seven  stories  in  one  month 
once.  He  has  never  accepted  more  than  one  iii  his  life,  and  he 
only  paid  me  a  hundred  for  that." 

"  He  won't  haggle  over  terms  this  time,"  Doyle  prophesied. 
"  What  do  the  rest  say  ?" 

"Same  thing.  Haven't  I  something  I  can  send  them.  Glad 
to  see  anything  I  can  send,  etc."  Suddenly  Quent  looked  up 
from  the  letters  with  a  gleeful  smile.  "  I  say,  Frank,"  he 
chuckled,  "  I  think  Stockton  has  stopped  laughing  now. 
Don't  you  ?  " 


IN  THE  LANE 

DOROTHY   OCHTMAN 

Last  night  in  the  twilight,  down  the  lane, 

My  dearest  and  I  x^assed  on  our  way, 
And  the  thrushes  sang  in  their  sweetest  strain 

And  called  to  my  dearest  to  stay,  to  stay. 

The  roses  looked  up  and  saw  her  face, 

And  bent  o'er  the  path  to  keep  her  there, 
But  I  pushed  their  branches  back  into  place, 

Cool  with  the  dew  of  the  evening  air. 

So  we  passed  down  the  lane  and  went  over  the  stile. 
And  the  wind  whispered  low,  "  Come  with  me,  come  with  me, 

The  crescent  moon,  rising,  looked  on  for  a  while, 
And  all  things  were  loving  my  dearest  and  me. 


Now,  in  the  morning,  down  by  the  lane 
The  birds  are  all  silent,  for  she  is  away. 

The  wind  roves  over  the  fields  in  vain 
To  seek  where  my  dearest  is  hidden  to-day. 

And  the  wild  red  roses  that  grow  in  the  lane, 
Dropping  their  petals  one  by  one, 

Call  to  my  dearest  to  come  again, 
And  turn  their  heads  from  the  waiting:  sun. 


SHEPHERD^S  DISCONTENT 

ANGELA   RICHMOND 

Beyond  the  margin  of  the  purple  hills 

Lie  worlds  undreamed  of  ;  golden  mystery 

And  bright  adventure  on  the  shimm'ring  sea. 

A  happy  wanderer  that  knew  no  ills 

Has  told  the  marvels  of  those  worlds  to  me. 

So  I  am  weary  of  this  placid  vale. 

Its  rippling  waters  and  its  willow  trees  ; 

The  sun-warmed  meadows  and  the  wind-swept  leas 

Have  lost  their  beauty  since  I  heard  the  tale 

Of  all  that  lies  beyond  the  mountains'  rim. 

How  bright  the  sun  upon  their  crests,  how  dim 

The  shadow  in  the  valley  seems  to-day ! 

16 


YOUR  BOOKS 

MIRA   BIGELOW   WILSON 

How  still  you  sit  around  the  table  ! 
The  clock  ticks  loud,  the  lamp's  aglow  ; 
The  clock  ticks  fast,  the  lamp  burns  slow. 

How  wearying  the  day  has  been 

With  all  its  small  concerns, 

The  house  and  family  whats  and  wheres 

And  whens,  and  how  the  cook-stove  burns  ! 

But  now  you're  grouped  around  the  table 

So  still,  so  quiet  with  your  books, 

And  something  far  away  about  your  looks, 

Something  that  has  at  length  forgot 

About  the  garden-hose  and  cooks. 

Our  easy  chairs  are  close  together  ; 

Yet  miles  and  years  and  winds  and  weather 

Are  separating  us.    ■ 

"  Brother,  all  hail ;  I  wish  you  love  and  joy  ! 

My  message  comes  by  deep  sea  cable. 

The  clock  ticks  loud,  the  lamp's  aglow  ; 
The  clock  ticks  fast,  the  lamp  burns  slow. 
How  still  you  sit  around  the  table  ! 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  WOOD  NYMPH 

FRANCES  MARGARET  BRADSHAW 

The  wind  was  young  once. 

In  the  cool,  dark  wood  he  came  to  woo  me, 

Sprinkling  sunlight  through  the  thrilling  leaves. 

I  loved  his  timid  kisses  on  my  cheek 

And  when  he  touched  my  brow  with  fingers  cool 

My  heart  was  won  with  all  his  winsomeness. 

But  now  my  love  is  grown  to  be  a  man, 

Mighty  is  he,  masterful  and  bold. 

He  woes  no  more  with  sighs  of  tenderness  ; 

In  the  whirlwind  of  his  passion  he  carries  my  breathless  soul. 

I  quail  and  tremble,  but  I  cannot  flee. 

My  heart  adores  the  god  that  masters  me. 

16 


MAMIE 

KATHERINE   B.    NYE 

There  was  once  a  smart  girl  who  had  lived  with  the  same 
family  for  three  years.  So  of  course  the  family  thought  they 
knew  her  very  well,  and  one  of  her  mistress'  favorite  remarks 
to  the  neighbors  was,  "  Mamie  is  such  a  jewel !  And  you  always 
know  she  will  do  just  what  is  expected  of  her  I " 

This  stability  of  character  had  been  given  her,  I  think,  as 
armor,  to  protect  her  from  almost  overwhelming  odds.  In  the 
first  place  her  mistress,  Mrs.  Warren,  expected  Mamie  to  do 
everything.  And  it  so  happened  that  Mamie  was  by  nature 
one  of  those  people  who  do  everything.  She  did  not  go  around 
looking  for  work  ;  but  she  didn't  have  to.  As  soon  as  Mrs. 
Warren  found  she  could  do  the  kitchen  work,  the  housework 
was  added  to  her  duties.  After  that  Mrs.  Warren  began  to 
count  on  her  for  little  "extras,"  such  as  pressing  out  a  frill  or 
two  or  a  suit  now  and  then.  In  return  she  gave  Mamie  five 
dollars  a  week,  Thursday  afternoons  and  Sunday  nights  off. 

As  for  Mamie,  well,  Mamie  wasn't  her  name  at  all.  Her 
name  was  Margaret.  However,  Mrs.  Warren's  name  was  Mar- 
garet, so  instead  of  changing  her  own  name,  which  she  had  a 
perfect  right  to  do,  she  changed  Mamie's,  which  she  had  no 
right  to  do.     But  then,  she  never  thought  of  it  that  way. 

Every  Thursday  afternoon  Mamie  spent  at  the  Public  Library 
reading  magazines  and  those  books  in  which  the  illustrations 
were  startling  enough  to  attract  her  eye.  And  Sunday  nights 
she  took  the  crowded,  stuffy,  suburban  car  out  to  Laketown, 
and  there  had  supper  with  a  little  old  lady  who  was  a  friend  of 
Mamie's  aunt.  The  old  lady  was  very  deaf  and  very  anxious  to 
be  talked  to  ;  consequently  Mamie  usually  came  back  more  tired 
than  before. 

This  is  where  the  story  really  begins.  Once  after  Mamie  had 
spent  an  unusual  amount  of  lung  power  on  the  old  lady  and 
had  given  her  an  exhausting  description  of  Mrs.  Warren's  new 
spring  suit,  she  boarded  the  suburban  car,  sank  into  a  red  plush 
seat  and  fell  fast  asleep.  And  of  course  the  man  next  to  her, 
being  below  middle  age  and  above  medium  stature,  looked  down 

2  1  1 


18  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

at  the  tired  girl  beside  him  and  pitied  Mamie  because  of  the 
dark  circles  under  her  eyes  and  the  brignt  crimson  spot  on 
either  pale  cheek.  He  admired  secretly  her  brown  hair  and 
wondered  what  color  her  eyes  were. 

The  man  was  rather  different  from  the  ordinary  men  that 
Mamie  saw  on  the  "nine  o'clock  city  special."  To  be  sure  his 
clothes  bore  none  of  the  distinguishing  touches  of  a  fashionable 
tailor;  they  were  decidedly  "store  made."  But  there  was  a 
look  about  his  eyes  and  a  little  turn  of  his  under  lip  that  saved 
him  from  being  homely,  and  his  black  hair  was  gray  enough  at 
the  temples  to  save  him  from  looking  hopelessly  young.  He 
took  out  a  magazine  and  began  to  read. 

As  the  wheels  rattled  over  a  crossing  Mamie  wakened  with  a 
start,  and  stared  around  her  half -dazed.  Before  she  knew  it 
she  had  looked  straight  into  her  neighbor's  eyes— and  he  found 
that  hers  were  deep  blue.  Abashed  she  glanced  at  his  maga- 
zine, and  unconsciously  read  the  title  of  his  story.  That  was 
all.     He  went  on  reading  and  she  got  off  at  the  next  corner. 

The  next  Thursday  Mamie,  having  pressed  frills  until  her 
wrists  and  eyes  ached,  walked  to  tho  Public  Library,  entered 
briskly  and,  abashed  at  hearing  her  footsteps  echo  ahd  reecho 
along  the  halls,  stopped  and  tiptoed  to  the  nearest  shelves,  with 
the  approved  "library  attitude." 

She  was  startled  to  find  herself  gazing  into  two  dark-brown 
eyes,  and  the  owner  of  the  brown  eyes  was  iu  turn  duly  startled 
at  the  reappearance  of  the  blue  of  the  "suburbanite."  Mamie 
muttered  something  about  "  magazines"  and  tiptoed  off  again. 
She  entered  the  magazine  room,  with  its  smell  of  rubber  mat- 
ting and  its  rows  of  shiny  tables.  This  time  she  had  no  diffi- 
cultj  in  making  her  selection.  It  was  the  story  of  the  "  Brown- 
eyed  Man  "  that  she  selected. 

Being  a  girl  she  did  not  stop  long  on  the  description  of  the 
heroine  ;  the  glowing  account  of  her  blue  eyes,  brown  hair  and 
tired  face  was  lost  on  Mamie  and  she  only  lingered  for  a  moment 
on  the  details  of  the  yellow  satin  dinner  gown  which  enveloped 
the  faultless  form  of  this  paragon. 

But  she  dwelt  at  length  on  the  paragraph  devoted  to  a  clean- 
shaven, bold  hero  who  seemed  to  know  exactly  what  to  do  at 
every  turn  of  the  complicated  plot.  He  had,  she  learned,  an 
endless  amount  of  money  and  Mamie  sighed,  thinking  of  the 
bare  kitchen  and  the  bleak  bedroom  which  were  home  to  her. 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  19 

And  after  she  had  sighed  she  wished  she  hadn^t  done  so,  for 
glancing  up,  she  saw  the  brown  eyes  looking  in  her  direction. 

That  was  all,  but  Mamie  laughed  to  herself  all  the  way  back 
to  her— that  is,  to  Mrs.  Warren's  home,  and  said,  ''If  he  turned 
out  to  be  rich  and  secretly  in  love  with  me  it  would  be  funny  ! 
But  as  it  is,  it's  just  happened  and  he  isn^t  rich  or  he'd  have 
better  clothes.     He's  that  kind." 

Then  she  went  in  and  did  everything  she  could  find  to  do  to 
keep  from  thinking  of  pleasant  but  improbable  things. 

And  it  so  happened  that  every  Sunday  night  the  man  was  on 
the  "  nine  o'clock  city  special, '^  and  every  Thursday  afternoon 
he  was  in  the  magazine  room  at  the  Public  Library.  So  most 
naturally  they  said  "Good-afternoon"  at  the  Library,  and 
when  they  sat  together  on  the  car  they  talked,  mostly  about 
the  stories  they  had  read. 

Mamie  found  he  had  read  a  great  many  books,  and  he  recom- 
mended some  of  his  favorites  to  her.  Strangely  enough,  after 
that  they  both  deserted  the  magazine  room  and  met  again  in 
various  other  parts  of  the  building.  Above  all  Mamie 
loved  fiction.  Just  where  she  got  her  "  sentimental  streak,"  as 
she  called  it,  she  never  knew  ;  surely  not  from  her  matter-of- 
fact  farmer  father,  nor  from  her  hard-working  mother  who 
never  smiled  and  was  not  given  to  "acting  foolish,  even  with 
the  children." 

So  time  went  on  until  Mamie  had  been  with  the  same  family 
for  four  years.  She  was  now  "doing  a  little  sewing  for  the 
children  now  and  then,"  aside  from  her  numerous  other  tasks. 
As  she  took  care  of  the  children  evenings  while  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Warren  were  out,  her  wages  were  raised  to  six  dollars  a  week. 
With  this  princely  sum  and  more  which  she  had  saved  Mamie 
bought  her  new  spring  suit  and  hat.  And  she  laughed  when 
she  handed  over  her  twenty-five  dollars,  for  she  knew  that  she 
was  the  "  kind  that  liked  better  clothes,  too." 

The  next  Sunday  was  warm  and  sunny,  and  the  little  old 
lady  was  more  eager  than  ever  to  hear  how  the  children  were, 
how  the  new  cake  came  out  and  whose  parties  Mrs.  Warren  was 
attending.  She  received  thunderous  answers  to  her  mild,  slow 
little  questions,  and  when  Mamie  left  she  gave  her  a  large 
bouquet  of  apple  blossoms.  Mamie  ''just  loved '^  the  flowers, 
but  secretly  she  was  so  tired  she  hated  to  carry  them. 


20  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

On  the  car  she  sank  into  her  accustomed  seat  and  closed  her 
eyes.  The  *'clickety-click"  of  the  ties  as  the  wheels  buzzed 
over  them  soothed  her  tired  nerves.  The  brown-eyed  man 
glanced  down  at  her  again — just  as  he  had  a  year  ago — and 
thinking  to  bring  a  smile  to  her  tired  lips  he  said,  ^^  The  wealth}^ 
hero  has  arrived,  I  see,^'  and  he  touched  her  new  suit  lightly. 

There  was  no  answer.  But  when  he  glanced  at  her  again  he 
saw  something  that  made  him  draw  his  breath  sharply.  Then 
he  made  a  motion  as  if  he  were  going  to  take  the  apple  blossoms 
from  her  hand.  But  something  happened  and  he  changed  his 
mind — and  his  hand  was  still  on  hers. 

And  the  clickety-click  of  the  ties  sang,  "  He  lias  come,  he 
has  come  ! " 

The  next  Thursday  afternoon  the  brown-eyed  man  and  the 
blue-eyed  girl  entered  the  magazine  room  on  tiptoe.  Then 
they  sat  for  a  long  time  reading  a  story  in  a  magazine  which 
was  a  year  old.     After  they  had  finished  the  man  sighed. 

"  The  trouble  is,  you  see,  that  heroes  are  always  millionaires, '^ 
said  he. 

^*  Not  aZii;a2/5,"  said  Margaret. 


THE  PURPLE  HEATHER 

MARGARET  LOUISE  FARRAND 

Across  the  common  and  up  a  winding  road, 
Bordered  by  hedge-rows,  tall  and  green  and  neat, 

Shutting  in  brimming  fields  of  golden  grain, 
With  scarlet  poppies  laughing  through  the  wheat. 

Tall  trees  that  touch  their  branches  overhead, 
And  fleck  the  road  with  dancing  bits  of  light, 

A  brook  that  tumbles  down  its  stony  bed, 
Laughing  with  all  its  might. 

Then  follow  to  the  middle  of  the  moor 

A  little  path  that  loses  itself  there, 
While  round  it,  like  a  sea  without  a  shore. 

The  purple  heather  stretches  everywhere  ; 

And  the  Surrey  hills  that  are  dreamy,  hazy  blue, 
Roll  their  long  and  misty  lengths  away,  away. 

And  you  look  at  them  and  wonder  if  it's  true 
That  behind  them  lies  the  road  to  yesterday. 


MARGARET  AND  THE  BUTTERFLY 

MARY   LOUISE   RAMSDELL 

Under  the  blue  pavilion  of  the  sky, 

Where  ravelled  clouds  their  carded  fleeces  spin, 
The  apple  orchard  spreads  its  leafy  tent 

And  chambers  mellow  aisles  of  shade  within. 
All  cool  and  dark  the  swimming  air,  and  green 
As  some  dim  emerald  pool  within  the  ocean's  deep  demesne. 

All  cool  and  dark  and  green  the  swimming  air, 

Save  where  the  riddled  canopy  lets  through 
Some  trickling  drops  of  sunshine,  whose  bright  pools 

Checker  with  gold  the  grassy  avenue. 
The  whispering  breeze,  the  rustling  bird,  the  bee' 
Voicing  that  teeming  silence  which  is  Nature's  harmony. 

Hark  !    Through  the  stillness,  pulsing  waves  of  mirth. 

The  untaught  melody  of  childish  glee. 
Ripple  and  break  ;  and  from  the  farthest  shade 

A  bright  form  gleams  and  darts  from  tree  to  tree. 
Now  back,  now  forth  it  twinkles  o'er  the  grass. 
Till,  nearer  drawn,  an  errant  beam  reveals  a  little  lass. 

As  when  the  painted  autumn  leaf  is  lured 

By  jocund  zephyrs  from  its  mother  bough, 
And  frolics  downward  in  a  zig-zag  path, 

Now  poised  midway  a  tremulous  instant, — now 
With  one  swift,  headlong  rush,  a  leaping  fire, 
Darts  to  the  earth  and  vanishes  amid  the  tangled  brier, — 

So  she,  charmed  by  an  opal  butterfly, 
Pursues,  with  arms  outstretched,  its  eager  flight, 

And  now  she  gleams  athwart  a  golden  ray, 
Now  slips  from  view  within  the  shadow's  night. 

Her  eager  feet  in  mazy  patterns  lead 

Adown  the  lanes  where  shifting  lights  their  tapestries  have  spread. 


21 


THE  TRUANT 

ANNA   ELIZABETH   SPICER 

I  saw  him  steal  carefully  from  the  animated  group  of  his 
schoolfellows  who  were  intent  on  some  question  involved  in  a 
game  of  marbles  and,  crossing  the  bare  school  yard  unheeded, 
push  aside  the  bushy  hedge  and  jump  the  small  stream  which 
reminded  one  of  an  ancient  moat  in  this  connection  and  purpose. 

A  small,  insignificant-looking  fellow  of  some  twelve  years  of 
age  he  had  appeared  in  the  school  yard  ;  a  timorous  air  seemed 
to  fold  him  round  like  some  garment,  and  he  seemed  to  prefer 
to  watch  rather  than  to  participate  in  the  games.  I  had  not 
noticed  him  until  his  movement  of  withdrawal  caught  my 
sharp  eyes. 

After  jumping  the  stream  he  turned  and  looked  back  to  make 
sure  that  no  one  was  following  and  was  evidently  satisfied  that 
he  was  unobserved,  for  the  thick  bushes  hid  me.  And  then  the 
miracle  happened  !  His  mantle  of  timidity  and  insignificance 
fell  from  him  and  I  saw  a  slender,  supple  lad  with  brown  hair 
and  keen  blue  eyes. 

He  stooped  down  and  soon  I  saw  that  he  was  drawing  off 
shoes  and  stockings.  This  accomplished,  he  straightened,  took 
a  deep  breath,  and  started  on  a  run  for  the  woods  some  ten  rods 
distant.  I  had  a  secret  feeling  of  prying,  of  treading  on  for- 
bidden ground,  but  he  had  enchanted  me  and  I  could  not  but 
follow  him,  keeping  well  behind  that  he  might  not  see  me. 

How  fast  he  ran  !  Little  bare  brown  legs  flashing,  flashing 
like  shuttles  in  a  loom,  and  head  bent  forward  with  firm 
purpose.  He  skirted  the  edge  of  the  woods  for  a  few  minutes, 
then  dashed  into  them  on  a  narrow  trail ;  these  were  evidently 
old  hunting  grounds  ;  no  hesitation  delayed  him  now. 

The  path  led  up  a  gently  sloping  hill  covered  with  spring 
wild  flowers  and  dainty  fern  lacework.  Here  the  world  was 
predominantly  green  and  blue — no  dismal  shades,  but  the  living 
tints  of  spring.  The  boy  stopped  here  and  there  to  admire  some 
rarely  exquisite  arbutus  or  some  slender  Mayflower,  breathing 
in  the  soothing  fragrance. 

22 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  23 

Up,  up  the  path  led,  through  grey  bowlders  half  moss-covered 
and  over  deceitful  little  gullies  hid  by  last  fall's  dead  leaves ; 
and  up  we  followed  it,  he  a  lithe  impersonation  of  a  little  fawn 
or  satyr,  never  losing  footing  nor  misjudging  the  distance  of 
a  leap. 

We  had  now  reached  the  top  of  the  hill  and,  writhing  up  an 
unusually  large  bowlder  which  guarded  the  brow,  he  stood  up 
and  looked  upon  the  scene  which  he  had  chosen  to  leave.  Far 
below  him  the  little  city  lay  steeped  in  the  early  morning  sun- 
shine, seemingly  half  asleep.  Over  to  the  right  was  the  school- 
house  and  yard,  the  latter  now  deserted  for  the  hot,  busy  hum 
of  work  inside  the  building. 

A  flock  of  crows  flew  by  him  with  their  great  wings  flapping 
cheerfully,  and  off  in  the  distance  a  lonely  flicker  followed  his 
strange,  inundating  path.  A  drowsy  bumble-bee  hummed  in  a 
near-by  bush  ;  and  the  boy  stretched  his  arms  and  again  drew 
in  a  deep  breath,  many  of  them,  then  burst  into  a  joyous  peal 
of  laughter.  To  me  it  meant  more  than  he  could  have  told  me 
in  words,  had  he  tried.  A  little  pity,  perhaps,  for  the  poor, 
drudging  schoolfellows,  a  gladness  that  the  world  was  his,  lay 
there  before  him  to  do  with  as  he  willed  ;  but  most  of  all,  joy, 
pure  joy  to  be  living  and  breathing  and  laughing. 

I  forgot  that  he  did  not  know  of  my  presence.  From  my 
short  distance  I  called  out  an  answer  to  his  expressed  joy. 

Again  a  change  passed  over  him.  His  arms  dropped  to  his 
sides,  he  glanced  quickly  around  and,  seeing  me,  jumped  down 
the  bowlder  and  ran.  I  thought  he  had  run  swiftly  before,  but 
I  had  still  swifter  running  to  see  now.  He  sped  through  the 
underbrush  and  had  disappeared  into  the  misty  greenness  of 
the  woods  before  I  could  gather  my  thoughts.  Far  down  the 
path  a  crunching  noise  died  away  and  the  kindly  woods  hid 
him  from  my  view.  In  vain  did  I  call,  assuring  him  that 
I  meant  no  harm.  The  little  wild  creature  had  gone,  not  to 
return. 

The  flicker  still  swooped  in  dizzying  patterns  and  the  bumble- 
bee still  hummed  and  droned,  but  the  most  of  the  joy  and 
happiness  had  gone.  Soon  I  too  went,  passing  slowly  through 
the  leafy  path,  picking  my  way  with  care. 

I  have  watched  for  the  little  figure  often  since,  but  never 
have  I  seen  him.  His  schoolfellows  still  throng  the  narrow 
playground  at  recess  time  and   play  their  old  games,  but  his 


24  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

figure  is  missing  from  among  them.  I  go  often  to  the  hilltop 
and  rest  on  the  bowlder,  scanning  the  whole  hillside  for  him. 
Once  I  heard  a  slight  movement  in  the  underbrush  near  me  as 
I  ascended  the  hill,  but  I  could  prove  nothing — it  might  have 
been  some  squirrel  or  other  little  wood  inhabitant.  And  I 
wonder  if  I  shall  ever  see  him  again  with  his  bare,  brown  legs 
and  small,  keen,  wistful  face,  and  hear  his  joyous  laugh. 


MAXFIELD  PARRISH^S  PICTURES 

MARION  DELAMATER  FREEMAN 

Such  pictures !    As  you  look  you  quite  forget 

That  you  are  grown,  and  can  no  longer  play 

In  fairyland  !    You  are  a  child  again, 

Lord  of  this  towered  castle  gray  and  tall. 

See  how  the  pennant  from  yon  banner  floats 

Out  on  the  evening  breeze,  as  you  ride  on 

O'er  drawbridge,  'neath  portcullis  grim, 

Welcomed  by  your  retainers  great  and  small 

With  cries  of  joy,  "All  hail  the  conqueror  !  " 

And  leaping  from  your  charger,  in  you  go 

To  feast  in  torch-lit  halls  of  splendor  rare. 

Or,  if  you  should  prefer,  you  might  become, 

Instead  of  knight,  a  pirate  bad  and  bold. 

Yo  ho  1    The  wind  shrieks  through  the  rigging  taut, 

The  spray  flies  far  before  your  boat's  sharp  prow, 

Their  ship  is  swift,  but  yours  is  swifter  still ! 

On,  on  !    Before  the  wind  !     Spread  every  inch 

Of  sail  1    You've  got  them  I    Aye,  with  treasure,  too  ! 

Pearls,  diamonds  and  gold,  just  heaps  of  gold  ! 

But  maybe  you'd  just  rather  be  a  child. 

To  go  exploring  in  the  dark,  deep  woods, 

Where  fairies  live,  and  elves  and  gnomes? 

You'll  find  them  if  you  search  and  then  they'll  play 

With  you,  and  share  with  you  their  treasure  troves, 

And  show  you  where  the  magic  pools  lie  hid, 

And  tell  you  everything  you  want  to  know. 

Or  would  you  care  to  run  and  leap  and  swing 

Again  the  way  you  used  to,  years  ago? 

Just  look  into  his  pictures,  and  forget 

That  you're  grown  up  !    He'll  show  you  how !    He  knows  I 


IMAGINATION 

BERTHA   VIOLA   CONN 

I  saw  a  tiny  elfin  who  was  dressed  in  green  and  yellow 
With  many  jingling  hairbells  on  his  small  red  hood. 
And  he  frisked  within  the  twilight  like  a  jolly  little  fellow 
While  his  merry  laughing  hairbells  went  a-tingling  through  the  wood. 
And  the  night  was  growing  older, 
Grey  and  dark  and  black  and  colder, 
And  the  night  was  getting  blacker  through  the  pine  trees  in  the  wood. 

Above  the  cracking  branches  came  the  blinking  moon  acreeping, 

And  shadows  formed  like  monsters  on  the  cold  dirt  ground. 
Deep  within  the  empty  silence  every  little  bird  was  sleeping, 

While  the  hollow  wind  went  whistling  bleak  and  comfortless  around. 
And  the  stars  were  growing  whiter, 
Clear  and  sharp,  then  gold  and  brighter, 
While  the  hollow  wind  went  groaning  through  the  branches  all;[around. 

Among  the  dropping  pine-cones  and  within  the  chill  moon  glances 

I  watched  the  little  elfin  in  his  midnight  glee, 
And  the  dusky,  dancing  shadows  disappeared  like  hollow  fancies, 
For  I  loved  the  little  elfin  who  skipped  about  with  me. 
But  can  it  be  I'm  growing  colder  ? 
Wiser,  learned,  grave  and  older? 
For  now  I  find  no  laughing  elf  to  frisk  about  with  me. 


FINITE 

MARION   SINCLAIR    WALKER 

Against  yon  meadow's  fringe  of  darksome  pine 
The  fireflies  flicker  in  uncertain  flight ; 

The  steady  stars  burn  on  ;  are  thoughts  of  mine 
Thus  to  Thy  thoughts,  Eternal  Lord  of  Light  ? 


26 


SKETCHES 
THE  THIRD  TRIUMVIRATE 

MARY   COGGESHALL  BAKER 

They  were  walking  leisurely  along  one  of  the  fascinating, 
unexplored,  winding  roads  which  leave  Northampton  in  every 
direction  and  end  'most  anywhere  in  the  surrounding  country. 
It  was  a  blue  jewel  of  a  day  with  a  clear,  deep,  cloudless  sky 
overhead  and  Mount  Tom  Range  in  the  distance,  transformed 
by  the  Midas-touch  from  its  one-time  restful  hue  to  a  mass  of 
brilliant  color  with  alternate  splashes  of  flaming  crimson  and 
golden  and  yellow  and  here  and  there  a  stray  green  relic  of  the 
departed  summer. 

Nearer,  in  the  middle  distance,  were  level  fields  broken  at 
intervals  by  shocks  of  brown  cornstalks  with  tasseled  heads 
and  nearer  yet,  too  near  in  fact  to  borrow  the  enchantment  that 
distance  lends,  were  the  broad,  prosaic  acres  of  an  onion  farm 
strewn  with  dirty  little  gray  bags  packed  full  of  the  delectable 
fruit  and  emitting  the  same  familiar,  peculiar,  penetrating  odor 
that  onions  have  always  emitted  ever  since  their  happy  child- 
hood back  in  Adam's  vegetable  patch.  I  am  not  bemoaning 
the  fact  for  I  like  the  smell  of  onions  at  this  early  stage  of 
their  existence  and  it  is  only  after  they  have  been  cooked  and — 
but  why  go  into  detail  ?    This  story  is  about  freshmen,  anyway. 

There  were  three  of  them  walking  along  the  dusty,  gray 
road  in  the  warm,  golden  sunshine  of  the  late  October  day. 
The  musical  warbling  of  the  birds  in  the  woods  at  their  right 
fell  upon  unheeding  ears  and  the  interesting  antics  of  a  lively 
young  squirrel  on  the  board  fence  at  their  left  were  likewise 
unnoticed,  for  the  three  girls  were  completely  wrapped  up  in 
their  own  conversation,  the  all-absorbing  subject  of  which  was 
themselves. 

26 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY  27 

Ermingarde  was  speaking.  "I  suppose  freshman  year  is 
hard,"  she  admitted,  "  but  1  am  sure  that  after  I  get  accustomed 
to  my  new  surroundings  I  shall  get  along  all  right.  How  could 
I  help  it  ?  I  was  valedictorian  of  my  class  in  Blakeville  and  was 
one  of  the  brightest  girls  the  school  ever  graduated,  my  princi- 
pal said.  He  expects  me  to  reflect  honor  on  the  school  and  on 
my  home  town  and  I  have  promised  to  try.  I  think  I  can 
all  right."  Ermingarde  was  a  rather  pale,  undersized,  slim, 
sixteen-year-old  girl  with  sandy  hair,  which  she  still  wore  in  a 
braid,  and  rather  nice  brown  eyes,  which  were  marred,  how- 
ever, by  the  gold-bowed  spectacles  perched  on  her  long,  hooked 
nose.     Her  apparent  self-confidence  impressed  the  others. 

"Oh,  were  you  valedictorian  ?"  cried  Grace  and  Eunice  in  a 
chorus  and  Grace  added,  "Why  so  was  I  back  in  Kenton, 
Missouri.  Say,  I'm  awfully  glad  to  know  another  intelligent 
girl.  I  was  so  afraid  I'd  be  lonesome  here.  I  guess  it  will  be 
nip  and  tuck  between  us  for  first  honors  all  right."  She  turned 
to  Eunice.     "Were  you  anything,  Eunice  ?" 

Eunice  smiled  at  the  frankness  of  the  question.  She  was  not 
exactly  pretty  but  there  was  something  very  attractive  about 
her  clear  complexion,  her  smooth  black  hair  neatly  fixed  and 
her  graceful,  athletic  figure.  "Nothing  like  that,"  she  replied 
in  a  pleasant  voice,  "  but  I  was  captain  of  the  basket-ball  team 
senior  year  and  I  think  I  stood  third  in  the  class." 

"Wedidn^t  have  a  basket-ball  team,"  said  irrace,  "but  we 
published  a  school  magazine,  The  Youthful  Promise,  and  I  was 
the  editor-in-chief  of  that.  I  am  quite  literary  and  I  hope  to 
write  books  after  I  graduate  from  college.  If  in  after  years 
you  ever  come  across  a  book  written  by  Grace  Mary  Anthony 
you  will  know  that  I  wrote  it  and  so  you  want  to  read  it." 

"I  will,"  promised  Eunice  cordially.  Grace  was  by  far  the 
prettiest  of  the  three  with  a  lily-white  skin  except  for  the  faint 
rose  in  her  cheeks,  big,  blue,  innocent  eyes  and  a  lot  of  curly, 
radiant,  golden  hair  piled  up  on  top  of  her  head.  She  was  not 
Ermingarde's  conception  of  a  literary  light  but  of  course  she 
must  be  one  if  she  said  so. 

"  Well,"  she  admitted,  "  we  didn't  have  a  basket-ball  team  or 
a  magazine  at  our  high  school  but  I've  had  some  poetry  printed 
in  the  Blakeville  Chronicle  and  that's  a  real  newspaper." 

"O-oh!"  said  the  other  two  in  respectful  admiration,  "a 
real  newspaper  I"      There  was  a  long  silence  while  the  three 


28       THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

girls  were  thinking  deeply.  Each  of  them  had  come  to  college 
with  the  idea  firmly  fixed  in  her  mind  that  she  would  far  excel 
everybody  else  in  the  class  and  now  had  come  the  first  hint  of 
a  struggle.  Finally  Grace  spoke.  ^' Of  course,"  she  said  slowly, 
"we  can't  all  be  everything."  Nobody  contradicted  this  self- 
evident  truth.  After  a  time  Grace  continued  as  if  talking  to 
herself,  '^Personally  I'd  rather  run  the  Monthly  than  do  any- 
thing else." 

Ermingarde  and  Eunice  brightened  perceptibly.  "  I  won't 
beat  you  out  if  Eunice  won't,"  said  Ermingarde  generously. 

'*No,  I  won't,"  agreed  Eunice.  "I  probably  couldn't,  any- 
way.    Besides,  I'd  rather  make  the  freshman  team." 

''And  I  will  stand  at  the  head  of  the  class,"  concluded  Ermin- 
garde. 

As  she  said  this  the  three  girls  came  to  the  end  of  the  road, 
which  left  them  on  a  high  rock  with  a  steep,  sheer  descent  on 
one  side,  below  which  was  spread  out  before  them  miles  and 
miles  of  level  fields  and  peaceful  farm  lands,  a  panorama  of 
calm,  rural  New  England  scenery.  It  was  near  sundown  and 
the  hour,  together  with  the  atmosphere  and  the  setting  as  they 
stood  there  high  above  the  rest  of  the  world,  was  conducive  to 
lofty  thoughts  and  aspirations.  An  inspired  expression  causing 
a  momentary  resemblance  flickered  in  the  three  faces  but  faded 
immediately,  however,  when  Eunice  broke  the  spell.  "  It^s  a 
bargain,"  she  said  and  they  solemnly  shook  hands.  Thus  was- 
formed  the  Third  Triumvirate. 

The  scene  had  changed.  It  was  no  longer  mild  October 
weather  but  the  wind  was  blowing  a  gale  outside,  hurling 
great  masses  of  wet  snow  and  hail  against  the  big  windows  and 
rattling  the  sashes  as  the  drifts  piled  up  deeper  and  deeper 
around  the  big  campus  house.  Grace  had  just  returned  from 
spending  a  few  days  with  some  friends  in  New  York  and 
Eunice  had  met  her  at  the  station  in  a  taxicab.  After  having 
tea  in  Eunice's  room  they  went  down  into  the  parlor  and  settled 
themselves  comfortably  on  the  divan  in  front  of  the  fireplace. 
At  the  other  end  of  the  couch  was  Nellie  Williams,  Eunice's 
favorite  senior,  fast  asleep  with  a  volume  of  Shakespeare  on  the 
cushion  beside  her. 

"Perhaps  we'll  disturb  her,"  said  Grace  doubtfully. 

"No,  we  won't  and  besides,  she  won't  mind  because  she's 
supposed  to  be  studying  for  a  Shakespeare  written." 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  29 

"  I  bet  that's  a  hard  course,"  said  Grace  thoughtfully. 

'*Well,  just  a  few/'  responded  her  friend.  "I  never  could 
pass  it." 

Conversation  lagged.  They  had  discussed  Grace's  visit  over 
their  tea  and  now  the  heat  of  the  wood  fire  burning  cheerfully 
in  the  fireplace  made  them  drowsy.  Eunice  was  meditating  on 
the  changes  which  had  taken  place  in  Grace  since  that  day  in 
October,  changes  slight  enough  to  the  ordinary  observer  but 
very  evident  to  her  best  friend.  A  few  months  ago  the  mention 
of  a  hard  course,  particularly  of  a  hard  course  in  English, 
would  have  made  Grace  determined  to  take  it  but  now — well, 
now  she  did  not  display  any  undue  eagerness  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  the  great  Elizabethan  dramatist.  Her  face  was 
thinner  than  it  had  been  and  on  her  forehead  between  her  eyes 
was  a  fine  little  line  which  certainly  had  not  been  there  before. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Eunice  slowly  after  a  long  silence,  "I 
wouldn^t  take  eighteen  hours  next  year  if  I  were  you,  dear, 
fourteen  is  all  the  college  requires  and  really  I  think  that  is 
■enough." 

"Oh  yes,  I  changed  my  mind  about  that,"  replied  Grace,  "I 
shall  take  only  fourteen." 

"What  are  you  going  to  drop  ?  "  inquired  her  friend. 

"Art  or  English  13." 

"  Why,  Grace,  not  English  13  !"  Eunice's  voice  was  full  of 
•surprise  and  dismay. 

"Why  not?"  said  the  erstwhile  famous-author-in-embryo 
gloomily.  "  They  say  Miss  Jordan  reads  themes  for  only  two 
reasons,  either  because  she  likes  them  or  because  she  doesn't. 
She  read  just  one  of  mine  last  semester  and  since  then  I  have 
been  afraid  to  hand  in  anything.     I  just  passed  the  course." 

"Oh,  my  dear,  I'm  so  sorry,"  cried  Eunice.  "I  think  you 
write  beautifully.     Please  keep  on  trying." 

"Well,  perhaps,"  sighed  Grace,  "but  I  am  afraid  you  are 
wrong  about  my  talent.  Anyway,  I  shall  be  tickled  to  death 
if  the  Monthly  ever  puts  my  name  in  the  back  of  the  book  as 
announcing  my  engagement  to  so-and-so  or  teaching  school  in 
Chicopee  Falls.  An  ordinary  diploma  looks  big  to  me  now 
without  any  side  honors." 

"Same  here,"  was  the  laconic  answer.  "  I  got  a  fierce  report 
card." 

"  Why,  so  did  I,  only  I  was  afraid  to  say  so  because  I  thought 
you  had  a  good  one." 


30  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

"  No,  and  I  just  made  sub-team  because  Helen  Johnson 
couldn't  pass  the  office.  I  wouldn't  have  stood  a  show  other- 
wise." 

There  was  another  thoughtful  silence,  broken  at  length  by 
Eunice.  "  Do  you  remember  that  walk  we  took  and  Lookout 
Rock  where  we  three  divided  the  class  honors  ?  " 

"Do  I!"  exclaimed  Grace.  "How  long  ago  it  seems!  By 
the  way,  where  is  Ermingarde  ?    I'd  like  to  see  her  again." 

"You  can't,"  replied  Eunice  sorrowfully,  staring  fixedly  at 
the  fire,  "because — because  she  isn't  here  any  more.  She  left 
right  after  mid-years." 

"  Honestly  !  "  cried  Grace.  "  Why,  she  was  terribly  bright, 
valedictorian  and  everything  and  the  best  scholar  the  school 
had  ever  graduated." 

"  It  was  only  a  little  high  school,"  said  Eunice,  "and  it  had 
been  running  only  five  years  and  just  two  people  graduated  in 
the  class  before  her  and  there  were  only  five  scholars  in  her 
own  class.  So  that  explains  it."  Again  there  was  a  pause  as 
they  both  watched  the  flames, shooting  up  the  chimney  and  the 
falling  sparks,  the  golden  head  and  the  brown  one  close  together, 
tears  shining  in  both  pairs  of  eyes.  Something  stirred  at  the 
other  end  of  the  couch  but  neither  of  them  heard  it. 

"Well,"  said  Grace  with  a  little  catch  in  her  voice,  "I  sup- 
pose that  does  explain  it  but  there  were  four-hundred-seventy- 
six  who  entered  in  our  own  class  and  most  of  them  are  still 
here.  If  she  couldn't  keep  up,  how  did  they  ?  For  after  all 
she  was  the  whole  thing  at  home." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Eunice  heavily.     "  I  cannot  understand.'^ 

There  was  another  stir  and  the  volume  of  Shakespeare  slipped 
to  the  floor  as  the  senior,  murmuring  softly  in  her  sleep,  quoted, 
I  think  from  Mark  Anthony's  great  speech  in  Julius  Csesar, 
"  So  were  they  all,  all  prep,  school  shining  lights." 


I  WILL  LIFT  UP  iMINE  EYES  TO  THE  HILLS 

LEONORA   BRANCH 

•'  I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  to  the  hills  !  " 
To  the  hills  I    There  is  silence  there. 

Silence  and  peace  on  the  hills  ; 
But  the  valleys,  they  are  fair. 

The  air  of  the  hilltops  is  pure ; 

I  will  climb  to  the  heights  above. 
Yet  the  valley  air  is  sweet 

With  the  fragrance  of  human  love. 

And  down  in  the  valleys  men  strive, 
And  labor  and  toil  with  their  hands, 

Yet  of  labor  and  striving  there  comes 
A  joy  that  my  heart  understands. 

On  the  hilltops  I  cannot  guess 
What  futures  my  heart  may  meet ; 

But  the  life  of  the  valleys  I  know, 
And  its  loves,  I  have  found  them  sweet. 

Yet  Thou  bidd'st  me  higher  climb, 
Bidd'st  me  leave  the  vales  at  length. 

'•  I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  to  the  hills," 
And  Thou.  Thou  wilt  send  me  strength  ! 


GOOD  NIGHT 

HYLA   STOWELL    WATTERS 

The  little  candle  is  burning  low. 

The  giver  of  yellow  light. 
The  little  candle  is  burning  low, 
And  the  great,  weird  shadows  come  and  go 
As  they  dance  the  victors'  dance,  for  they  know 

They  have  almost  won  the  fight. 

The  little  candle  is  lower  still, 

And  wavering  wild  its  light. 
The  little  candle  is  lower  still, 
And  the  bright  flame  dances  its  death-dance,  till 
The  dark  shuts  down  with  a  fearful  thrill. 

The  candle  is  out.     Good  night. 


THE  RECTOR^S  STUDY 

ELLEN   BODLEY   JONES 

The  whole  affair  came  from  our  not  being  commissioned 
officers.      It  was  later  found  out  that  I  was  the  first  boy  who 

was  ever  graduated  from  S Military  School  without  being 

an  officer  and,  to  speak  truly,  I  was  rather  proud  of  the  dis- 
grace, or  honor,  whichever  you  choose  to  call  it. 

I  was  always  at  the  tag  end  of  everything.  It  seemed  as 
though  I  had  been  born  into  the  position,  from  the  moment 
when,  a  scared  "new  boy,"  I  had  first  entered  the  hallowed 
portals  of  the  school,  late  in  the  term.  I  was  the  youngest  boy 
in  my  classes,  the  newest,  and  consequently  the  "goat."  It 
was  my  name  that  appeared  every  month  at  the  end,  when  the 
rector  read  the  list  of  ranks,  "Jones,  thirty-second."  I  accepted 
it  without  a  whimper,  feeling  that  I  was  destined  always  to  be 
at  the  bottom,  so  what  was  the  difference,  anyhow  ? 

According  to  the  military  custom  of  the  school,  any  boy  who 
came  to  class  tardy,  who  appeared  at  roll-call  with  his  boots 
unblacked  or  with  a  button  missing  from  his  coat,  had  to  drill 
an  extra  hour  in  our  free  time  in  the  afternoon.  I  was  always 
late  to  everything,  never  was  orderly,  consequently^,  when  the 
officer  of  the  day,  with  his  haughty,  stentorian  voice,  read  out 
the  names  of  those  delinquent  ones,  "Jones"  was  always  among 
them.  I  can  remember  yet  that  straight  brick  pavement  in 
front  of  the  chapel,  where  we  formed  ranks.  After  a  while  I 
got  so  that  I  never  even  listened  for  my  name,  for  it  was  always 
there,  so  why  take  the  trouble  to  listen  ?  When  the  order 
"  Fall  out !"  was  given,  I  always  marched  off  with  the  rest  to 
the  "grove"  as  we  derisively  called  it,  a  triangular  plot  of 
grass  with  a  fence  around  it  and  three  pine  trees  in  the  middle, 
which  was  the  place  of  torture.  In  this  hallowed  spot,  because 
it  was  considered  a  disgrace  to  be  there,  no  boy  was  allowed  to 
drill  with  a  gun.  But  a  cord-wood  stick,  much  heavier  and 
harder  to  handle,  served  its  purpose.  I  think,  in  my  most  self- 
conscious  moment  I  could  never  feel  as  ungainly,  as  awkward, 
as  I  used  to  when  that  cruel  officer  gave  the  sharp  command, 
"Double   time,   march!"    and   we,    with   cord-wood   sticks  on 

32 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  33 

shoulders,  started  off  in  that  mad  rush  around  the  triangle. 
Often  he  kept  us  running  so  long  that  to  drop  dead  on  the  turf 
would  have  been  a  God-send.  But  our  lungs  were  too  stout  for 
any  such  romantic  ending.  I  have  the  greatest  understanding 
and  s^^mpathy  for  that  dog,  much  celebrated  in  verse,  with  the 
proverbial  tin-can  tied  to  his  limp  tail. 

It  was  almost  at  the  end  of  the  first  year  when  I  took  up  with 
Stuffy  or,  to  speak  more  truly.  Stuffy  took  up  with  me.  It 
was  he  that  made  me  "buck  up."  I  had  asked  permission  to 
drop  algebra  and  had  gained  my  desire.  With  joyful  heart  I 
happened  to  mention  it  to  Stuffy. 

"What  did  Tiggy  say  when  you  asked  about  it  ?  "  he  inquired. 
*'  Tiggy"  was  the  instructor. 

''Oh,  he  said,  'Yes,  I  guess  you  are  right.  I  don't  believe 
you  ever  could  learn  to  do  algebra.     You'd  better  drop  it.'" 

"Look  here,"  said  Stuffy,  bristling,  "you  don't  mean  to  say 
that  you're  going  to  drop  it  after  he  said  that !  Why,  boy,  he 
called  you  a  sap-head  I  "     I  looked  at  him  solemnly. 

"Stuffy,  I  guess  you're  right.  I'll  just  go  and  tell  him  I've 
decided  that  I  don't  want  to  drop  it  after  all."  I  did  so,  much 
to  the  instructor's  amusement. 

After  that  Stuffy  took  a  personal  interest  in  me.  I  had  been 
the  butt  of  the  school  ail  year,  didn't  have  any  friends  and 
never  had  time  to  play  football  with  the  rest.  Stuffy  was  two 
years  older  than  I  but  we  were  in  the  same  class.  Under  his 
genial  protection,  I  came  out  of  my  shell  like  a  snail  to  the 
sunshine.  I  got  to  classes  on  time,  I  blacked  my  boots  and 
laVjoriously  sewed  buttons  on  my  coat.  I. gained  confidence  in 
my  lessons.  Soon,  instead  of  Stuffy  helping  me  in  algebra,  I 
was  helping  Stuffy.  And,  wonder  of  all  wonders,  "Jones"  was 
no  longer  at  the  end  of  the  ranks  !  One  day,  as  I  "  fell  out "  as 
usual  towards  the  triangle,  the  stern  voice  of  the  officer  called 
my  attention. 

"Jones,  why  are  you  here  ?"  I  muttered  something  to  the 
effect  that  I  was  always  there. 

"  No,  name  not  on  the  list.     Fall  out ! " 

Fall  out !  No  afternoon  drill  !  I  felt  like  a  pet  squirrel  sud- 
denly freed  from  its  cage.  I  did  not  know  what  to  do.  But  in 
a  moment  I  saw  Stuffy's  broad  back  over  the  gooseberry  bushes 
and  with  a  shout  I  galloped  off  to  join  him. 


34  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

Now,  after  rather  a  length}^  introduction,  we  come  to  the 
real  subject  in  hand.     It  was  early  spring  of  my  second  year  at 

S ,  on  the  kind  of  evening  when  one  feels  tired  of  himself, 

tired  of  everybody  and  everything  except  the  open.  It  was 
always  Stuffy  that  started  things  moving.  At  dinner  he  cau- 
tiously dropped  the  hint  that  it  was  Thursday  night.  If  we 
didn't  go  to  study  hour  "  Tiggy  "  would  think  us  in  choir  and 
everybody  knew  that  old  Craps  was  too  near-sighted  even  to 
see  boys  in  the  back  pew.  So  it  was  arranged.  There  were 
five  in  all  who,  with  proper  solemnity,  were  let  into  our  plan,. 
Stuffy,  Joe,  another  congenial  soul,  and  two  other  boys  in  our 
class,  who,  although  officers,  and  a  bit  "leery,"  still  conde- 
scended to  join  us. 

It  was  half-past  seven  when,  with  cat-like  tread,  we  stole 
down  the  old  brick  walk  and  out  into  the  road.  I  remember 
still  the  warm  scent  of  newly  sprouted  shrubbery,  and  the  puff" 
of  the  cool  night  breeze  in  my  hair.  As  we  walked  along 
towards  town  we  meditated  upon  our  chances  of  escape.  Would 
old  Craps  suddenly  take  it  into  his  head  to  call  the  roll  ? 

"Well,"  said  Stuffy,  "this"  prison  life  is  too  much  for  me. 
When  I  get  home  you  bet  I'll  hunch  my  shoulders.  With  a 
sigh  he  unbuttoned  the  tight-fitting  coat  of  his  uniform  and 
we  all  followed  his  example. 

"And  as  for  these,"  he  recklessly  tore  off  a  hanging  button 
and  threw  it  far  away  into  a  field.  "  What's  the  use  of  having 
buttons  on,  anyway  ?  The  only  thing  they're  good  for  is  to- 
give  away  to  girls.  Say,  have  a  hunk  ?"  Here  he  produced  a 
flatish  brown  piece  of  tobacco. 

"How  the  deuce  did  you  get  it?"   we  all  asked  in  wonder, 

for  at  S school  the  boy  who  could  hide  tobacco,  under  the 

scrutinizing  military  inspection  of  pockets,  drawers  and  closets,, 
was  deemed  a  hero  among  his  companions. 

"Aw,  that's  nothing.  .Do  you  know  where  I  keep  it  ?  Be- 
hind a  loose  brick  on  the  Rector's  porch.  Then  at  night  I  hop 
out  and  grab  it.  Here,  have  a  chew."  For  a  while  we  chewed 
in  silence. 

"  There's  one  thing  you  kids  have  got  to  learn,"  said  Stuffy, 
"and  that  is  to  be  able  to  chew  and  not  spit.  It's  the  mark  of 
a  perfect  gentleman.  Anyway,  what  would  you  do  if  you  had 
to  talk  with  the  Rector  for  half  an  hour  with  a  cud  in  your 
mouth?" 


THE   SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY  35 

By  now  we  had  reached  town  and  proceeded  to  Ike  Hoffen- 
stein's  Tavern,  that  place  dear  to  the  hearts  of  all  who  have 

been  bad  boys  at  S .      There  we  ordered  beer  at  once  and 

called  for  cigarettes. 

We  were  in  the  very  midst  of  our  revel  when  the  clock  struck 
half-past  nine.  Lights  went  out  at  ten  and  an  officer  went  the 
rounds  to  see  that  every  boy  was  in  his  bed.  Slamming  down 
our  mugs  and  money,  we  hurdled  out.  The  end  of  a  good 
three  miles  in  thirty  minutes,  up  hill,  saw  us  hot  and  exhausted 
and  if  anyone  had  cared  to  look  at  us  when  we  slipped  into  our 
rooms,  he  would  have  sworn  that  we  had  not  been  peacefully 
studying  all  the  evening.  My  room  was  way  down  the  hall 
from  Stuffy's,  so  the  officer  passed  him  first.  I  could  hear 
Stuffy  answer  present  in  a  panting,  breathless  voice.  Joe, 
whose  room  was  next  mine,  not  being  so  overburdened  with 
flesh  as  Stuffy  was,  answered  in  a  voice  as  calm  as  you  please, 
and  I  followed  his  example. 

That  night  my  dreams  were  happy,  for  I  experienced  many 
thrilling  adventures  under  the  Rector's  very  eye  without  detec- 
tion. However,  my  ioy  was  short-lived  for  the  very  next 
morning  at  breakfast  the  Rector  gave  out  from  his  elevated 
position  on  what  we  called  the  "  hash  pulpit,"  the  awful 
summons. 

'^The  following  will  report  to  me  in  my  study  after  drill  this 
morning,  for  breaking  bounds."  I  looked  at  Stuffy,  expecting 
to  see  a  face  dismayed.  Perhaps  I  would  had  not  Stuffy's 
mouth,  being  full  of  toast,  presented  a  ruddy,  bloated  appear- 
ance. 

All  that  morning  that  summons  haunted  me.  Never  before 
had  I  been  actually  called  into  the  hallowed  presence  of  the 
Rector.  To  me,  the  door  to  his  study  was  something  like  the 
River  Styx,  when  once  one  had  crossed  it,  he  might  never 
return.  At  last  the  morning  with  its  tedious  round  of  duties 
wore  away  and  the  appointed  hour  arrived.  Five  boys,  spick 
and  span,  with  freshly  brushed  uniforms  and  shining  boots 
and  with  buttons  tightly  sewn  on,  knocked  at  the  sacred  portal 
and  when  the  solemn  "Come  in"  was  heard,  entered  into  the 
dim  study.  High  book-shelves  lined  ever}^  wall.  In  the  center 
was  a  low  table,  at  which  sat  a  white-haired  man.  Surely  no 
Augustus  could  be  more  awe-inspiring  or  dignified.  I  think 
all  of  us  felt  a  whole  lot  sorry,  in  spite  of  our  rebellious  natures, 


36  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

at  having  caused  this  mau  any  trouble.  As  we  stood  there  I 
renaember  tracing  along  the  line  of  books  on  the  lowest  shelf 
with  my  eye. 

I  suppose  the  Rector's  talk  was  like  that  any  other  head  of  a 
school  would  have  given  to  refractory  boys.  He  spoke  of  the  need 
of  discipline,  especially  in  a  military  school,  that  the  great  cry  of 
the  age  was  the  need  of  obedience,  how  the  greatest  generals, 
before  they  conquered  cities,  had  first  to  learn  the  lesson  of 
implicit  obedience  to  their  commander. 

I  have  often  wondered  where  men  gain  the  power  of  making- 
others  feel  about  two  inches  high.  I  suppose  it  is  inborn.  It 
certainly  was  in  the  Rector. 

"  For  the  next  month,"  the  Rector  continued,  "in  addition  to 
drill  in  the  afternoon  squad,  I  think  it  would  be  wise  for  you  to 
give  up  your  rooms  and  sleep  in  the  general  dormitory."  All 
juniors  and  seniors  had  rooms  of  their  own,  while  the  "  common 
herd"  slept  in  long  domitories.  Now  Joe,  Stuffy  and  I  were 
not  officers.  The  other  two  boys  had  that  honor  and  all  officers 
had  special  rooms  for  study  and  recreation. 
It  was  Stuffy  who  thought  at  once  of  a  plea  for  our  rooms. 

"Rector,"  he  ventured,  "if  we  give  up  our  rooms  we  will 
have  no  place  to  study  outside  of  study-hour  and,  as  we  are 
juniors,  we  can't  get  along  without  extra  study." 

"  Then,"  said  the  unrelenting  Rector,  "  those  of  you  who  are 
not  officers  may  come  here  every  evening  to  my  study  and  do 
your  work  at  this  table.  Then  there  will  be  no  cause  for  your 
instructors  to  complain  of  my  discipline  interfering  with  your 
lessons." 

'^Say,"  said  Joe,  when  we  were  well  out  of  the  door,  "  think 
of  studying  in  there  every  night !  I'd  rather  go  study  in  the 
morgue  ! " 

Next  evening,  after  the  regular  study-hour,  books  in  hand, 
we  three  trooped  into  the  Rector's  study.  It  was  all  the  same 
as  before,  massive  gloomy  book-cases,  the  low  table  and  the 
white-haired  Rector  sitting  before  it.  Without  a  word,  he 
moved  his  work  over  to  give  us  places  and  we  all  settled  down 
around  the  reading  light.  I  do  not  think  any  of  us  did  much 
studying,  although  our  eyes  were  glued  to  the  page.  Stuffy 
was  brazenly  reading  Virgil  for  a  week  ahead,  while  Joe's  book 
was  open  at  the  table  of  contents.  But  the  Rector's  serene  face 
showed  never  a  siern  that  he  was  aware  of  our  existence.     At 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY  3? 

about  a  quarter  to  ten  he  rose  and  with  a  quiet  good-night 
went  up-stairs  to  his  room,  leaving  us  in  full  possession  of  the 
the  study. 

Like  those  proverbial  mice  on  the  disappearance  of  that  feline 
monster,  we  began  to  stretch  and  look  around.  Joe  looked 
under  the  couch  to  see  if  the  Rector  had  a  tobacco  box  hidden, 
while  Stuffy  and  I  stared  up  at  the  thousands  of  books  that 
glared  ominously  down  upon  us. 

I  have  always  prided  myself  that  I  saw  it  first  and  to  this 
day  I  can  feel  the  thrill  that  advanced  along  my  spinal  chord 
when  I  perceived  it.  There  it  was,  as  little  and  insignificant  as 
you  please,  yet  my  untrained  eye  fairly  spotted  it  out  from 
all  the  rest.  There  it  stood,  among  all  the  other  ponderous 
volumes  of  stored-up  knowledge,  and  it  seemed  strangely  out  of 
place.  It  was  grey  and  said  in  black  letters,  "Homer's  Odessy, 
literally  translated." 

"Hi,  Joe,  came  out  from  there!  Look  what  I've  found." 
It  took  only  a  minute  to  climb  on  a  chair  and  pull  out  the  book. 

"Whew!  Look  at  the  dust!  I  guess  the  Rector  doesn't 
have  much  intercourse  with  the  classics." 

'•  Is  it  real  or  only  a  fake?"  whispered  Stuffy.  I  opened  it 
to  the  first  lines.  Sure  enough,  tliere  they  were,  staring  at  me 
in  plain  English,  those  terribly  hard  lines  that  I  had  dug  out, 
figuratively  and  literally  speaking,  by  the  sweat  of  my  brow 
and  a  Greek  dictionary.  Suddenly  we  all  professed  a  remark- 
able interest  in  the  Greek  language.  The  book  was  laid  face 
downward  upon  the  table  while  we  all  crowded  around  it, 
pushing  and  shoving  for  the  point  of  vantage. 

"Say,  isn't  this  just  like  taking  candy  away  from  a  baby  ?" 
Stuft'y  said.  Our  Greek  lesson  was  finished  in  a  remarkably 
short  time,  so  that  we  attacked  our  geonietrj^  with  vigor  still 
fresh  and  b}'-,  the  time  that  the  tower  bell  warned  us  that  it  was 
time  tu  be  off,  we  were  in  perfect  command  of  all  our  lessons 
for  the  next  day. 

"  Tlie  next  question  is,"  I  said,  "  where  are  we' going  to  hide 
it  ?     It  would  never  do  to  let  it  go  now  ! " 

"No,  it  never  would,"  they  both  agreed.  So,  with  thief-like 
secrecy,  we  hid  the  precious  volume  back  behind  the  other 
books  and  spread  the  rest  out  so  as  to  fill  up  the  gap. 

"Now  if  he  misses  it  and  asks  us  where  it  is — why,  what 
then?" 


38  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

"It  isn't  likely  that  the  Rector  will  be  hunting  around  after 
a  Greek  trot.  Anyhow,  we  would  not  know  anything  about  it, 
of  course,"  I  answered. 

The  following  day  our  instructor  remarked  on  the  excellent 
quality  of  our  Greek  lessons.  We  fairly  shone,  compared  to 
the  dimmer  lights  of  the  rest  of  the  class.  They  looked  at  us 
in  wonder.  Surely,  we  must  have  been  up  all  night,  they 
thought,  to  "do  up"  Homer  in  such  style.  But  our  fresh  and 
happy  expressions  seemed  to  dispute  even  that. 

In  the  evening  we  again  went  to  our  disgrace.  All  the  school 
knew  of  it  and  we  were  regarded  by  all  with  feelings  of  min- 
gled awe,  wonder  and  admiration.  Surely  we  were  bearing  up 
bravely  under  such  a  strain,  they  thought. 

After  that  life  took  on  a  rose-colored  hue.  It  became  habitual 
for  the  Rector,  tired  out  from  his  daily  activities,  to  retire 
early  and  leave  us  in  full  sway.  He  seemed  impressed  by  our 
quiet  and  gentleman-like  decorum  and  left  us  with  implicit 
confidence  in  our  good-behavior.  An  academic  atmosphere  of 
study  reigned  supreme.  Inspired  by  the  "troths"  kindly  aid, 
we  read  far  ahead  of  our  lesson  ;  we  soon  were  doing  the  work 
of  months  beyond,  foreseeing  the  time  when  we  would  be  help- 
less again.  Also,  on  account  of  being  able  to  get  that  bug- 
bear, Greek,  in  so  short  a  time,  we  had  more  time  and  energy 
to  spend  on  our  other  lessons.  In  geometry  we  fairly  exhaled 
brilliancy  ;'  in  Latin,  the  professor  commended  us  on  our  new 
interest  in  the  work.  In  the  afternoon  we  went  to  our  extra 
drill  with  resigned  if  not  jovial  faces.  Be  it  double-quick  time 
or  not,  even  this  could  not  mar  our  serenity  of  soul.  Affairs 
got  better  and  better.  Professor  Tygh  even  hinted  around  that 
I  was  a  probable  canditate  for  the  valedictory  next  year  ;  and 
all  because  of  one  little  book  I 

One  evening,  near  the  end  of  the  month,  our  usual  solemn 
little  group  was  assembled  in  the  study,  the  Rector  on  one  side, 
reading,  Joe  opposite,  working  equations,  and  Stuffy  and  I  at 
the  ends.  I  was  particularly  tired  that  night.  The  officer  in 
charge  at  afternoon  drill  had  had  a  "grouch"  on  and  had  set 
■QS  running  at  double  time  and  then  had  gone  into  the  house  to 
get  a  drink.  I  guess  we  would  have  been  running  yet  had 
not  another  officer  happened  to  pass  by  and  compassionately 
released  us.  At  any  rate,  I  was  wishing  that  the  Rector  would 
hurry  up  and  go  so  that  we  might  get  our  Greek  done  and  go 
to  bed,  when  he  swung  around  in  his  arm-chair  and  said : 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  39 

*'  Boys,  I  want  to  tell  you  how  much  I  appreciate  the  excel- 
lent attitude  you  have  taken  towards  this  form  of  your  punish- 
ment. You  have  endured  it  all  with  cheerfulness  and  with  no 
sign  of  stubbornness  or  sullenness.  I  have  also  been  informed 
by  your  instructors  that  your  work  has  shown  a  marked  im- 
provement in  the  past  few  weeks.  I  am  happy  to  see  that  you 
are  taking  hold  of  life  with  a  new  vigor  and  I  feel  sure  that 
you  are  going  to  succeed,  all  of  you.  I  am  convinced  that  you 
now  see  the  folly  of  your  rule-breaking,  so  I  think  to-morrow 
you  may  have  back  your  rooms  and  I  will  tell  one  of  the 
officers  to  erase  your  names  from  the  list  of  afternoon  drill. 
Good-night,  boys." 

As  his  footfalls  died  away  up  above,  we  all  stared  at  each 
other  in  bewilderment.     After  a  long  silence,  Joe  said, 

*'After  all,  I  suppose  the  square  thing  would  have  been  to  tell 
him  about  the  book." 

"  Look  here,  Joe,"  said  Stufify  hotly,  "what's  the  use  of  being 
bright  enough  to  do  a  thing  like  this  if  you're  going  to  spoil  it 
all  by  telling  ! " 

"Anyway,"  I  said,  "have  a  little  consideration,  Joe!  Just 
think  how  awfully  disappointed  all  our  teachers  would  be  ;  and 
the  Rector  would  be  broken-hearted."  I  assumed  a  martyr-like 
attitude.  "  For  their  sake,  my  boy,  we  must  not  tell.  It  is  our 
duty." 

Then  no  one  said  anything  for  a  long  time.  Somehow  I 
seemed  to  feel  the  Rector's  gray  eyes  1-ooking  at  me,  as  he  com- 
plimented me  for  my  work.  I  looked  up,  to  see  Stuffy  eyeing 
Joe  sheepishly. 

"Fellers,"  I  began  slowly,  "I  think  that  guy  was  wrong 
when  he  said  there  wasn't  any  royal  road  to  learning.  You 
know,  when  the  Rector  began  talking,  it  kind  of  put  a  fly  in 
my  ointment.  Mum's  the  word  about  this,  of  course,  but  what 
do  you  say  that  we  quit  the  royal  road  and  take  to  the  straight 
and  narrow  path  ?  As  for  horses,  the  cavalry  may  be  all  right, 
but  gee  !  it's  the  infantry  that  really  does  the  business  ! " 

"Look  here!"  shouted  Stuffy,  growing  excited.  ";Here's  a 
Bible.  Now  we'll  all  swear.  Put  your  hands  on  the  book  and 
say,  '  By  this  Bible  I  do  hereby  swear  henceforth  to  steer  clear 
of  all  horses.'"  So,  standing  around  the  table,  with  our  hands 
in  a  heap  on  the  Bible  and  with  sober  faces,  we  swore  this 
mighty  oath. 


40  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

Then  Joe  took  down  the  gray  volume  and  examined  it  fondly. 
Something  like  a  grin  flickered  over  his  gloomy  countenance. 

"Say,  think  of  seeing  this  little  guy  for  the  last  time.  Get 
out  your  handkerchiefs,  fellers."  After  a  last  fond  embrace  we 
put  the  book  back  in  its  accustomed  place,  then  solemnly  lined 
up  before  it. 

''Now  pretend  I'm  captain,"  said  Stuffy.  "Company  salute  ! 
Company  to  the  right,  face  !  Forward,  march  ! "  And  with 
heads  held  high,  and  in  military  order,  we  filed  out  of  the 
Rector's  study  for  the  last  time. 

PRETENDING 

ELEANOR  LOUISE   HALPIN 

One  night  I  thought  I  was  a  bear, 

A  great  big  wooly  one  ; 
('Course  I  was  just  pretendin', 

But  it  was  the  mostest  fun) . 

I  got  right  down  on  all  four  paws, 

And  crawled  around  the  floor, 
'N'  then  I  shook  myself  so  hard, 

And  gave  the  awf'lest  roar. 

One  night  I  was  a  fireman. 

And  rang  a  make-b'lieve  bell, 
'N'  jumped  around  mj^  bed  'n'  then 

O'  course  I  had  to  yell. 

Then  nurse  came  runnin'  up  the  stairs, 

And  so  did  Ma  and  Dad  : 
They  thought  perhaps  I'd  hurt  myself, 

'N'  my  !  but  they  were  mad. 

My  fam'ly  don't  like  any  noise 

When  they  are  tryiu'  to  rest. 
They  give  me  blocks  and  cars  and  track, 

But  pretendin'  is  the  best. 

'N'  then  I  play  that  I'm  in  church 

With  lots  of  little  boys, 
'N'  I  am  givin'  'em  licorish 

So  they  won't  make  any  noise. 

'N'  different  times  I'm  different  things  ; 

There's  lots  of  things  I've  done  ; 
('N'  course  it's  all  pretendin' 

But  it's  just  the  bestest  fun!) 


ABOUT    COLLEGE 


THE  LITTLE  MAID  OF  THE  FOUNTAIN 

JEANNE   WOODS 

Across  the  blue  arch  of  the  September  sky 

Race  wind-driven,  snowy  clouds. 

The  stately  trees,  crowned  aloft  with  flame. 

Rustle  their  leaves  in  the  sunshine, 

And,  torn  off  by  the  breeze,  scarlet  leaves  swirl  down 

Dancing,  to  drop  o'er  the  fountain's  rim 

And  float  on  the  twinkling  water. 

Life  and  the  golden  wind  thrills  everything  here 

But  you.  little  fountain  maid. 

So  quiet  you  stand,  and  gentle  and  cool  and  gray, 

With  lashes  dropped,  and  a  musing  smile  touching  your  lips. 

A  spirit  apart,  yet  pervasive. 

As  if  the  Peace  of  eternity  listened — and  listening  sm.iled — 

To  the  sparkling  Unrest  of  earth. 


A  ROUND  TRIP 

MARION    SINCLAIR   WALKER 

It  is  seldom  that  I  make  jounieys  or  visits— my  time  is  too 
valuable  ;  besides,  all  such  interruptions  are  distracting  to  the 
mathematical  mind.  Last  year,  however,  while  I  was  at  work 
upon  a  text-book  in  algebra,  designed  for  the  use  of  college 
freshmen,  and  in  particular  for  the  freshmen  of  Smith  College, 
it  occurred  to  me  that  I  had  a  niece  studying  at  that  institution. 
I  decided  to  look  in  upon  hei'  for  a  few  days,  in  the  hope  of 
accumulating  some  data  which  might  be  of  value  to  my  book — 
touches  of  local  color,  so  to  speak. 

On  the  first  day  of  my  stay  in  Northampton,  my  niece  and  I 
were   at  luncheon,   at   a   place   frequented   by   the   students — 


43  THE   SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

*'  Hoyden's,"  I  think  was  the  name — when  Emily  said,  ^'  I'm  so 
sorry,  Uncle  Horace,  but  I  have  an  engagement  for  this  after- 
noon.    Pill  Club  is  going  on  a  bat." 

The  phraseology  was  very  strange  to  me.  ''Pill  Club?"  I 
repeated  in  amazement.  ''Why,  my  dear,  are  you  studying  to 
be — ah — an  apothecary?"  I  was  relieved  to  find  that  "Pill 
Club"  stood  for  Philosophical  Society,  but  I  was  still  in  doubt 
as  to  the  nature  of  a  bat.  It  must  be  a  vehicle  of  some  kind,  as 
the  girls  were  going  somewhere  on  it.  However,  I  did  not 
enquire  further. 

"But  I  have  thought  of  something  to  entertain  you,"  con- 
tinued Emily.  "  There  is  to  be  a  lecture  this  afternoon  at  three 
o'clock,  in  Assembly  Hall,  on  the  subject  of  '  Possibilities  of 
Probable  Parabolas.'    That  will  interest  you,  I'm  sure." 

I  admitted  that  the  subject  was  a  fascinating  one,  and  ex- 
pressed my  regret  that  Emily  also  could  not  hear  the  lecture. 

"It  would  be  wasted  on  me.  Uncle  Horace,"  said  Emily 
cheerfully.  "I  dropped  Math  at  the  end  of  freshman  year. 
English  is  my  specialty." 

"What  a  pity,"  I  thought.  "That  young  person  is  gifted 
with  a  really  remarkable  mind — excellent  material  for  the  study 
of  mathematics.  English,  indeed  !  And  probably  Shakespeare. 
I  never  could  see  why  people  made  such  a  fuss  about  Shake- 
speare ;  really  sensible  people  falling  all  over  themselves  to 
bow  down  before  him  ! "  With  such  musings  did  I  receive  the 
information  that  my  niece  was  specializing  in  English. 

My  niece  had  not  given  me  very  definite  instructions  as  to 
how  to  find  Assembly  Hall,  but  I  received  the  general  impres- 
sion that  there  was  a  prominent  building,  noticable  by  reason 
of  its  tower  and  clock,  and  that  if  I  entered  any  door  of  this 
building  I  could  not  fail  to  reach  Assembly  Hall.  The  building 
described  I  found  without  diflSculty,  and  noticing  by  the  clock 
that  I  was  already  quite  late,  I  entered  the  first  door  available. 
Walking  along  a  corridor,  I  looked  hopefully  to  right  and  to 
left,  but  saw  nothing  which  looked  like  an  assembly  or  a  hall. 
Through  the  last  door  at  the  right,  however,  I  saw,  not  a  hall, 
but  an  exceedingly  great  assembly  of  students,  massed  about 
a  desk,  all  trying  to  pass  in  little  blue  pasteboard  squares. 
"Tickets!"  I  thought.  "My  niece  forgot  to  give  me  one." 
"Are  they  compulsory  ?"  I  asked  a  girl  who  was  standing  near 
me,  indicating  the  card  in  her  hand. 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  43 

**  Yes,  iiKleed  !  "  she  replied  warmly.  "You  get  a  deroerit  if 
yoa  don't  hand  oue  in." 

"Do  I?"  I  gasped  in  some  alarm,  but  then  recollecting  the 
strange  phraseology^  of  the  place — "Pill  Club,"  for  instance — I 
concluded  that  "a  demerit"  was  some  kind  of  emergency  ticket 
to  be  had  at  the  last  minute.  I  was  about  to  inquire  further,  as 
to  where  I  might  procure  one,  when  I  became  aware  of  a  lady 
in  an  inner  office  beckoning  to  me.  I  entered,  wondering  if  the 
demerit  was  about  to  be  conferred. 

"I  am  Miss  Blank,"  said  the  lady,  a  most  dignified  person 
indeed,  before  whom  I  felt  quite  abashed.  It  is  characteristic 
of  me,  I  regret  to  say,  to  feel  embarrassed  in  the  presence  of 
ladies. 

"You  are  Mr.  X ,"  continued  the  lady,  with  assurance.     I 

was  about  to  protest,  but  so  convincing  was  the  lady's  tone  that 
I  thought  rather  helplessly  that  perhaps  she  might  be  right. 

"And  you  wished  to  see  me  about  your  daughter,  Miss  Evelyn 
X ,  of  the  first  class." 

"  B-b-but,"  I  stammered. 

"Yes,  I  understand.  You  would  like  very  much  to  have 
your  daughter  stay  at  home  until  the  Monday  after  the  Christ- 
mas holidays.  I  regret  not  being  able  to  grant  your  request, 
but  it  is  impossible.  A  definite  principle  is  involved;  it  is  a 
matter  of  policy,  of  tradition." 

Here  I  managed  to  collect  myself.      The  conviction  of  the 

lady  had  led  me  almost  to  believe  that  my  name  was  X . 

But  my  daughter  !  "  Madam,"  I  interrupted,  "  I  have  no 
daughter.  I — I  am  a  bachelor.  I  merely  wished  to  purchase  a 
demerit,  by  which  I  might  be  admitted  the  lecture  on  "Possi- 
bilities of  Probable  Parabolas." 

Miss  Blank  became  very  cordial  when  she  learned  that  I  had 
no  designs  upon  my  "daughter's"  time,  said  that  I  need  not 
get  a  demerit,  and  directed  me  to  Assembly  Hall.  So  ruffled 
had  been  my  composure  by  the  interview  that  when  outside  the 
door  I  could  not  remember  whether  she  had  said  a  stairway  to 
the  right  or  to  the  left.  I  went,  however,  to  the  right,  and 
ascended  a  spiral  stairway.  I  saw  a  number  of  interesting 
places  —  the  interior  of  a  tower,  for  instance  —  but  nothing 
remotely  resembling  an  assembly  or  a  hall,  or  indeed  "  Possi- 
bilities of  Probable  Parabolas."  Cautiously  I  retraced  my 
steps — the  stairway  was  steep.  "Miss  Blank  must  have  said  *to 
the  left,'  "  I  concluded,  with  my  usual  excellent  logic. 


44  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

On  ascending  the  stairway  to  the  left  I  was  confronted  by  so 
many  possibilities — not  of  probable  parabolas — that  I  conld  not 
decide  which  door  to  enter.  Just  then,  fortunately,  three 
belated  students  appeared,  and  from  their  conversation  I  judged 
that  they  too  were  seeking,  albeit  reluctantly,  the  probable 
parabolas.  Following  them,  I  found  myself  at  last  in  Assembly 
Hall.  The  seats  were  apparently  all  taken,  a  fact  which  amazed 
me,  for  though  the  subject  was  a  most  fascinating  one  to  me, 
I  had  imaofined  that  undergraduate  students  might  fail  to  see 
its  true  value.  I  mentioned  this  pleasant  surprise  to  my  niece, 
later,  and  she  pointed  to  a  footnote  concerning  the  lecture,  on 
the  weekly  bulletin,  namely,  "Attendance  required  of  all  mem- 
bers of  the  first  and  second  classes." 

At  length  I  secured  a  seat  in  a  side  section  to  the  right  of  the 
platform,  and  spent  a  most  delightful  half-hour  listening  to  the 
conclusion  of  the  lecture.  By  this  time  I  had  quite  recovered 
my  dignity  and  poise,  and  I  determined  to  seek  a  direct  means 
of  exit — one  worthy  of  a  mathematician,  who  is  supposed  at 
least  to  be  firmly  grounded  upon  the  principle  that  a  straight 
line  is  the  shortest  path  between  two  points.  Accordingly  1 
chose  the  door  at  my  left,  and  went  down  the  stairs  with  an  air 
of  calm  assurance.  A.t  the  foot  there  were  three  doors.  Re- 
solved that  to  hesitate  was  unbecoming,  I  boldly  opened  the 
middle  one.  From  a  desk  before  me  there  rose  another  stately 
lady,  with  a  smile  of  welcome.  "Ye  Higher  Calculi!"  I 
thought,  "Am  I  again  to  answer  for  my  daughter?"  I  was 
about  to  forestall  her  with  a  disavowal  of  the  possession  of 
such,  but  she  was  too  quick  for  me, 

"Ah,  yes,  Mr,  Z ,''  she  began,   "I  am  Miss  Y of  the 

Faculty  Committee  on  Recommendations.  I  know  your  time 
is  limited,  so  I  am  prepared  for  you.  You  wish  to  interview 
prospective  teachers  of  German,  chemistry  and  zoology  ;  am  I 
not  right  ?  I  have  asked  a  number  of  the  seniors  to  meet  you. 
Shall  I  call  them  in?" 

"  Don^t,  I  beg  of  you  !  I  am  sorry  to  have  made  this  mistake. 
I  was  merely  looking  for  an  exit." 

"  Oh,  ethics,"  she  rejoined.  "How  strange  !  There  must  be 
some  misunderstanding.  But,"  consulting  her  list,  "at  least 
two  of  the  seniors  whom  I  have  in  mind  are  prepared  to  teach 
ethics.     I  will  call  them  immediately." 

I  do  not  know  yet  how  I  escaped  from  that  room  without 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  45 

engaging  a  teacher  of  ethics.  But  suffice  it  to  say  that  I  did 
at  length  fiud  myself  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  which  I  had 
descended  so  confidently.  This  time  1  was  about  to  open  the 
door  to  the  right  when  I  noticed  that  it  was  labelled  "  Telegraph 
Office."  Suppressing  a  momentary  desire  to  telegraph  my  niece 
to  send  a  searching  party  for  me,  I  turned  and  mounted  the 
stairs.  I  had  not  sufficient  moral  courage  to  open  the  third 
door. 

Arrived  again  in  the  now  deserted  Assembly  Hall,  I  paused 
for  a  moment  to  get  the  facts  of  my  position  clearly  in  mind. 
Behind  me  was  the  door  which  had  already  led  me  to  disaster. 
At  the  rear  of  the  room,  to  the  left,  was  the  one  by  which  I  had 
entered — and  I  knew  that  that  way  was  too  complicated  to  be 
attempted  again.  By  the  process  of  elimination  there  were  left 
two  doors,  one  to  the  right  of  the  platform,  the  other  midway 
between  it  and  the  rear  door.  I  chose  the  latter,  distrusting 
the  one  by  the  platform  because  of  the  trouble  into  which  its 
companion  at  the  left  had  led  me.  When,  however,  I  opened 
the  chosen  door,  I  reconsidered  my  decision.  I  am  a  man  of 
caution,  not  willing  needlessly  to  risk  life  and  limb,  and  for 
one  of  my  years  and  build  an  icy  fire  escape  is  not  the  ideal 
means  of  descent.  I  had  begun  to  feel  a  genuine  regard  for 
Smith  and  its  students,  and  should  have  sincerely  regretted 
causing  them  the  inconvenience  sure  to  be  attendant  upon  the 
failure  of  my  text-book  in  algebra  to  be  completed. 

I  had  then  no  further  choice.  To  the  door  at  the  right  of  the 
platform  must  be  entrusted  my  fate.  All  seemed  to  be  going 
smoothly  as  I  stepped  carefully  down  the  staircase,  which 
descended  in  a  beautiful  curve.  It  was  growing  dark,  and  I 
felt  my  way,  grasping  the  railing  with  characteristic  caution. 
The  last  step — but  unfortunately  it  was  not  the  last,  for  I  found 
myself  sprawling  in  most  undignified  fashion  before  a  colossal 
figure  which  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  When  I  had  suffi- 
ciently recovered  myself  to  peer  through  the  gloom,  at  the 
features,  I  found  that  it  was  William  Shakespeare  to  whom  I 
was  so  unceremoniousl}^  doing  homage.  My  musings  of  the 
afternoon  flashed  into  my  mind — "  Falling  all  over  themselves 
to  bow  down  to  him." 

"  Oh,  I've  come  to  it,  have  I,  William  ?"  I  muttered.  "  Have 
you  prepared  this  pitfall  for  just  such  as  I  ?  " 


46  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

I  arose  with  all  dignity  and  opened  the  first  door  which  con- 
fronted me.  It  led  into  a  classroom,  which  I  crossed,  and 
entered  a  narrow  hall.  I  found  myself  opposite  a  door  which 
had  some  kind  of  inscription  on  it.  "Faculty  Recommenda- 
tions," I  spelled,  and  fled.  I  do  not  know  where  I  went  then,, 
but  suffice  it  to  say  that  it  was  with  thankful  heart  that  I  trod 
the  icy  pavement  of  Main  Street  some  fifteen  minutes  later. 

My  adventures  of  the  afternoon  bore  fruit  in  one  very  prac- 
tical way.  Next  year  when  members  of  the  freshman  class  in 
Smith  College  enter  upon  the  study  of  mathematics,  makings 
use  of  my  text-book,  which  is  to  be  published  during  the  sum- 
mer, they  will  find  under  the  head  of  "  Permutations  and  Com- 
binations" some  excellent,  and  I  may  add  difficult,  locally 
colored  problems,  dealing  with  the  ways  of  entering  and  leaving. 
Assembly  Hall. 


FORMALITY 

DOROTHY  VAUGHN  MCCORMICK 

Sent  out,  like  the  proverbial  cub-reporter,  to  get  news  for  a. 
"write-up"  for  the  Press  Board,  I  found  that  the  Dean  was  the 
first  on  my  list  of  persons  to  be  interviewed.  It  occurred  to  me- 
that  the  Dean  might  be  very  busy  these  first  few  days,  busy 
enough  to  be  approached  and  questioned  in  a  short,  business- 
like way.  I  realized  that  I  didn't  know  much  about  business 
and  its  etiquette,  and  yet  I  could  remember  reading  many  a 
little  article  headed,  "Advice  to  the  Business  Woman,"  in  the- 
Ladies'  Home  Journal.  As  I  thought  it  over,  some  of  the  old 
rules  and  maxims  for  success  in  business  came  back  to  me. 

The  first  one  was,  "Be  neatly,  tastefully  and  fittingly  clothed.'^ 
Happily  my  coat-suit  had  just  come  back  from  a  pressing 
engagement. 

It  was  already  after  nine  o'clock  and,  being  impressed  with 
the  fact  that  it  is  the  best  business  policy  to  be  the  first  caller,; 
I  hurried  along  without  making  any  plan  for  the  conversation. 
It  is  my  habit  to  decide  beforehand  what  to  say  on  a  given 
occasion.  I  never  think  of  entering  a  store  to  buy  a  yard  of 
ribbon  without  having  outlined  and  memorized  my  conversa- 
tion with  the  prospective  clerk.  Accustomed  as  I  am  to  know 
exactly  how  to  begin,   I  was  quite  nonplussed   when  I  was- 


THE   SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY  47 

seized  in  the  mid-air  contemplations  by  the  young  lady  in  the 
anteroom,  saying  that  I  might  enter  the  inner  chamber  at 
once.  I  was  on  the  point  of  saying  I  would  sit  down  and  think 
over  what  I  should  saj  to  the  Dean,  when  the  young  lady 
pressed  a  button  underneath  the  top  of  her  desk  and  a  loud, 
jangling  response  came  back.  It  was  too  late  ;  the  Dean  was 
plainly  waiting  for  me.  With  a  sickening  realization  that 
"  Promptness  is  the  politeness  of  business  life,"  I  walked  over 
to  the  door. 

When  I  got  there  horror  struck  me  I  I  did  not  know  whether 
it  was  business-like  to  knock  or  to  open  the  door  and  step 
briskly  inside.  Not  one  of  my  stand-by  "articles"  had  forestalled 
this  predicament.  If  I  had  only  come  later  and  watched  those 
who  were  ahead  of  me  get  inside,  I  should  not  have  been  in 
this  great  quandary. 

"  Please  don't  keep  the  Dean  waiting,"  spoke  the  young  lady 
at  the  desk  rather  crisply.  Nettled  a  little  by  her  tone,  I  opened 
the  door  and  popped  inside. 

By  a  big  window  with  dark  draperies  sat  the  Dean,  silent.  I 
am  thankful  to  say  that  I  remembered  the  advice  of  somebody 
in  the  newspaper  to  say  good  morning  with  a  smile  to  the 
person  with  whom  you  want  to  do  business.  I  said  it  while  I  was 
dragging  the  door  slowly  to — I  would  not  have  had  it  slam  for 
a  good  deal,  because  one  should  eliminate  all  unnecessary  noise 
when  in  business.  With  my  face  respectfully  turned  toward 
the  Dean,  I  kept  on  carefully,  slowly,  pains-takingly  drawing 
the  door  to  behind  my  back.  It  took  so  long  that  I  had  ample 
time  to  remember  what  an  awkward,  thoughtless  creature  I  had 
always  been;  the  one  person  in  the  world  unsuited  to  interview 
the  Dean.  As  I  turned  that  strange,  uncomfortable  handle 
round  in  its  lock  behind  my  back,  I  wondered  where  I  should 
begin  my  speech.  Should  I  start  it  at  once  and  throw  my 
words  over,  as  I  had  learned  in  elocution,  to  the  Dean,  eight  or 
nine  feet  away,  or  should  I  walk  over,  giving  her  a  specimen 
performance  of  how  my  ankles  knock  together  ?  I  walked  over 
to  her  desk  and  the  time  it  took  to  get  there  seemed  a  long, 
drowsy,  summer  afternoon. 

Clutching  pad  and  pencil  tightly,  forgetful  of  all  the  dia- 
phragm rules  for  good  speaking,  too  intent  upon  saving  the 
Dean's  time  to  allow  my  attention  to  wander  for  an  instant  to 
the  clothes  she  wore,  I  began  as  smoothly,  simply,  vividly  and 


48  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

tersely  as  I  could,  "  I  represent  the  Smith  College  Press  Board." 

The  Dean  smiled,  amused.  I  fear  that  I  am  too  small  and 
too  fat  to  represent  anything  in  a  diirnified,  worthy  manner. 

Smiling  affably,  as  my  readii-.g  had  advised  me,  but  feebly,  I 
rushed  on  to  present  my  case  in  the  fewest  words  possible.  I 
galloped  over  what  I  wanted  to  do,  who  had  ordered  me  to  do 
it,  whom  I  expected  to  interview  also,  and  how  I  would  bring 
everything  I  wrote  back  to  be  looked  over  and  corrected. 

When  I  stopped  the  Dean  smil^^d  again.  So  kindly  was  her 
smile  that  I  imagined  it  to  be  the  preface  to  the  request  that  I 
repeat  my  last  hurried  remarks.  So  I  started  to  do  so.  She 
asked  me  to  take  a  seat.  I  forgot  about  sinking  gracefully  into 
the  chair,  but  I  kept  my  eyes  upon  the  Dean\s  face  in  the  most 
approved  intent-upon-business  way. 

The  Dean  began  to  talk,  to  tell  me  the  things  I  should  have 
fumbled  around  an  hour  or  more  to  get  at,  through  questions. 
She  grew  more  interested  in  the  subject  as  she  talked.  Her 
eyes  lighted  up.     She  leaned  forward  in  her  earnestness. 

The  door  behind  me  opened.  I  knew  it,  bat,  according  to  the 
rules  of  business  life,  I  kept  my  mind  upon  what  the  Dean  was 
saying. 

As  the  Dean  paused  the  secretary  announced  my  successor. 
With  a  hurried  apology  I  offered  to  go.  The  Dean  said  I  might 
come  again  for  the  rest  of  the  interview. 

I  walked  out  so  wrapped  up  in  what  the  Dean  had  said  about 
her  aims  and  the  ideals  of  Smith  College  that  I  have  a  horiible, 
lurking,  disconcerting  suspicion  that  I  did  not  close  the  door 
after  me;  that  I  was  guilty  of  that  breach  of  breaches  of  busi- 
ness etiquette. 


HEARD    ON    THE    TAR    WALK 


The  Seeing  Eye 


A  curve  in  the  road  and  a  hillside 

Clear  cut  against  the  sky, 
A  tall  tree  tossed  by  the  autumn  wind, 

And  a  white  cloud  riding  high, 
Ten  men  went  along  that  road, 

And  all  but  one  passed  by. 

He  saw  the  hill  and  the  tree  and  the  cloud 

With  an  artist's  mind  and  eye  ; 
And  he  put  them  down  on  canvas — 

For  the  other  nine  to  buy. 

Margaret  Louise  Farrand  1914. 


To  A  Leaking  Overshoe 

I  trusted  thee  ;  on  stormy  days 

When  blew  the  wind  and  poured  the  rain. 
On  thy  protection  I  relied. 

Say,  was  my  tender  trust  in  vain? 
No,  when  together  we  were  young 

Thou  shielded  me  from  every  ill. 
And  for  the  mem'ry  of  those  days, 

Ah  fair  but  false,  I'll  keep  thee  still. 
Thy  shiny  blackness  does  not  show 

The  fatal  leak  that  inundates  my  toe. 

Angela  Richmond  1916. 


The  scene  is  laid  in  the  Seelye  reading 

A  Slice  o'  Smith    room,  elegantly  furnished  with  books  in 

Drama  in  one  act      book   cases,    portraits   on   wall,  a  clock, 

studying  students  at  tables. 
Enter  Filia  Smith,  a  senior,  on  a  dead  run,  arriving  at  objec- 
tive table  pale  and  spent. 


50  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

FiLiA  (to  students  at  table) — When  did  you  come  ? 

Students— We  do  not  remember.  We  have  cut  dinner,  we 
have  cut  luncheon,  we  have  cut  breakfast,  we  have  always  been 
here. 

FiLiA — Do  you  not  hunger,  my  classmates  ? 

Students — We  hunger  after  learning,  the  food  of  the  mind. 
We  soar  higher  than  hash, 

FiLiA— Who  has  the  "Extracts  from  the  Works  of  Petronius- 
Prune"? 

One  Pale  Student— Alas,  with  the  break  of  day  I  left  my 
downy  divan  with  the  bed-box  beneath  it.  As  swiftly  as  my 
skirt  permitted,  I  fled  to  the  libe.  Two  were  before  me.  The 
first  is  now  half  through  her  task.  Forty  times  has  the  immor- 
tal work  been  promised.     You  are  the  forty-first. 

FiLiA — When,  when  will  come  my  turn  at  the  book  ?  When 
may  I  bathe  my  cerebrum,  cerebellum  and  my  medula  oblongata 
in  the  fount  of  its  learning  ? 

Students — Perchance  when  the  rose,  woed  by  the  breezes 
from  the  pulp  mill,  shall  welcome  the  spring. 

FiLiA — Tell  me  what  is  within  this  book. 

Student  with  Book  (in  faltering  accent) — It  concerns  food. 
Beginning  with  soup,  continuing  through  meat,  it  lightly 
touches  upon  salad  and  in  the  end  arrives  at  ice-cream  and 
coffee. 

Moment  of  Silence. 

Chorus  of  Students— Our  healed  wounds  are  reopened » 
Again  is  matter  victorious  over  mind.  We  sorrow  for  the 
things  of  the  flesh.     Oh  for  a  cow  cracker  ! 

Scene  of  violent  grief,  the  stronger  sustaining  the  weaker. 
quick  curtain. 

Margaret  Bloom  1914. 

There  was  a  time  when  I  should  have  con- 
A  Discovery  sidered  it  the  height  of  rashness  to  attend  the 
theatre,  a  concert,  or  a  class  meeting,  unless 
I  carried  under  my  arm  a  volume  containing  some  part  of  the 
world's  knowledge.  Gradually  these  ideas  have  vanished,  and 
yesterday  when  my  roommate  picked  up  a  chubby  volume  of 
Moliere  as  she  started  for  a  recital,  and  asked  in  a  parental 
tone,  "Aren't  you  going  to  take  your  Math  ?"  I  only  shook  my 
head,  and  wondered  how  long  it  would  be  before  she  too  would 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  51 

be  free  from  the  illusion.  For  the  idea  that  one  will  study  in 
places  not  intended  for  that  purpose  is  surely  an  illusion.  Re- 
peated experiences  tell  us  how  small  are  the  chances,  yet  day 
after  day  we  persist  in  carrying  our  books  to  these  places. 
What  are  the  reasons  for  such  a  peculiar  course  of  action  ? 

Perhaps  the  underlying  cause  is  habit.  We  become  so  accus- 
tomed to  taking  our  books  from  class  to  class  that  when  they 
are  no  longer  needed,  habit  operates,  and  we  take  them  just  the 
same.  Frequentlj^  they  are  picked  up  with  very  little  conscious- 
ness of  why  we  are  doing  so,  the  action  becoming  merely  reflex 
in  its  character.  We  merely  know  that  we  are  going  among  an 
assembly  of  people  where,  as  in  the  library,  there  may  be  a 
chance  for  study  ;  at  this  stage  habit  orders  our  doings. 

William  James  declared  that  to  our  material  selves  belong  all 
those  possessions  with  which  we  are  intimately  related,  such  as 
our  friends,  our  home,  or  our  clothes.  At  college,  then,  our 
books  must  comprise  a  considerable  part  of  such  a  self.  Who 
could  pass  and  repass  the  library  without  even  a  note  book  in 
her  hand  and  still  feel  natural  ?  Instantly  we  would  be  aware 
of  an  incompleteness,  even  if  we  were  wearing  the  coveted  ''  S  '^ 
at  the  time.  Because  of  this  close  relationship,  habit  asserts 
itself,  and  we  tuck  a  volume  snugly  under  our  arm. 

At  times,  the  influence  of  habit  is  not  so  apparent ;  we  hesi- 
tate a  moment  before  we  take  up  the  customary  burden.  Then 
the  passing  thought  that  we  may  gain  some  notion  of  the  next 
day's  assignment  exceeds  in  intensity  a  saner  judgment  based 
on  previous  experience.  Something  whispers  tantalizingly  in 
our  ear  : 

"You  can't  judge  the  present  by  the  past.  This  time,  all  will 
be  different!" 

It  is  nine  o'clock,  the  hour  we  have  gym,  and  Latin  comes 
the  next  period.  Horace  was  neglected  the  night  before  because 
of  a  friend's  supper  party,  but  a  chance  for  atonement  still 
remains.  Into  the  gym  class  Horace  goes,  and  is  placed  care- 
fully beneath  a  padded  stool.  As  soon  as  we  have  leaped  over 
the  wooden  horse  a  few  times,  we  cautiously  withdraw  from 
our  companions,  and  search  out  the  poet.  The  first  stanza  of 
the  first  ode  is  barely  read  when  "  Get  into  line,  girls,"  is  heard, 
and  Horace  must  be  hastily  replaced  in  his  hiding.  Our  feel- 
ings are  not  helped  when  the  instructor  says,  "  I  must  ask  you 
to  leave  all  books  outside." 


52  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

The  next  time,  it  is  a  class  meeting.  We  remember  tlie  dis- 
astrous results  of  trying  to  combine  gym  and  Horace,  but  some- 
how we  feel  that  this  is  quite  different.  Surely  it  was  not 
proper  to  take  books  to  such  a  class,  but  no  law  of  ethics  can  be 
violated  if  we  study  physics  while  votes  are  being  counted. 
There  may  be  time  for  a  tennis  game  if  the  physics  is  finished. 
Moreover,  by  glancing  out  of  the  window  we  see  that  many  of 
our  friends  have  books  in  their  hands.  Consequently  the  theo- 
ries of  Newton  travel  to  the  Students'  Building,  and  while  we 
try  to  comprehend  them,  if  we  do  try,  our  friends  keep  up  a 
constant  buzz  of  conversation.  At  last,  as  the  successful  candi- 
date is  led  down  the  aisle,  we  drop  our  book,  feeling  that  the 
reception  we  are  according  her  is  a  trifle  too  material  to  be 
appreciated. 

Those  of  us  who  wish  to  test  psychological  principles,  such  as 
distributive  repetitions,  find  a  delightful  opportunity  between 
the  acts  of  the  play.  We  read  over  our  poem  for  elocution 
before  we  start,  and  repeat  the  reading  after  each  act.  Some- 
how in  these  cases  the  principles  fail,  for  the  amount  we  have 
learned  is  rarely  proportional  to  the  time  or  effort  involved. 

A  feeling  of  security  is  always  agreeable,  and  even  if  the 
security  is  false  we  may  allow  ourselves  to  forget  that  part  of 
it.  When  we  select  a  book  which  contains  the  matter  on  which 
the  next  day's  written  is  based,  to  be  our  constant  attendant  at 
an  entertainment,  we  invariably  feel  safer  than  if  we  had 
left  it  in  our  room.  The  knowledge,  if  not  in  our  heads,  is  at 
least  in  our  hands,  and  by  that  much  we  fancy  we  are  assured 
of  a  better  grade. 

A  final  and  very  important  influence  is  discovered  in  what  we 
call  conscience,  combined  with  a  lingering  trace  of  New  Eng- 
land Puritanism.  Often  in  spite  of  work  that  needs  our  atten- 
tion, we  decide  to  give  over  the  evening  to  pleasure,  but  all 
thought  of  the  work  does  not  vanish  as  soon  as  the  decision  is 
made.  Instead  it  persists  as  an  obstacle  to  our  action.  Is  it 
right,  we  reason,  to  devote  ourselves  wholly  to  enjoyment ; 
should  we  not  at  least  allow  ourselves  the  opportunity  for  a 
little  work  ?  We  overlook  the  fact  that  the  value  of  the  oppor- 
tunity is  negligible,  and  appease  all  misgivings  by  burdening 
ourselves  with  the  book  in  which  the  neglected  information 
resides.  If  the  book  is  heavy,  all  the  better,  for  then  we  gain 
satisfaction  in  the  labor  involved.      As   soon  as  the  desired 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  53 

knowledge  is  physically  present,  we  indulge  in  a  lurking  hope 
that  by  some  peculiar  gift  of  Providence  this  companionship 
will  be  partially  equivalent  to  mental  acquisition. 

You  must  not  imagine  that  an  idea  of  the  worthlessness  of 
encumbering  myself  with  books  on  every  occasion  occurred  to 
me  at  once.  The  process  of  discovery  was  gradual.  After  my 
adventure  in  gym,  I  never  again  attempted  to  introduce  Horace 
to  physical  education,  and  after  that  class  meeting  I  made  no 
more  attempts  to  mingle  physics  and  serenades.  The  theatre 
and  concert  mania  persisted  heroically,  and  has  been  only  lately 
dispelled.  Could  my  roommate  know  the  freedom  of  my  arms 
as  well  as  my  mind  at  the  recent  recital,  she  would,  I  am  sure, 
permit  Moliere  and  mathematics  to  remain  side  by  side. 

Martha  Fabyan  Chadbourne  1914. 


Fall 

I  sit  in  my  garret  window, 

Look  down  on  the  passing  throng. 
Everyone's  clad  in  rubber 

And  no  one  sings  a  song. 
The  tar  walk  is  black  and  shiny, 

It's  covered  with  nice  worms  and  things, 
That's  enough  to  make  anyone  happy. 

There  ought  to  be  someone  who  sings. 
Don't  they  know  that  the  rain  in  fall-time 

Is  something  we  can't  do  without  ? 
Don't  they  know  that  a  lack  of  moisture 

Is  sure  to  result  in  drought? 
Why  don't  they  look  forward  to  skating  ? 

Oh.  why  do  they  look  so  chilled, 
When  we  must  put  up  with  downpours? 

How  would  Paradise  else  be  filled? 

Dorothy  Lilian  Spencer  1914. 


EDITORIAL 


What  was  the  last  question  we  discussed  in  June  ?  Was  it 
not, — "Are  the  Northampton  Players  really  coming  back  next 
year?'^  And  this  fall  after  the  first  hilarious  greetings,  did  not 
most  of  us  breathlessly  ask  of  the  girl  who  had  been  here  since 
"  yesterday  morning",—"  Are  the  players  here  yet  ?  When  do 
they  come  ?"  If  one  may  judge  from  the  frequency  of  such  re- 
marks and  also  from  the  great  number  of  students  in  the  au- 
diences last  year  one  can  say  with  some  assurance  that  the  aver- 
age college  girl  includes  the  Municipal  theatre  in  her  curriculum. 
True,  "theatre,  three  hours  a  week"  does  not  appear  on  her 
schedule  of  hours.  But  the  number  of  names  on  the  theatre  lists 
in  the  different  houses  and  the  record  of  light  cuts  need  no 
explanation. 

However,  we  cannot  attend  the  theatre  from  one  to  four  times 
a  month  for  nine  months  out  of  the  twelve  without  being 
benefited  or  harmed  by  so  doing.  For  every  thing  we  think, 
every  thing  we  see  or  do  has  its  effect  on  us.  Some  one  an- 
swers, "our  City  theatre  cannot  be  harmful.  The  girls  will 
seek  amusement  somewhere.  And  in  a  season  of  the  Northamp- 
ton Players  they  are  seeing  better  plays,  better  produced  than 
they  otherwise  would  see."  But  the  result  in  each  one  of  us, 
of  a  season  of  theatre  going,  is  not  entirely  dependent  on  the 
merit  or  demerit  of  the  performances.  Whether  we  are  bene- 
fited or  harmed  by  attending  the  theatre  depends  less  on  wLat 
we  see  there  than  on  our  attitude  of  mind  towards  what  we  see. 

The  girl  who  is  going  regularly  to  the  theatre,  no  matter  how 
good  the  productions  she  sees,  "for  something  to  do,"  for  the 
merely  emotional  stimulus,  is  harming  herself.  The  constant 
demand  for  excitement  for  something  "  doing"  is  a  destructive 
force  working  against  quiet  thinking  and  truer  living.  It  is  to 
be  deplored  that  so  many  people  seek  the  theatre  as  they  would 
a  roller  coaster, — as  something  to  give  them  a  thrill. 

54 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY  55 

But  there  is  another  type  of  theatre  goer.  Her  attitude  towards 
-a.  play  is  very  much  what  she  has  when  enjoying  a  symphony  or 
•a.  piece  of  sculpture.  She,  too  is  there  for  pleasure,  but  the  deeper 
pleasure  of  making  her  own  whatever  is  worth  while. 

Last  winter  the  Northampton  Players  worked  tentatively. 
They  tried  to  learn  our  taste  and  to  give  us  the  best  attractions 
possible.  But  this  year  they  not  only  are  trying  to  give  us  a 
season  of  better  plaj^s,  but  they  would  help  us  to  a  deeper  appre- 
<jiation  and  enjoyment  of  what  they  are  giving.  Their  positive 
policy  takes  the  form  of  a  suggestion, — that  we  "organize 
dramatic  clubs  for  the  study  of  the  plays  and  their  authors. 
Each  member  shall  keep  a  theatre  bookin  which  to  write  indivi- 
dual impressions  of  the  play  and  the  acting  each  week."  Criti- 
cisms of  the  play  are  to  be  sent  to  the  management  and  a  prize 
will  be  given  for  the  best  one.  It  is  also  proposed  that  these 
dramatics  clubs  prepare  a  play  for  a  public  performance  to  be 
given  at  the  theatre  under  the  supervision  of  the  management. 
These  suggestions  are  most  interesting,  although  the  plan  is 
perhaps  not  a  practical  one  for  us.  For  our  days  are  already  so 
•over-crowded,  it  is  doubtful,  indeed  very  improbable,  that  we 
have  time  for  any  more  clubs  than  we  have  at  present.  It  is 
rather  for  any  clubs  already  formed  to  decide  whether  they  care 
to  take  up  the  proposal. 

But  the  most  interesting  point  of  this  suggestion  is  the  pur- 
pose underlying  it, — "to  help  the  young  people  in  getting  a 
■deeper  enjoyment  from  the  season  of  the  Northampton  Players 
and  their  plays," — which  is  the  same  as  saying,  "to  help  us  to 
become  a  more  intelligent  audience."  We  have  in  a  season  of 
the  Northampton  Players  an  exce])tional  opportunity  to  develope 
our  critical  sense,  to  learn  to  recognize  the  good  when  we  see  it, 
to  distinguish  the  failures  and  to  know  why  they  are  such. 

Last  year  too  many  of  us  went  to  the  theatre  merely  to  be 
amused.  But  this  year  at  the  first  of  the  season  would  it  not  be 
wise  for  each  one  of  us  to  stop  and  think  of  these  three  hours  a 
week  of  amusement.  Should  we  not  be  getting  more  out  of 
them  than  mere  entertainment  ?  Can  we  not  let  the  theatre  be 
■our  "  joy  course"  which,  we  are  told  every  college  should  have? 
For  we  shall  find  that  in  proportion  as  we  actively  try  to  be  an 
intelligent  audience  we  shall  be  getting  a  deeper  satisfaction  and 
pleasure  from  our  theatre  experiences. 


EDITOR'S    TABLE 


In  a  great  city  in  a  great  country  in  this  great  world  there  was- 
a  dictionary.  And  a  great  newspaper  in  this  city  wished  to  sell 
the  dictionary.  So  it  advertised  the  dictionary  widely  in  all  the 
street  cars:  a  two  dollar  volume  for  ninety-eight  cents,  and  a 
dollar  volume  for  forty-nine  cents.  But  the  people  did  not  buy 
the  dictionary,  for  it  was  not  great.  So  then  the  newspaper  took 
away  its  advertisement  and  in  the  empty  space  it  put  up  the 
word  "Spizzerinktum."  And  under  the  word  it  advised  the 
people  to  look  in  their  dictionaries  for  the  meaning.  But  the 
people  could  not  find  the  word  in  their  dictionaries  and  they 
wondered.  Then  the  great  newspaper  told  the  people  that  in  it& 
own  dictionary  they  would  find  the  word  and  know  what  it 
meant :  a  two  dollar  volume  for  ninety-eight  cents  and  a  dollar 
volume  for  forty-nine  cents.  And  the  people  looked.  They  did 
not  know  how  "  Spizzerinktum"  got  into  a  dictionary,  and  they 
did  not  look  for  its  descent  or  credentials.  They  did  not  care. 
But  they  looked  and  found  that  it  meant  "  vim  and  energy,"  and 
they  shouted  it.  They  shouted  it  at  the  great  baseball  games,, 
and  the  street  car  conductors  shouted  it  at  the  great  crowd. 
**  Spizzerinktum  "  met  the  eye  and  met  the  ear  at  every  street 
corner.  Even  the  modest  little  milliner  placarded  her  promise 
of  attention  and  despatch  with  it,  and  the  great  department 
store  blazoned  it  forth  in  great  letters  a  foot  long.  And  the 
newspaper  sold  all  of  its  dictionaries,  a  two  dollar  volume  for 
ninety-eight  cents,  and  a  dollar  volume  for  forty-nine  cents. 
The  dictionary  was  great.  And  the  thing  that  made  it  great 
was  this  :  no  other  dictionary  in  the  ivhole  world  contained  the 
word  '' Spizzerinktum.^' 

A  weighty  problem  now  confronts  the  Exchange  Department 
It  is  our  bounden  duty  to  write  an  article  of  five  hundred  words 
or  more  concerning  the  college  magazines  of  the  month,  with 
the  endeavor  to  criticise  their  contents.  This  editorial  must  be 
completed  before  the  second  of  the  month,  and  it  should  be 

66 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY  67 

interesting  as  well  as  instructive  to  those  who  venture  to  read 
the  more  serious  portions  of  our  magazine.  This  would  not 
appear  to  be  a  difficult  matter.  But  our  readers  must  realize 
that  the  editorial  this  month  should  be  based  upon  September  or 
October  magazines,  which  have  not  as  yet  been  published.  If 
any  of  our  exchanges  have  been  published,  we  are  not  cognizant 
of  the  fact,  for  no  magazines  have  reached  our  hands.  Instead 
of  the  piles  of  magazines  that  usually  surround  us,  there  are  the 
broad  empty  spaces  of  our  desk  and  table.  And  the  second  of 
the  month  draws  nigh  !  May  we  ask  what  should  be  done  in 
such  predicament? 

We  have  consulted  some  of  our  fellow  members  of  the  board,, 
and  they  one  and  all  offer  condolences  and  sympathy,  and  sug- 
gest that  we  criticise  magazines  that  we  received  last  June. 
But  in  the  June  number  we  made  an  endeavor  to  criticise  those 
magazines,  and  we  fear  that,  if  there  be  any  constant  readers  of 
this  department,  a  second  article  about  the  same  magazines 
would  have  for  thera  a  musty  flavor.  The  only  alternative  that 
occurs  to  us  now  is  that  of  using  imaginary  periodicals.  We 
are,  however,  afraid  that  this  would  be  a  dangerous  precedent  to 
establish,  and  our  editorial  would  not  in  all  probability  be  high- 
ly instructive  from  a  critical  point  of  view,  however  interesting 
it  might  be. 

Since  it  seems  impossible  for  us  to  criticise  as  we  should  the 
college  magazines  of  the  month,  we  have  decided  not  to  criticize 
at  all.  We  might  discuss  our  plans  for  the  year,  except  for  the 
fact  that  this  has  been  done  carefully  in  a  previous  number. 
For  the  benefiit  of  those,  however,  to  whom  this  magazine  is 
new,  we  will  state  that  we  endeavor  to  criticise  and  bring  into 
prominence  the  best  of  the  literature  in  the  college  magazines, 
so  far  as  is  possible  taking  up  each  month  the  dominant  type, 
whether  it  consist  of  stories,  poems,  plaj's  or  essays.  Work  that 
is  poor  we  will  leave  unnoticed  for  the  most  part,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  a  few  cases  where  criticism  may  be  a  help  and  a  spur 
toward  better  things.  It  is  obvious  that  there  will  often  be  much 
good  work,  of  which  we  can  make  no  mention  because  of  our 
limited  space  ;  usually  it  is  only  that  which  is  best  for  one  reason 
or  another  that  we  can  criticise  in  detail.  And  we  should  like 
to  say  in  closing  that  we  hope  to  tind  in  the  college  magazines  of 
the  year  much  work  that  is  of  such  a  high  order  that  it  will  be 
difficult  to  decide  what  is  really  the  very  best.  D.  O. 


AFTER    COLLEGE 


TuNGCHOU,  Peking,  China,  via  Siberia,  July  6,  1913. 

Dear  Smith  Girls  : 

This  is  not  a  proper  time  to  be  writing  to  you,  for  you  are  all  off  on  your 
vacations,  and  will  not  see  this  letter  till  September.  I  shall  be  going  off  for 
my  vacation  next  week,  and  am  going  to  write  now  and  tell  you  about  the 
close  of  school  and  a  few  other  things. 

We  did  not  graduate  a  class  this  year  for  a  year  has  been  added  to  the 
course,  but  we  planned  an  exhibition  the  week  before  examinations.  It  was 
held  in  the  church  one  pleasant  June  afternoon  and  the  program  consisted  of 
singing  and  gymnastics  and  the  reading  of  original  essays  which  the  girls 
had  been  writing  during  the  term.  The  girls  were  in  their  best  gowns  and 
nearly  everyone  had  the  new  style  trousers,  not  bound  in  at  the  ankle,  and 
looked  rather  mannish  to  us  foreigners.  A  new  style,  very  stiff,  low  bow 
lias  also  supplanted  the  old-fashioned  courtesy,  and  I  am  sure  the  audience 
was  impressed  as  each  head  with  its  new  style  of  coiffure  bent  low.  Some  of 
them  doubtless  were  impressed  because  these  girls  could  recognize  so  many 
characters,  and  stand  up  before  an  audience,  and  their  read  essays.  There 
were  proud  mothers  and  little  sisters,  and  many  of  them  women  who  are  not 
very  much  used  to  foreign  ideas  and  ways.  I  expected  the  audience  to  laugh 
when  the  gymnastic  classes  performed,  but  they  took  it  quite  seriously, 
though  I  do  not  know  what  comments  they  may  have  made  later  on  at  home. 
We  invited  them  all  to  go  to  the  school  afterwards  and  see  the  girls'  work  in 
drawing  which  was  on  exhibition,  and  to  drink  tea,  but  not  many  wanted  to 
take  the  extra  walk.  Those  that  did  come  seemed  to  enjoy  walking  about 
the  schoolroom  and  examining  the  the  drawings  and  even  the  desks  and 
seats,  while  eager  girls  served  them  with  tea. 

Examinations  are  mostly  oral  and  it  is  one  of  the  foreigner's  duties  to 
listen  to  them,  looking  as  wise  as  possible,  keeping  her  place  if  she  can,  and 
being  ready  with  an  excuse  when  invited  to  add  a  few  questions.  Then 
there  are  averages  to  be  made  out  and  reports  to  be  sent  to  parents.  This 
year  there  was  another  important  matter  to  be  attended  to  directly  after  the 
close  of  school,  getting  the  girls  off  to  a  summer  conference. 

This  year  for  the  first  time  the  Y.  W.  C.  A.  held  a  conference  for  girls  at 
the  Western  Hills,  near  Peking.  Two  of  the  Y.  W.  C.  A.  secretaries  are 
Miss  Paxson  and  Miss  Taft,  whom  some  of  you  know,  and  I  fancy  the  meet- 
ings were  very  much  like  those  at  Silver  Bay.    Some  things  were  necessarily 

8  8  . 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  59 

different,  for  in>tanoe  each  j?irl  was  required  to  take  her  own  bedding  and 
wash  basin,  and  the  journey  from  Peking  was  made  by  rickshaw  to  the  city 
gate  and  then  by  donkey  or  cart.  Moreover  the  conference  was  held  in  an 
•old  temple  -the  Temple  of  the  Sleeping  Buddha,  where  a  few  priests  still 
■chant  their  prayers,  undisturbed  by  Christian  service  I 

We  had  five  delegates,  two  of  them  young  teachers  and  three  girls.  I 
went  with  them  to  Peking,  leaving  them  at  our  mission  to  go  with  the  party 
from  there.  It  had  rained  a  little  for  two  days  before  and  we  had  been  very 
much  afraid  that  it  might  rain  that  day,  in  which  case  the  roads  would  have 
been  impassible,  but  it  was  a  beautiful  morning  with  a  cool  breeze,  and  we 
started  off  in  fine  spirits,  on  the  morning  train.  It  was  the  first  time  one  of 
the  girls  had  ever  been  to  Peking  and  she  was  bubbling  over  with  excitement 
as  she  watched  the  country  fly  by  the  car  window.  The  bedding  had  all 
been  sent  the  night  before,  but  yon  would  have  been  amused  at  the  little 
bundles  the  girls  were  carrying,  neat  bundles  tied  up  in  a  square  of  blue 
cotton  cloth,  in  true  Chinese  fashion.  Several  of  them  also  had  a  tooth 
brush,  sitting  casually  in  a  mug  and  only  partially  concealed  by  a  hand- 
kerchief. 

The  girls  were  delighted  at  the  idea  of  an  outing,  but  they  did  not  know 
exactly  what  to  expect,  and  since  coming  back  they  have  said,  "Nobody 
knew  what  it  was  going  to  be  like,"  and  some  girls  did  not  want  to  go  very 
much  and  the  first  day  or  two  they  said,  "  What  a  bore  to  go  to  so  many 
meetings,"  but  by  the  end  they  did  not  want  to  come  away.  I  have  never 
seen  our  girls  so  enthusiastic  over  anything  as  they  are  over  the  conference. 
They  feel  just  as  you  do  after  Silver  Bay.  Moreover  they  want  to  do  some- 
thing right  away,  and  to-day  they  had  a  meeting  to  discuss  plans.  We  have 
asked  them  to  take  charge  of  two  Sunday  afternoon  meetings  for  women  and 
children,  and  suggested  that  they  might  go  calling  with  the  Bible  women,  or 
might  have  a  Bible  class  for  some  of  the  j-ounger  girls  who  did  not  have  the 
-chance  to  go  to  the  Hills.  Then  they  are  going  to  substitute  for  me  at  the 
hospital  where  I  go  once  a  week  to  talk  to  the  women  at  the  clinic.  It  cer- 
tainly is  good  to  know  that  they  got  so  much  out  of  it  and  are  so  anxious  to 
give  it  to  others.  I  am  hoping  very  much  that  their  influence  will  do  much 
for  the  school  next  fall.  Our  girls  are  not  little  saints.  Won't  you  think 
about  us  next  year  as  you  are  starting  your  Bible  and  Mission  classes  and 
committees,  and  pray  for  us  too.  that  our  year  may  start  well  and  it  may  be 
a  good  year  clear  through?  We  need  your  prayers,  you  can  help  us  a  lot 
that  way. 

Loyally  yours, 

Delia  Dickson  Leavens. 

SENIOR  DRAMATICS   I9H 

1914  presents  "  The  Tempest." 

Applications  for  Senior  Dramatics  for  June  11  and  12,  1914,  should  be  sent 
to  the  General  Secretary  at  184  Elm  Street,  Northampton.  Alumnae  are 
urged  to  apply  for  the  Thursday  evening  pejformance  if  possible,  as  Satur- 
day evening  is  not  open  to  alumnae,  and  there  will  x^robably  not  be  more  than 
one  hundred  tickets  for  Friday  evening.     Each  alumna  may  apply  for  not 


60  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

more  than  one  ticket  for  Friday  evening  ;  extra  tickets  may  be  requested  for 
Thursday.  No  deposit  is  required  to  secure  the  tickets,  which  may  be 
claimed  on  arrival  in  Northampton  from  the  business  manager  in  Seelye 
Hall.  In  May  all  those  who  have  applied  for  tickets  will  receive  a  request 
to  confirm  the  applications.  Tickets  will  then  be  assigned  only  to  those  wha 
respond  to  this  request.  The  prices  of  the  seats  will  range  on  Thursday 
evening  from  81.50  to  $.75  and  on  Friday  from  $2.00  to  $.75.  The  desired 
price  of  seats  should  be  indicated  in  the  application.  A  fee  of  ten  cents  is 
charged  to  all  non-members  of  the  Alumnae  Association  for  the  filing  of  the 
application  and  should  be  sent  to  the  General  Secretary  at  the  time  of  appli- 
cation. 

PERSONALS 

Contributions  to  this  department  are  desired  before  the  end  of  the  month, 
in  order  to  appear  in  the  next  month's  issue,  and  should  be  addressed  to 
Eloise  Schmidt,  Gillett  House.  Northampton,  Massachusetts. 

'04.     Fannie  Stearns  Davis  has  announced  her  engagement  to  Augustus 

McKinstry  Gifford. 
'08.     Mrs.  Arthur  Coolidge  (Mabel  F.  Tilton).     Address:  49  Beech  Street, 
Norwood,  Massachusetts. 
Ruth  Monroe  has  announced  her  engagement  to  Eddy  Warren  Landy. 
'09.    Margaret  Hatfield  has  announced  her  engagement  to  Stuart  Chase. 
Mary  Palmer  has  announced  her  engagement  to  Raymond  T.  Fuller. 
'11.     Mrs.  Fred  J.  Biele  (Bertha  Bender).     Address  :  318  72d  Street,  Brook- 
lyn, New  York. 
Madeline  Burns  is  assistant  in  the  Administrative  Department  of  the 

Women's  Educational  and  Industrial  Onion  of  Boston. 
Margaret  Foss.    Address  :   19  Fairmont  Avenue,  Newton,  Massachusetts. 
Jean  T.  Johnson  has  announced  her  engagement  to  Thomas  Jewett  God- 

dard  of  New  York  City. 
Joyce  Knowlton  is  at  the  Finch  School  in  New  York  teaching  typewrit- 
ing,  short  hand  and  business  methods.     Home  address  :   33  Dwight 
Street,  Brookline,  Massachusetts. 
Hazel  O'Neil  has  gone  to  San  Domingo  as  secretary  for  her  uncle,  who 
has  been  appointed  minister  to  that  country.     Address  :   American 
Legation,  San  Domingo.  Dominican  Republics. 
Carolyn  Palmer  is  the  Executive  Secretary  for  the  New  York  Smith  Club. 

She  is  to  be  found  at  the  University  Club. 
Katherine  J.  Powell  is  teaching  in  the  High  School  at  Ellenburg,  New 
York. 
'12.     Elizabeth  Noakes  will  be  abroad  for  the  winter.     Address :  Care  of 

Baring  Brothers,  8  Bishopgate  Street,  London,  E.  C,  England. 
'13.     Clara  Ripley,  Marjorie  Lincoln,  Maude  Hamilton  1910  and  Eloise  Har- 
ney 1912  spent  August  at  Cap  al'Aigle,  Canada,  the  summer  cottage  of 
Anna  Chapin  Ray  1885,  as  the  guests  of  Catharine  L.  Chapin. 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  61 

'13.     Caroline  Clarke  will  take  the  Training  Center  Course  under  the  Y.  W. 
C.  A.  National  Board  until  Christmas,  when  she  will  hava  a  secretarial 
position  with  them.     Address  :   72  W.  124th  Street,  New  York  City. 
Genevieve  Clark  will  travel  in  the  West  for  three  months  and  will  then 

be  at  home. 
Alice  Cone  sailed  for  Europe  October  4,  to  be  gone  for  the  winter.     Ad- 
dress :  Care  of  Baring  Brothers,  8  Bishopgate  Street,  London,  E.  C. 
England. 
Beatrice  Darling  is  living  at  home  and  studying  Design  with  Miss  Sacker 

of  Boston. 
Dorothy  Douglas  will  be  abroad  for  the  winter.     Address  :   Care  of  Bar- 
ing Brothers,  8  Bishopgate  Street,  London,  E.  C,  England. 
Jane  Garey  has  announced  her  engagement  to  Maxwell  Barus  of  Provi- 
dence, Rhode  Island.     She  is  at  present  teaching  Mathematics  at  Miss 
Beard's  School,  Orange,  New  Jersey. 
Xiea  Gazzam  is  teaching  English  and  coaching  Dramatics  in  the  Kelso 

High  School,  Kelso,  Washington. 
Marion  Halsey  has  a  position  as  an  apprentice  to  learn  filing,  in  the  Bond 

Department  of  the  Guaranty  Trust  Company  of  New  York  City. 
Ruth  Higgins  is  taking  the  secretarial  course  at  Simmons  College.     Ad- 
dress :  Stuart  Club,  102  Fenway,  Boston,  Massachusetts. 
IMarion  Hines  is  taking  a  medical  course  at  the  University  of  Chicago. 
Alice  Kent  is  employed  in  the  Personal  Service  Office  of  the  Wanamaker 

Store,  New  York  City. 
-Ada  and  Edith  Leffingwell  are  living  at  the  Studio  Club  in  New  York 

and  studying  Music  and  Art. 
IMary  Lorenz  has  left  for  a  year  at  Wei  Hsien,  Shantung  Province,  China. 

She  expects  to  tutor  in  the  family  of  a  missionary. 
Clara  Murphy  has  a  fellowship  for  training  in  social  work  at  the  South 

End  House,  Boston,  Massachusetts. 
Nellie  Oiesen  is  taking  a  training  course  at  the  "  School  for  Social  Work- 
ers" in  Boston,  Massachusetts. 
Dorothy  Rowley  is  teaching  and  acting  as  a  secretary  at  Dwight  School, 

Englewood.  New  Jersey. 
Clara  Savage  and  Louise  Nicholl  are  on  the  city  staff  of  the  New  York 

Evening  Post. 
Marian  Storm  is  assistant  to  the  head  of  the  City  Trades  Department  of 
the  publishing  house  of  Longmans,  Green  and  Company.      Address  : 
Care  of  Longmans,  Green  &  Co.,  4th  Avenue  and  30th  Street,  New 
York  City. 

MARRIAGES 

■'Ol.     Annie  M.  Buffum  to  Nathan  W.  Williams.     Address  :  3800  Broadway, 
New  ^ork  Citv. 


62  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

'01.     Florence  L.  Byles  to  Joseph  W.  Barr.  Address  :  115  West  Third  Street^ 

Oil  City,  Pennsylvania. 
'04.     Esther  Josephine  Sanderson  to  Rev.  Percy  Chandler  Ladd,  September  2, 

1913.     Address  :   Moline.  Illinois. 
'06,     Mary  Louise  Thornton  to  Philip  Sidney  JNlcDougall.     Address :  34  In- 
wood  Place,  Buffalo,  New  York. 
'07.     Lulu  Morley  Sanborn  to  Raymond  Aaron  Linton,  August  11,  1918. 
"08.     Elizabeth   Grates  to  Giles  Munro  Hubbard,  September  26,  1913.      Ad- 
dress :   268  Paris  Avenue,  Grand  Rapids,  Michigan. 
Malleville  Wheelock  Emerson  to  William  Haller,  September  3,  1913. 
ex-'OS.     Catherine  DeWitt  Chambers   to  John   Harry  Campbell.     Address  t 

Port  Jefferson,  New  York. 
'09.    Elizabeth  Beardsley  to  George  McKeever,  October  15,  1913. 
Eleanor  Burch  to  John  Elliott  Jackson,  September  20,  1913. 
Beth  Crandall  to  Rollin  S.  Polk,  July  16,  1913. 
Edith  Hatch  to  William  H.  Rucker,  July  1,  1913. 
Louise  Milliken  to  Samuel  Hiland  Holden,  September  10,  1913. 
Marcia  Reed  to  Victor  Arthur  Binford,  August  23,  1913. 
Frances  Stevens  to  Kenneth  Sargent  May,  September  4,  1913. 
Mary  Stevens  to  Guy  Carlton  Hawkins,  September  18,  1913. 
'10.    Marjorie  Eraser  to  William  F.  Hosford.     Address  :  Manilla,  P.  I. 
'11.    Marian  Butler  to  Guy  E.  Boynton,  October  22,  1913. 

Frances  D.  Campbell  to  Charles  A.   Cary,   August  26,  1913.     Address  t 

2052  65th  Street,  Brooklyn,  New  York. 
Anna  M.  Daugherty  to  Carr  Kemper  Sutton.     Address  :  Indiana,  Penn- 
sylvania. 
Gertrude  Lyford  to  Edwin  Ruthven  Boyd.     Address  after  January  1, 

1914  :   Buckingham  Terrace,  Kelvinside,  Glasgow,  Scotland. 
Gladys  Megie  to  James  Morse  Kingsley. 
Gertrude  Russell  to  Edwin  C.  Doubleday,  June,  1912. 
Florence  Smith  to  Benjamin  Franklin  Tillson,  July  9,  1913. 
Josephine  Tripp  to  Lawson  Wesley  Wright,  June  18,  1913. 
Ethel  Roome  to  George  Jenks  Boutelle,  February  4.  1913. 
Marguerite  Underwood  to  John  Randolph  Labaree,  July  26,  1913. 
ecc-'ll.     Marian   Lane  to  Arthur  Lange.       Address :    Htibner   Street,   15b- 
Dresden. 
Gertrude  Law  to  Chester  Reith  Thomas,  September  10,  1913. 
'12.     Helen  Palmer  to  Percy  Adams  Rideout,  October  11,  1913. 
'13.     Alice  Frances  Griffiths  to  Augustus  C.  Wiswall,  September  8,  1913. 
Address  :  15  White  Avenue,  Wakefield,  Massachusetts. 
Mary  Helen  Sneider  to  Oliver  H.  Starr,  June  23,  1913. 
Edith  Van  Horn  to  Jesse  Russell  Watson,  September  10,   1913.      Address 
North  Woodstock,  New  Hampshire. 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY  63 

BIRTHS 

'08.    Mrs.  Frederick  Dwight  Downs  (Florence  C.  Sheldon),  a  son,  Frederick 

Sheldon  Downs,  born  April  2,  1913. 
Mrs.  Edmund  Thorp  See  (Louise  Edgar),  a  daughter.  Ellen  Edgar,  born 

September  7,  1913. 
ea;-'08.     Mrs.  Harper  Silliman  (Gertrude  Morris  Cookman),  a  daughter,  Caro- 
line Sleeper  Silliman,  born  August  22,  1913. 
Mrs.  Paul  K.  Dayton  (Anna  C.  G-riggs),  a  sou,  Paul  Kuykendall  Dayton 

Jr.,  born  September  10.  1913. 
'11.     Mrs.  Tilden  Graf  ton  Abbot  (Josephine  Dormitzer) ,  a  son,  Walter  Dor- 

mitzer,  born  July  9.  1913. 
Mrs.  Norman  Slade  Dillingham  (Grace  Clarke),  a  daughter,  Elizabeth 

Clark,  born  May  25,  1913. 
Mrs.  Martin  Hartog  (Florence  Plant),  a  son,  Martin  Hartog  Jr.,  born 

May  24,  1913. 
Mrs.  Frederic  Russell  Moseley  (Mary  Rice),  a  son,  Frederick  Russell, 

born  July  13,  1913. 
Mrs.  HowajLd  Murchie  (Marjorie  Browning),  a  daughter,  Margaret  Eaton, 

born  August  11,  1913. 

Mrs.  J.  M.;3eay  (Louise  West),  a  son,  James  Miller Seay  Jr.,  born  Septem- 
ber 19,  1913. 

Mrs.  George  Sicard  (Katharine  Burrell),  a  daughter,  Katharine  Burrell, 
born  July  17,  1913. 


CALENDAR 

October        15.     Concert  by  the   Boston  Symphony  Orchestra. 
**  18.     Meetings   of   Alpha   and   Phi   Kappa   Psi 

Societies. 
"  21.     Massachusetts  State  Charities  Conference. 

'*  25.     Group  Dance. 

"  31.     Lecture  by  George  A.  Birmingham. 

Subject :   The  Stage  Irishman. 
November     5.     Paj^  Day. 

Concert  by  Mme.  Louise  Homer. 
'*  8.     Group  Dance. 

"  12.     Lecture  by  Professor  Hastings  Rashdall. 

Subject :   Oxford,  Past  and  Present. 
*'  15.     Meetings   of   Alpha   and   Phi   Kappa   Psi 

Societies. 
4.00  P.  M.     Lecture  by  Alfred  Noyes. 


Zbc 


Smitb    CoUeae 
flRontbl^ 


1Rovember:»»  1913 
©wneb  an&  publiebct)  b?  tbe  Senior  Claee 


CONTENTS 


Pope  and  Constructive  Idealism 

The  Trade  of  the  Tide 

The  Old  Square 

"Bound  in  the  Bundle  of  Life'' 

"C.  O.  D."  .  . 

Dawn's  Bridal 


Marion  Sinclair  Walker  1915  65 

Katherine  Biiell  Nye  1915  74 

.      Ellen  Bodley  Jones  1916  75 

Mary  Augusta  Jordan  79 

Ellen  Elizabeth  Williams  1915  81 

Marion  Delaniater  Freeman  1911}.  88 

89 


The  Passing  of  the  Manchu  Dynasty      Mary  Louise  Ramsdell  1915 
Many  a  Time  Have  I  Been  Half  in  Love  with  Easeful  Death 

Leonora  Branch  1914 

SKETCHES 


The  Philosophy  of  Gabrielle 

The  Mon^    .  .  ,  . 

Autumn  Afternoon 

Thrills         .  .  .  . 

Over  the  Hills 

Dvorak's  Humoreske 

The  Courtship  of  Billy 

The  Great  Miniature  Painter 

"To  Him  Who  Knocks" 
The  Mountaln  Tanager 


Alice  Chamberlain  Darrow 

Anna  Elizabeth  Spicer 

Dorothy  Ochtman 

Dorothy  Homans 

Marion  Delamater  Freeman 

Jeanne  Woods 

Adelaide  Heriot  Arms 

and  Miss  Nanny 

Frances  Milliken  Hooper 
Martha  Emma  Watts 
Mira  Bigeloic  Wilson 


19U 

90 

19U 

93 

1914 

93 

1917 

94 

1914 

96 

1914 

96 

1915 

97 

1914 

102 

1914 

105 

1914 

105 

ABOUT  COLLEGE 

College  "Eats"  and  "Bats" 
Philosophy  1a 

HEARD  ON  THE  TAR  WALK 
EDITORIAL 
EDITORS  TABLE 
AFTER  COLLEGE 
CALENDAR       . 


Kathleen  Isabel  Byam  1915    106 
Barbara  Cheney  1915    113 


114 
119 
131 
124 

128 


Entered  at  the  Post  Office  at  Northampton,  Massachusetts,  as  second  class  matter 
Gazette  Printing  Company^  Northampton^  Mass. 


THE 

Smith  College  Monthly 

Vol.  XXI  NOVEMBER,  1013  No.  2 


EDITORS: 
Lois  Cleveland  Gould 
Leonora  Branch  Anna  Elizabeth  Spicer 

Margaret  Louise  Farrand         Marion  Delamater  Freeman 
Rosamond  Drexel  Holmes  Frances  Milliken  Hooper 

Margaret  Bloom  Dorothy  Lilian  Spencer 

Ruth  Cobb  Dorothy  Ochtman 

Eloise  Schmidt 

business  manager  and  treasurer 
Ruth  Hellekson 

assistant  business  managers 
Esther  Loyola  Harney 
Bertha  Viola  Conn 


POPE  AND  CONSTRUCTIVE  IDEALISM 

MARION   SINCLAIR  WALKER 

Given  "  a  crazy  carcase,"  a  Hfe  that  was  ''one  long  disease'' 
and  the  heritage  of  a  religious  faitli  whose  believers  were 
excluded  from  all  political  privileges  ;  and  under  these  circum- 
stances endowed  with  "one  talent  which  'tis  death  to  hide" — 
how  could  Alexander  Pope,  upon  this  foundation,  build  up  a 
structure  significant  and  enduring  ;  a  private  life  worth  while 
and  work  as  a  poet  which  has  a  distinct  and  important  place  in 
English  thought?  The  answer  is,  "Because  Alexander  Pope 
was  an  idealist." 

Bernard  Shaw,  in  his  book  entitled  "The  Quintessence  of 
Ibsenism,"  tells  what  ideals  and  idealists  mean  to  him.  "A 
fancy  picture,"  he  says,  **  invented  by  the  minority  as  a  mask 


66  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

for  the  reality,  which  in  its  nakedness  is  intolerable  to  them. 
We  call  this  sort  of  fancy  picture  an  ideal ;  and  the  policy  of 
forcing  individuals  to  act  on  the  assumption  that  all  ideals  are 
real,  and  to  recognize  and  accept  such  action  as  standard  moral 
conduct  .  .  .  may  therefore  be  desciibed  as  the  policy  of 
idealism." 

The  realist,  according  to  Mr.  Shaw,  is  "  the  man  who  is  strong 
enough  to  face  the  truth  that  the  idealist  is  shirking.''  He 
characterizes  the  idealist  as  "  the  man  who  is  defending  existing 
institutions  by  maintaining  their  identity  with  their  masks, '^ 
while  the  realist  ''  is  striving  to  realize  the  future  possibilities 
by  tearing  the  mask  and  the  thing  masked  asunder." 

It  is  not  likely,  however,  that  Mr.  Shaw's  definitions  will  be 
accepted  by  all  idealists.  To  be  sure,  there  are,  as  he  says, 
people  calling  themselves  idealists,  to  whom  idealism  means 
nothing  more  than  a  blindly  optimistic  attitude — an  unintel- 
ligent satisfaction  with  existing  conditions.  But  there  is  a 
higher  type  of  idealist,  and  as  a  point  of  departure  in  the  search 
for  his  principles,  we  may  take  the  philosophical  doctrine  of 
idealism.  "  Idealism  is  the  system  or  theory  that  makes  every- 
thing to  consist  in  ideas,  and  denies  the  existence  of  material 
bodies."  Believing,  then,  that  the  only  real  world  is  the  world 
of  thought,  the  idealist  proceeds  to  make  his  world  what  he 
would  like  it  to  be  by  thinking  of  it  as  he  would  like  to  have  it. 
That  is^,  unlike  the  satisfied  idealist  whom  Shaw  describes,  this 
type  of  man  sees  the  flaws  in  existing  conditions,  but  sees,  too, 
their  possibilities,  and  by  an  active  belief  in  them  makes  them 
more  possible.  Suppose,  for  instance,  a  school-teacher  in  one 
of  the  primary  grades  to  be  confronted  by  a  very  mischievous 
little  boy.  She  is  desirous  of  getting  from  him  the  confession 
of  some  misdemeanor.     Now  if  she  is  an  idealist,  she  says  : 

"Tommy,  I  am  leaving  this  to  your  honor.  I  believe  that 
you  will  tell  me  the  truth.     How  did  the  window  get  broken  ?"" 

But  if  a  realist  : 

"Tommy,  I  know  that  you  are  not  always  a  truthful  boy. 
It  is  very  wicked  to  tell  a  lie.  You  must  not  do  anything  so 
wicked.     Now  tell  me  just  how  the  window  got  broken. '^ 

The  realist,  in  tearing  off  the  mask — in  making  it  evident  to 
Tommy  that  she  knows  him  to  be  a  mendacious  little  boy — has 
satisfied  her  desire  for  facts,  for  truth  for  truth's  sake,  and  there 
is  much  to  be  said  for  her  frank  policy.     "Whatever  the  subse- 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  (i? 

quent  intercourse  between  Tommy  and  the  teacher,  it  will  be 
based  on  a  frank  understanding  of  each  other,  with  no  illusions 
on  either  side.  Yet  the  fact  remains  that  she  has  lessened 
Tommy's  chances  of  being  truthful.  Though  the  idealist  might 
be  criticized  for  avoiding  the  issue  of  Tommy's  mendacity,  still, 
by  her  expressed  belief  in  his  ability  to  be  truthful,  she  has 
given  Tommy  a  distinct  upward  pull,  has  made  it  more  possible 
for  him  to  reach  her  ideal  of  him.  Which  teacher,  judged  by 
an  absolute  standard,  is  in  the  right,  is,  perhaps,  not  for  us  to 
decide. 

Idealists,  then,  are  of  two  types  :  the  satisfied  idealist,  who 
is,  as  Mr.  Shaw  says,  "defending  existing  institutions  by  main- 
taining their  identity  with  their  masks"  ;  and  the  higher  type, 
who,  alive  to  things  as  they  are,  sees  beyond  the  facts  to  their 
possibilities.  This  idealist  is,  to  a  certain  extent,  like  the  best 
type  of  realist,  for  both  deal  with  ''  future  possibilities."  Their 
methods,  however,  are  different.  While  the  realist  thinks  that 
the  beginning  must  be  destructive — a  tearing  asunder  of  the 
mask  and  what  it  represents— the  idealist  begins  constructively, 
by  believing  in  the  possibility  of  the  thing  as  he  wishes  it  to  be, 
and  acting  on  that  belief.  It  was  such  a  living  belief  that  St. 
Paul  meant  by  "faith"  when  he  said,  "Faith  is  the  substance 
of  things  hoped  for,  the  evidence  of  things  not  seen."  This, 
then,  is  the  doctrine  of  constructive  idealism. 

Mr.  Gerald  Stanley  Lee,  in  "The  Lost  Art  of  Reading"  (a 
book  which,  transcending  its  title,  is  really  an  "Art  of  Living  "), 
says,  "Going  about  in  the  world  respecting  men  until  they 
respect  themselves  is  almost  the  only  practical  way  there  is  of 
serving  them."  In  this  statement  is  the  essence  of  constructive 
idealism. 

What,  then,  in  the  life  of  Alexander  Pope  would  mark  him 
as  an  idealist  of  either  type,  or  would  exclude  him  from  their 
ranks  ?  In  brief,  what  did  Pope  accomplish  as  an  author  and 
as  a  man  ? 

A  man's  achievements  in  his  personal  life  may  be  estimated 
by  the  answers  to  two  questions  :  first,  "How  did  he  meet  his 
obligations?"  and  second,  "What,  beyond  the  fulfilment  of 
obligations,  did  he  build  up  about  his  life  to  make  it  more  than 
existence  ;  to  render  it  full  and  abundant  ?" 

If  Pope  had  failed  to  meet  his  obligations  ;  if  he  had  been  a 
disappointment  as  a  son,  or  had  looked  to  patronage  as  the  solu- 


68  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

tion  of  his  financial  difficulties,  it  would  not  be  hard  to  pardon 
him,  for  mnch  may  be  forgiven  a  man  whose  life  is  "a  long 
disease."  How  many  of  the  vagaries  of  Lord  Byron,  for 
instance,  have  been  looked  upon  with  indulgence,  because  of  a 
physical  infirmity  not  approaching  in  severity  those  of  Pope  ! 
But  Pope  does  not  need  our  defence,  for  he  did  not  fail.  His 
devotion  to  his  parents  is  commented  upon  even  by  his  hostile 
editors  who  have  done  so  much  to  discredit  the  name  of  Pope, 
and  they  cannot  but  mark  the  beautiful  sincerity  of  the  lines  in 
tribute  to  his  father  : 

"  Unlearned,  he  knew  no  schoolman's  subtle  art, 
No  language  but  the  language  of  the  heart. 
By  nature  honest,  by  experience  wise, 
Healthy  by  Temperance  and  by  Exercise. 

"  O  grant  me  thus  to  live  and  thus  to  die ! 

Who  sprung  from  kings  should  know  less  joy  than  I." 

Of  his  feeling  for  his  mother  we  may  judge  by  the  dread  with 
which  he  anticipated  her  death— his  anxious  care,  as  he  ex- 
pressed it, 

"  To  keep  awhile  one  parent  from  the  sky." 

That  a  man  fulfils  his  duty  to  his  parents,  however,  is  not  a 
subject  for  commendation.  Most  people  do.  It  is  more  remark- 
able that  Pope,  in  spite  of  the  limitations  of  his  "crazy  carcase," 
was  able  to  stand  on  his  own  feet  financially,  an  attainment 
which  had  been  reached  by  few  of  his  predecessors  in  the  field 
of  literature.  Dry  den  had  shown  the  world  that  it  was  possible 
to  live  by  literature  as  a  profession  without  making  oneself  the 
dependent  of  a  wealthy  patron.  It  would  hardly  have  seemed, 
however,  that  Pope,  handicapped  by  physical  weakness,  was 
the  one  fitted  to  carry  on  the  experiment.  Yet  carry  it  on  he 
did,  with  even  greater  success  than  Dryden.  From  his  corre- 
spondence with  Swift,  it  appears  that  Pope's  translation  of  the 
*'  Iliad "  was  undertaken  for  commercial  reasons,  and  was, 
moreover,  a  financial  success.  His  relief  is  evident  when  he 
speaks  of  concluding  the  "Iliad"  and  of  taking  up  work  upon 
the  "Essay  on  Man." 

"  I  mean,"  he  explains  to  Swift,  "no  more  translations,  but 
something  domestic,  fit  for  my  own  country  and  my  own  time." 

Swift  replies  : 

"I  am  exceedingly  pleased  that  you  have  done  with  transla- 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  69 

tions.  Lord  Treasurer  Oxford  often  lamented  that  a  rascally 
world  should  lay  you  under  a  necessity  of  misemploying  your 
genius  for  so  long  a  time." 

The  perseverance  of  a  man  who  could  consistently  and  with 
determination  "misem])loy  his  genius"  upon  uncongenial  work 
until  his  financial  purpose  was  accomplished,  and  who  could,  in 
working  for  commercial  reasons,  produce  an  excellent  as  well 
as  a  stupendous  piece  of  literature,  cannot  but  command  respect. 

In  a  more  intimate  and  personal  matter,  that  of  his  religion. 
Pope  was  faithful  to  an  obligation.  Born  and  brought  up  a 
Roman  Catholic,  in  an  age  when  membership  in  that  religious 
body  excluded  one  from  all  political  privileges.  Pope  remained 
throughout  his  life  a  consistent,  though  a  liberal.  Catholic. 

In  addition  to  the  complete  fulfilment  of  his  obligations, 
Pope  built  up  a  private  life  full  of  interest  and  of  genuine  enjoy- 
ment. In  brief,  he  may  be  said  to  have  done  this  through  his 
friendships  and  through  his  hobby.  Five  of  Pope's  friendships 
may  be  taken  as  representative— three  which  succeeded  and  two 
which  failed.  Boliiigbroke— "  My  St.  John  "  of  the  "Essay  on 
Man,"  whose  friendsliip  with  Pope  was  a  lasting  one — was  a 
most  interesting  character.  Association  with  him  could  not 
but  introduce  widely  varied  interests  into  the  more  or  less 
limited  life  of  Pope.  In  addition  to  his  literary  ability,  which 
no  doubt  was  the  original  bond  between  him  and  Pope,  Boling- 
broke,  as  politician  and  accomplished  man  of  the  world,  must 
have  represented  to  Pope  all  the  activities  and  achievements  in 
which  he  could  have  no  part.  Perhaps,  too,  there  was  an 
element  of  fascination  in  the  wickedness  of  Bolingbroke  for 
Pope,  who  never  had  the  opportunity  to  be  anything  but  moral, 
and  probably  would  not  have  used  such  an  opportunity  had  it 
presented  itself.  Still  the  attractively  wicked  Bolingbroke 
opened  to  Pope  an  interesting  field  for  speculation,  and  helped 
him,  without  actual  experience,  to  understand  the  point  of  view 
of  a  man  of  the  world. 

Swift  and  Pope  were  ppculiarly  congenial  as  friends.  Their 
genius  was  c)f  the  same  type,  both  being  proficient  in  a  form  of 
expression  clear,  pithy  and  to  the  point  ;  both  satirists  with 
this  difference,   that   Pope    fundamentally  believed    in  human 


70  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

nature,  and  Swift  did  not.      Pope  could  not   have  echoed  his 
friend's  sentiments  when  Swift  said  : 

"Like  the  ever-laughing  sage 
In  a  jest  I  spend  my  rage  ; 
Though  it  must  be  understood 
I  would  hang  them  if  I  could." 

Pope  indulged  in  no  such  malice  ;  he  had  no  desire  whatever 
to  *'hang  them/'  An  element  of  interest  in  the  friendship 
between  Swift  and  Pope  was  their  wealth  of  common  experi- 
ence. Each  suffered  from  a  physical  infirmity  ;  each  had  a 
long  and  mysterious  relationship  with  a  woman;  each  found 
marriage  unnecessary. 

The  third  of  Pope's  friendships  was  with  Martha  Blount. 
She  contributed  to  the  poet's  life  the  point  of  view  of  a  normal, 
wholesome  woman,  not  remarkably  brilliant,  but  personally 
attractive,  loving  and  sympathetic.  It  is  of  Martha  Blount  and 
his  mother  that  Pope  is  thinking  as  representative,  when  he 
says,  ''Most  women  have  no  characters  at  all,"— not  meaning 
in  the  least  that  women  as  a  class  are  devoid  of  principles,  but 
rather  that  the  normal  woman's  quiet,  unobtrusive  virtue  does 
not  bring  her  into  public  notice. 

As  the  friendships  of  Pope  with  Bolingbroke,  Swift  and 
Martha  Blount  were  lasting  and  successful,  so,  too,  there  are  to 
be  considered  his  friendships  which  failed.  Addison  and  Pope 
were  friends  for  years.  Pope  feeling  a  warm  admiration  for  the 
older  man  ;  yet  eventually  they  were  estranged,  and  Pope  satir- 
ized his  old  friend  in  the  character  of  Atticu.^.  In  the  case  of 
Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montague,  the  friendship  was  based  on 
the  delight  of  a  clever  mind  in  another  equally  clever.  When 
later,  however.  Pope  mistook  his  intellectual  admiration  for 
Lady  Mary  for  affection  of  a  more  personal  nature,  Lady  Mary, 
justifiably,  of  course,  discouraged  his  advances.  The  tactless- 
ness— yes,  more,  the  cruelty  with  which  she  managed  the  diffi- 
cult situation  made  Pope  her  bitter  enemy.  Still  Pope's  friend- 
ships, those  that  failed  as  well  as  those  that  succeeded,  each 
contributed  its  own  element  of  interest  to  his  life. 

Pope's  country  place  at  Twickenham  was  his  hobby.  There 
he  worked  and  idled,  entertained  his  friends  and  experimented 
with  landscape  gardening.  He  really  made  a  significant  con- 
tribution to  the  latter  art  by  avoiding  the  formal  clipping  of 
trees  into  set  shapes  and  permitting  them  to  grow  naturallj^. 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  71 

This  ^arrleniiig-  hobby,  being  of  so  different  a  nature  from  any 
of  his  other  interests,  helped  to  make  Pope's  a  well-ronnded  life. 

As  a  poet.  Pope  has  two  distinct  lines  of  achievement,  his 
satires  and  his  moral  essays,  as  he  calls  them.  In  all  his  work 
the  form  is  admirable.  As  a  maker  of  graceful  and  polished 
verse.  Pope  is  nneqnaled.  The  satires,  aside  from  their  graceful 
expression,  lose  something  now  that  the  personal  element  cannot 
be  appreciated,  yet  they  are  interesting  because  they  are  always 
clever.  Lines  from  them,  as  from  all  Pope's  works,  have 
become  a  definite  part  of  English  thought  in  the  form  of  familiar 
quotations. 

Not  in  his  satires,  however,  but  in  his  moral  essays,  is  Pope's 
permanently  significant  work  to  be  found.  In  the  "Essay  on 
Man"  he  lias  given  us  the  essence  of  the  philosophical  thought 
of  the  time.  What  Hooker,  Hobbes,  Locke  and  others  were 
saying  in  many  volumes  of  size  discouraging  to  the  casual 
student,  Pope  has  summarized  "in  neat,  portable  form"  in  the 
*' Essay  on  Man."  The  importance  of  his  contribution  to  phi- 
losophy is  not  that  he  has  discovered  many  new  thoughts,  but 
that  he  has  summed  up  what  seemed  to  him  the  best  ideas 
current  at  the  time,  and  has  related  them  to  make  his  theory  of 
of  life.  "  To  vindicate  the  ways  of  God  to  man,"  is  his  purpose 
in  the  essay,  and  he  does  that  quite  convincingly.  We  are  con- 
scious throughout  the  essay  that  Pope  feels  the  unity  of  things 
— the  conformance  of  all  to  a  great  plan. 

"All  are  but  parts  of  one  stupendous  whole, 
Whose  body  Nature  is,  and  God  the  soul." 

It  is  this  ability  of  Pope's  to  relate  ideas,  to  put  the  right  things 
together,  that  makes  his  philosophy  seem  at  times  startlingly 
modern.  When  he  says  that  "true  self-love  and  social  are  the 
same"  is  this  not  the  very  doctrine  of  intelligent  self-interest 
that  Shaw  and  Ibsen  represent  to-day  ? 

"  I  have  long  been  told  of  your  great  achievements  in  build- 
ing and  planting,"  said  Swift  once  in  a  letter  to  Pope.  "And 
especially  of  your  subterranean  passage  to  your  garden,  whereby 
you  turjied  a  blunder  into  a  beauty,  which  is  a  piece  of  'ars 
poetica.'"  Herein  was  Pope  an  idealist  of  the  constructive 
kind,  for  the  episode  of  the  "  subterranean  passage"  is  symbolic 
of  what  he  did  with  his  life— "turned  a  blunder  into  a  beauty." 
A  blunder  indeed  it  might  have  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  in 
the  world  at  all,  with  his  ugly,  misshapen  body  and  constant 


72  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

suffering,  combined  with  an  eager  activity  of  mind  which  mnst 
have  made  physical  drawbacks  all  the  more  intolerable.  Yet 
Pope  had  a  vision  of  what  life  might  be— a  life  of  usefulness 
and  interest.  A  mask,  perhaps,  to  cloak  the  bitter  reality,  a 
realist  might  have  called  this  vision,  had  Pope  stopped  with  the 
dream.  But  being  a  constructive  idealist.  Pope,  believing  in 
his  vision,  steadily  built  up  a  life  in  which  the  ideal  was  made 
real.  Without  the  inspiration  of  an  idealist's  vision,  the  actual 
realities  being  so  manifestly  against  him,  he  might  have  settled 
down  to  be  an  invalid, — might  have  decided  that  the  obliga- 
tions of  life  were  not  for  him  to  meet.  With  a  doctrine  of  satis- 
fied idealism,  he  might  have  dreamed  a  beautiful  dream,  while 
others  shouldered  his  responsibilities.  But  choosing  to  disre- 
gard the  hampering  realities  he  said,  "My  vision  shows  me 
that  part  of  the  life  of  a  man  is  to  meet  his  obligations''  ;  and 
straightway^  he  went  forth  and  met  them  right  manfully. 

The  life  of  a  man,  however,  must  be  more  than  the  fulfilment 
of  obligations  ;  it  is  entitled  to  breadth  of  interest,  it  should  be 
full  and  abundant.  Pope  might  have  said,  "I  cannot  have 
friendships  with  people  worth  while — I,  without  wealth,  influ- 
ence or  personal  attractiveness.  No,  I  will  be  a  hermit.  Neither 
can  I,  with  my  inadequate  strength,  interest  myself  in  the  little 
pleasures  and  hobbies  that  make  part  of  the  daily  life  of  a. 
normal  man.'' 

Instead,  Pope,  believing  that  he  could  have  life  abundantly, 
won  the  lasting  friendship  of  a  brilliant  politician,  of  more 
than  one  accomplished  man  of  letters,  and  of  a  good  woman. 
Knowing  the  hobby  to  be  a  valuable  contribution  to  life,  he 
busied  himself  constructively,  as  always,  with  his  Twickenham 
garden.  Thus  in  his  life  as  a  man,  Pope  meets  the  require- 
ments of  our  definition  of  constructive  idealism — '*  to  see  the 
possibilities,  and  by  an  active  belief  in  them,  to  make  them 
more  possible." 

In  his  art  Pope  was  not  always  a  constructive  idealist.  He 
had  his  experiments  with  the  policy  of  tearing  off  masks,  and 
as  a  result  we  have  his  satirical  pictures.  They  are  interesting^ 
as  showing  the  plan  of  a  keen  mind,  and  in  so  far  as  they  depict 
types  of  human  nature,  are  still  significant.  Yet  the  satires 
have  not  the  quality  of  high  seriousness  which  Matthew  Arnold 
considers  the  test  of  true  poetry.  In  the  "  Essay  on  Man,"  the 
expression  of  his  philosophy  of  life.  Pope  attains  to  that  high 
seriousness  and  here  we  see  him  again  as  a  constructive  idealist. 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  73 

As  soon  as  he  reaches  the  conclusion,  "Whatever  is,  is  right,'^ 
we  know  him  for  an  idealist ;  the  realist  indeed,  taking  this 
statement  by  itself,  might  have  reason  to  accuse  him  of  satisfied 
idealism— of  "defending  existing  institutions  by  maintaining 
their  identity  with  their  masks."  But  Pope's  philosophy  of  life 
was  constructive,  in  the  sense  that  he  put  his  world  together. 
In  "  The  Lost  Art  of  Reading,"  Mr.  Lee  speaks  of  the  poet  and 
idealist  as  viewing  things  from  "the  ridgepole  of  the  world. '^ 
We  think  that  Pope  must  have  been  there,  too,  when  he  said, 
"Whatever  is,  is  right."  Not  each  little  fragment  of  "what- 
ever is,"  but  the  whole,  viewed  in  perspective  from  "the  ridge- 
pole of  the  world." 

"All  discord,  harmony  not  understood, 
All  partial  evil,  universal  good." 

There  were  times,  ot  course,  when  Pope's  idealism  failed. 
What  builder  since  the  world  began  has  not,  once  at  least, 
"built  his  house  upon  the  sand"?  Pope's  friendship  with 
Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montague  was  a  failure  because  Lady  Mary 
was  not  an  idealist,  nor  even  a  woman  of  feeling.  Had  she 
been  the  latter,  when  Pope  made  the  mistake  of  thinking  his 
affection  for  her  romantic  love,  her  method  of  disillusioning 
him  would  have  been  more  gentle.  If  she  had  been  a  construc- 
tive idealist,  perhaps,  she  need  not  have  disillusioned  him  at 
all.  With  a  little  tact  she  could  have  led  him  to  see  their 
friendship  in  its  true  light,  and  together  they  might  have  built 
up  a  relationship  of  lasting  beauty.  So  here  it  was  Lady  Mary 
who  failed.  Of  the  other  broken  friendship  all  there  is  to  be 
said  is  that  it  failed  because  Addison  was— Addison.  In  these 
cases  even  Pope's  active  belief  in  his  friends  proved  insuflScient 
to  help  them  realize  his  ideal  of  them.  He,  too,  fell  short  of 
the  ideal  of  friendship,  when  in  bitterness  of  spirit  over  broken 
faith,  he  permitted  himself  to  satirize  those  whom  he  had  loved» 
In  his  art  he  failed  when  he  stooped  to  trickery  and  personal 
invective.  Though  these  were  the  literary  weapons  of  his  time, 
nevertheless,  in  making  use  of  such  wea})ons,  as  a  constructive 
idealist  he  failed. 

Because  sometimes  the  vision  fadt-d.  and  the  poet  saw  but 
dimly,  we  must  not  forget  that  Pope  in  the  main  issues  of  his 
life,  and  in  the  noblest  of  his  work,  was  patiently  and  persever- 
ingly  seeing  the  possibilities,  and  by  believing  in  them,  making 


74  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

them  more  possible.  It  is  a  wonderful  thing  that  Alexander 
Pope,  with  his  frail,  misshapen  body,  and  in  the  course  of  his 
life  that  was  "one  long  disease, '''  managed  to  mount  up  upon 
*'the  ridgepole  of  the  world."  We  like  to  think  of  him  there- 
poor  little  Pope  who  had  overcome  so  much ;  and  there,  with 
the  goodly  company  of  all  the  constructive  idealists  who  have 
lived  since  the  world  began,  the  men  who  have  believed,  and 
by  believing  have  made  possible,  those  who  have  seen  the 
vision,  and  in  its  radiance  have  put  their  world  together,  with 
SocrateSj  St.  Paul  and  Plato  and  the  rest,  we  will  leave  him — 
*'  on  the  ridgepole  of  the  world." 


THE  TRADE  OF  THE  TIDE 

KATHERINE   BUELL  NYE 

A  roll — and  a  curling  roar, 
A  swish — and  the  shifting  sands, 

And  now  on  the  glistening  shore 
Lie  treasures  from  many  lands. 

Afwilted  flower  tip 

From  the  island,  out  in  the  bay, 
And  the  hull  of  a  whittled  ship 

Lost  by  some  child  at  play. 

A  pebble  that  came  from  the  deep, 
Where  scarlet  sea-flowers  bloom 

And  green,  scaly  mermaidens  sleep 
In  the  cool  of  a  coral  room. 

From  a  land  of  ice  and  snow. 
From  a  land  of  tangled  glades. 

From  west  of  the  sun's  dying  glow 
And  from  east  of  dawn's  opal  shades, 

From  mountains  towering  high, 
From  plains  that  are  low  and  wide, 

These  wares  of  the  earth  we  buy 
In  the  ceaseless  trade  of  the  tide. 


THE  OLD  SQUARE 

ELLEN   BODLEY   JONES 

As  I  entered  the  dim  old  square  from  the  noise  and  clanging 
turmoil  and  traffic  of  the  busy  streets  outsi(]e,  I  had  the  same 
impression  that  I  had  in  Spain  long  ago,  when  I  descended  from 
the  cobble-stoned  street,  loud  with  clattering  water-carts,  to  the 
quiet  of  a  little  underground  sepulcher. 

This  was  the  most  remarkable  thing  about  it  :  here,  hardly  a 
sound  broke  the  quiet,  the  ancient  trees  spread,  forth  their 
branches  unmolested-— yet  this  square  was  in  the  very  heart  of 
the  city,  in  the  centre  of  a  district  crowded  with  all  the  life  and 
traffic  of  the  business  world. 

There  was  only  one  street  leading  into  the  square.  On  all 
■other  sides,  the  high  fences  at  the  back  yards  of  the  houses  shut 
out  the  view.  In  the  middle  was  an  inclosure,  surrounded  by 
an  iron  fence,  now  corroded  and  eaten  away  in  places  by  rust 
and  dampness.  In  some  places  it  had  given  away,  but  it  still 
maintained  its  original  appearance.  Inside  the  fence  there 
were  several  large  old  elms,  towering  far  above  the  tall  houses. 
There  their  huge  branches  met  in  gigantic  arches,  and  their 
dark  feathery  foliage,  mingling  together,  looked  like  the  delicate 
tracery  over  the  columns  of  some  rare  old  cathedral.  Here  they 
expanded — spread  out  their  arms  to  the  light — untrimmed,  un- 
molested. About  their  shaggy  trunks  the  grass  stood  high, 
hiding  from  sight  their  roots.  It  liad  been  unmoved  for  years, 
and  stood  tall  and  rank  in  a  luxuriance  of  unhindered  growth; 
weeds  of  all  kinds  were  scattered  and  intermingled  with  the 
grass,  and  the  whole  had  interwoven  and  was  knotted  together 
in  unkempt  profusion  like  a  jungle. 

Facing  the  square  on  all  four  sides  stood  old  brown-stone 
houses,  displa3Mng  in  their  stern  porticos  and  balconies  an 
aspect  of  almost  austere  magnificence  and  i^randeur.  Most  of 
them  had  high  stone  gate-posts,  on  which  carved  stone  lions 
languished  at  ease,  or  sat  bolt  upright,  fierce  and  alert  to  scare 
away  intruding  strangers.  But  no  such  vigil  was  needed  as 
few  people  ever  came  here  now. 

As  I  walked  along  the  weed-grown  street,  a  chipmunk  ran 
chattering  past  me,  and  disappeared  under  the  porch  of  one  of 


76  THE   SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

the  houses.  This  house,  more  than  any  of  the  rest,  impressed 
me  with  its  spirit  of  melancholy,  loneliness,  and  neglect.  It  was 
set  far  back  from  the  street,  and  a  sidewalk  of  those  ancient 
flagstones  so  much  used  in  the  time  of  our  forebears  led  up  to 
the  imposing  steps.  But  this  walk  had  sunken,  in  some  places 
two  or  three  inches  below  the  grass  level,  and  between  the  flag- 
stones weeds  and  wild  flowers  raised  their  tangled  heads.  The 
house  itself,  unlike  the  others,  had  its  shutters  left  open,  and 
the  large  panes  of  plate  glass,  translucent  rather  than  trans- 
parent on  account  of  their  coats  of  dust,  gave  that  peculiar  eye- 
like appearance  so  often  remarked  in  vacant  houses.  On  the 
porch,  the  heaps  of  dead  leaves  and  dirt  had  been  pushed  into 
irregular  piles,  and  along  the  cracks  in  the  steps,  where  the 
moisture  had  gathered,  fungi  and  lichens  had  already  begun  to 
appear.  The  lawn  must  have  been  remarkable  in  its  time,  for 
even  now  hardly  a  weed  was  to  be  seen.  The  tall  blue  grass, 
straight  and  erect,  filled  all  the  spaces  and  hid  from  sight  al- 
most entirely  the  remains  of  the -flower  beds— of  oyster  shell 
and  broken-bottle  borders. 

In  the  centre  of  the  yard  stood  an  old  marble  fountain.  A 
large,  pure  white  slab  of  marble  in  the  centre  was  carved  into 
the  likeness  of  the  god  Pan,  holding  a  struggling  water  nymph 
on  one  arm,  while,  with  the  other  hand,  he  poured  water  from 
a  shell  over  her  shining  hair.  By  some  sharp  blow,  I  could  not 
tell  what,  the  basin  had  been  smashed  into  two  parts,  and  the 
broken  fragments  lay  in  the  grass  below. 

At  each  side  of  the  walk,  an  ancient  yew-troe  spread  its 
mottled  shade.  They  met  over  the  portico,  and  mingled  and  re- 
mingled  their  branches,  until,  except  for  their  trunks  one  would 
have  believed  them  to  be  one  tree.  As  the  dried  leaves  fell  up- 
on the  stone  pavement  below,  each  gave  a  sharp  crackling  sound, 
as  though  the  old  trees  were  vainly  trying  to  wake  the  echoes  of 
sounds  heard  long  ago. 

These  details  would  not  have  interested  any  chance  passer-by, 
but  to  me  every  corner  of  the  place  cried  out  for  sympathy. 
For  in  this  house  I  had  been  born,  and  all  those  half -formed, 
shadowy  recollections  of  childhood  hung  about  it  still,  like  the 
perfume  from  a  rose,  now  dried  and  faded.  Here  it  was  I  had 
worked,  and  played,  and  laughed  and  cried,  with  Lena.  Yes,, 
there  was  Pan,  smiling  sardonically  in  the  same  way  that  he,, 
when  I,  in  a  naughty  moment,  had  pushed  Lena  head  first  into- 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  77 

the  fountain,  had  smiled  at  the  thought  of  the  whipping  that 
was  to  come.  Why,  I  could  fairly  see  her  yellow  curls  now, 
framed  against  those  dark  leaves,  as  she  stood,  tearful  and  re- 
proachful, with  one  tiny  finger  raised  accusingly  at  me. 

Yes,  everything  was  the  same.  There  stood  the  same  wooden 
seat  under  the  yew-tree,  where  the  happiest  moment  of  my  life 
had  been  passed,  when  I  learned  that  Lena  truly  cared  for  me, 
and  with  pulses  a-tingle,  we  planned  all  the  wonderful  things 
we  would  have  in  a  home  that  should  be  all  our  own. 

A  dingy  sparrow  flew  down,  and  lit  on  the  nymph's  head. 
Memories  are  not  always  joyful  ones.  It  was  on  that  bench,  too, 
that  we  were  sitting  when  my  father  came  out  to  us,  and,  when 
he  had  spoken  to  us,  shattered  all  our  hope  and  joy,  and  made 
the  world  fairly  crumble  in  about  our  ears.  He  said  it  was 
wrong  for  cousins  ever  to  marry.  I  must  go  away.  Shall  I 
ever  forget  when  I  said  good-bye  to  her  ?  She  walked  with  me 
s,s  far  as  the  gate,  to  make  the  time  last  as  long  as  possible.  I 
shall  always  remember  the  gown  she  wore.  It  was  white  dimity 
sprinkled  with  cherry  blossoms,  and  on  lier  soft  curls  she  wore 
a  white  straw  bonnet  with  a  cherry-colored  ribbon  tied  under 
her  chin.  At  night,  when  I  can  not  sleep,  I  can  still  see  the 
tears  in  her  eyes  when  she  kissed  me.  Then  I  turned  and  went 
away  without  looking  back,  but  the  memory  of  that  last  kiss 
has  been  paradise  to  me  for  twenty  years. 

And  now  here  I  was  back  again.  Everything  was  the  same, 
yet  somehow  it  seemed  like  another  world.  From  afar  off,  I 
heard  the  dull  roar  of  the  ever  pressing  trafiBc.  But  the  gloom 
^nd  quiet  of  the  square  held  me  as  though  in  a  spell — apart  from 
all  that  strife  farther  on.     It  was  like  fairyland. 

Some  one  was  approaching.  I  looked  up,  and  caught  my 
breath.  Ah,  there  she  was  at  last,  after  all  these  years.  I  stood 
still,  waiting.  She  did  not  see  me,  but  advanced  slowly  down 
the  walk  towards  the  gate,  where  I  stood.  She  wore  the  same 
dainty  dress,  and  I  saw  that  the  cherry-colored  ribbon  was  still 
there,  tying  her  pretty  bonnet.  Then  I  looked  at  her  face. 
Surely  it  too  would  be  the  same.  I  almost  cried  aloud,  for  it 
was  the  same,  yet  with  an  exprjession  strangely  new.  The  eyes 
were  surely  Lena's,  of  that  deep  sea-blue  that  only  comes  with 
hair  yellow  as  corn.  But  before  they  were  tender  and  dancing, 
.and  now— oh  Lena,  have  you  suffered  as  much  as  I  ?  Now  she 
saw  me,  and  with  a  little  cry  ran  towards  me.     Now  I  had  her 


78  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

in  my  arms.  It  was  only  then  that  I  knew  what  I  had  beeii. 
missing  for  twenty  long  years. 

With  our  hands  clasped  like  little  children,  we  walked  about 
the  deserted  lawn.  Oh,  if  we  might  only  have  walked  on  for- 
ever ! 

'^  See,"  said  Lena,  '*  Here  is  dear  old  Pan  I  How  many  times- 
I  used  to  scold  him  for  teasing  that  lovely  nymph  I"  She  was 
away,  light  as  a  bird,  and  I  saw  her  climb  up  and  print  a  kiss- 
on  Pan's  wrinkled  countenance.  I  recognized  in  her  the  same- 
light-hearted  child  of  the  old  days, 

*'And  see  that  horrible  crack  in  the  basin  !  That  happened 
the  night  after  you  left.  A  tree  fell  against  it,  you  know.  I. 
always  said  it  was  because  you  had  gone  away.  Did  you  have^ 
to  cry  too  ?  At  night,  I  mean,  after  everybody  else  was  in 
bed?"  We  were  walking  on  towards  the  back  of  the  house. 
Lena  gave  a  little  bubble  of  laughter. 

"And  here's  the  old  rain -barrel.  Oh  you  dear  !  Do  you  re- 
niember  the  goldfish  you  saved  up  your  money  to  buy  and  put 
in  here  ?  And  then  the  rain  came  and  washed  them  all  out  on 
the  ground.  Poor  little  things!  How  frail  and  silvery  they 
looked  when  they  were  dead  I  I  remember  the  funeral  we  had 
for  them,  here  by  the  house.  Yes  !  See,  here  is  the  brick,  you. 
put  'in  memory.'" 

We  had  strolled  back  to  the  gate.  Lena  had  ceased  her  gay 
prattle,  and  had  become  strangely  silent. 

"  How  still  everything  is  here  I"  she  said  at  last.  "  It  makes- 
me  think  that  the  house  and  the  trees  and  everything  else  is  in 
mourning — for — for  us!"  I  saw  her  eyes  well  up  with  great 
unshed  tears — like  those  other  tears,  long  ago. 

"  Lena,  Lena,  don't !  Think  how  much  better  it  is  than  if  our 
love  had  died  too!"  I  held  her  to  my  heart,  and  all  those 
twenty  years  of  loneliness  and  despair  melted  away  before  this- 
one  moment  of  joy. 

From  far  away,  I  heard  the  city  clock  strike  six  and  the- 
whistles  begin  to  blow  from  all  parts  of  the  city,  as  a  signal  for 
the  tired  factory  hands  to  stop  work.  A  faint  breeze  was  mov- 
ing the  leaves  of  the  yew  trees  until  they  stirred  and  moaned 
fitfully,  like  sleepy  children.  I  was  standing  alone  by  the  gate. 
Lena  had  gone,  and  it  was  almost  dark.  Already  long,  creeping 
shadows  were  advancing  from  the  dark  corners  of  the  house. 
The  elms  in  the  square  beyond  seemed  to  spread  their  branches- 


THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY  70 

over  the  place  in  protecting  slielter  for  the  night.  I  walked 
away,  with  a  sigh  in  me  too  long  and  deep  to  give  vent  to — a 
sigh  twenty  years  old.  At  the  corner  I  turned  back  to  look,  for 
the  last  time,  at  the  dim  old  house,  Pan  and  the  nymph  shining 
white  in  the  twilight,  the  old  stone  gateposts  and  the  blessed 
trees  over  all.  In  a  hundred  more  years  they  too,  would  all  be 
gone — gone  never  to  return.  It  is  only  the  memories  of  things 
that  last. 


'* BOUND   IN  THE  BUNDLE  OF  LIFE'' 

MARY   AUGUSTA   JORDAN 

The  Bible  phrase  strikes  quaintly  and  perhaps  a  little  dully 
on  our  unused  ears. 

Life — a  puzzle,  a  problem,  a  conflict,  a  confusion,  a  chaos — 
we  are  painfully  familiar  with  these  forms  of  description  and 
indictment ;  we  almost  ignore  the  great  human  and  divine 
bundle,  bound  together  with  cords  of  joy,  pain  and  sympathy. 

Or,  at  best,  we  know  it  as  shreds  and  ]:)atches,  instead  of  the 
roll  complete.  We  are  concerned  ndore  with  making  it  appear 
suitable  furnishing,  or  even  luggage,  than  with  its  core.  What 
is  there,  for  most  of  us,  in  the  last  inside  fold  of  our  own  or  our 
neighbors'  bundle  ? 

Now  and  again  the  wrapping  is  torn  off  by  accident  or  fate, 
the  loom-wheels  reverse  and  glimpses  are  caught  of  life,  ending, 
not  beginning,  running  down,  not  in  the  disguise  of  full  career. 

The  spectacle  is  rare  and  grateful.  The  close  of  life  is,  for 
most  of  us,  a  dim  twilight  traversed  with  the  aid  of  anaesthetics. 
The  report  of  the  trained  nurse,  and  the  notes  and  curves  of  the 
doctor's  chart  convey  the  passing  spirit's  message  with  scientific 
decency.  Some  of  us  confess  to  missing  the  old-time  hope  of  a 
testimony,  uttered  with  high  authority  from  the  threshold  of 
new  experiences.  Others  of  us  are  a  little  breathless,  after  long 
dependence  on  estimates  and  averages,  and  schedules,  at  the 
mere  idea  of  a  souPs  unwrapping  itself  in  the  clutch  of  pain  and 
casting  off  its  garments,  standing  straight  and  naked  in  its  own 
nature — God's  homing  child. 

The  little  collection  of  verses  by  Louise  Stockton  Andrews, 
the  last  one  dated  June,  1912,  and  copyrighted  by  her  father  in 


80  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

November  of  the  same  year,  comes  from  the  place  where  the 
writer  lived — bound  in  the  bundle.  They  are  touchingly  expres- 
sive of  some  of  the  poignant  things  of  life.  They  are  simple 
and  concerned  with  some  of  the  trifles  that  give  confirmation 
strong^as  proofs  of  holy  writ.  They  have  the  note  of  confidence 
belonging  to  pure  hearts  reaching  out  for  sympathy  in  a  world 
full  of  God.     Some  of  them  are  : 

"  One  day  Grod  let  me  be  a  guest 

In  the  treasure  land  of  the  unexpressed. 

I  found  art  there  that  no  human  hand 

Gould  ever  have  made  in  the  Realized  Land. 

There  were  thoughts  and  yearnings  too 

For  which  our  words  would  never  do, 

There  were  dreamed-of  homes  at  last  complete, 

Where  sounded  the  patter  of  tiny  feet. 

I  knew  that  the  love  in  that  wonderful  place 

Was  just  the  reflection  of  God's  own  face. 

Some  day  when  we  finish  our  earthly  quest, 

We  shall  claim  our  own,  our  unexpressed. 

For  God,  who  gave  it  is  guarding  it,  too 

And  keeping  it  safe  for  me  and  for  you. 

When  I  lay  in  my  narrow,  white  hospital  bed, 

And  could  only  see  things  above  my  head. 

To  help  me  forget  the  bad  hurt  feeling, 

I  used  to  make  things  of  the  cracks  in  the  ceiling. 

I  saw  horses  and  kites,  a  fish  and  a  hen  ; 

And  cities  and  mountains,  and  rivers  and  men. 

Then  sometimes  across  my  ceiling  town 

A  fly  would  walk,  all  upside-down. 

And  once  a  spider,  that  seemed  all  feet, 

Built  his  house  where  the  two  walls  meet. 

But  when  I  got  tired  of  the  things  on  the  wall, 

I'd  fall  asleep — and  forget  them  all. 

Sometimes,  I  think  I'm  in  a  dream. 

That  things  aren't  really  as  they  seem  ; 

That  I  will  waken  up  some  day, 

To  find  things  back  the  same  old  way. 

That  this  has  just  been  given  me, 

To  show  the  way  that  things  might  be. 

Are  things  really  as  they  seem, 

Or  am  I  living  in  a  dream  ?  " 

It  is  high  privilege  to  be  assured  of  one's  human  kinship  as 
one  catches  the  last  gesture  of  farewell  from  the  soul  adventur- 
ingjout  into  the  great  unbound  life. 


ELLEN  ELIZABETH  WILLIAMS 
PART  I. 

(Related  by  Miss  Constance  O'Donnell) 

'^The  dance  is  to  begin  at  half  past  eight."  Ruby  had  written 
me,  ^'and  we  are  going  to  have  a  dinner-party  first  at  seven. 
Just  the  people  staying  at  the  house,  you  know,  to  get  ac- 
quainted. The  three-forty  from  Hartford  will  get  you  here 
about  five." 

I  answered  Ruby  that  I  couldn't  possibly  come,  for  I  have 
History  from  three  to  four  on  Fridays,  and  I  had  already  used 
all  my  cuts.     That  produced  the  following  reply  : 

"Dan  and  I  have  looked  up  the  time-tables,  and  if  you  can 
catch  the  four-eleven  from  Northampton,  you  just  make  con- 
nections at  Hartford.  You  could  reach  Milford  a  little  before 
six  and  come  out  on  the  trolley,  but  I  think  j^ou'd  better  go  on 
to  Waterbury,  and  Uncle  Jack  will  bring  you  out  in  his  car. 
That  will  be  quicker  on  the  whole,  and  if  you're  all  ready  un- 
derneath, it  won't  take  long  for  Freda  to  hook  you  into  your 
dress.     At  any  rate,  you  must  come  ! "" 

Personally,  I  hate  doing  things  in  a  rush.  It  makes  me  ner- 
vous to  have  just  eleven  minutes  in  which  to  make  a  train.  It 
gives  my  heart  the  jumps,  and  by  the  time  I  do  make  connec- 
tions, I  feel  all  worn  out.  Moreover,  I  didn't  feel  confident  in 
having  Freda's  assistance  at  the  last  moment.  With  five  maids 
in  the  Hamilton  household,  not  one  was  ever  free  to  attend  to 
the  needs  of  a  guest.  If  Annie  was  attending  to  Mrs.  Hamilton 
and  one  inveigled  Freda  into  the  guest  chamber  to  fasten  a  last 
button  in  that  ever-unattainable  position  in  the  small  of  one's 
back,  a  voice  would  exclaim  :  "  Oh  Annie,  that  won't  do  at  all  I 
Freda  will  show  you  how,"  and  Freda  would  mutter  a  hasty  ex- 
cuse, and  fly  down  the  corridor  to  her  mistress. 

I  knew,  therefore,  how  little  I  could  depend  on  Freda.  But  I 
am  honestl}^  fond  of  Ruby,  who  seemed  anxious  to  have  me 
come,  and  besides,  I  had  really  no  excuse  except  my  prejadices 
to  last-minute  travel,  so  I  wrote  that  I  would  arrive  at  Water- 
bury  at  six-fifteen. 


82  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

My  nails  were  manicured,  my  hair  *'  coiffed,"  and  my  evening- 
clothes  arranged  near  the  top  of  my  suit  case  when  I  left  North- 
ampton on  the  four-eleven  that  Friday.  I  didn't  notice  that  the 
date  was  the  thirteenth  !  I  even  had  time  to  get  a  parlor  car 
seat  at  Hartford,  and  my  trip  seemed  going  well,  when — in  the 
suburbs  of  Windsor  we  stuck.  At  Windsor  Locks  we  were  fif- 
teen minutes  late,  and  my  teeth  were  on  edge.  Then  a  thought 
came  to  me.  "  I  can  put  my  dress  on  here  in  the  train.  With 
my  fur  coat  it  won't  show,  and  at  least  that  much  will  be  done.'*" 

Accordingly,  I  repaired  to  the  dressing-room  and  divested 
myself  of  my  travelling  dress.  Now  no  dressing-room  on  a  train 
is  palatial,  and  this  one  was  particularly  incommodious.  With 
my  coat  and  hat  hung  on  pegs,  there  was  room  for  me  or  for  my 
suit-case,  but  not  for  both.  As  my  party  dress  was  floating 
open  in  the  back,  I  decided  that  the  suit-case  should  be  the  one 
to  go,  so,  locking  it,  I  set  it  in  the  corridor  outside.  Then,  with 
contortions  worthy  of  my  gymnastic  class,  I  hooked  the  belting^ 
the  inner  lining,  the  lining,  the  satin  bodice,  the  placket  hole, 
the  chiffon  over-skirt,  and  the  lace  tunic  of  my  Paris  '*  creation." 
*'Tres  simple,  mais  tres  chic,"  the  couteriere  had  assured  me  at 
my  last  fitting. 

The  train  stopped  along  time  at  Milford,  and  I  was  thankful, 
for,  in  spite  of  the  delay,  it  gave  me  time  to  scrutinize  my  ap- 
pearance and  pin  my  hat  on  straight.  Then  I  stepped  into  the 
corridor. 

My  suit-case  was  gone  ! 

I  rushed  through  the  parlor-car.  I  looked  at  all  the  baggage. 
There  were  straw  suit-cases,  leather  suit-cases,  suit- cases  plas- 
tered over  with  foreign  labels,  but  a  suit  case  there  was  not  with 
C.  O.  D.  on  each  end,  and  my  dancing  slippers,  gloves  and  fan 
inside.  In  the  midst  of  a  heated  altercation  with  the  porter,  we 
arrived  at  Waterbury. 

Mr.  John  Hamilton  is  a  man  of  action.  Within  three  minutes- 
after  the  explanation  of  my  loss,  he  had  telegraphed  a  descrip- 
tion of  the  suit-case  to  New  Haven,  with  the  assurance  that  if  it 
were  on  that  train,  it  would  be  corralled  there  and  sent  back  on 
the  return  trip.  It  was  fortunate  that  I  already  had  my  evening- 
dress  on. 

"I  would  advise  you  not  to  say  anything  about  your  suit-case 
at  the  house,''  counseled  Uncle  Jack.  **  They  are  excited  enough 
already,  and  my  sister  would  insist  on  having  a  finger  in  this 
pie,  too." 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY  83 

I  was  not  surprised  to  find  the  Hamilton  house  in  confusion. 
They  had  lost  the  place-cards  for  the  dinner  party.  Ruby,  her 
skirt  looped  up  to  her  knees,  greeted  me  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 
"  The  first  room  on  the  left  is  yours  with  Alice  Wentworth. 
She's  a  friend  of  sister's.  Go  right  up  and  introduce  yourself. 
And,  on  your  way,  would  you  mind  looking  in  the  top  drawer 
of  the  cabinet  in  the  upper  hall  and  yell  down  if  you  find  the 
place-cards  ?" 

I  didn't  find  the  place-cards  in  the  drawer  ;  but  I  did  find  Alice 
Wentworth  all  dressed,  and  she  inspired  me  with  confidence  at 
first  sight.  I  told  her  of  the  loss  of  my  suit-case  and  the  need  of 
secrecy. 

"I've  an  extra  pair  of  long  gloves  you  may  have,"  proffered 
Alice.  *'  They've  been  cleaned  and  smell  to  heaven,  but  we  can 
hang  them  out  the  window  till  the  last  moment." 

We  unblushingly  stole  a  pair  of  silk  stockings  and  an  em- 
broidered handkerchief  from  Ruby's  bureau.  The  question  of 
slippers,  however,  was  not  so  easily  solved.  '^  I've  only  my  pink 
satin  ones,"  Alice  sighed.  ''  If  only  Ruby  weren't  so  easily  ex- 
cited— stop  !    I  have  it ! " 

She  dived  headlong  into  the  closet,  and  a  muffled  voice  trailed 
back:  *' They're  only  boudoir  slippers,  but  they're  new,  and 
they  have  high  heels,"  and  she  produced  a  pair  of  black  su^de 
slippers  with  French  pompons.  "  Your  dress  half  hides  them 
anyway,  and  they  ought  to  do  at  a  pinch." 

"  Do  *  at  a  pinch '  is  good  !  "  I  laughed.  ''  I  note  that  these 
shoes  are  3^  A.  My  number  is  4  C.  Nevertheless,  I  am  heartily 
obliged." 

'*  Your  suit-case  may  reach  here  before  we  start  for  the  dance," 
consoled  Alice.     *'  Come  on  ;  let's  go  down." 

The  other  girls  were  clustered  on  the  stairs,  laughing  and 
chatting.  Presently  Mrs.  Hamilton,  massive  in  pearl-grey  satin 
and  fur,  bore  down  upon  us.  She  kissed  me  on  both  cheeks. 
*'  So  glad  you  could  be  with  us,  my  dear.  Now  come  and  meet 
these  nice  boys,  and  we'll  go  in  to  dinner." 

At  this  juncture,  it  transpired  that  we  were  two  "  nice  boys  " 
short.  Some  confusion  resulted  in  trying  to  find  out  which  ones 
were  missing. 

*'  Dan's  not  here,"  I  ventured. 

*'  That's  it ! "  cried  Mrs.  Hamilton.  **  He  went  to  Milford  to 
meet  Charles  Davison  and  I  suppose  they  didn't  make  the  six 
o'clock  trolley.     Well,  we  won't  wait — " 


84  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

A  rattle  at  the  front  door,  and  Dan  came  breezing  in,  followed 
by  a  tall,  handsome  youth,  evidently  embarrassed  at  his  late  ar- 
rival. 

^' I'm  awfully  sorry,  Mrs.  Hamilton,"  he  apologized.  ''My 
train  was  late  at  Milford,  and  though  we  rushed,  we  missed — '' 

"  Stop  gassing  !"  interrupted  Dan.  "Beat  it  up  and  wash 
your  hands.     Second  room  on  the  left.^' 

Mr.  Davison  "beat  it,"  and,  upon  his  return,  we  all  went  in 
to  the  table.  A  little  shudder  passed  over  Mrs.  Hamilton's  form 
at  the  sight  of  one  guest  in  a  business  suit,  for  she  is  rather 
punctilious,  and  this  dinner  and  dance  were  to  be  the  events  of 
the  Noroton  social  season.  I  think  Mr.  Davison  noticed  the 
glance,  for  he  blushed  and  looked  properly  confused,  and  I  felt 
rather  sorry  for  him,  and  glad  for  myself  that  I  had  managed 
to  get  together  so  successful  a  toilette. 

After  dinner,  the  guests  started  for  the  dance  in  the  limousine. 
Mrs.  Hamilton,  Euby,  and  several  girls  left  in  the  first  party. 
"  I'll  go  in  the  second,"  Alice  whispered  to  me,  "  so  that  you  can 
be  in  the  third.  Your  suit-case  may  come  at  any  minute  now, 
and  you  can  get  your  own  slippers  then."  I  went  upstairs  to 
await  the  hoped-for  arrival. 

As  I  buttoned  on  my — or  rather  Alice's — gloves,  I  tried  not  to 
notice  the  racket  in  the  next  room,  where  Mr.  Davison  was 
evidently  changing  his  clothes.  The  register  between  the  rooms 
was  open,  and  I  heard  one  boot  go  "bang"  against  the  floor, 
then  the  other,  and — well,  I  hardly  like  to  say  it,  (it  may  have 
been  some  one  else,  you  know,  and  he  had  seemed  to  be  such  a 
gentleman)  but  I  was  almost  sure  that  it  was  Mr.  Davison^s 
lusty  voice  that  I  heard  say  "'  Damn  !  " 
I  thought  it  time  to  shut  the  register. 

PART   II. 

(As  told  by  Charley  Davison  to  his  room-mate,  William  Hills) 

Great  Heavens,  Billy  I  you  could  have  knocked  me  over  with 
a  feather  when  I  opened  that  suit-case,  and  saw  what  was  inside. 
On  top  was  a  girl's  dress  of  dark  blue  slinky  stuff,  and  a  pair  of 
satin  slippers  with  diamond  buckles,  and  a  puffy  white  feather 
fan.  Underneath  was  a  fussy  white  negligee  thing  all  lace  and 
pink  ribbons.  Then  I  got  scared  and  ^^elled  for  Harry  Watson, 
in  the  room  across  the  hall.     He  nearly  doubled  up  with  mirth. 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  85 

'*  Funny,  is  it  V  said  I,  with  sarcasm.  "  Funny  as  the  deuce 
to  be  in  the  suburbs  of  Noroton,  Conn.,  fifteen  minutes  before  a 
dance,  minus  a  dress  suit,  with  the  contents  of  a  girl's  suit  case 
on  one's  hands.  I'd  hDok  pretty,  woukln't  I,  in  that  chiffon, 
crepe  de  chine,  silk,  voile,  hobble  skirt  with  fruchings  of  pan 
velvet  ?  Those  slippers  are  the  size  I  always  wear,  and  my 
beauty  is  especially  enhanced  by  a  white  feather  perked  over 
one  ear  I     Devil  take  the  porter  on  that  parlor  car  ! " 

Harry  was  showing  symptoms  of  acute  indigestion. 

"What  do  you  advise  ?"  I  shouted,  mad  clear  through. 

Harry  recovered  long  enough  to  gasp  :  "Well,  I'd  either  go 
in  your  street  clothes  or  not  at  all.  One  doesn't  usually  attend 
a  dance  in  your  present  attire,"  Then  he  went  off  into  another 
spasm. 

"  You  are  a  darn  fool,"  I  complimented  him,  "  Your  remarks 
indicate  the  intelligence  of  a  j)recocious  child  of  six." 

My  bouquet  had  the  effect  of  bringing  him  to  his  senses. 

"On  the  contrary,  my  proposals  are  excellent,"  he  replied 
with  an  air  of  wounded  dignity,  "A  good  story  about  getting 
the  wrong  suit-case  would  make  quite  a  hit,  girls  always  like 
misadventures  of  that  sort.  They  call  it  'college  life.'  And  for 
my  other  suggestion,  you  might  be  suddenly  stricken  with  ap- 
pendicitis." 

"  Do  you  think  I'd  be  the  only  man  at  a  dance  without  evening 
dress  ?  No,  thank  you,  not  when  Mrs.  Hamilton  is  the  chaper- 
one.     It  was  conspicuous  enough  at  dinner." 

"  Stay  at  home  then,"  said  Harry  without  feeling.  "  I'll  tell 
'em  that  the  oysters  made  you  sick," 

"  I  have  a  particular  reas-on  for  wishing  to  be  present  at  that 
dance,"  I  replied  firmly. 

Whereupon  Harry  let  out  an  entirely  unnecessary  remark  that 
I  might  especially  desire  to  keep  my  engagement  with  the 
charming  Miss  Constance  O'Donnell,  who,  although  I  had  met 
her  only  that  evening,  had  consented  to  give  me  the  first  two 
dances,  I  didn't  deny  it.  but  intimated  to  Master  Harry  that 
the  sooner  he  eliminated  the  young  lady's  name  from  the  con- 
versation, the  better  it  would  be  for  him. 

"Jove,  Charley  I"  he  exclaimed,  and  I  saw  the  ghost  of  an 
idea  flicker  on  his  countenance,  "Why  not  borrow  the  dress 
suit  from  one  of  the  waiters  ?  There  are  strings  of  'em  down- 
stairs, waiting  to  go  to  the  hall." 


86  THE   SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

Then  I  proceed  to  lead  the  cheering  and  Harry  makes  tracks 
for  the  lower  regions,  and  returned  with  a  decent  enough 
fellow  about  my  size.  Harry's  glib  tongue  was  working  over 
time,  and  with  the  added  persuasion  of  a  five-dollar  bill  (believe 
me,  Billy,  money  talks)  he  soon  convinced  that  waiter  that  he 
was  deathly  sick  and  needed  to  go  home  at  once,  but  that  if  he 
would  leave  his  dress-suit  behind,  and  call  for  it  in  the  morn- 
ing, et  cetera,  et  cetera,  and  so  forth.  Then  I  did  the  quick 
change  act. 

Thank  the  Lord,  the  trousers  were  long  enough  and  didn't 
wrinkle  when  I  sat  down.  The  vest  was  tightish  over  the  chest, 
but  Harry  said  that  wouldn't  show  while  dancing. 

"  Carry  your  head  high,"  he  said.  "  Put  that  feather  arrange- 
ment in  your  pocket  and  fan  the  girlies  between  the  acts. 
That'll  cool  you  off,  too,  and  above  all,  keep  up  the  bluff  ! " 

With  these  last  instructions  we  went  down  and  got  into  the 
limousine.  Miss  O'.Donnell  was  already  there.  She  was  darn 
cool  to  me  at  first,  and  it  puzzled  me  a  lot,  but  she  soon  warmed 
up  enough  to  promise  me  the  third  and  fifth  dances,  as  we'd 
probably  miss  the  first  and  second.  She's  a  bully  good  dancer, 
too ;  she  does  the  Spanish  and  the  aeroplane  and  I  taught  her 
some  others  she  didn't  know.  The  floor  was  like  glass,  and  the 
music  soft  and  swinging,  and— oh  hang  it  all,  Billy,  your  room- 
mate was  fool  enough  to  think  he'd  fallen  in  love,  and  he  hasn't 
gotten  over  thinking  so  yet ! 

Well,  after  our  third  dance  we  were  pretty  hot,  and  my  waist- 
coat was  giving  me  a  cramped,  consumptive  feeling.  Also  I 
was  unbecomingly  red  in  the  face,  which  didn't  add  to  my 
peace  of  mind.  I  was  mighty  glad  when  Constance  (oh  yes,  I 
call  her  by  her  first  name  now)  suggested  our  going  into  a  cool 
alcove,  and  once  lying  back  among  the  pillows  of  the  divan,  I 
bethought  me  of  the  fan. 

''That  breeze  is  delightful,"  said  Constance,  turning  to  me 
with  a  smile  that  made  my  head  swim.  "You  are  the  most 
thoughtful  man  I've  ever  met,  Mr.  Davison.  Most  fellows 
expect  the  girls  to  furnish  fans,  and  they  are  so  awfully  in 
the  way." 

"  Oh,  I  always  carry  a  fan  to  dances,"  I  lied.  "  Girls  haven't 
pockets  to  keep  them  in."  Gee  !  I  was  glad  Harry  made  me 
take  that  feather  thing. 

Then  she  dropped  the  little  fancy  bag  on  her  wrist.     I  stooped 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY  87 

for  it,  and  she  stooped  for  it,  and  we  sort  of  met  in  the  middle. 
My  hand  hit  something  on  the  floor  and  I  brought  it  up.  It 
wasn^t  the  pink  bag.  It  was  her  slipper.  She  made  little 
ineffective  grabs  for  it,  and  looked  so  pretty  and  fussed,  I  picked 
up  the  other  one,  too. 

"Give  them  to  me  !  Please  give  them  to  me  !  They  aren't 
mine,  anyway.  You  see — "  she  stammered  apologetically,  '*an 
— an  accident  happened  to  my  slippers,  and  I  borrowed  a  pair, 
and— and — well — they  hurt,  and  so  I  just  slipped  them  off." 

*'I  comprehend  your  sentiments  exactly,"  I  acquiesced  gravely. 
*'  I  only  wish  that  I  could  remove  certain  portions  of  my  attire 
as  easily  and  inconspicuously  as  you  did  your  slippers." 

"Why,  do  your  clothes  hurt,  too?"  she  asked  naively. 
*'  You  look  all  right  on  the  outside." 

"I  might  say  the  same  of  you,"  I  replied.  "But  when  the 
man  whose  dress  suit  youH^e  borrowed  wears  a  vest  two  sizes 
too  small,  when  one's  coat  keeps  hitching  up  in  the  back,  and 
one's  trou — " 

Here  I  began  to  fan  violently,  realizing  that  a  man  doesn't 
usually  speak  of  his  nether  garments  to  a  young  lady  upon  their 
first  acquaintance. 

"  I'm  quite  cool  now,"  Constance  remarked  unkindly.  "  Per- 
haps I  should  fan  you  instead."  Then,  in  a  tone  that  chilled 
me  far  more  than  any  amount  of  fanning  could  have  done, 
"Mr.  Davison,  where  did  you  get  this  fan  ?" 

"Why,  er — it's  just  a  fan — a  very  pretty  fan,  don't  you 
think  ?    It  was — it  was  my  sister's." 

"I  agree  with  you  that  it  is  a  very  pretty  fan.  In  fact,  I 
once  owned  one  like  it  myself.  Mr.  Davison,  did  you  happen 
to  come  from  Hartford  on  the  five-nineteen  train  ?" 

"  I  did — "  I  began.     Then  it  penetrated. 

"  Your  suit  case — your  slippers  !  " 

"  Your  dress  suit — " 

"  C.  O'D.     Constance  O'Donnell  ! " 

"  C.  O.  D.     Charles  O.  Davison  1 " 

Then  we  both  burst  out  laughing,  and  I  discovered  that 
Connie  had  a  sense  of  humor.  Indeed  she  laughed  so  hard  that 
Mr.  Hamilton,  Dan's  uncle,  heard  us  and  came  into  the  alcove. 

"I  was  looking  for  you,  Miss  Constance,"  he  said.  "My 
chauffeur  has  just  come  to  tell  me  that  he  left  your  suit  case  at 
the  house  not  ten  minutes  ago." 


88  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

**  I  am  so  very  much  obliged,"  said  Connie.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Ham- 
ilton, would  it  be  too  much  for  Jerry  to  take  me  up  there  in  the 
car  ?    I  would  like  to  get  my  own  slippers  ! '' 

*' Certainly,  my  dear,"  joins  in  Mr.  Hamilton.  '^Tll  take 
you  up  myself — or,  better  still,  perhaps  Mr.  Davison  will  see- 
that  you  come  and  go  safely." 

Gee  !     Mr.  Hamilton  is  a  trump  ! 

We  matched  up  stories  going  back  in  the  limousine,  and 
Jerry  waited  while  we  got  into  our  own  clothes.  At  last  I 
could  draw  a  deep  breath  without  fear  of  bursting  the  buttons 
off  that  vest,  and  Connie  looked  fresh  as  a  daisy.  We  reached 
the  hall  in  time  for  the  supper  dance,  which  we  had  in  the 
alcove,  and  her  eyes — 

But  say,  Billy,  what's  the  use  ?  You'll  see  her  when  she- 
comes  up  for  prom — and  by  the  way,  don't  be  a  bromide  and 
quote  that  old  "  Change  the  name  and  not  the  letter,"  because 
her  last  name  begins  with  an  O  ! 


DAWN^S  BRIDAL 

MARION   DELAMATER  FREEMAN 

Yonng  Dawn  crept  forth  from  night's  dark-shadow'd  halls. 

Out  of  the  dimness  and  the  clinging  mists. 

Swift-footed  as  the  evening  breeze  she  glided  down 

The  pearly  whiteness  of  high  heaven's  stair. 

Bright  gleam'd  her  red-gold  hair,  where  here  and  there, 

Caught  in  the  shining  strands,  flash'd  a  pale  star. 

Flushed  were  her  radiant  cheeks,  glow'd  her  blue  eyes, 

And  all  about  her  seemed  to  drift  a  mist 

Of  changing  gold  and  rose.     And  as  she  ran 

The  glad  earth  blossom'd  at  her  little  feet 

And  myriads  of  roses  broke  their  calix'd  bonds 

To  deck  her  way.     Still  went  she  on  until, 

Cleaving  the  mists  before  him  as  he  sped, 

Day  came  with  sunlit  eyes  to  claim  his  bride. 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  MANCHU  DYNASTY 

MARY   LOUISE    RAMSDELL 

Her  hoary  head,  bowed  low  with  years  of  toil, 
Once  reared  itself  in  regal  majesty, 
Disdainful  of  the  things  that  were  to  be. 

Scorning  the  living  present's  feverish  moil. 

With  eyes  turned  proudly  toward  her  storied  past, 
With  face  averted  from  the  western  sun. 
She  mused  upon  the  deeds  that  had  been  done, 

Too  proud  to  fear  her  glory  would  not  last. 

Now  she,  who,  calm-eyed,  from  her  lofty  height 
Saw  kingdoms  rise  and  live  their  little  day 
Of  Time's  long  years,  and  crumble  to  decay, 

Herself  lies  in  the  dust,  stripped  of  her  might, 

'Tis  better  thus.     Her  day  was  passed  ;  but  we 

Sigh  to  behold  her  fallen  majesty. 


*^MANY  A  TIME  I  HAVE  BEEN   HALF  IN  LOVE   WITH   EASEFUL 

DEATH '^ 

LEONORA   BRANCH 

In  fancy  I  have  touched  thy  hands,  so  small,  and  soft  and  cool — 
Like  water-lilies,  silver  sweet,  from  some  green  woodland  pool 
Where  day  is  dead,  and  dusk  and  dreams  and  silken  silence  rule. 

In  autumn  wind  and  summer  show'r  I've  watched  thy  dancing  feet, 
Whirling  in  measures  mystical,  adown  the  rain-swept  street. 
Mad  with  the  wind's  wild  melodies,  and  faery-light  and  fleet. 

And  I  have  seen  thy  dreamy  eyes,  like  heavy  poppy-flowers, 
Full  of  the  languid  warmth  of  dark  in  perfume-scented  bowers. 
Where  Love  herself  has  ceased  to  count  the  swiftly  passing  hours. 

In  dreams  I've  drunk  thy  kisses  and  would  feign  have  drunk  more  deep 
From  out  thy  starry- jeweled  cup,  the  magic  draught  of  sleep, 
Forgetting  how  to  love  and  hate,  and  how  to  laugh  and  weep. 

Thy  gift  of  sleep  is  precious,  yea,  but  here  is  one  that  saith 

Come  breathe  upon  my  tired  eyes  thy  warm,  wine-fragrant  breath. 

And  let  my  heart-throbs  cease  on  thine,  O  dim,  delicious  Death  ! 


SKETCHES 
THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  GABRIELLE 

ALICE   CHAMBERLAIN  DARROW 

It  had  been  raining  and  the  fields  back  of  Riviere  du  Long 
were  glistening  in  the  clear  early  light  of  an  August  sunrise. 
The  butterflies,  who  had  doubtless  hidden  themselves  over  night 
in  some  fairy  bower  beneath  the  wild  rose  petals,  arose  gay  and 
golden,  their  black  veils  drooped  gracefully  over  their  skirts. 
They  had  been  well  groomed  evidently  by  the  fairies  and  their 
gowns  were  all  buttoned  straight  up  the  back,  as  anyone  could 
see. 

Gabrielle  was  gathering  roses  when  she  saw  them  and  they 
fascinated  her.  Her  mother  had  sent  her  to  milk  the  cows  but 
milk  you  sold  only  to  silly  English  people  down  the  road  who 
gave  you  dirty  grey  stuff  from  their  pockets  that  was  often 
warm  and  sticky  and  smelt  horrid— and  roses — why,  the  fairies 
lived  underneath  them  sometimes  and  to  see  a  fairy,  any  kind, 
so  long  as  it  was  a  fairy — Gabrielle  tingled  all  over  at  the 
thought.  They  were  prettiest  when  you  saw  them  without 
their  knowing  it,  so  Gabrielle  was  very  quiet  but  then  it  struck 
her  that  the  butterflies  might  be  fairies  and  she  left  her  roses 
and  ran  after  them.  They  fluttered  about  here  and  there,  she 
following,  up  and  up  the  hillside,  through  the  glistening  grass, 
weaving  swiftly  back  and  forth,  up  and  down  in  mazes  of 
thread-like  paths  that  seemed  golden  colored  as  they  left  them. 
There  was  a  wild,  sweet  rhythm  in  their  graceful  flight,  as  if 
they  danced  to  fairy  music,  and  Gabrielle  caught  it  as  she 
tripped  along  after  them. 

Gradually  all  but  one  had  flown  too  high  but  that  one  was  the 
one  she  liked  the  best  anyway,  so  she  followed  him,  with  her 
quick  lithe  movements,  over  and  up  the  meadows  to  where  the 

do 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  91 

brook  ran  down.  The  brook  tinkled  and  twinkled  along  and 
Gabrielle  ran  in  with  her  bare  white  feet,  still  grasping  with  her 
tiny  hands  at  the  royal  ambassador  from  fairyland,  who  con- 
tinued his  lofty  but  friendly  flight  over  it.  But  the  brook  was 
deeper  than  she  thought  just  there  and  down  she  went,  slipping 
on  a  pebble  and  sitting  up  to  her  arm  pits  in  the  cold  mountain- 
spring  water.  But  undaunted  she  got  up  and  ran  on  and  pretty 
soon  his  excellency  was  caught  in  her  firm  tender  little  hand, 
willy-nilly.  She  ran  f^.own  the  hill  and  caught  up  her  pail  of 
milk  (which  really  had  been  quite  full  when  she  started  picking 
the  roses)  and,  leaving  the  sleepy,  happy  cows  rather  startled, 
she  skipped  past  Pierre's,  and  all  dripping  and  thoughtless  and 
joyous,  in  to  find  her  mother. 

Her  mother  made  dresses  for  the  English  people  up  the  road 
and  as  Gabrielle  ran  in  she  brushed  against  one,  all  finished  and 
ready  to  go.  Oh,  the  sorrow  I  Oh,  the  alarm  I  But  no,  there 
was  no  harm  done  to  the  dress.  Her  mother  breathed  a  sigh  of 
relief ;  nevertheless  she  was  frightened  and  her  happy  spirit 
could  not  appreciate  the  butterfly  fairy  ambassador  very  well. 
It  was  nothing  to  her  of  course  that  Gabrielle  should  tumble  iu 
the  brook,  that  she  might  do  every  day  if  she  liked,  but  *'ma 
m^re  "  was  disturbed,  flustered.  "  Oui — the  butterfly  is  lovely — 
they  all  are  lovely — they  all  are  alike — what  did  you  chase  that 
one  for,  though  ?  '^ 

Gabrielle  did  not  follow  the  reasoning,  the  mood,  the  logic, 
the  whatever-you-choose-to-call-it  of  her  mother.  She  philo- 
sophized instead.  "All  alike?  All  butterflies  alike?  "Bien, 
lis  sont  tons — "  They  were  all  alike  when  viewed  from  her 
most  calm  and  unaffected  point  of  view,  having  previously  re- 
leased the  butterfly,  yet,  "  But  I  did  love  him  the  best,^*  and 
there  she  had  to  stop.  She  could  not  tell  why,  any  more  than 
any  of  us  can. 

She  went  into  the  barn  and  yoked  the  quiet  oxen  to  the  little 
creaky  wooden-wheeled  cart,  then  took  them  down  to  the  white 
beach  of  the  wide,  soft,  sleepy  St.  Lawrence.  Up  and  down  the 
beach  she  went,  the  oxen  following  her,  rhythmically  bending 
and  swinging  with  her  right  arm  into  her  left,  long,  slinky, 
trailing  masses  of  glossy  seaweed  to  burn  or  for  fodder  for  the 
pigs  or  to.  stuff  up  the  crannies  in  the  house  when  the  long 
sweeping  winter  wind  came  and  blew  it  half  to  pieces.  Careful 
she  was,  to  make  no  distinctions  in  the  light  of  her  new  knowl- 


92  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

edge,  one  piece  of  sea-weed  was  exactly  as  good  as  another. 
Was  a  chance  remark  of  her  mother's  going  to  become  a  guiding 
principle  in  her  philosophy  of  life  ? 

Pierre,  seeing  her,  came  down  to  help  and  together  they 
worked  quietly  through  the  morning,  sometimes  talking,  oftener 
not.    Habitant  children  are  very  often  subdued  in  their  ways. 

As  the  years  went  on  Gabrielle  became  known  in  the  littla 
settlement  in  the  bend  of  the  road  by  the  river  as  one  of  the 
fair,  just,  impersonal  kind  of  girl,  one  who  could  decide  a  dis- 
pute, one  who  said  "  Take  what  comes  along,  one  thing's  as  good 
as  another."  She  never  knew  how  it  was  but  she  always  seemed 
to  be  with  Pierre  in  a  crowd  or  at  mass  and  at  weddings  and 
funerals.  It  was  not  inconsistent,  she  really  did  not  connect  the 
event  of  her  babyhood  and  her  present  mode  of  life  at  all,  did  not 
know  even  that  she  had  a  philosophy  of  life,  scarcely  that  she 
had  a  point  of  view,  but  yet  it  disturbed  her  a  little  sometimes, 
for  she  would  have  kept  the  letter  of  the  law,  had  she  known 
there  was  one.  The  others  really  were  as  nice,  exactly,  she  liked 
them  just  as  well,  they  were  very  much  the  same,  Pierre  and 
they,  and  she  let  it  go  at  that. 

Until  one  night,  in  summer,  when  Pierre  came  and  asked  her 
to  walk  up  the  road  with  him  and  she  left  the  group  on  the  little 
front  porch  and  went. 

''  To-night  is  a  wonderful  night,"  he  said. 
'^  Oui — but  they  are  all  lovely — all." 

"  But  to-night  above  all  others — you  know  why.  N'est-ce 
pas  ?"     And  he  put  his  arm  around  her. 

Then  he  asked  her  something  else  and  after  a  while,  as  though 
rather  surprised  at  herself,  she  nodded. 

It  was  not  late  when  she  came  back  but  it  is  cheaper  to  sleep 
than  to  use  candle  light  and  every  one  on  the  banks  of  the  Saint 
Lawrence  goes  to   bed    when   it   gets   dark.     Gabrielle  slipped 
quietly  under  the  covers  beside  her  sister.     Next  morning  she 
woke  early  and  went  out  but  her  mother  was  there  before  her. 
"  Ma  mere,"  she  said  softly.     "  Ma  mere." 
Her  mother  looked  up,  divining  what  she  was  going  to  say. 
*'Ma  mere,    they    are   all    alike,  the   men."     She    hesitated. 
"They  all  wish  to  marry."     Now  she  was  floundering  ;  she  was 
on  the  wrong  road.     "  I — I  will  marry  Pierre,  s'il  vous  plait." 
She  was  confused.     "  I  like  them  all.     I  like  Pierre — " 

A  heavy  step  sounded  on  the  soft  grass  and  she  slipped  out- 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  93 

side,  to  return  arm  in  arm  with  her  lover.  Her  mother  came 
toward  them. 

"  They  are  all  the  same,  ma  mere."  This  time  she  said  it  jo}'- 
ously.  She  was  brave  because  he  was  there.  She  smiled  broadly, 
confidently,  bravely. 

"Et  puis  ?"  said  her  mother. 

"  I  like  this  man  best,  I  know  not  why,"  and  she  put  her 
arms  around  them  both. 

''  And  I  like  this  one,"  said  Pierre  proudly,  kissing  Gabrielle. 


THE  MONK 

ANNA   ELIZABETH  SPICER 

Brother,  where  is  thj'  flesh  and  blood  ? 
"  B}'  fasting  the  soul  fares  on  to  God." 

Brother,  why  dost  thon  grin  with  pain? 

*'  The  scourge  and  the  whip  bring  the  soul  great  gain. 

Why  the  beads  and  tlie  ceaseless  prayer  ? 

"  Though  earth  be  dark,  the  heavens  are  fair." 

Wherefore  the  watch  through  the  endless  night  ? 
"  If  one  watch  and  pray,  he  will  find  the  light." 

Why  the  chastity,  self-imposed  ? 

"  Through  lusts  of  the  flesh  heaven's  door  is  closed." 

Brother,  the  spiders  share  thy  cell. 
^'Better  are  they  than  flames  of  hell." 

Brother,  the  poor  at  the  minster-gate 

That  huddle  and  freeze  ?    "  They  are  come  too  late." 


AUTUMN  AFTERNOON 

DOROTHY   OCHTMAN 

Ruddy  and  gold  and  veiled  in  amethyst 

G-low  far-off  trees  before  the  setting  sun. 

From  gray-green  meadows  stretching  wide  and  far, 

A  thin  gray  mist  is  rising  ;  in  the  trees 

Near  by  the  squirrel  chatters  and  in  the  grass 

Below,  the  cricket  sings  his  cheery  song. 


THRILLS 

DOROTHY   HOMANS 

If  it  were  not  for  thrills  life  would  be  ^'all  forlorn"  like  the 
maid  with  the  cow  of  the  crumpled  horns.  As  it  is  life  is  a 
patch-work  quilt  of  many  colors.  Each  color  in  the  quilt  stands 
for  a  thrill. 

Some  thrills  are  of  soft  pastel  shades  ;  others  are  startling^ 
and  bright  like  the  skies  in  the  pictures  of  Maxfield  Parrish. 
There  are  of  course  people  who  will  deny  that  thrills  have  color, 
just  as  they  deny  that  the  blare  of  a  trumpet  is  scarlet,  a  waltz- 
played  on  a  violin  silver  and  wine-color.  If  they  thought  a 
moment  they  would  recollect  that  there  are  certain  papers  of 
large  type  and  larger  thrills,  called  "yellow  journals."  If 
they  were  called  '*  peach-blow  sheets"  do  you  think  the  gentle- 
reader  would  buy  ? 

There  are  many  kinds  of  thrills.  "When  they  are  good,  they 
are  very,  very  good,  but  when  they  are  bad,  they  are  horrid." 

The  novelists,  playwrights  and  artists  of  to-day  have  discov^ 
ered  that  a  thrill  is  bad  form  and  good  art.  They  prefer  man- 
ners to  their  art.  The  picture  of  a  "  Nude  Descending  a  Stair-^ 
case  "  is  a  striking  example  of  polite  art.  Staircases  are  thrill- 
ing subjects  if  handled  properly.  So  many  tragedies  and  come- 
dies occur  on  them.  You  may  slide  down  the  banisters,  fall 
down  the  stairs  and  even  fall  up  them  with  the  result  that  you 
will  not  be  married  that  year.  A  great  tragedy  !  Do  you  see 
any  of  those  thrills  in  the  picture  I  have  just  mentioned  ?  It  is 
appalling  to  look  at  a  cubist  picture  and  think  of  the  "might 
have  beens."  An  Iliad  could  be  made  out  of  a  staircase.  The 
cubist  paints  something  that  looks  like  a  kaleidoscope,  the 
insides  of  which  Tommy  has  been  playfully  exploring  with  a 
hammer. 

The  drama  is  travelling  the  same  tepid  road  to  good  manners. 
A  critic  sees  "Admiral  Guinea."  He  is  mildly  interested  but 
when  Pew,  the  blind  beggar,  puts  his  finger  through  the  candle 
flame  he  forgets  to  drowse  and  says,  "  Good  dramatic  action," 
in  the  words  of  the  "madding  crowd"  a  thriller,  though  thi& 
breach  of  manners  does  not  occur  to  him  till  later.  The  fol- 
lowing evening  the  same  critic  strolls  into  a  theatre  on  the 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  95 

Bowery.  The  play  is  *'  Through  Flood  and  Fire,  or  The  Lovers 
of  Leonora."  The  critic  sits  next  to  Gertie  O'Connor,  who 
chews  gum  and  eats  peanuts  with  fine  impartiality.  The  open- 
ing act  is  laid  in  London  ;  time,  midnight,  on  the  Thames 
embankment;  it  is  snowing;  the  chimes  of  ''Big  Ben"  are 
heard  ;  Leonora  appears  in  a  pink  opera  cloak  lined  with  swans- 
down,  for  her  evening  constitutional  ;  Mandeville  St.  Leger 
rushes  forward  ;  the  hero  leans  from  a  passing  air-ship,  seizes 
Leonora  in  his  arms,  jumps  off  the  bridge  and  lands  neatly 
upon  the  deck  of  a  passing  barge. 

"Foiled!"  cries  the  villain.  "Ten  thousand  curses  upon 
thee,  Harold  St.  Clair  ! "  Just  then  the  hand  of  the  law  falls 
heavily  upon  his  shoulder. 

"I  harrest  you  for  the  murder  of  your  great-aunt,"  says  the 
bobbie. 

"Gee!  some  thriller,"  murmurs  Gertie  O'Conner  and  she 
loses  a  peanut  in  her  enthusiasm. 

A  sudden  fierce  light  beats  upon  the  critic^s  brain.  He  goes 
home.  He  thinks.  The  next  morning's  paper  has  an  article  in 
in  it  which  makes  the  world  blush  to  think  of  the  bad  taste  it 
has  been  showing  in  its  fondness  for  thrills.  It  makes  little 
difference  whether  the  thrill  is  in  "Admiral  Guinea,"  "  Hamlet " 
or  the  "  Fatal  Wedding,"  a  thrill's  a  thrill  "  for  a'  that." 

So  they  play  Ibsen,  Brieux  and  others  with  the  good  old- 
fashioned  thrills  left  out  and  the  new  decadent  nervousness  put 
in.  They  take  off  "Sweet  Lavender"  and  play  "Ghosts." 
They  have  to  have  something  interesting  enough  to  hold  the 
audience  so  they  place  the  chairs  with  their  backs  to  the  foot- 
lights. Noble  thought !  it  gives  almost  the  look  of  the  wall 
that  should  be  there.  I  here  offer  with  an  air  "gentle,  meek 
and  mild  "  a  little  suggestion  that  would  mean  much  saving  of 
expense  to  stage-managers.  Why  not  put  up  a  real  wall  and 
let  the  people  sit  in  front  of  it  and  read  Henry  James  ?  The 
general  effect  would  be  as  good  as  if  they  watched  a  perform- 
ance of  "  Hedda  Gabler." 

Poor  modern  playwright,  to  him 

"  The  rainbow  comes  and  goes, 
And  lovely  is  the  rose, 

*  *  *  * 

But  there  hath  passed  away 
A  something  from  this  earth." 


96  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

I  do  not  mean  by  all  this  that  one  must  set  out  to  find  thrills. 
It  is  no  use  to  do  that.  Authors  think  how  thrilling  it  will  be 
to  see  their  work  in  print.  But  when  the  children  of  their 
brains  appear  for  the  first  carriage  ride  the  thrill  turns  tail 
and  runs. 

Thrills  are  like  will-o'-the-wisps.  Did  you  ever  long  to  take  a 
will-o'-the-wisp  and  stroke  its  golden  fur  ?  You  see  one  flitting 
through  the  dusk.  You  run  down  to  the  marsh's  edge.  You 
know  you  can  catch  that  bit  of  live  fire.  You  lean  over  the  wet 
grasses,  cupping  your  hand.  The  will-o'-the-wisp  is  gone.  You 
lio  not  know  where,  perhaps  to  "  Old  Japan. '^ 


OVER  THE  HILLS 

MARION   DELAMATER   FREEMAN 

Over  the  hills,  just  you  and  I, 

When  the  breeze  blows  fresh  from  the  sea, 
And  the  sky  is  flawless  blue  above, 

Oh  come,  dear,-  come  with  me  ! 

I  want  you  to  love  the  things  I  love, 
The  sough  of  the  wind-swept  pines, 

The  swish  of  the  crested  meadow  grass, 
And  the  cave  where  the  sea-wind  whines. 

I  want  you  to  love  the  sun-Mssed  heights 
Where  you  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  sea, 

I  want,  dear,  to  share  them  all  with  you ! 
Come  over  the  hills  with  me  ! 


DVORAK^S  HUMORESKE 

JEANNE  WOODS 

'Twas  thy  intent  to  make  thy  hearers  laugh 
At  clownish  tricks  done  in  light-hearted  glee, 
But  'tis  the  sadness  of  thy  wistful  eyes, 
The  pathos  of  thy  aching,  clownish  heart. 
That  pleads  with  us  behind  the  grinning  mask, 
And  stills  our  laughter. 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  BILLY 

ADELAIDE   HERIOT   ARMS 

"  Wish't  I  was  a  big  man  an'  I'd  fix  her.  She's  a  reg'lar  old 
lien  an'  I  sha'n't  go  home  ever  ! "  Billy's  stubby  foot  kicked 
the  innocent  tree  unmercifully.  "An'  all  on  account  of  that 
ole  pie  face,"  he  concluded  with  an  angry  scowl. 

"Oh  Billy,"  said  a  soft  little  scared  voice  close  beside  him, 
^*did  Tommy  hurt  you  ?  I— I'm  sorry—"  and  Geraldine  of  the 
first  grade  looked  anxiously  at  Billy,  her  blue  eyes  very  serious. 

"Nope,  course  he  didn't  hurt  me  but  I  bet  he's  good  an' — an' 
knocked  out.  Hope  his  nose  '11  bleed  all  day  an'  all  night." 
Billy's  chubby  face  was  very  fierce  when  he  concluded  and 
Geraldine  drew  back. 

"Why,  Billy,"  she  cried,  "you  don't  neither — 'cause — why, 
he  might  die  an'  then  you'd  be  awful  sorry  and — "  Geraldine's 
eyes  grew  big  with  sudden  consternation,  "  they  might  put  you 
in  prison.     Oh,  Billy,  do  you  think  he  will  die  ?" 

Billy  snorted.  "  Course  not,"  he  said  scornfully.  "An'  I 
wouldn't  care  if  he  did,  'cause  I'm  goin'  to  run  away  and  never 
come  back  ever.  An'  I  ain't  never  goin'  to  have  any  more  girls 
neither,  'slong's  I  live." 

Geraldine's  eyes  opened  wide  first  with  surprise  and  then 
-dilated  with  sudden  anger.  "  Billy  Reynolds,  you're  the  badest 
boy  I  ever  saw  an' — an'  I  do  like  Tommy  better,  anyway.  I 
don't  care  if  you  never  come  back  an',"  Geraldine's  curls  stood 
straight  out  as  she  hurled  her  parting  words  at  the  astonished 
Billy,  "  I  sha'n't  never  marry  you  now,  anyway,"  and  Geraldine 
fled  into  the  schoolroom. 

"Geraldine  Simpson,  why  didn't  you  come  in  when  the  bell 
rang  ?  "  asked  Teacher  as  a  tearful  little  culprit  opened  the  door. 

The  culprit  walked  straight  to  her  seat  and,  putting  her  head 
in  her  hands,  sobbed  audibly. 

But  Teacher  was  cross  to-day  and  sobs  annoyed  her  rather 
than  brought  forth  pity.  "You  may  stay  in  at  recess,  Ger- 
aldine, and  make  up  the  time."  But  Geraldine  took  the  penalty 
calmly.  For  what  did  she  want  of  recess  and  what  did  any- 
thing matter  now,  since  her  lover   had  deserted   her.      Billy 

3  91 


98  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

would  probably  run  away  and  perhaps  die.  Life  was  too  hard. 
And  that  same  day  Geraldine  misspelled  two  words  and  lost  "  a 
star'^  for  the  first  time  for  a  whole  month. 

Billy  stared  after  Geraldine's  retreating  ruffles.  What  had 
he  done  to  make  her  '^  mad  "  ?  There  was  no  question  that  she 
was  very  "  mad."  If  Billy  had  been  older  he  might  have  said, 
'^That's  just  like  a  girl/'  but  Billy  was  young  and  besides 
Geraldine  was  his  first  girl  and  she  hadn't  been  his  girl  for 
more  than  a  week,  so  he  didn't  say  anything  at  all  but  just 
stared.  He  had  liked  Geraldine  first,  because  she  lived  next 
door  to  him  and  her  mother  believed  in  eating  ginger-cookies 
between  meals  and  secondly,  Geraldine  was  pretty  and  not  a 
bit  horrid — and — she  liked  him. 

But  now  Billy's  heart  was  hardened  against  all  women  and 
like  all  men  creatures  he  felt  justified.  Tommy  Hopkins  had 
teased  Geraldine  when  in  a  sudden  burst  of  uncontrollable 
affection  she  had  confided  to  Tommy  that  the  nicest  boy  in  all 
the  school  was  Billy  and  Tommy's  tactless  taunts  had  made 
Geraldine  cry.  A  woman  in  tears  was  too  much  for  Billy'& 
manly  soul  and  he  had  straightway  challenged  Tommy  and 
fallen  upon  him  most  unmercifully.  Teacher,  a  self-appointed 
second,  had  come  to  poor  Tommy's  rescue  and  had  sent  the 
angry  lover  home  with  a  note  of  explanation  and  complaint* 
*'An'  all  for  an  ole  girl,"  he  mused  and  stamped  his  short  foot. 
He  longed  in  his  inmost  heart  to  go  and  tell  his  mother  all 
about  it.  She'd  understand — but  the  others.  Perhaps  his  big 
brother  Roger  would  be  there  and  he'd  laugh  and — no,  Billy 
turned  resolutely  in  the  direction  opposite  from  home  and 
trudged  up  a  hill  past  the  tiny  railway  station  towards  the 
mountain  road.  Maybe  he  would  come  back  sometime  when  he 
was  a  man  but  not  for  years  and  years  ! 

At  noon  Billy  was  conscious  of  a  strange  gnawing  inside  and 
decided  he  must  have  walked  many  miles.  It  was  then  that 
the  seriousness  of  his  undertaking  swept  fully  upon  his  mind, — 
miles  from  home  and  nothing  to  eat.  If  Billy  had  not  been  a 
very  brave  boy  he  might  have  cried  at  this  sudden  and  awful 
realization.  But  Billy  was  braver  than  most  boys  so  he  only 
sniffled.  Suddenly  he  caught  sight  of  an  apple  tree  near  by 
loaded  with  fall  fruit.  Nothing  daunted,  he  set  out  to  procure 
his  dinner  from  this  tree  of  salvation. 

"Vm  all  losted  an'  I  can't  find  nobodies,"  sobbed  a  childish 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  99 

voice  and,  turning  a  bend  in  his  path,  Billj''  came  face  to  face 
with — a  woman,  a  woman  in  tears. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  stock-still  regarding  her.  He  had 
fled  from  the  world  of  sorrow  and  in  that  world  he  had  left 
woman  and  all  her  faults  ;  but  here,  straight  in  his  path  to 
freedom,  was  another  woman  in  distress.  Billy's  childish  mind 
did  not  think  all  this  but  the  man  in  him  thought  it  and  if 
Billy  had  not  been  a  brave  boy  he  would  have  fled  even  as 
^neas  fled  from  his  weeping  Dido. 

But  Billy  lived  in  the  age  of  courage  and  kindness.  He  made 
a  move  one  step  nearer  to  the  weeping  woman.  "  Where's  your 
house  V  he  demanded  solemnly. 

"I — I's  losted  my  house  an'  my  muggy  an'  my  foggy  an'  I's 
all  hungly.  We  had  a  plicnic  an'  I  losted  ums  too."  The 
woman  sniffled  pathetically. 

Billy  looked  at  her,  half  puzzled  and  half  in  pity.  *'  Want  a 
apple?"  he  asked  abruptly.  "  There's  a  tree  over  there.  I'm 
goin'  to  get  one." 

The  woman  nodded.     *'  Plicnic's  all  gone  now,"  she  sighed. 

So  the  two  wanderers  trudged  slowly  up  the  road.  The 
woman  clung  tightly  to  Billy's  hand  and  Billy  pulled  her  along, 
not  ungently  but  with  the  air  of  a  man  of  unfair  responsibility. 

The  tree  was  in  a  small  field  shut  in  by  a  stone  wall.  Behind 
the  wall  there  was  a  noise,  as  of  grunting  and  squealing.  With 
some  difficult}^  Billy  climbed  to  the  top  and  the  woman  followed. 

**  It's  pigs,"  announced  Billy.     ''Are  you  scared  ?" 

She  shook  her  head.     "  Pigs  don't  bite,"  she  said  reassuringly. 

*'  I  guess  maybe  they're  wild  pigs,"  said  Billy  reflecting, 
^'  'cause  there  ain't  any  houses  here." 

'*Do  ums  bite?"  asked  the  woman,  startled  by  this  sudden 
information. 

Billy  soook  his  head.  '^  Course  not,"  but  as  one  pig  snorted 
close  under  his  heels,  his  voice  quavered  ;  still  he  was  hungry 
and  so  was  the  woman.  ''I  tell  you,"  he  cried,  "I'll  shoo  off 
the  pigs  an'  you  run  quick  and  pick  up  those  apples,"  and  Billy 
jumped  down  off  the  wall.  "Shoo  there,  you  ole  pigs,"  he 
shouted,  brandishing  a  stick,  "or  I'll  kill  you  all !"  And  the 
woman,  who  had  hesitated  just  a  little,  watched  admiringly,  as 
the  pigs  ran  in  many  directions,  grunting  and  squealing. 

"Hurry  up  an'  get  the  apples,"  cried  Billy  impatiently. 
"They'll  all  be  comin'  back  in  a  minute." 


100  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

The  woman  scrambled  down  fearfully  and  ran  to  the  tree. 
Cautiously  she  picked  up  two  round  apples  in  her  chubby  hands 
and  ran  headlong  back  to  the  wall.  Looking  back  from  her 
vantage  of  safety  at  Billy,  she  gave  a  shrill  little  scream.  *'  Oh 
come  quick.     He's  goin'  to  bite  you.'^ 

Billy  turning  saw  an  old  sow  angrily  coming  toward  him. 
Here  was  ample  opportunity  to  prove  himself  a  hero.  "  Ged 
out  you  ole' pig  or  I'll — ''but  the  pig  was  not  to  be  thwarted 
thus  easily.  She  retreated  a  few  steps  and  then  came  on  raging. 
Even  a  very  brave  boy  might  have  been  frightened  and  Billy 
wisely  fled.  "I  guess  they  are  wild  pigs,"  he  gasped  as  he 
scrambled  over  the  wall  to  safety. 

"'  Um"  said  the  woman.  "  They^s  fierce  as  elephants  an'  I  do^ 
want  to  go  in  there  any  more  never,"  and  she  shook  her  brown 
curls  emphatically. 

The  perilous  struggle  for  food  having  been  accomplished,  they 
sat  down  and  munched.  "We  were  goin'  to  have  dumplings 
for  dinner  to-daj^,"  said  Billy,  sadl}^  reminiscent. 

A  puzzled  expression  carrie  over  the  woman's  face.  ''Are  you 
all  losted  too  ?  "  she  asked  anxiously. 

"Nope,  I'm  runnin'  away  an'  goin'  to  work,"  answered  Billy 
proudly,  "  'cause — 'cause  I  want  to,"  he  concluded  ruefully. 

The  woman  understood.  She  looked  solemnly  at  Billy.  "Was 
they  awf'ly  cru'l  to  you  ?  "  she  asked  sympathetically. 

Billy  nodded.     "  Eaup,"  he  said  indifferently,  "  awf'ly." 

But  the  woman  was  curious.     "  Did  they  spank  you  ?" 

"Course  not,"  answered  Billy  scornfully.  "  Only  babies  get 
spanked." 

The  woman  sighed.  "  I  do  lots,"  she  said  sadly,  "'  an'  I  ain't 
a  baby." 

"Well,  you're  a  girl  and  that's  jus'  as  bad,"  he  said  trium- 
phantly. 

"  Boys  is  badder,  so  ! "  and  the  woman's  eyes  became  danger- 
ously wet. 

Billy  stood  up  and  started  down  the  road.  "Why,  where 
you  goin'?"  she  cried,  suddenly  fearful  lest  he  might  desert 
her.     "  I  don't  fink  you's  as  bad  as  all  boys." 

Billy  stopped.  "I'm  goin'  to  find  your  house  an',"  Billy's 
face  was  screwed  up  to  the  same  fierce  expression  which  had 
made  Geraldine  shudder,  "if  you  cry  I  sha'n't,''  he  concluded. 

"  Um  I  won't :  but  I  don'  know  where  my  house  is,"  and  the 
woman's  lip  trembled  dangerously. 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  101 

'■  Well,  come  on,"  said  Billy  hurriedly,  wondering  inwardly 
if  all  women  with  blue  eyes  and  brown  curls  cried  easily. 

All  that  afternoon  Billy  and  the  woman  trudged  over  the 
dusty  roads  and  then  through  the  cool  woods.  Rabbits  and 
squirrels  ran  across  their  path  and  often  startled  them  but  Billy 
was  a  brave  protector  and  the  woman  feared  nothing,  unless  by 
chance  a  wild  pig  might  attack  them.  At  last  they  came  to  a 
brook  and  joyously  pulled  off  their  shoes  and  stockings.  It 
was  so  cool  and  such  fun  that  the  woman  almost  forgot  her 
sorrows  and  even  Billy,  overwhelmed  with  responsibility,  con- 
descended to  build  a  dam. 

A  crashing  among  the  bushes  and  the  sound  of  voices  broke 
the  stillness.     "  Gerry — whoo— hoo— Geraldine  I  " 

The  woman  extracted  a  small  foot  from  the  brown  mud. 
"  It's  Foggy/'  she  cried.     "  I's  here,  in  the  brook." 

Billy  only  stared  ;  and  her  name  was  Geraldine,  too  ! 

A  tall  man  rushed  through  the  underbrush  and  caught  the 
bare-footed  wanderer  up  in  his  arms. 

"  I— I  got  all  losted,  Foggy,  an'  this  boy,"  she  pointed  a 
muddy  finger  at  Billy,  "he  was  tryin'  to  find  my  house.  He's 
runnin'  away  an'  he  didn't  get  a  spankin'  'tall." 

The  tall  man  looked  at  the  two  children  and  then,  much  to 
Billy's  disgust,  began  to  laugh.  "Well,  my  boy,"  he  said  at 
last,  "if  you'll  tell  me  where  you  live,  Gerry  and  I  will  take 
you  home.     You've  taken  fine  care  of  Gerry  I" 

Billy  looked  reproachfully  at  the  woman  and  then  gazed  into 
the  woods  now  cool  and  shadowy  in  the  twilight.  And  Billy 
was  hungry. 

"Oh,  Billy,  mother's  been  so  worried  I  Where  have  you 
been  ?"  cried  Mrs.  Reynolds  as  a  dirty  boy  in  a  much  bedrag- 
gled sailor-suit  came  slowly  up  the  steps. 

Billy  shut  his  teeth  very  tight.  "Jus'  walkin',"  he  began 
bravely  bat  Billy  was  only  eight  and,  when  Mother  drew  him 
close,  dirt  and  all,  the  tears  spattered  down  and  Billy  sobbed 
out  the  whole  story. 

Just  then  pussj^  came  purring  around  and  jumped  into  Billy's 
arms. 

"  Dear  ole  pussy,"  whispered  Billy,  '"'you  haven't  forgotten 
your  own  Bill,  have  you  ?" 


THE  GREAT  MINIATURE  PAINTER  AND  MISS  NANNY 

FRANCES  MILLIKEN   HOOPER 

*'I  say,  hang  it  all,  Miss  Nanny — the  devil  take  it," 

"  Let  me  see.  JN'o,  it  isn't  very  good — is  it  ?  But  perhaps  it 
is  impossible  to  get.     Auburn  hair  is  difficult  to " 

"Titian  did  not  find  it  so." 

"  No,''  laughed  Miss  Nanny  gently,  ''  but  Allyn  Williard 
does." 

"Allyn  Williard  does,"  the  artist  smiled,  "  Hum.  Well,  we'll 
see," 

''  Oh  don't.     Don't  wash  it  out  again." 

"How  else?" 

"Paint  it  black." 

"Black  indeed." 

"  Yes,  I  much  prefer  black  hair  anyway.^' 

''  Miss  Nanny " 

"I  do,  Mr.  Williard." 

"Well,  JdoTi'^^." 

"  How  final.  Well,"  there  was  a  long  pause  and  then  Miss 
Nanny's  face  lit  up  with  a  sudden  inspiration,  "  paint  it  any 
other  color  but  auburn." 

"Any  other  color  but  the  color  of  your  own  tresses  !" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Williard!  That  is  it  exactly.  Oh,  how  readily 
you  fall  into  my  plans." 

"  I — fall  into  your Miss  Nanny,  I  hope  you  do  not  for  one 

moment  think  I  would  consider  any  such  nonsense.  I — paint 
your  hair  black — black — when  it  is  auburn,  that  beautiful  rare 
shade  of  auburn.  I,  Allyn  Williard,  President  of  the  Royal 
Miniature  Society  of  England,  France,  and  Germany." 

"  How  interesting." 

"You  did  not  know  that  before  ?"  Mr.  Willard  put  down 
his  palette  and  looked  up  at  Miss  Nanny  in  absolute  amazement. 

"Does  father  know  it?  He  told  me  you  had  won  many 
medals  and,"  leaning  forward,  in  a  confidential  whisper,  "he 
said  you  were  very  expensive.  But  a  President  of  a  Royal 
Society  of  three  countries  !   Now  why  didn't  you  tell  me  before  ?  " 

Mr.  Williard  was  aghast.     "I  who  have  been  patronized  and 

102 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      103 

favored  in  the  highest  circles  the  world  over  ;  honored  by 
•Queen  Alexandra,  King  Edward,  the  Kaiser,"  he  recited  to 
himself,  "  decorated  by  the  Academy,  supposedly  know  every- 
where, Allyn  Williard,  the  great  miniature  painter — and  you 
say  you  did  not  know  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Miss  Nanny  very  frankly,  so  frankly  in  fact  that 
the  man  before  her  opened  up  his  mouth  to  speak  and  could  not 
say  a  word.  '^  I  knew  you  had  an  exceptionally  good  opinion 
■of  yourself — bat  you  really  have  some  grounds  for  it.  Think 
of  it,"  she  rambled  on,  "  this  is  my  third  sitting  and,"  a  bit  sar- 
<;astically,  ''all  this  time  when  you  have  been  painting  me  you 
have  not  mentioned  these  great  facts  before." 

Mr.  Williard  caught  the  tone  in  Miss  Nanny's  voice  ;  it  made 
him  feel  very  awkward,  in  fact,  it  nettled  him.  Miss  Nanny 
-caught  the  look  that  came  over  Mr.  Williard's  face.  '*0h  you 
funny,  funny  man,"  she  laughed,  ''  I  love  you  !  You  have  no 
mortal  conception  of  the  humor  you  set  me." 

'*Miss  Nanny.'' 

"I  know  it  Mr.  Williard  but  you  are,  you  are  funny." 

**Miss  Nanny." 

**  And  you  don't  know  it." 

*' Miss  Nanny  !" 

*•  I  can't  help  it.  Royal  President  of  the  whole  world,  in- 
cluding the  Black  Hole  of  Calcutta  and  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope 
and  Horn  !  I  can't  stop  laughing  while  you  are  so  serious. 
I-I-." 

"  Miss  Nanny."  The  man  was  about  to  say  something  a  little 
biting,  but  he  did  not  say  it.  His  eyes  met  the  full  radiant  gaze 
of  Miss  Nanny  ;  she  held  him  for  a  moment  in  odd  fascination. 
She  smiled  up  at  him  very  sweetly.  He  smiled  back  at  her,  he 
smiled  in  spite  of  himself.  And  then,  he  picked  up  his  tube  box 
and,  balancing  his  palette  on  his  thumb,  he  fell  suddenly  to  a 
mad  mixing  of  colors. 

A  long  silence  followed.  Mr.  Williard  did  not  paint,  he  did 
not  know  exactly  what  he  was  doing,  he  kept  on  mixing  colors, 
he  kept  on  mixing  colors.  Miss  Nanny  leaned  back  in  her  chair 
a,nd  watched  him,  humming  a  soft,  indefinite  tune. 

"  I  hope  it  turns  out  black,"  she  said  at  length. 

"  What  turns  out  black  ?  " 

*'That  mixture." 

■*'  Oh-oh-a-oh — yes,  yes,"  he  answered. 


104  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

'^And  if  it  does,  you  have  to  use  it  for  my  hair,  a  penalty  I 
hereby  enforce  upon  you  for " 

"For  ?" 

*'  Allowing  me  to  have  embarassed  you/^ 

**  Rather,  Miss  ISTanny,  to  have  put  me  in  confusion." 

*'  I  like  the  latter  term  myself." 

"  But,  Miss  Nanny,  should  it  not  turn  out  black  ?" 

'*  What  then?" 

"  Do  I  pay  my  penalty  anyvi^ise  ?  " 

*'  You  do,  sir,  what  ever  color  it  turns  out  that  color  will  yon 
paint  me  tresses." 

The  artist  streaked  his  brush  mechanically  from  the  mixture- 
on  the  pallete  to  a  piece  of  practice  vellum,  looking  the  while  not 
at  the  vellum  but  at  Miss  Nanny.  '^  You  are  a  bit  harsh  if  you 
will  pardon  me,  Miss  Nanny.  You  remember  it  is  imy  name, 
that  is  hazarded." 

''I  do  not  forget  you  are  the  great  miniature  painter,  that 
your  name  will  be— a — hazarded — but  no  more  so  than  my  looks. 
The  penalty  is  decreed." 

**  Here,  Miss  Nanny,  is  a  sample  of  the  color,''  taking  up  the 
practice  vellum  in  his  hand.  "You  may  care  to  change  your 
-.     What !     My  word  !     My  eye  !  " 

'•What  isit,  what  is  it  ?" 

'*  It  is,  Miss  Nanny,  why,  it  is—" 

"Not  green!" 

"Green,  no  !  It  is  the  color  that  I  wanted.  It  is  the  shade 
I  have  been  striving  for.  It  is  the  auburn  of  your  tresses. 
It  is  the  color  that  I  paint  your  hair." 

^'  I  can't  believe  it,''  said  Miss  Nanny,  feigning  to  be  greatly 
disappointed,  and  then  added  with  a  bow     "  Mr.-a-Titian." 

The  artist  shook  his  head .  He  might  be  trying  to  keep  back 
a  laugh  or  he  might  be  trying  to  keep  back  a  sob  ;  his  expression. 
bespoke  either. 

"You  don't  know  exactly  how  to  take  me  ?"  Miss  Nanny 
smiled. 

"No,  I  don't."     Mr.  Williard  answered. 

"Well,  you  will." 

"Never." 

"  You  see  this  is  only  our  third  sitting."  Miss  Nanny  smiled 
again.  She  look  up  into  the  artist's  face  and  never  smiled  more 
sweetly. 

"  Don't,  Miss  Nanny,  don't." 


(( 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  105 

Don^t  what,  Mr.  Williard  ?'' 

Don't  look  at  me  like  that.  Don't  smile — your— it — I — we — 
oh — you — the  smile — I — oh,  I  sa}^  hang  it  all,  Miss  Nanny,  I 
did  not  come  here  to  America  to  marry  ;  I  came  to  paint. 

''  TO  HIM  WHO  KNOCKS  ** 

MARTHA   EMMA   WATTS 

In  the  softness  of  the  sand, 

Wearied  man  can  lie, 
And  watch  the  evening  light  her  lamps 

To  fill  the  sun-fled  sky, 
Seeing  the  dark  clouds  curtain  the  light, 
Feeling  a  rhythm  in  stillness  of  night, 

The  stirring  presence  of  God. 

In  the  midst  of  the  City's  gloom, 
In  dullness  and  sickness  and  pain. 
Where  vice  keeps  pace  with  wild  desire 
In  the  maddening  rush  for  gain, 
There  man  can  feel  in  the  heart  of  that  war, 
In  the  clasp  of  a  comrade,  that  not  very  far 
Is  the  healing  presence  of  God. 

THE  MOUNTAIN  TANAGER 

MIRA   BIGELOW   WILSON 

I  bend  my  face  to  the  mountain's  rocky  earth  ; 

I  spread  my  fingers  o'er  its  rugged  edge. 

And  feel  assured  there  is  no  dearth 

Of  sun's  heat  stored  within  the  stone. 

The  red  ants  pass  across  my  fingers 

As  they  lie.     Grass  seeds,  wind  sown, 

In  the  crevices  have  dared  to  spring  and  cluster. 

I  catch,  sunborn.  the  little  luster 

From  some  bit  of  shattered  stone. 

The  breath  of  the  soil  is  as  warm  as  my  own. 

Slowly  I  raise  my  face  till  I 

Can  feel  the  cool  drift  of  the  farther  winds. 

The  hills  about  now  seem  to  be 

The  gray  and  shadowed  phantoms  of  a  dream  ; 

And  rivers  flow  in  solemn  silence  by. 

Till,  in  a  distant  mystery. 

Horizon  lines  and  rivers  disappear. 

As  if  to  charm  away  unfathomed  fear, 

I  realize  that  a  scarlet  bird  flies  by 

Betwixt  my  mountain  and  the  sky. 


ABOUT    COLLEGE 


COLLEGE  ^'EATS^  AND  **BATS^' 

KATHLEEN  ISABEL  BYAM 

^'  Eats  !  '^  The  word  is  fraught  with  meaning  ;  it  may  connote 
edibles  ranging  from  the  pallid  tea  and  lady-fingers  to  be  had  at 
''teas"  to  the  grandeur  of  a  Rose  Tree  supper,  or  anything 
from  the  smoky  charms  of  a  bacon-bat  to  the  formality  of 
strawberry  sherbet  served  to  the  strains  of  an  orchestra  in  an 
atmosphere  of  trains  and  frock  coats — a  faculty  reception. 

All  these  various  occasions  of  "eats^'  have  their  peculiar 
charms.  When  we  see  a  friend  arrayed  in  suit  and  hat  our 
curiosity  is  aroused  ;  when  she  appears  in  white  kid  gloves  we 
have  proof  positive  that  she  is  to  decorate  a  "  tea."  In  spite  of 
her  slightly  superior  air  we  know  how  she  feels.  We  have  been 
there  ourselves. 

We  don't  like  to  change  from  a  mackinaw  to  a  suit  and  white 
kid  gloves.  The  feelings  of  the  real  and  original  bull  in  a 
china-shop  could  have  been  nothing  to  those  we  experience  as 
we  approach  the  audible  atmosphere  of  the  ''tea."  We  smile  ; 
we  shake  hands  ;  we  fearfully  guard  our  pristine  fingers  as  we 
balance  a  tea-cup  and  a  wafer.  But  as  we  drift  into  the  little 
currents  of  conversation  and  mayhap  find  kindred  spirits,  we 
are  suddenly  glad  we  came.  We  feel  a  dignity  not  to  be  expe- 
rienced in  a  mackinaw  ;  perhaps  we  are  even  acquiring  "  social 
ease."  We  come  away  with  a  feeling  of  well-being  ;  we  stand 
before  our  fellows,  suited,  hatted,  white-gloved  with  assurance. 
We  did  our  duty — and  enjoyed  it. 

What  the  development  of  these  various  diversions  has  been, 
and  how  explained,  I  do  not  know.  In  vain  have  I  racked  my 
brain,  seeking  the  connection  between  a  tea  and  a  breakfast- 
party,  a  tea  and  a  bacon-bat.     There  isn't  any  ;  they  just  are. 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY  107 

Breakfast-])arties  are  interesting  and  wholly  satisfying.  Ki- 
Uionos  and  cinnamon  rolls  are  the  ear-marks  here.  The  luxury 
of  a  Sunday  morning  sleep  cannot  be  indulged  in  without  the 
loss  of  breakfast.  There  is  nothing  to  do  but  turn  to  the 
chafing-dish  and  the  bakers  for  consolation;  and  many  kindred 
spirits  combine,  in  the  intimacy  of  boudoir  caps  and  bed-room 
slippers,  to  prepare  a  breakfast  of  their  own  selection.  Cinna- 
mon rolls  are  favored  because  they  require  no  butter.  Preten- 
tious parties  afford  grape  fruit  in  season  (and  where  one  pecu- 
liarly blessed  individual  boasts  a  percolater  all  her  friends 
imbibe,  and  also  dispense,  "perked"  coffee). 

But  it  isn't  what  we  eat  at  breakfast  parties  that  makes  theiii 
dear ;  it  is  the  cosy  luxury  of  rising  late  and  eating  breakfast 
€urled  up  in  a  kimono.  Of  course  there  are  those  Spartan  souls 
who  scorn  such  indolence  and  appear  properly  and  glaringly 
dressed  and  combed  ;  but  even  they  fall  before  the  other  charms 
of  the  breakfast  party.  It  is  a  chatty  time  —  there  are  no 
approaching  classes  to  cast  a  shadow  before.  We  can  lounge 
carelessly  and  discuss  at  length  upon  any  subject  from  ''Nurs- 
ing and  its  causes"  to  the  latest  engagement.  (If  that  seems  a 
logical  development,  attribute  it  to  accident,  never  to  the  train- 
ing of  our  minds.) 

Supper  parties  differ  from  breakfast  parties  in  their  attempt 
to  do  honor  to  a  guest — that  is  their  usual  raison  d'etre.  Among 
familiar  spirits  the  piece  de  resistance  for  such  occasions  differs. 
Some  time  ago  we  writhed  in  a  reign  of  terror — the  reign  of 
cheese-dreams.  Cheese-dreams  are  good — they  have  a  soft  and 
melting  charm,  not  to  be  forgotten  but  withal  a  leaden  quality 
long  to  be  remembered.  We  passed  from  the  period  of  cheese- 
dreams  to  a  dignified  epoch  of  creamed  chicken,  really  chicken- 
wiggle. 

That  was  a  step  on  high  ;  it  led  to  French  peas  and  frozen 
puddings  as  accessories  worthy  of  the  fowl.  But  I  think  that 
now  even  chicken-wiggle  and  its  attendant  canned  luxuries 
have  passed  out.  The  last  supper  was  marred  by  an  unmistak- 
able sweetness  in  the  chicken. 

Had  we  used  pulverized  sugar  for  thickening  ?  No,  decid- 
edly no  !  The  cooks  were  indignant.  The  fact  remained,  the 
chicken  was  unnaturally  sweet.  In  our  innocence,  we  had  used 
sweetened  condensed  milk  to  ''cream"  it.  However,  olives 
helped  a  lot,  if  eaten  in  abundance.  Such  little  mishaps  are  all 
part  of  the  shifting  fortunes  of  chafing-dish  meals. 


108  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

When  the  last  bite  has  disappeared,  everyone  does  her  share- 
of  the  cleaning  up.  Where  ?  Why,  in  the  bath-room.  Some 
splash  and, scour  and  rub  ;  some  flirt  the  community  tea-towels. 
Others  rush  back  and  forth,  laying  away  the  cosmopolitan 
china  in  the  scullery.  The  scullery,  you  ask  ?  Oh,  that  is  the 
joint  possession  of  the  house.  The  seniors  leave  their  discarded 
dishes  in  this  long,  cofiSn-like  box  that  ornaments  the  hall  and 
everyone  that  comes  after  them  uses  it  freely.  No  two  dishes 
match  ;  most  of  the  pitchers  are  decidedly  snub-nosed  and  the 
silver  might  be  questioned.  But  we  are  duly  grateful  to  the 
classes  who  passed  on.  They  are  remembered  ;  china,  though 
fragile,  is  more  lasting  than  '' footprints  on  the  sands  of  time.^'' 

Before  we  leave  the  house  for  the  freer  pleasures  of  "bats" 
out-of-doors,  we  must  consider  the  faculty  receptions.  Every 
house  gives  one.  The  faculty  and  some  students  come.  After 
an  afternoon  of  upheaval,  the  house  gradually  assumes  a  festive 
air,  accomplished  by  the  aid  of  ferns  and  branches  brought 
from  abroad.  The  girls .  arrive  ;  they  are  conducted  to  the 
receiving  line  and  introduced.  Very  often  this  line  is  of 
such  a  length  as  to  change  the  name  of  Simpson  to  Smith  when 
it  has  sounded  down  its  length.  Then  the  received  one  is  borne 
away  to  colorful  ice-cream  or  sherbet  and  syncopated  conversa- 
tion. Queer  things  happen  at  faculty  receptions.  There  is 
always  one  freshman  who  asks  the  unmarried  Professor  if  "Mrs. 
Professor  is  here."  And  then,  sometimes,  it  is  hard  to  tell 
who  is  most  uncomfortable. 

But  even  the  imagined  atmosphere  of  receptions  makes  me 
long  for  the  real  happiness  of  "bats."  There  is  a  variety  of 
"  bats,"  big,  jolly  ones,  little,  cozy  ones  of  just  a  few  congenial 
souls. 

Viewed  critically,  a  "bacon-bat"  is  a  messy  affair  of  (in  nine 
cases  out  of  ten)  a  smoky  fire,  charred  and  dingy  bacon  on  rolls, 
and  much  general  discomfort ;  because  among  "bacon-batters" 
of  the  highest  average,  bacon  will  drop  into  the  fire,  grease 
will  dribble  surreptitiously  and  mustard  will  acknowledge  no 
bounds. 

But,  you  see,  you  cannot  "bat"  if  you  are  in  a  critical  mood; 
it  is  impossible,  indeed.  If  you  are  naturally  gifted  with  a 
"batting-sense,"  you  feel  a  thrill  at  the  mere  mention  of  a 
"bacon-bat."  You  are  uplifhed  at  the  rattle  of  the  faithful  old 
tin  cups  as  they  are  unearthed  from  the  depths  of  the  scullery. 


J 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  109 

And  when  yoa  have  gone  to  the  extent  of  bringing  the  bacon 
and  rolls,  the  mastard  and  perhaps  extra  luxuries,  you  are 
joyous  when  at  last  the  kindling  crackles  and  sends  little 
stealthy  tongues  to  test  the  logs,  you  live  only  in  the  delicious 
moment  with  hopes  only  for  the  immediate  future.  What  a 
joy  it  is  to  sit  around  that  fire — to  hold  the  sizzling  slivers  of 
meat  over  the  flames  and  gradually  to  find  yourself  becoming 
expert  in  spearing  it  on  your  twig,  in  raanoeuvering  it  without 
allowing  it  more  than  once  to  drop  among  the  coals. 

Our  favorite  "bacon-batting"  is  in  a  quiet  piece  of  wood 
with  meadows  all  around,  where  a  shallow  stream  runs.  It  is 
the  most  humorous  rivulet  I  have  ever  seen.  It  slips  along, 
bent  on  its  winding,  rock-strewn  cruise,  and  treasures  a  little 
joke  that  makes  it  laugh  every  ripple  of  the  way  ;  it  smiles  and 
chuckles  in  a  most  engaging  manner.  I  wonder  if  it's  laughing 
at  or  with  us. 

Bacon-bats  are  always  at  six,  I  may  have  neglected  to  say. 
So,  late  in  the  year,  our  party  takes  on  a  romantically  campy 
aspect.  The  dark,  moonless  evening  is  given  enchanting  mys- 
tery by  the  great  shadows  that  fall  and  creep  upon  us,  jealous 
of  our  cheery  blaze.  And  on  such  nights,  when  the  fire  is 
ruddy,  when  there  is  a  snap  in  the  air  and  the  stars  look  like 
sparks  on  high,  singing  seems  good  to  us.  (What  chance 
listeners  may  think,  we've  never  heard,)  Then  the  songs  of 
spirit  and  fun  fill  the  cool  air,  and  we  thrill  to  the  romance  of  a 
dark  night,  a  blazing  fire  and  song. 

What  matter  if  we  must  return  to  the  calf-bound  sages — or 
worse,  to  the  exercise  of  our  own  constructive  geniuses  ?  We've 
laughed  and  sung  and  heroically  devoured  grimy  bacon.  We 
cannot  forget  that,  iio  matter  how  deadly  our  pursuit ;  for  days 
we  carry  with  us,  via  our  trusty  mackinaws,  the  haunting,  not 
elusive,  aroma  of  cofifee,  burned  bacon  and  smoke. 

On  short,  golden  afternoons  there  is  another  sort  of  *'bat," 
known  and  dear  to  every  girl.  There  is  a  walk  out  Main  street, 
past  Rose  Tree,  with  low  meadows  stretching  off  to  the  right 
and  the  range  beyond.  The  fascination  of  those  meadows,  as 
moodily  changeful  as  an  April  day,  is  only  equalled  by  that  of 
the  worn  old  hills,  now  softly  grey,  now  darkly  clear  against  a 
sky  of  fresh-washed  blue.  Farther  on  we  cross  the  Connecticut, 
blue  like  the  sky  above  it,  but  marking  its  treacherous  eddies 
with  a  myriad  of  little  angry  swirls.     Then  the  road  forks  and 


no  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

we  follow  a  shady  one,  where  great-truuked  elms  reach  out  in 
their  friendly  clasp  of  years,  while  decorous  old-fashioned,, 
white-faced  houses  retire  farther  into  the  shade.  Truly  this  is- 
a  New  England  street  but  even  its  venerable  dignity  seldom  im- 
presses the  '^batt}^,"  middy-bloused  groups  that  hurry  along" 
through  the  shade.  Indeed,  we  nearly  always  hurry  because 
there's  something  very  good  just  beyond  ;  and  there  is  always 
the  danger  of  being  just  too  late  for  it.  Once  we  walked  out 
there— it  was  hot  and  dusty  and  the  only  thing  that  encouraged 
us  to  persist  was  the  thought  of  the  reward.  When  we  got 
there — but  that  is  another  story  as  Mr.  Kipling  (unfortunately 
not  my  friend)  would  say. 

Just  when  a  real  barn  comes  in  sight  and  there  is  a  glimpse 
of  water  under  an  old  bridge,  your  sense  of  taste  becomes  acute. 
What  is  the  desired  thing  ?  Oh,  I  forgot  I  hadn't  told  you.  It 
is  cider — clear,  golden,  cider  fresh  from  the  press.  It  is  cool — 
and  you  get  more  than  you  can  drink.  You  take  a  pitcher  full 
and  a  package  of  gingersnaps,  thin  and  crisp  and  gingery ;  you 
sit  down  overlooking  the  quiet  water  that  slish-sloshes  over  the 
dam  behind  the  mill.  The  smooth  surface  holds  all  the  glory  of 
autumn  color  that  paints  the  trees  and  shrubs  about  the  pond  ;: 
against  the  depth  of  sky  ;  sumac  blazes  with  golden  maple 
leaves.  It  is  good  to  stop  talking— just  for  a  bit— and  drink  in 
with  the  cider,  the  quiet  of  this  autumn  loveliness.  And  when 
we  start  home,  the  sun  is  lowering  across  the  fields  of  stacked 
corn  and  pumpkin  ;  and  perhaps,  if  we  loiter  in  the  dusk,  we- 
see  the  great  disk  of  the  harvest  moon  come  up  burning  its 
feverish  way  above  the  trees  into  the  cool  sky. 

Out  the  same  road  to  the  cider  mill,  and  just  a  bit  farther  on, 
is  another  haunt  famous  and  ever-popular.  How  can  I  describe 
the  melting  sweetness  of  the  waffles  to  be  had  at  Mrs.  Stebbin's  ? 
They  are  made  just  right,  cooked  to  a  golden  crispness  and 
served  fresh  from  the  griddle.  Add  to  their  native  charms 
those  of  pure  syrup  or  creamed  chicken,  according  to  taste  or 
pocket-book,  and  you  have  a  fair  idea  of  a  Stebbin's  supper. 
But,  as  usual,  the  sauce  is  found  in  the  bracing  walk  out  and 
the  ^*  batting-spirit''  that  goes  with  it,  and  after  supper  it  is  part 
of  the  program  to  wait  a  few  minutes  to  play  a  little  and  dance. 
From  here,  as  from  the  '*  bacon-bat "  we  carry  an  unmistakable 
odor,  the  essence  of  Mrs.  Stebbin's  waffled-aired  rooms. 

"  Bats,"  with  their  attendant  eats,  are  numberless,  correctly 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      111 

speaking.  Almost  anything  to  do  out-of-doors  is  a  "bat/'  and  a 
"  bat''  is  not  complete  without  "eats.''  I've  told  you  about  the 
bigger,  more  exciting  sort.  Perhaps  I  should  not  have  because 
anything  after  a  Stebbins  supper,  the  cider-mill  and  a  "bacon- 
bat  "  would  be  anti-climax.  But  I  haven't  been  in  college  long 
enough  to  be  broken  to  that  literary  harness  called  an  outline. 
I  envy  those  who  are  ;  such  a  procedure  seems  so  eminently 
proper.  There  is  no  possibility  of  their  being  illogical  and,  of 
course,  they  alone  are  on  the  road  to  a  "literary  form."  But 
how  could  I  make  an  outline  on  "eats"  and  "bats?"  There 
are  no  sub-topics  ;  they^re  all,  each  and  everyone,  a  thing  sep- 
arate and  apart.     But  as  I've  heard  someone  say,  I  digress. 

I  haven't  told  you  about  Rose  Tree,  Boyden's,  Beckmann's  and 
the  Club  House.  Rose  Tree,  on  the  outside  doesn't  live  up  to 
it's  name  and  there  are  features  on  the  inside  that  seem  oblivious 
to  the  responsibility  of  such  a  name.  The  house  is  a  squat, 
stained  old  building  ;  its  uncertain  attitude  has  always  held  me, 
and  I  wonder  how  it  stands  so  firmly.  You  pass  under  a  quaint 
sign-board,  heralding  "Ye  Rose  Tree  Inne,"  up  a  path  hedged 
by  shrubs  and  watched  by  shaggy  dogs. 

Inside,  Rose  Tree  is  wholly  satisfying.  Little  tables,  flower- 
trimmed,  invite  a  cosy  half-hour  over  fragrant  tea  and  toast  or 
an  ice.  Then  again.  Rose  Tree  puts  on  an  imposing  air  when 
the  candles  are  lit  and  fresh  white  linen  covers  the  tables  and 
evening  dress  blossoms  over  a  true  course  dinner.  Madame  of 
Ye  Rose  Tree  adds  a  flavor  to  these  dinners,  which  the  unitiated 
find  fairly  interesting. 

Madame  herself  will  bear  observation.  No  fitter  antithesis  of 
the  little  Inne  could  be  found  than  this  presiding  genius.  Big, 
broad-shouldered,  and  slow-moving,  she  bears  down  upon  one 
like  an  unevitable  Fate.  Innocent  suitors  suffer  especially  from 
her  laconic  form  of  address.  Before  dinner  she  looms  beside  the 
table  with  the  startling  query,  "  With  or  without  ?" 

Can  you  blame  anyone  for  a  muddled  reply  ?  Also  for  sur- 
prise when  "  with  "  proves  to  be  fruit  cocktail  innocent  of  any- 
thing stronger  than  a  maraschino  cherry. 

Boyden's  is  not  unique  ;  its  "eats"  are  not  interesting  because 
it  is  simply  an  eating-place  where  we  entrap  visiting  friends  or 
possibly  resident  ones.  It  is  pleasant  mainly  for  the  freedom 
from  a  campus  repast  and  the  "gisty  bits"  a  supper  there  af- 
fords.    For  instance,    by  observing,  you  may  take  stock  of  all 


112  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

important  masculinity  and,  what  is  more  interesting,  of  whom 
they  are  "suiting."  And  the  study  of  "crushes"  and  their 
"crushed"  is  engrossing,  as  here  exemplified.  There  are  so 
many  different  phases  of  it.  And  Boyden's,  affording  a  degree 
of  extravagant  living,  is  important  as  a  touch-stone  for  devotion. 

Beckmann's  is  the  Castle  Perilous  of  Northampton.  I  have 
tried  everj^  wile  of  human  art  to  cheat  it  of  at  least  one  victim. 
Its  windows,  full  of  sweets,  lie  just  within  the  pale.  To  ex- 
plain:— Beckmann's  is  the  Mason  and  Dixon  line  between  cam- 
pus precincts  and  downtown.  One  may  run  down  to  Beck- 
mann's bare-headed,  with  perfect  propriety  ;  but  beyond  that,  a 
hatless  head  enfringes  upon  the  first  regulation  dinned  into  a 
Freshman's  ear;  "wear  hats  below  Beckmann's."  And  that 
very  rule,  wholly  proper  in  itself,  is  our  undoing.  It  makes  it 
so  easy  just  to  run  down  to  Beckmann's.  One  can  go  in  any 
degree  of  dress  or  undress  :  in  anything  from  a  gym  suit,  (skirt 
protected,  of  course  !)  and  tousled  hair,  to  the  sophistication  of 
evening  attire.  And  after  a  strenuous  half  hour  of  gym  or  an 
evening  of  study,  Beckmann's  seems  the  only  relief.  I  try  to 
pass  without  a  glance  in  the  direction  of  the  peril  but  it  is  use^ 
less  and,  accordingly,  my  account  mounts.  Ice  cream,  as  I  may 
not  have  said,  is  the  "eat"  peculiar  to  Beckmann's.  When 
you  inquire  what  kinds  are  offered,  the  waitress  stoically  repeats 
a  lingo  calculated  to  rouse  wonder  and  dismay.  And  I  invari- 
ably murmur  "double  chocolate  marshmallow,"  because  that 
is  the  only  combination  of  which  I  am  sure.  I  ask  for  it  with 
the  confidence  bred  by  long  practice. 

The  Club  House  is  a  feature  of  Allen  Field,  where  all  the  col- 
lege plays.  The  wants  of  those,  blown  with  basket-ball  or 
tennis,  are  ministered  to  in  the  Club  House.  It  is  a  tiny  place  ; 
ten  people  give  it  the  appearance  of  being  crowded,  but  it  is 
cosy  and  made  for  friendliness  and  unrestraint.  As  at  Beck- 
mann's, ice  cream  and  cold  drinks  are  favored  ;  but  there  are 
cool  fall  days  and  biting  winter  ones  when  the  Club  House  al- 
lures with  the  fragrance  of  tea  and  toast  or  coffee  and  waffles. 
It  has  the  same  inevitable  attraction  that  Beckmann's  has,  only 
more  so.  How  can  anyone,  after  playing  hard  for  an  hour  or 
more,  pass  by  the  cool  white  building  and  see  her  friends 
within,  sipping  lemonade  or  devouring  ice  cream,  without  a 
yearning  to  join  them  ?  Indeed,  I  have  resolved,  have  schemed 
to  help  my  judgement  overpower  my  desires — but  to  no  avail. 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  113 

My  only  consolation  lies  in  the  fact  that  most  of  my  friends  are 
equally  characterless. 

As  you  see  there  are  ^'  eats  "  and  "  eats  ; "  but  where  there  are 
*'eats/'  the  situation  may  be  and  nearly  always  is,  termed  a 
*^bat."  The  term  is  likely  to  include  anything  from  a  walk 
downtown  to  a  day  spent  tramping  the  range.  But  the  breadth 
of  its  application  doesn^t  lessen  the  suggestiveness  of  the  word, 
and  ^'bat"  still  connotes  fun  and  freedom  from  troublesome 
consciences,  while  "  eats  "  never  fail  to  arouse  interest.  As  long 
as  we  are  we,  both  subjects  will  be  matters  for  serious  con- 
sideration. 


PHILOSOPHY  la 

BARBARA   CHENEY 

All  M  is  P  ;  all  P  is  S 

All  S  is  not  not  P  I  guess 

These  meanings  seem  to  be  quite  plain 

But  still  my  work  is  all  in  vain 

I  must  a  missionary  be 

And  set  to  work  to  convert  P. 

The  subject's  universal  tho 

So  shall  it  be  E,  I,  or  O  ? 

Perhaps  obversion  might  help  out, 

Now  then  I've  changed  it  all  about ; 

No  S  is  not  not — not  not — P. 

But  what  on  earth  can  not — M  be  ? 

If  once  you  have  the  meaning  fixed 

They  say  you  never  can  get  mixed 

Pray,  if  the  meaning  is  so  plain 

Why  change  and  change  the  terms  again  ? 

Since  truth  is  what  we're  looking  for, 

And  everything  was  true  before, 

What  is  the  use  of  shifting  around 

When  no  new  meanings  can  be  found? 

Let  S  be  P  and  P  be  M 

And  just  be  satisfied  with  them. 


HEARD    ON    THE    TAR    WALK 


Grievances 


Some  people  think  their  greatest  sorrow 

Lies  in  the  thought,  "  a  quiz  to-morrow  ;  " 

Or  after  slaving  night  and  day 

They  get  an  E  instead  of  A. 

Still  others  think  the  rising  bell 

Tolls  loud  and  clear  their  funeral  knell 

And  others  hate  the  rigid  rule 

"Lights  out  at  ten  "  like  boarding  school. 

Then  some  there  are  who  Sunday  eve 

For  Amherst  youths  and  Rose  Tree  grieve 

But  Sunday  noon's  what  brings  me  gloom 

As  I  look  'round  the  dining-room,^ 

The  day  when  joy  should  reign  supreme, 

Since  campus  revels  in  ice  cream  ; 

For  though  I  see  six  strange  new  faces, 

There  still  are  lots  of  empty  places. 

I  could  not  have  my  longed  for  guest, 

Now  how  could  I  "  be  at  my  best  ?  " 

Eleanor  Sackett  1915 
Constance  Kiehel  1915 
Blanche  Lindauer  1915 

The  scene   is  laid   in  a   college  roonij, 
A  Slice  o'  Smith    containing  1,  Filia  Smith,  a  freshman, 
Drama  in  one  act      studying   math.      2,  her  faithful  EooM- 
MATE,  a  sophomore.     3,  her  red  laundry 
bag  in  the  center  of  room. 
Roommate — Laundry  goes  to-day. 
Filia — Drop  a  line  perpendicular, — 

Roommate — Laundry  goes  to-day.  Here  is  your  red  laundry 
bag,  which  I  have  brought  from  our  small  but  compact  clothes- 
press.  It  is  fitting  that  you  should  place  garments  within  the 
bag.  The  laundry  will  distribute  them  among  your  fellow- 
students  and  you  will  receive  others  in  return. 
Filia — If  a  parallelepiped, — 

114 


THE  SxMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  115 

Roommate — Laundry  goes  to-day.  Do  you  not  wish  to  be 
cleanly  ?  I  have  read  some  where  either  in  Shakespeare  or  the 
Bible  that  cleanliness  is  next  to  godliness.  I  flunked  freshman 
math  but  I  was  at  least  cleanly.  (Removes  math  book  from 
Filia's  hand.     Filia  seems  to  be  in  a  trance). 

FiLiA — (hoarsely).  Asleep  and  awake  they  haunt  me — 
(clutching  the  handkerchief-tie  of  her  P.  T.  and  pointing  at  her 
laundry  bag.)     Is  that  a  circle  that  I  see  before  me  ? 

Roommate — Arouse  yourself  to  action  I  Behold,  the  laundry 
wagon  approaches.  The  champing  steed  champs  beneath  the 
window.  The  laundryman,  the  Hermes  of  the  tubs,  advances 
up  the  stairs.     Oh,  laundry  shall  not  go  to-day  I 

(Filia  stung  to  action  seizes  garments  and  plunges  them  into 
her  laundry  bag.) 

Roommate — I  hear  his  voice  in  converse.  Hark,  I  fear  you 
are  lost.     He  descends  the  stairs. 

(Filia  casts  her  laundry  bag  from  the  window.  A  commo- 
tion below  follows.) 

Roommate — You  have  no  doubt  hit  someone.  From  the 
academic  nature  of  the  remarks,  I  should  judge  it  were  faculty. 
I  think  you  had  best  spend  a  week  out  of  town.  But  Filia, 
whate'er  befall,  rejoice  I     Laundry,  it  has  gone  to-day! 

(Triumphant  tableau  and  curtain.) 

Margaret  Bloom  L914. 

It  has  always  seemed  a  curious  thing  to  me 
Umbrellas  that  fnnny  people  should  be  so  prone  to  jest 
about  the  umbrella.  I  have  pondered  4ong  and 
and  seriously  whether  it  is  because  of  the  peculiar  shape  of  the 
umbrella,  its  diminutiveness  in  fair  weather  and  bulk  in  stormy 
weather,  or  because  of  the  uses  to  which  it  is  put.  But  in  every 
instance  I  have  failed  to  solve  the  riddle.  As  far  as  I  can  see 
there  is  nothing  funny  in  the  umbrella  itself,  or  in  its  relations. 
On  the  contrary,  as  I  have  become  better  acquainted  with  the 
article  in  question,  I  have  found  many  things  about  it  calcu- 
lated to  produce  a  soberness,  if  not  a  sadness.  And  especially 
has  this  been  the  case  since  I  have  been  in  college. 

If  you  have  ever  observed  the  advent  of  an  incoming  class, 
you  have  probably  noticed  that  each  member  comes  provided 
with  a  new  umbrella.  The  carefulness  of  a  mother  thus  pro- 
vides physically  for  her  daughter.  It  is  by  this  means  that  the 
supply  of  college  umbrellas  is  kept  up. 


116  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

This  may  be  a  matter  of  amusement  to  some  people,  but  I  do 
not  see  it  in  that  light.  Consider  in  the  first  place  the  amount 
of  misplaced  confidence  on  the  part  of  the  parents,  which  is  lost 
in  the  process.  To  be  sure,  one  may  say  that  misplaced  confi- 
dence is  a  drug  on  the  market  and  that  the  quantity  thus 
destroyed  is  of  no  particular  account  anyway  ;  but  when  we 
realize  how  often  the  average  student  has  to  draw  on  the  home 
stock  for  this  commodity,  anything  tending  to  diminish  the 
article  becomes  alarming  in  its  importance. 

However,  after  all,  the  effect  on  the  student  herself  is  the 
main  thing  to  be  noted.  The  freshman  comes  with  her  new 
umbrella ;  whatever  else  she  may  lack,  she  is  the  owner  of  an 
umbrella.  But  she  is  the  victim  of  a  singular  delusion.  She 
believes  that,  like  herself,  every  other  girl  in  college  is  the 
proud  possessor  of  an  umbrella.  With  primeval  simplicity, 
she  believes  this  to  be  the  elysium  of  umbrellas. 

Perhaps  it  rains  the  first  day  of  college.  This  is  more  than  a 
possibility— it  may  be  regarded  in  the  light  of  a  probability. 
With  umbrella  spread,  in  proud  conspicuousness,  she  starts  for 
chapel.  With  unhesitating  confidence  she  leaves  it  at  the  door, 
not  stopping  to  wonder  where  the  precedent  is  for  this  proceed- 
ing. There  it  stands,  an  overwhelming  proof  of  the  original 
innocence  of  man. 

Meanwhile  the  freshman  goes  through  her  devotions  in  proper 
form  ;  no  thought  of  her  umbrella  disturbs  the  sweet  serenity 
of  her  spirit.  Tha  service  over,  having  dutifully  waited  for 
the  choir  to  vanish,  she  departs.  Now  just  consider  the  situa- 
tion. Her  natural  amiability,  increased  by  the  chastening 
atmosphere  of  chapel,  leads  her  to  put  implicit  faith  in  man- 
kind— especially  that  part  of  mankind,  or  rather  womankind, 
now  included  in  Smith.  Her  heart  swells  as  she  thinks  that 
she  too  now  belongs  to  Smith.  Under  the  influence  of  these 
emotions  she  looks  around  for  her  new  umbrella.  Of  course  it 
is  gone.  It  has  gone  to  swell  the  general  stock  of  college 
umbrellas.  But  the  freshman  !  Who  can  estimate  the  amount 
of  harm  it  has  done  her  ?  Her  faith  in  human  nature,  the 
religious  calm  of  her  spirit,  is  obliterated  in  an  instant !  And 
yet  some  people  are  heartless  enough  to  joke  about  such  things. 
There  are  other  phases  of  the  umbrella  question  which  might 
be  examined,  but  it  is  a  saddening  and  sobering  task,  and 
might  well  be  left  until  another  time.     Adele  Codding  1914. 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  117 

Not  So  in  Hamp 

When  j'ou  hear  the  pit-a-pat  on  the  old  wood-shed, 

And  all  the  sky  is  gray  and  dark  overhead, 

And  the  wind  blows  the  autumn  leaves  down  to  the  ground. 

And  you  know  it  won't  be  long  'fore  winter  comes  around, 

Then  you  take  a  book  and  nestle  in  a  great  arm-chair, 

And  forget  about  the  cold  rain  that  patters  out  there, 

And  read  in  a  happy,  dreamy  sort  of  way. 

Why  you  really  could  love  one — single — rainy  day  1 

Marie  D.  GRaFF  1915. 

Is   it  true  that   once   I   could    write  ? 

Explaining  Lack    Had  I  ever  aspired  to  write  ?    I  truth- 

OF  Contributions  fully  had,  once,  but  that  was  long  ago. 
It  was  before  spelling  and  grammar  and 
form  were  the  required  style.  It  was  before  logical  thinking 
had  been  logically  thought  by  me.  It  was  the  joyful  time 
when  I  could  write  my  thoughts  with  a  pen  as  they  happened 
to  occur.  Now,  I  must  write  my  thoughts  with  a  dictionary  and 
a  grammar  as  they  ought  to  occur.  In  ^^hort,  like  Rip  Van 
Winkle,  I  am  out  of  style. 

Do  you  question  my  mood  ?  Then  hear  and  perhaps  you  will 
understand. 

This  morning  I  awoke  with  a  decided  inclination  to  write.  I 
obeyed  the  inclination  and,  since  it  was  so  promising  a  one,  I 
decided  not  to  meet  my  classes.  I  hung  a  busy  sign  on  my  door 
at  nine-thirty  and  "  fell  to"  with  great  energy.  It  is  now  five. 
The  sign  and  I  are  still  busy,  but  behold  the  outcome  of  it  all  ! 
An  empty  theme  tablet  balanced  by  a  full  waste-basket,  a  blank 
mind  and  a  yawning  English  thirteen  drawer  still  unhonored 
by  my  contribution. 

What  is  to  be  done  ?  Sixty  hours  of  ^'  English  thirt"  yet  to 
do  !  If  I  write  as  I  can,  all  the  logical  methods  which  must  be 
used  will  vanish  from  my  mind  ;  if  I  write  as^I  ought,  all  sixty 
hours  must  be  of  the  English  C  type.  An  early  grave  looms 
up  before  me  at  the  thought  ! 

Consider  then  my  predicament.  I  must  either  drop  Logic 
and  hence  becomci  an  n?igraduate,  or  else  drop  Genius,  become 
a  Philosopher  and  hence  part  with  my  sanity.  I  think,  then, 
perhaps  you  will  understand  my  state  of  mind  when  you  see 
that  my  choice  lies  between  being  a  sane,  ungraduated  Genius, 
or  an  insane,  graduated  Philosopher. 

Adelaide  H.  Arms  1915. 


118  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

The  Isle  of  Dreams 

Come  follow  me  back  to  our  island  shore 
Wing  true  as  the  homing  dove, 
And  hand  in  hand  in  a  magic  land 
We  will  hie  to  the  haunts  we  love. 

In  a  little  ebony  craft  we  will  dip 

And  trim  to  the  lazy  wind  ; 

With  a  palm-leaf  sail  in  the  bow  we  will  trail, 

And  a  rainbow  behind. 

Where  a  thousand,  tortuous,  trailing  coils 
Of  the  giant  wood-vine  lie, 
And  tier  above  tier  in  triumph  rear 
Their  jostling  crowns  to  the  sky. 

We  will  stay  to  sip  of  the  founted  drop 
That  flows  in  the  travellers'  palm, 
Peering  up  to  the  nesting  ferns  where  they  rest 
In  the  crotch  of  an  ancient  arm. 

Ruth  Cobb  1914 


EDITORIAL 


The  other  day  we  were  privileged  to  hear  a  group  of  freshmen 
in  a  thoughtful  discussion  of  college  life.  They  had  come  to 
Smith  expecting  to  find  sixteen  hundred  girls  with  one  common 
interest  and  pleasure — the  pursuit  of  knowledge.  After  seven 
weeks  they  were  impressed  with  the  fact  that  study  instead  of 
being  looked  upon  as  the  chief  aim  and  privilege  at  college, 
seemed  to  be  considered  one  of  its  necessary  evils.  The  prepar- 
ation of  lessons  was  a  task  attacked  grudgingly  and  dispatched 
as  rapidly  as  possible  in  order  to  get  to  the  more  engrossing 
college  interests. 

This  is  a  bold  statement  of  facts  but  is  it  not  a  natural  deduc- 
tion from  our  manner  of  living  ?  We  are  in  a  constant  bedlam 
of  enthusiasm  over  clubs,  social  service  activities,  trials  for 
dramatics,  athletics  and  bats.  We  are  running  hither  and 
thither  in  our  zeal  over  some  or  all  of  these  activities.  Study 
would  seem  to  hold  an  unimportant  position  in  our  opinion  and 
in  our  curriculum.  And  yet  that  upper  classman  is  rare  who 
will  not  emphatically  deny  that  we  consider  study  merely  a 
necessary  evil,  a  medicine  which  we  gulp  down  with  a  wry  face. 
But  how  is  one  to  reconcile  the  thoughtful  ideal  for  college  life 
and  our  seeming  failure  to  carry  out  that  ideal  ? 

There  are  two  conditions  under  which  these  accusations  might 
be  true.  For  there  are  a  few  girls  here  with  no  further  aim 
than  to  spend  four  years  agreeably,  and  incidently  to  learn  a 
little.  There  are  also  a  few  others  who  keep  up  their  studies 
because  it  is  necessary  to  ''  pass  the  office"  to  get  into  clubs  and 
societies.  But  the  girls  who  are  working  with  such  ignoble 
purpose  or  lack  of  purpose  are  few,  and  represent  so  distorted 
a.  view  of  the  Smith  College  spirit  that  they  are  almost  negligible. 

The  vast  majority  of  girls  here  enjoy  their  work.  They  are 
deeply  interested   in   their  classes.     They  are  grateful  for  the 

ltd 


120  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

privilege  of  coming  in  touch  with  the  men  and  women  of  our 
Faculty.  And  yet  these  are  the  very  girls  who  are  being  mis- 
judged in  regard  to  their  attitude  towards  study.  They  unwit^ 
tingly  are  giving  the  entering  students  a  false  and  harmful  idea 
of  college  standards.  They  recognize  that  college  technically  is 
and  should  be  *'  a  society  of  friends  of  learning  incorporated  for 
study  in  the  higher  branches  of  learning."  But  the  diversions 
offered  are  many  and  the  interests  are  varied.  For  them  to  keep 
the  emphasis  in  the  proper  place  is  much  more  difficult  than 
merely  to  see  where  it  should  go. 

There  is  danger  that  we  too  freely  imitate  the  Sophists  in  our 
own  day.  We  try  to  be  too  versatile.  We  are  interested  in  sa 
many  and  such  varied  subjects  that  we  forget  our  own  limita- 
tions. We  are  not  content  with  doing  a  few  things  and  doing^ 
them  well.  We  would  do  everything  within  our  reach.  In 
consequence  we  lose  our  equilibrium.  We  forget  that  the  center 
though  not  the  circumference  of  college  life  should  be  academic 
work. 

This  is  not  a  plea  for  the  grind.  But  it  is  a  request  that  wa 
give  our  studies  their  proper  place  of  importance  in  student  life. 
We  should  be  losing  some  of  the  richest  benefits  of  college  if  we 
were  deprived  of  our  activities  in  clubs  and  dramatics  and 
athletics.  But  we  are  losing  the  deepest  import  of  our  four 
years  if  we  are  so  engrossed  in  these  activities  that  we  never 
know  the  satisfying  reward  of  consistent  scholarly  effort. 

This  freshman  criticism  of  college  life  is  one  that  can  not  go 
unchallenged.  But  it  is  also  one  that  should  rekindle  in  us  the 
determination  to  be  faithful  to  the  best  the  college  has  to  offer. 


EDITOR'S    TABLE 


It  is  two  minutes  past  ten  and  the  clang  of  the  bell  has  just 
died  away  in  the  corridor.  A  dark  form  passes  beneath  your 
window.  A  paper  gleams  for  a  minute  in  the  light  of  a  bob- 
bing lantern,  and  the  form  passes  on.  Perhaps  your  door  stands 
open  and  an  ominous  ray  from  the  hall  light  has  crept  in. 
Perhaps  the  window  next  to  yours  is  taking  a  light  cut  to-night ; 
the  two  windows  are  quite  close.  You  sleep  in  peace  but  next 
morning  there  is  a  sad  discrepancy  between  the  reports  of  John 
and  the  proctor.  There  follow  interviews,  questions,  and  bitter 
thoughts  before  the  list  is  finally  adjusted  and  the  probable 
source  of  error  located. 

We  cannot  help  feeling  the  ignominy  of  the  situation.  Night 
after  night  we  are  watched  from  without.  An  account  of  our 
actions  is  tabulated  and  handed  over  to  the  head  of  the  house. 
That  account  is  used  as  a  check  upon  our  own.  And  when 
there  are  mistakes  we  suffer  the  consequences.  Why  is  it  that 
we  must  bear  the  shame  of  this,  and  all  that  it  implies  ?  Such 
a  custom  could  not  grow  up  without  a  cause.  It  is  not  that  we 
wish  to  eliminate  the  ten  o'clock  rule.  It  is  not  that  we  wish  to 
elude  it.  As  we  go  further  in  our  college  course  the  realization 
of  its  value  grows  upon  us.  We  do  not  intentionally  disobey 
the  rule,  but  we  do  disobey  it.  Five  minutes  seem  so  trifling 
when  there  are  five  hundred  and  thirty-five  more  to  follow. 
And  even  though  our  lights  are  out  promptly  at  ten  we  are  not 
always  in  our  rooms.  Each  offence  taken  by  itself  may  be  a 
trifle,  but  we  cannot  take  each  offence  by  itself,  nor  can  we  ex- 
pect them  to  be  taken  so.  And  as  long  as  we  prove  by  our  care- 
lessness that  we  are  unable  to  form  a  strict  interpretation  of  the 
ten  o'clock  rule  and  to  abide  by  it,  just  so  long  we  deserve  the 
petty  inconveniences  and  ignominy  of  a  night  watchman's  re- 
port. 

121 


122  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

With  the  present  system  we  reap  the  physical  benefits  of 
quiet  and  early  rest,  but  we  sacrifice  the  greater  good.  We 
miss  the  real  pleasure  of  an  independent  compliance  to  rule. 
When  we  have  shown  that  we  are  capable  of  that  greater  good 
we  may  reap  the  double  benefit.  Until  then  let  us  try  harder  to 
shoulder  this  responsibility  that  we  already  have  ;  and  after  the 
burden  is  well  adjusted  there  will  be  time  enough  to  clamor  for 
senior  privileges  and  student  government.  A  student  body  that 
shows  its  need  of  such  supervision  in  the  matter  of  lights,  is 
hardly  the  one  to  be  entrusted  with  its  own  government.  We 
must  thoroughly  control  the  rudiments  before  we  attempt  a 
masterpiece.  And  to  control  the  rudiments  we  must  be  able  to 
dispense  with  John  in  his  nightly  rounds,  and  reduce  the  proctor 
to  a  labor  saving  device.  R.  C. 

In  the  college  magazines  of  the  month,  it  is  the  short  story 
that  is  the  dominant  type  of  literature.  There  are  a  few  good 
poems,  though  none  of  these  are  of  exceptional  merit,  and  there 
are  a  number  of  essays  that  are  very  well  written  and  very 
interesting,  but  the  short  stories  are  numerous  as  well  as  good. 

The  Vassar  Miscellany  contains  two  that  are  indeed  worthy 
of  notice.  **  Lean  Years  "  is  a  story  that  one  immediately  recog- 
nises as  true  to  life  ;  the  characters  are  just  such  people  as  one 
sees  in  a  country  community,  and  the  story  is  well  carried  out. 
"  Some  Facts  in  the  Case  of  Mrs.  J.  Strong  "  is  very  unusual, 
both  in  the  plot  and  in  the  manner  in  which  it  is  written.  The 
whole  situation  may  be  improbable — we  are  not  well  enough 
informed  to  be  sure  whether  it  is  or  not — but  at  any  rate  the 
atmosphere  of  horror  grips  the  attention  of  the  reader  from  the 
very  start ;  the  story  is  powerful. 

In  the  Nassau  Literary  Magazine  *'Two  Dreams"  is  an  in- 
teresting story.  But  is  not  the  sacrifice  of  the  younger  man 
unnecessary  ?  It  could  easily  have  been  averted  without  weak- 
ening the  story  to  any  appreciable  extent.  In  the  same  maga- 
zine, *'An  Incident  in  the  Life  of  Alexander  F.  Manson"  deals 
with  a  novel  situation. 

The  Barnard  Bear  contains  one  story  of  exceptional  interest, 
^'Alte  Julie  ;  "  it  is  unusual  and  charmingly  written.  "When 
Betsey  Taught  in  Fairbridge ''  is  a  serial  which  promises  to  be 
interesting.  Serials  as  a  rule  seldom  appear  in  the  college 
magazines — at  least,  so   we   would  gather  from  our  short  ac- 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  123 

qiiaintance  with  them — and  the  Barnard  Bear  is  to  be  com- 
mended for  this  departure. 

In  the  Harvard  Advocate  for  October  24  there  are  three 
stories  of  importance,  "The  Other  Kind  "  "  The  Process ''  and 
''Two  Friends,"  while  "The  Boy"  in  the  issue  of  October  18 
is  very  good. 

"  Paradise  Regained  ''  in  the  Brunonian  is  very  well  worked 
out;  the  type  of  story,  however,  is  a  little  ordinary.  "The 
Cutting  of  the  Gordian  Knot,''  on  the  other  hand,  is  more  un- 
common as  to  situation,  but  the  story  is  not  well  unified. 

In  the  University  of  Texas  Monthly  we  find  "A  Whited 
Sepulchre,"  which  is  a  story  longer  than  many  of  those  that 
usually  appear  in  the  college  magazines  ;  it  is  well  sustained 
and  the  local  color  is  admirablj^  suggested. 

We  have  now  made  mention  of  the  best  stories  in  the  college 
magazines  of  the  month,  with  the  exception  of  "The  Heart  of 
Judith"  and  "The  Chroniophone '"  in  the  Wooster  Literary 
Messenger,  which  are  very  short  and  more  in  the  nature  of 
sketches.  There  are  also  good  stories  in  the  Minnesota  Maga- 
zine, the  Wesleyan  Literary  Monthly,  The  Bema,  and  the  Uni- 
versity of  Virginia  Magazine,  but  we  have  no  space  to  criticise 
them  in  detail.  If  one  may  judge  by  the  number  of  excellent 
stories  that  are  to  be  found  in  the  September  and  October  maga- 
zines, it  would  appear  that  the  college  magazines  are  starting 
the  year  well,  and  we  feel  confident  that  the  verse  as  well  as 
other  forms  of  literature  will  grow  better  and  become  more 
original  as  time  goes  on.  D.  O. 


AFTER    COLLEGE 


SENIOR  DRAMATICS  J9J4 


1914  presents  "  The  Tempest." 

Applications  for  Senior  Dramatics  for  June  11  and  12,  1914,  should  be  sent 
to  the  General  Secretary  at  184  Elm  Street,  Northampton.  Alumnse  are 
urged  to  apply  for  the  Thursday  evening  performance  if  possible,  as  Satur- 
day evening  is  not  open  to  alumnge,  and  there  will  probably  not  be  more  than 
one  hundred  tickets  for  Friday  evening.  Each  alumna  may  apply  for  not 
more  than  one  ticket  for  Friday  evening  ;  extra  tickets  may  be  requested  for 
Thursday.  No  deposit  is  required  to  secure  the  tickets,  which  may  be 
claimed  on  arrival  in  Northampton  from  the  business  manager  in  Seel  ye 
Hall.  In  May  all  those  who  have  applied  for  tickets  will  receive  a  request 
to  confirm  the  applications.  Tickets  will  then  be  assigned  only  to  those  who 
respond  to  this  request.  The  prices  of  the  seats  will  range  on  Thursday 
evening  from  $1.50  to  $.75  and  on  Friday  from  $2.00  to  $.75.  The  desired 
price  of  seats  should  be  indicated  in  the  application.  A  fee  of  ten  cents  is 
charged  to  all  non-members  of  the  Alumnse  Association  for  the  filing  of  the 
application  and  should  be  sent  to  the  General  Secretary  at  the  time  of  appli- 
cation. 

PERSONALS 

Contributions  to  this  department  are  desired  before  the  end  of  the  month, 
in  order  to  appear  in  the  next  month's  issue,  and  should  be  addressed  to 
Eloise  Schmidt,  Gillett  House.  Northampton,  Massachusetts. 


'06. 


'11. 


Bessie  Amerman  is  working  for  a  Master's  degree  at  Teachers'  College, 
Columbia  University,  Her  major  is  Public  Health  Nursing  and  Edu- 
cation. 

Elsie  Baskin  is  secretary  to  the  Principal  of  the  Finch  School  in  New 
York. 

Blanche  Butsfield  has  announced  her  engagement  to  Harlan  Prats  of 
East  Orange,  New  Jersey. 

Margaret  Clark  has  announced  her  engagement  to  Howard  D.  Williams 
of  Springfield,  Massachusetts.     She  is  to  be  married  in  June. 

Helen  T.  Lord  is  the  Assistant  Executive  Secretary  of  the  Playground 
and  Recreation  Association  of  America,  New  York  City. 

Marion  Lucas,  social  editor  of  the  Springfield  Republican  for  the  past 
year,  received  the  degree  of  Master  of  Arts  at  Wellesley  last  June. 
The  title  of  her  thesis  was  :  "  Les  femmes  des  salons  dans  I'histoire  du 
dix-huitieme  siecle." 

124 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  125 

11.  Julia  Miller  was  graduated  last  June  from  the  Lowthrope  School  of 
Landscape  Architecture.  She  is  planning  to  take  work  along  the  same 
lines  in  Cleveland,  Ohio. 
Elizabeth  Moos  is  teaching  Hygiene  and  Physical  Education  in  the  F.  W. 
Parker  School  in  Chicago.  She  was  graduated  last  summer  from  the 
Howard  Summer  School  of  Physical  Education. 
Adaline  Moyer  has  announced  her  engagement  to  Arthur  S.  Martin  of 

Elizabeth,  New  Jersey. 
Winifred  Notman  is  studying  law  at  the  New  York  University  Law 

School. 
Mary  Patten  is  Assistant  Physical  Director  at  Winthrop  College,  South 

Carolina. 
Edna  Bobbins  is  teaching  at  the  Capen  School,  Northampton. 
Anna  Rochester  is  teaching  in  the  primary  department  of  St.  Margaret's 

School  in  Buffalo. 
Muriel  Spicer  is  managing  the  "Business  Women's  Luncheon  Club"  in 

Brooklyn. 
Carlotta  Stone  is  Principal  of  the  School  at  Wendell  Center,  Massa- 
chusetts. 
Alice  Thompson  is  to  be  married  in  February,  1914. 

Florence  Watters  has  announced  her  engagement  to  the  Rev.  Clyde 
Bronson  Stuntz. 
■ex^W.     Myra  B.  Howell  has  announced  her  engagement  to  J.  A.  Keillor  of 

New  York  City. 
"'12.     Mabel  Beaver  is  teaching  English  in  the  government  schools  of  Porto 
Rico. 
Dorothy  Bement  is  teaching  French  at  Miss  Glendinning's  School  in  New 

Haven  and  studying  at  the  Yale  University  Music  School. 
Florence  Bond  is  studying  for  a  year  in  Hanover,  Germany. 
Amy  Bridgman  is  laboratory  assistant  in  the  Department  of  Health  in 

New  York  City. 
Marion  Clark  is  studying  Interior  Decoration  and  Design  with  Mr.  Monte 

at  the  Westfield  Normal  School. 
Ruth  Cooper  is  teaching  Elocution  at  the  Burnham  School,  Northampton, 

and  taking  a  graduate  course  at  Smith. 
Emily  Coye  is  acting  as  Assistant  Secretary  of  the  Child  Welfare  Ex- 
hibit which  is  part  of  the  National  Conservation  Exposition  now  taking 
place  in  Knoxville,  Tennessee.     In  November  she  is  to  return  to  New 
York  to  serve  as  exhibiting  assistant  on  the  Child  Welfare  Exhibit 
Committee. 
Miriam  Cragin  is  taking  the  course  in  Kindergarten  Education  at  Teach- 
ers' College,  Columbia. 
Ethel  Curtis  is  on  the  staff  of  the  Family  Rehabilitation  Department  of 
the  United  Charities  of  Rochester,  New  York. 


126  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

'12.     Henrietta  Dana   has  announced   her  engagement  to  Thomas  DenisoQ 
Hewitt  of  Brooklyn. 

Martha  Dennison  is  taking  a  three  months'  training  course  at  the  Y.  W. 
C.  A.  in  Toledo,  Ohio. 

Ruth  Emerson,  Ada  Sirnpson  and  Dorothy  Whitley  are  taking  courses  at 
the  Boston  School  for  Social  Workers. 

Adra  Fay  is  cataloguer  and  assistant  librarian  in  a  branch  of  the  Minne- 
apolis Public  Library. 

Annie  Goddard  and  Margaret  Washington  leave  for  Europe  in  January. 

Theo  Gould  has  announced  her  engagement  to  Raymond  Davis  Hunting 
of  West  Newton,  Massachusetts. 

Grace  May  Hoffman  is  connected  with  the  A  born  Opera  Company. 

Helen  Houghton  has  a  secretarial  position  at  the  Horace  Mann  School  in- 
New  York  City. 

Ruth  Lewin  has  announced  her  engagement  to  John  Henry  Blodgett  of 
Boston. 

Margaret  Plumley  is  spending  the  winter  in  Chicago.  Address :  5314 
Kimbard  Avenue,  Chicago,  Illinois. 

Margaret  Sargent  has  announced  her  engagement  to  Charles  M.  Hewett 
of  Canton,  Massachusetts.  - 

Carolyn  Sheldon  is  teaching  in  the  French  and  History  Departments  of 
Barnard  College. 

Dorothy  de  Schweinitz  is  travelling  in  Europe. 

Marian  Tanner  has  been  a  member  of  Stock  Companies  in  Buffalo^ 
Wilmington,  Delaware,  and  Reading,  Pennsylvania. 

Florence  Weeks  is  taking  a  graduate  course  in  English  at  Smith  College.. 
ex- 12.    Mildred  Armour  spent  the  summer  at  the  Grenfell  Mission,  St.  An-^ 
thony,  Newfoundland.     She  taught  rug-weaving  and  homespun. 

Alice  Moore  is  stenographer  for  the  Railroad  Commission  of  Oregon. 

Janet  Rankin  is  studying  at  the  Columbia  School  of  Journalism. 
'13.     Helen  Barnum  is  taking  the  one-year  secretarial  course  at  Simmons. 
Address:  Stuart  Club,  102  Fenway,  Boston,  Massachusetts. 

Eleanor  Cory  is  travelling  secretary  for  the  Students'  Volunteer  Move- 
ment. Slie  will  travel  among  the  colleges  of  the  South  during  the  fall. 
Address  :  600  Lexington  Avenue,  New  York  City. 

Edith  Cushing  is  Supervisor  of  Drawing  in  the  schools  of  Northboro, 
Southboro,  Schrewsboro  and  Berlin,  Massachusetts.  Address  :  Box 
152  Northboro,  Massachusetts. 

Ruth  Ensign  sailed  November  1,  to  spend  the  winter  in  Egypt,  Italy  and 
and  Greece. 

Eleanor  Poppe  is  the  official  German  tutor  at  the  University  of  Min- 
nesota. 

Susan  Raymond  is  Demonstrator  in  Astronomy  at  Smith  College. 


THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY  127 

'13.    Inez  Tiedeman  is  at  home  in  Savannah,  Georgia. 

Gretchen  Todd  is  studying  at  the  Instituto  Internacional,  Madrid,  Spain. 

Rachel  Whidden  is  at  home. 

Catherine  Williams  is  teaching  Latin  in  the  Howard  High  School,  Mar- 
quette, Michigan.    Address :  32 1  East  Arch  Street,  Marquette,  Michigan. 

Helen  Wilcox  sails  January  10,  1914.  for  a  trip  around  the  world.  She 
will  stay  some  time  in  Hongkong  and  Tokio. 

MARRIAGES 

'06,     Jessie  Caroline  Barclay  to  Roger  H.  Motten,  August  14, 1913.     Address  : 

7  Pelham  Place.  Colorado  Springs,  Colorado. 
'10.    Eleanor  Benson  to  Ralph  Lawson.  October  18,  1913.    Address  after  De- 
cember 1,  1913  :  44  Warren  Street,  Salem,  Massachusetts. 

Katherine  Van  V.  Drew  to  Vernon  A.  Smith,  May  10,  1913. 

Helen  Gifford  to  Leon  E.  Varnum,  June  28,  1913. 

Heloise  Hedges  to  Paul  R.  Tappan,  August  7,  1913. 

Ruth  Leonard  to  James  Garfield  Moses,  June  4,  1913. 

Florence  Murray  to  Charles  Hovey  Gardiner,  September  17.  1913. 

Anne  Pigeon  to  John  M.  Van  Kusen,  July  31,  1913.  Address  :  101  Robin- 
wood  Avenue.  Jamaica  Plain,  Massachusetts. 

Marjorie  Roberts  to  Clifford  C.  Champine,  May  3,  1913.  Address  :  Pleas- 
ant Avenue,  Minneapolis.  Minnesota. 

Yeoli  Stimson  to  Edward  H.  Acton,  June  17,  1913. 

Eva  Tebbetts  to  George  E.  Robinson,  June  25,  1913. 

Martha  Washburn  to  Cephas  D.  Allen,  July  30,  1913.  Address:  721 
Seventh  Avenue,  Southeast,  Minneapolis,  Minnesota. 

Edith  H.  Willetts  to  Glenn  H.  Wayne,  October  21,  1913. 

Ethel  S.  Wilson  to  Frank   D.  Lyman,  October  4,  1913.     Address  :  534 
Clarke  Avenue,  Westmount,  Montreal,  Canada. 
"11.     Myra  Breckenridge  to  Alfred  Wallace  Gordon,  September  1,  1913. 

Marguerite  Butterfield  to  Henry  D.  Ervin,  June  26,  1913. 

Emily  Hix  to  Fred  M.  Faber,  October  15,  1913.  Address  :  Corner  Illinois 
and  Indiana  Avenues,  Peoria,  Illinois. 

Adelaide  Peterson  to  Chase  Whitney  Love,  August  21,  1913. 
ea?-'ll.     Katharine  Berryhill  to  William  Pearce  Gaddis.    Address :  Care  of 
Navy  Department.  Washington,  District  of  Columbia. 

Lillian  Brigham  to  Howard  Milton  Pease. 

Flora  Lewis  to  Arthur  Williams  Logan. 
'12.     R.  Leila  Allyn  to  Ralph  P.  Schelly. 

Minnie  Emerson  to  James  Perkins  Keith.  October  4,  1913. 

Helen  Garfield  to  James  Frances  Buckley,  July  5,  1913. 

Ruth  Harper  to  Alfred  O.  Anderson,  June  21,  1913. 


128  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

'12.     Florence  Hedrick  to  Chester  F.  Miller. 

Mary  Parmly  Koues  to  Dr.  Ernest  Sachs,   October  28,  1913.     Address  : 

5557  Berlin  Avenue,  St.  Lonis,  Missouri. 
Margaret  Lockey  to  Bertram  Hatch  Hayes,  October  18,  1913. 
Helen  Peddrick  to  Edwin  Conover  Leedom,  August  19,  1913. 
Nellie  Pennell  to  Eugene  Philip  Adams  Simpson,  September  18,  1913. 
Jeanne  Pushee  to  Philip  Hiram  Thayer,  October  18,  1913. 
Ruth  Shepherd  to  Julian  Stevens  Hay  ward,  June  21,  1913. 
Florence  Sprague  to  Ellsworth  Farnum,  June  11,  1913. 
Sarah  Van  Benschoten  to  Dr.  Byron  Clary  Darling,  September  27,  1913. 

BIRTHS 

'12.     Mrs.  Royall  Victor  (Nan  Martin),  a  son,  Edwin  Martin,  born  Octo- 
ber 2,  1913. 


CALENDAR 

November  21.     Student  Volunteer  Meeting. 
"         22.     Division  C  Dramatics. 

4.00  P.  M.     Lecture  by  Alfred  Noyes. 
*'         26-28.     Thanksgiving  Recess. 
"         29.     Open  Meeting  of  Philosophical  Society. 

Lecture  by  Mr.  R.  F.  A.  Hoernke. 
December    3.     Self-Help  Fair. 

Meetings  of  Alpha  and  Phi  Kappa  Psi  Societies. 
'*  5.     Lecture  by  Mrs.  Blattner. 

"  6.     4.00  P.  M.     Lecture  by  Alfred  Noyes. 

Sophomore  Reception. 
"         10.     Concert  by  the  Hoffman  String  Quartet. 
"         13.     Division  D  Dramatics. 


JLbc 


Smitb    College 
flRontbl^ 


December «» 1913 
©wneb  ant)  publiebeb  b^  tbe  Senior  Claee 


CONTENTS 


Arturo  Giovannitti— The  Walt  Whitman  of  the  Twentieth 


Century       . 
Songs  Without  Words 
In  the  Absence  op  Romance 
To-night  .  .  , 

A  Ring  for  Angeline  , 

A  Grey  Day 
Jim's  Mother     . 
The  Forest  Pool 
Fog  .  .  .  . 


Marion  Sinclair  Walker  19  IS  129 

Mir  a  Bigelow  Wilson  1924  138 

Katherine  B.  Nye  1915  139 

Anna  Elizabeth  Spicer  1914  144 

Ellen  V.  McLoughlin  1915  145 

Dorothy  Ochtman  1914  149 

Mary  Louise  Ramsdell  1915  150 

Eloise  Schmidt  1914  153 

Marion  Delamater  Freeman  1914  153 


SKETCHES 

Mary  Sarah  Makes  the  Team 

Aran 

"Useless" 

Extracts  from  Letters  Home. 

Moonlight  over  the  Sea 

Fog  from  the  Sea 

Steve 

When  You  Play 

The  Fear  of  Abellini 

An  Achievement    . 

Lullaby  (To  F.  L.  B.) 

Life 


Ellen  Elizabeth  Williams  1915  154 

Anna  Elizabeth  Spicer  1914  160 

Leonora  Branch  1914  160 

Margaret  Louise  Farrand  1914  161 

Martha  Fabyan  Chadboume  1914  163 

Dorothy  Ochtman  1914  163 

.    Anne  Eleanor  von  Harten  1914  164 

MaHon  Delameter  Freeman  1914  167 

Margaret  Bloom  1914  167 

Marie  Doris  Schipper  Graff  1915  168 

Jeanne  Woods  1914  169 

Martha  Emma  Watts  1914  169 


ABOUT  COLLEGE 

Something  Different  in  Suits 

Original 

To  H.  T.       . 

My  First  Shower 


Roberta  Franklin  1916 

Juliet  Staunton  1915 

A.  Lilian  Peters  1915 

Madeleine  McDoicell  1917 


Rules  for  Packing  and  Unpacking  Trunks 

Natalie  Carpenter  1915 


170 
172 
173 
173 

175 


HEARD  ON  THE  TAR  WALK 

.    176 

EDITORIAL 

. 

.    182 

EDITORS  TABLE 

. 

.    184 

AFTER  COLLEGE 

. 

.    187 

CALENDAR       . 

,           ,           ,           , 

.     192 

Entered  at  the  Post  Office  at  Northampton,  Massachusetts,  as  second  class  matter 
Oazette  Printing  Covipany,  Northampton^  Mass. 


THE 

Smith  College  Monthly 

Vol.  XXI  DECEMBER,  1913  No.  3 


EDITORS: 
Lois  Cleveland  Gould 
Leonora  Branch  Anna  Elizabeth  Spicer 

Margaret  Louise  Farrand         Marion  Delamater  Freeman 
Rosamond  Drexel  Holmes  Frances  Milliken  Hooper 

Margaret  Bloom  Dorothy  Lilian  Spencer 

Ruth  Cobb  Dorothy  Ochtman 

Eloise  Schmidt 

business  manager  and  treasurer 
Ruth  Hellekson 

assistant  business  managers 
Esther  Loyola  Harney 
Bertha  Viola  Conn 


ARTURO  GIOVANNITTI— THE   WALT   WHITMAN   OF 
THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY 

MARION   SINCLAIR  WALKER 

**  I  greet  you  at  the  beginning  of  a  great  career/'  wrote 
Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  to  Walt  Whitman,  when  the  latter  pub- 
lished his  "  Leaves  of  Grass."  Were  Emerson  living  now,  his 
generous  appreciation  of  worth  and  his  keen  critical  insight 
might  lead  him  to  send  a  like  greeting  to  the  author  of  "The 
Walker"  and  "The  Cage,"  the  gifted  young  Italian,  Arturo 
Giovannitti. 

One  thinks  instinctively  of  Walt  Whitman  on  reading  Gio- 
vannitti's  poems,  for  in  the  first  place  their  form  is  the  free 
versification  always  associated  with  Whitman.      On  a  further 


130  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

examination  of  the  life  and  character  of  Giovannitti,  it  is 
noticeable  that  Whitman  and  the  young  Italian  have  more 
than  style  in  common.  There  are  similarities  in  their  experi- 
ences, their  natures  and  their  attitude  toward  life. 

It  is  always  hard  to  estimate  a  present,  living  poet ;  the 
struggles  and  passions  which  he  sings  are  too  near,  too  vital  to- 
us,  for  an  impartial  judgment.  Then,  too,  there  is  something 
awe-inspiring  in  the  thought  that  genius,  which  has  somehow 
been  associated  with  a  golden  age  of  long  ago,  is  actually  living, 
burning,  in  our  own  time.  So  a  comparison,  with  Walt  Whit- 
man, who  seems  to  have  much  in  common  with  Giovannitti, 
and  whose  place  in  literature  is  established,  may  serve  as  the 
basis  for  an  estimate  of  the  significance  of  Giovannitti. 

A  strange,  irrational  life  was  that  of  Walt  Whitm  an.  Brought 
np  by  "  a  perfect  mother,"  as  he  himself  says,  and  a  father  who- 
would  have  been  termed  shiftless,  probably,  in  New  England, 
he  developed  early  in  life  that  roving  spirit,  that  impatience  of 
all  restraint,  which  became  the  keynote  of  his  life  and  work. 
His  school-days  ended  when  he  was  thirteen  years  old,  for 
formal  study  was  not  his  way  of  educating  himself.  It  was  by 
experience,  by  tasting,  that  Whitman  learned  and  grew.  *^A 
caresser  of  life,"  Bliss  Perry  calls  him. 

For  the  next  dozen  years  he  drifted  in  leisurely,  happy  fashion, 
from  one  occupation  to  another  :  now  office-boy  for  a  doctor  or 
lawyer,  now  setting  type  in  a  printing  office  ;  again  teaching — 
with  most  original  methods— in  a  country  school,  or  editing  a. 
country  newspaper  and  driving  about  from  farm  to  farm  dis- 
tributing its  copies.  Strange  to  say,  it  was  in  the  printer's 
office  that  he  first  had  the  longing  to  write  something  great. 
Why  there  should  be  inspiration  in  this,  the  mechanical  side  of 
book-making,  is  a  mystery,  but  Franklin  and  many  another 
printer  seems  to  have  found  it  there. 

Tasting  this  experience  and  that,  the  '^  caresser  of  life  "  was 
learning  to  know  people  from  many  a  different  angle.  But 
most  of  all  he  was  living  his  life  to  his  own  inward  joy  and 
satisfaction,  taking  time  to  make  over  every  experience  into  a 
part  of  himself.  It  is  one  of  Whitman's  most  striking  charac- 
teristics that  he  always  had  time  for  things.  Whether  editing 
a  Brooklyn  paper,  or  in  the  course  of  his  long,  leisurely  journey 
through  the  South,  he  never  lacked  time  to  read  (informally  of 
course)  and   to  swim,  and  to  declaim  by  the  sea-side,  in  time 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY  131 

with  the  rhythmic  beat  of  the  waves  ;  to  belong  to  debating 
societies,  and  to  listen  to  open-air  oratory  ;  to  see  from  the  top 
of  an  omnibus  the  passing  throng,  and  to  chat  with  the  omnibus- 
driver  ;  to  know  all  kinds  of  people,  and  to  feel  as  they  felt. 
Someone  has  said  that  every  man  is  entitled  to  a  good  look  at 
the  universe.  This  is  what  Whitman  was  having  in  those  early 
days,  a  long,  slow  look  at  the  universe,  and  that  look  was 
making  Whitman  the  Poet. 

Having  had  his  look,  having  tasted  life— there  are  few  expe- 
riences that  he  left  untried — this  strange  gazer  set  about  telling 
the  world  what  he  had  seen,  trying  to  let  others  know  how  life 
felt  to  him.  From  a  period  of  slow,  quiet  brooding  over  expe- 
rience past  came  his  noteworthy  publication,  "  Leaves  of  Grass." 
'*Song  of  Myself,"  he  frankly  entitles  one  of  its  numbers,  and 
he  talks  of  himself,  his  experiences,  and  the  philosophy  which 
he  has  reached,  throughout  the  poems.  He  is  not  egotistical  ; 
he  merely  realizes  the  truth  of  Pope^s  little  phrase,  *'  Know  then 
thyself."  It  seems  to  him  that  his  own  life  is  the  material 
which  he,  and  he  alone,  can  use  best.  He  is  always  emphasiz- 
ing the  fact  that  personal  experience  is  the  vital  thing. 

"Not  1,  nor  anyone  else,  can  travel  that  road  for  yon, 
You  must  travel  it  for  yourself." 

In  himself.  Whitman  means  to  typify  the  American,  and 
freedom  is  the  keynote  of  his  message.  In  a  prose  essay  he 
says,  "There  can  be  no  true  artist  without  a  glowing  thought 
of  freedom."  To  clothe  suitably  his  freedom  of  thought,  he 
demanded  freedom  of  form. 

"Like  a  font  of  type,  poetry  must  be  set  over  again,  con- 
sistent with  American,  modern  and  democratic  institutions." 
Thus  Whitman  broke  away  from  the  traditional  poetic  forms, 
and  made  a  scheme  of  versification  of  his  own.  He  says  of 
himself  : 

'*  He  constructs  his  verse  in  a  loose  and  free  metre  of  his 
own,  of  an  irregular  length  of  lines,  apparently  lawless  at  first 
perusal,  although  on  closer  examination  a  certain  regularity 
appears,  like  the  recurrence  of  lesser  and  larger  waves  on  the 
sea-shore,  rolling  in  without  intermission,  and  fitfully  rising 
and  falling." 

The  rhythmic  structure  of  the  English  Bible  was  Whitman's 
basis.     Then  into  his  new  versification  he  wove  all  that  he  had 


132  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

heard  and  felt  while  taking  his  long  look  at  life,  the  motion  of 
trains  and  ferry-boats ;  the  sound  of  the  wind,  of  flying  birds, 
of  the  sea  ;  the  alternation  of  aria  and  recitative  in  the  oratorio  ; 
the  rhythmic  periods  of  the  emotional  orators  of  his  day.  As 
to  whether  or  not  the  result  he  produced  was  poetry,  critics 
have  always  disagreed.  Bliss  Perry  says  of  "  Leaves  of  Grass," 
**It  was  so  full  of  poetry  that  to  deny  it  the  name  of  poem  is 
pedantic ;  yet  rhapsody  is  a  more  closely  descriptive  word. 
But  whether  poetry  or  not,  it  is  a  form  of  expression  strong, 
vivid  and  vital,  and  admirably  suited  to  its  purpose,  the  pur- 
pose of  a  pioneer  and  a  rebel."  For  always,  whatever  Walt 
Whitman  does  or  says,  he  is  a  rebel,  protesting  against  conven- 
tion. A  rebel  he  was  in  taking  his  long  look  at  life  ;  a  rebel  in 
his  manners,  and  in  the  code  of  ethics  that  he  formed. 

In  spite  of  Walt  Whitman's  lack  of  religious  training,  God 
was  not  absent  from  the  universe  as  he  saw  it.  Yet  even  in 
his  conception  of  God,  he  is  a  rebel,  for  the  God  who  is  the  cen- 
tral force  of  his  universe  is  not  the  God  whom  the  churches 
accept.  Bliss  Perry  approximates  his  attitude  in  quoting 
William  Blake's  belief,  ''collective  man  is  God."  Dependent 
upon  his  conception  of  God  is  his  insistence,  like  Kipling's,  of 
finding  "naught  common  on  Thy  earth." 

"  I  do  not  call  one  greater  or  smaller ;  that  which  fills  its 
period  and  place  is  equal  to  any." 

This  is  the  objection  to  his  thoughts  that  the  New  York 
Crayon  raised  : 

"  To  Walt  Whitman  all  things  are  alike  good,  nothing  is 
better  than  another,  and  thence  there  is  no  ideal,  no  aspiration, 
no  progress  to  things  better." 

But  what  has  been  the  life  and  work  of  the  younger  poet,, 
whom  the  world  of  the  conventional  has  named  a  rebel,  also  ? 

Giovannitti  came  of  a  good  Italian  family  ;  his  father  is  a 
physician  and  chemist,  and  his  brothers,  one  a  lawyer  and  one 
a  doctor.  His  schooling  ended  early,  and  was  confined  to  the 
common  schools  of  his  native  town  in  Italy.  We  find  him  jour- 
neying to  America  at  the  age  of  twenty,  not  in  the  usual  immi- 
grant fashion,  for  the  rest  of  the  family  remain  to  the  present 
day  practicing  their  respective  professions  in  Italy.  It  must 
have  been  the  desire  for  new  experiences  that  led  the  poetic 
youth  across  the  seas. 

He  went  to  Canada  first,  and  worked  for  a  time  in  the  coal 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY  133 

mines.  His  chief  interests,  however,  were  always  intellectual 
and  religious  in  nature.  Presently  he  took  charge  of  an  Italian 
mission  in  Montreal,  where  he  was  studying  the  English  lan- 
guage. So  successful  were  his  missionary  labors  that  he  received 
a  call  to  conduct  a  Presbyterian  mission  in  Brooklyn,  New 
York.  At  this  time  he  had  the  purpose  of  becoming  a  regular 
minister  and  while  in  New  York  studied  at  the  Union  Theologi- 
cal Seminary.  But  the  severe  formal  study  at  the  seminary 
was  not  suited  to  his  poetic  nature  and  irregular  attainments. 
He  left  the  seminary  without  being  graduated,  and  took  charge 
of  another  Presbyterian  mission  in  Pittsburg.  Here  Giovan- 
nitti  became  deeply  interested  in  Socialism,  and  came  into  close 
relationship  with  some  Socialist  leaders.  His  superiors  of  the 
Church  objected  to  his  Socialistic  tendencies,  so  he  gave  up 
missionary  work,  and  returned  to  New  York  in  1911.  "This  is 
probably  the  time  when  he  began  to  drop  God  out  of  his  pro- 
gram," says  a  contributor  to  Current  Opinion. 

The  next  period  of  his  life  represents  the  struggle  of  a  not 
particularly  skilled  workman,  trying  his  hand  at  various  occu- 
pations ;  often  out  of  employmf^nt,  sleeping  on  park  benches. 
Presently,  however,  he  got  work  on  an  Italian  newspaper,  and 
later  became  its  editor.  All  this  time  he  was  seeing  and  talk- 
ing with  men  interested  in  the  vital  problems  of  the  day ;  his 
convictions  were  forming,  and  his  influence  among  his  fellow 
Italians  was  increasing.  So  prominent  had  he  become  that 
when  the  strike  broke  out  in  Lawrence  Giovannitti  was  sent  for 
to  direct  activities  among  the  workmen.  Perhaps  because  of 
his  earlier  missionary  experience  Giovannitti  was  given  the 
task  of  managing  the  relief  of  need  by  the  distribution  of  food. 
Such  pacific  service  was  a  poor  outlet  for  his  burning  enthusiasm, 
and  soon  he  was  making  speeches  to  the  workmen  in  eloquent 
Italian,  advocating  not  Socialism,  but  something  more  advanced 
and  radical— Syndicalism,  the  doctrine  of  the  Industrial  Work- 
ers of  the  World.  The  influence  of  Giovannitti's  fiery  oratory 
with  his  countrymen  was  great,  dangerously  so,  it  seemed  to  the 
anti-strike  faction.  They  procured  his  arrest  on  "a  trumped- 
up  charge,"  (thus  at  least  it  seems  to  disinterested  observers,) 
and  he  was  detained  at  Salem  jail  for  nine  months.  That  prison 
experience  of  Giovannitti's  was  significant,  for  it  brought  into 
being  "The  Cage"  and  "  The  Walker."  The  kind  of  "long, 
long  thoughts  "  that  Giovannitti  was  thinking  as  he  lay  awake 


134  THE   SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

through  the  jail's  interminable  nights,  may  be  seen  from  the 
opening  passage  of  "  The  Walker." 

"  I  hear  footsteps  over  my  head  all  night. 

They  come  and  they  go.     Again  they  come  and  again  they  go  all  night. 

They  come  one  eternity  in  four  paces,  and  they  go  one  eternity  in  four  paces, 
and  between  the  coming  and  the  going  there  is  Silence,  and  the  Night, 
and  the  Infinite. 

For  infinite  are  the  nine  feet  of  a  prison  cell,  and  endless  is  the  march  of  him 
who  walks  between  the  yellow  brick  wall  and  the  red  iron  gate,  think- 
ing things  that  cannot  be  chained  and  cannot  be  locked,  but  that 
wander  away  in  the  sunlit  world,  in  their  wild  pilgrimage  after  des- 
tined goals." 

The  prisoners  obtained  books  from  a  library,  and  here  Gio- 
vannitti  for  the  first  time  came  to  know  English  poets.  He 
read  Taine's  "English  Literature,"  Shakespeare,  Carlyle,  Bal- 
zac, Shelley  and  Byron.  So  it  was  not  from  lack  of  familiarity 
with  the  conventional  forms  of  English  poetry  that  he  chose 
the  free  versification  for  "The  Walker"  and  "The  Cage." 
Perhaps  it  is  because  he  knows  the  Bible  so  well,  as  he  must, 
because  of  his  early  religious  fervor,  that  Giovannitti  has  caught 
the  magnificent  swing  of  rhythmic  parallelism.  He  begins  in 
the  style  of  an  exalted  hymn,  and  he  keeps  up  to  the  pitch 
throughout.  Even  in  describing  commonplace  things,  sordid 
things,  he  raises  them  to  the  level  of  his  theme,  as  : 

"Whirred  the  great  wheels  of  the  puissant  machines,  rattled  and  clanked  the 
chains  of  the  giant  cranes,  crashed  the  falling  rocks  :  the  riveters 
crepitated ;  and  glad  and  sonorous  was  the  rhythm  of  the  bouncing 
hammers  upon  the  loud-throated  anvils." 

This  passage,  with  its  specific  mention  of  machines,  in  the 
hands  of  one  who  was  less  a  poet,  might  give  an  effect  incon- 
sistent with  the  lofty  tone  of  "The  Cage."  But  with  Giovan- 
nitti it  is  not  incongruous  even  when  followed  at  a  short  inter- 
val by  : 

"  Wonderful  and  fierce  was  the  mighty  symphony  of  the  world,  as  the  terri- 
ble voices  of  metal  and  fire  and  water  cried  out  into  the  listening  ears 
of  the  gods  the  furious  song  of  human  toil." 

Perhaps  this  is  not  poetry.  Some  critics  insist  that  it  is  not. 
But  at  any  rate  it  is  somethiug  splendid  and  stirring  and  the 
spirit  which  brought  it  into  being  is  something  which  must  be 
reckoned  with. 

"The  Cage,"  says  a  writer  for  the  Contributor's  Club  in  the 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  135 

Atlantic  Monthly,  "will  call  out  plenty  of  literary  criticism, 
plenty  of  expressions  of  social  sympathy  or  lack  of  it,  but  the 
simple  point  which  needs  emphasis  is  that  whether  the  poem 
repels  or  attracts  the  reader,  he  will  find  in  it,  if  he  cares  to 
look,  more  of  the  heart  and  soul  of  the  syndicalist  movement 
than  all  the  papers  of  all  the  economists  can  teach  him/' 

As  representative  of  the  syndicalist  movement,  "The  Walker'^ 
and  "The  Cage  "are  the  poetry  of  war.  For  the  syndicalists, 
organized  as  the  Industrial  Workers^of  the  World,  declare  that 
a  state  of  industrial  war  exists,  as  long  as  the  present  system  of 
labor  and  capital  endures.  Syndicalism  goes  beyond  Socialism 
in  its  demands,  for  it  insists  that  the  laborers  themselves  must 
own  the  means  of  production,  where  Socialism  plans  to  have 
them  in  the  possession  of  the  state.  Socialism  proposes  to  right 
wrong  partly  by  legislation  ;  Syndicalism  considers  appeal  to 
the  law  worse  than  useless. 

So  it  is  war  that  throbs  and  pulses  through  Giovannitti's 
rhapsodies,  war  with  its  methods  of  dealing  out  justice,  with 
the  whole  system  represented  by  the  "green  iron  cage." 

Up  to  a  certain  point  it  would  be  fitting  to  call  Giovannitti 
"the  Walt  Whitman  of  the  twentieth  century."  There  are 
similarities  in  their  lives  and  achievements.  Each  had  the 
roving  spirit,  each  gratified  his  craving  for  experience  by  tast- 
ing life  in  varied  scenes  and  occupations.  Each  was  a  rebel,  as 
the  thought  and  spirit  of  his  work  reveals,  and  each  clothed 
the  rebellion  of  his  thought  in  form  that  was  in  itself  a  protest 
against  conventional  usage. 

Here  the  similarity  ends.  It  is  a  noteworthy  fact  that  when 
Whitman  has  reached  a  certain  position  on  some  point,  Giovan- 
nitti goes  a  step  further.  It  is^in  this  step  in  advance  that  the 
significance  of  Giovannitti  lies. 

In  their  early  years,  when  each  was  having  his  look  at  the 
universe,  Whitman's  was  the  leisurely  interest  of  a  spectator 
while  Giovannitti's  was  a  working  interest.  Whitman  from 
the  top  of  the  omnibus  watched  the  throng  below  ;  Giovannitti 
was  one  of  the  throng.  In  short,  where  Whitman  played  with 
life,  Giovannitti  has  worked,  and  worked  hard. 

There  is  something  significant, '^too,  in  the  prison  experience 
which  Giovannitti  had  and  Whitman  had  not.  The  bitter  con- 
tempt for  the  law  and  its  institutions  which  characterizes  "  The 
Cage"  and  "The  Walker"  probably  rooted  itself  in  his  mind 


136  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

duriDg  the  "  infinite  "  nights  at  the  jail,  where  ''  all  keep  awake- 
and  think  the  same  maddening  thought." 

"All  my  ideas,  my  thoughts,  my  dreams  are  congealed  in  a  little  key  of  shiny 
brass. 

All  my  brains,  all  my  soul,  all  the  suddenly  surging  latent  powers  of  my  life- 
are  in  the  pocket  of  a  white-haired  man  dressed  in  blue." 

In  the  work  of  the  two  poets,  there  is  the  difference  that  while 
Whitman  spreads  out  his  interest  to  include  life  in  general,. 
Giovannitti  has  one  specific  purpose  to  which  he  subordinates 
everything  else. 

'•  Charter  of  Personality,  outlining  what  is  yet  to  be, 
I  project  the  history  of  the  future," 

says  Whitman.  Giovannitti's  theme  is  *' industrial  reform,"" 
and  he  concentrates  all  his  fiery  energy  upon  it,  bringing  the 
varied  experiences  of  his  life  to  bear  upon  his  subject. 

Though  Giovannitti  and  Whitman  alike  use  the  free  versifi- 
cation, Giovannitti  seems  to  have  held  it  up  more  continuously 
to  the  exaltation  of  his  thought.  Whitman  does  not  hesitate  to- 
use  colloquial  expressions,  such  as  the  Yankee  "  I  guess,"  and 
the  reader  cannot  but  feel  that  this  has  no  place  in  true  poetry. 
Giovannitti  has  nothing  of  this  kind.  When  he  brings  in 
every-day  things,  like  bread,  and  bed,  there  is  not  the  least  sense- 
of  the  commonplace,  whereas  with  Whitman  there  comes  from 
time  to  time  a  ''  slump. ^' 

It  is  not  strange  that  Whitman,  though  he  had  no  religious- 
training,  in  the  end  found  God — not  the  conventional  God  of 
the  churches,  but  nevertheless  a  real,  vital  God,  whose  influence 
is  felt  in  every  page  that  he  has  ever  written — for  the  way  of  a 
poet  and  lover  of  life  leads  straight  to  God.  It  is  remarkable, 
however,  that  Giovannitti  with  his  natural  religious  fervor 
aud  after  his  extended  connection  with  church  work  should 
have  become  an  atheist.  The  case  is  perhaps  as  significant  a 
criticism  of  the  inadequacy  of  the  present-day  church  as  could 
be  found.  It  is  not  God  who  has  failed  Giovannitti  and  hi& 
countless  comrades  of  the  Industrial  Workers  of  the  World 
who  bear  the  banner,  "No  God,  no  Master"  ;  rather  it  is  the 
church  which  has  failed  to  interpret  God  to  them. 

The  marvelous  thing  about  Giovannitti  is  that  his  acquaint- 
ance with  Eaglish  literature  has  just  begun,  and  he  stands  at 
the  beginning  of  his  life  as  a  poet.     When  at  the  opening  of  his 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      137 

career  he  has  outstripped  the  "  Good  Gray  Poet"  both  in  inten- 
sity of  thought  and  in  consistency  of  form,  what  may  not  the 
future  expect  from  him  ?  It  certainly  may  look  with  confidence 
for  hard  work,  vigor  and  quick  enthusiasm,  all  of  which  were 
absent  from  Whitman's  "  tasting  of  life."  It  is  of  great  signifi- 
cance, too,  that  Giovannitti  has  found  thus  early  in  life  his  all- 
absorbing  theme. 

It  is  not  likely,  either,  that  Giovannitti  can  permanently 
*'  drop  God  out  of  his  program."  "  I,"  he  says  of  himself,  "used 
to  think  of  love  and  life  and  the  flowers  and  song,  and  beauty 
and  the  ideal."  Of  these  he  thought,  and  of  these  he  cannot 
but  think  again  now  that  the  prison  experience  with  its  "one 
maddening  thought"  is  ended.  And  all  who  think  of  "love 
and  life  and  the  flowers  and  song  and  beauty  and  the  ideal  " 
come  in  the  end  to  God.  There  are  indications  in  "  The  Cage  '* 
that  Giovannitti  is  already  finding  his  God,  when  he  leaves 
us  with 

"The  mighty  life  of  the  world  outside,  that  throbbed  and  thundered  and 
clamored  and  roared  the  wonderful  anthem  of  labor  to  the  fatherly 
justice  of  the  sun,'* 

It  is  not  God  as  he  is  preached  in  the  churches  that  Giovannitti 
suggests  here,  but  a  God  who  has  far  more  bearing  upon  "the 
mighty  life  of  the  world." 

Perhaps  this  is  the  true  significance  of  Giovannitti,  that  to 
the  thousands  of  workmen  who  in  rejecting  the  church  think 
that  they  have  given  up  God,  he  will  bring  a  God  whom  they 
can  understand,  and  who  will  be  the  vital  force  of  their  lives. 
Then  when  the  poet  and  his  people  have  found  their  God,  in  his 
"  fatherly  justice"  the  problems  that  harrass  them  now  will  fall 
into  place,  they  will  see  in  a  new  licjht  the  significance  of  the 
institutions  represented  by  "the  green  iron  cage."  This  is  the 
task  of  Giovannitti — to  lead  to  a  better  understanding  of  life,  its 
meaning,  and  its  relationship  with  the  ruling  spirit  of  the  uni- 
verse, his  great  army,  "the  Industrial  Workers  of  the  World.'* 


SONGS  WITHOUT  WORDS 

MIRA  BIGELOW   WILSON 

T'rom  the  world  where  my  glad  heart  has  tarried  too  long. 
-From  a  world  that  is  shifting,  colourful,  gay, 
Warm  with  deeds  brewing,  brave  from  its  books, 

0  Mother,  I'm  turning  the  homeward  way. 
Tell  me,  what  golden  gift  shall  I  bring 
Welcome  enough  to  make  you  sing  ? 

Mayhap  new  tales  of  folk  and  fairies, 
Wrought  in  the  skill  of  the  world's  old  age, 
Or  verse  just  created.     Mother  o'  my  heart, 
"Shall  it  be  laughing,  wistful  or  sage  ? 
Ope  these  gray  covers  and  there  will  be 
Music  in  words,  taste  of  wild  Bacchic  glee  ; 

Or,  haunted  with  sorrow,  lengthier  lines 
Saddened  as  wind  through  the  sand-drifted  pines. 
Mother  o'  my  heart,  over  their  pages 

1  see  your  blue  eyes  burn  with  glad  fires, 
And  in  my  heart  I  know  it  presages 
Treasured  fulfilment  of  your  desires. 

I  need  not  ask,  so  well  I  know, 

What  the  fair  gift  you  have  waiting  for  me  ; 

Over  the  winter  miles  I  have  been  longing, 

Listening  for  music  and  melody, 

Listening  to  hear  on  some  glad  spring  morning 

Your  touch  on  the  keys  as  you  rouse  to  glad  life 

A  misty  world  that  has  lain  night-long 

Drowsy  yet  restless  with  winter's  strife. 

I  have  left  in  your  hands  the  gray  book  of  poetry  ; 

You  know  to  love  it  better  than  I. 

But  the  songs  you  played  me  they  must  die, 

Fair  phantomed  echoes  to  pursue 

■(Ah,  Mother,  if  you  but  knew,  but  knew  ! ) 

In  the  rooms  once  filled  with  their  singing. 

The  last  note  stirs  the  vines  by  the  door, 
Stirs  the  frail  heart  of  an  August  rose, 
Fades  like  the  wavelet  tumbling  to 
Oblivion  on  a  lonely  shore. 
Ah,  the  rose  heart  throbs  but  little  knows, 
When  drooping  to  earth  it  bids  me  depart 
A  winter's  space,  'tis  I,  not  you, 
That  must  be  lonely,  Mother,  at  heart. 

138 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  ROMANCE 

KATHERINE   B.    NYE 

It  was  the  kind  of  department  store  whose  front  windows  are 
very  bright  and  whose  back  windows  are  very  dull.  Mr.  Fuller, 
the  sleek,  lean  floor-walker,  always  dressed  in  chocolate  brown 
from  top  to  toe,  was  fully  three  inches  taller,  and  his  chest  was 
•expanded  to  a  degree  which  endangered  the  brown  buttons  on 
his  brown  coat,  whenever  he  approached  the  ribbon  counter. 
By  the  time  he  reached  the  toilet  articles  he  was  dangerously 
inflated,  and  only  the  return  trip  past  notions,  hosiery  and 
ginghams  saved  him  from  self-destruction.  Bed  linen  finished 
his  collapse,  taking  every  line  of  conceit  from  his  figure  and 
•adding  a  droop  to  his  shoulders,  which  made  him  harmonize 
completely  with  the  dusky  corners  and  marred  counters  of  the 
^Rear  of  the  Store.  ^^ 

There  was  one  corner  of  the  first  floor,  however,  to  which  Mr. 
Fuller  had  penetrated  but  once.  Now,  he  led  his  customers  to 
the  hosiery  counter,  bowed  stifily  with  a  sweep  of  his  large 
brown  hand,  and  with  the  air  of  a  person  inviting  you  to  enter 
a  snake-hole,  he  scoffed  : 

^'Thoid  to  the  right." 

And  if  you  followed  the  direction,  you  found  yourself,  not  in 
a  den  of  thieves,  nor  a  dentist's  office,  as  you  might  have  expected 
from  Mr.  Fuller's  attitude,  but  before  a  music  counter.  It  was 
like  every  other  music  counter,  racks  and  racks  of  sheets,  whose 
•covers  were  vividly  decorated  with  impossible  people,  in  impos- 
sible positions,  singing  the  impossible  words  of  impossible  tunes. 

At  your  arrival,  a  plain,  grey-eyed  person  in  black  accosted 
you,  and  when  you  remembered  the  name  of  the  desired  song, 
you  remembered  that  it  was  very  silly.  And  as  3^ou  took  your- 
self very  seriously  and  thought  everyone  else  did  the  same,  you 
•disliked  to  give  a  perfect  stranger  a  direct  invitation  to  "  Come 
along  and  marry  me."  So  you  murmured  blushingly  that  you 
wanted  the  song  that  "  Rosie  McLacey  "  sang. 

The  Plain  Person  gazed  at  you  as  though  you  were  not  twenty- 
two,  six  feet  tall,  and,  you  flattered  yourself,  rather  good-looking» 
and  then  she  smiled  and  said,  as  though  repeating  A-B-C  to  a 
child  of  six  : 


140  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

"  Oh  !  you  mean  '  Come  along  and  marry  me/" 

Then  of  course  you  felt  more  foolish  as  you  watched  her 
fingers  flying  over  loose  sheets,  selecting  one  like  lightning,  and 
wrapping  it  in  a  sheet  of  yellow  paper.  In  a  flash  there  it  lay 
before  you  and  a  white  hand  was  extended  for  your  "Fifteen 
cents."  Luckily,  you  had  the  change,  for  you  couldn't  have 
endured  those  clear  gray  eyes  a  second  longer.  You  uncon- 
sciously wished  you  hadn't  promised  to  take  that  music  to  a 
certain  young  lady  that  evening.  Then  you  went  out  mentally 
kicking  yourself. 

And  the  strange  part  of  it  was  that  all  this  did  happen,  and  I 
from  the  elevator  saw  it  all.  And  I  saw  you  disappearing 
around  the  hosiery  counter  the  next  day,  as  I  brought  my  iron- 
cage  to  a  stop  and  shouted  : 

''  Main  floor— this  car  to  the  basement." 

After  many  such  appearances  and  disappearances,  I  deter- 
mined to  watch  one  entire  visit,  for  I  was  interested  in  the  Plain 
Person  myself.  So,  as  I  said,  I  decided  to  watch  one  visit  from 
beginning  to  end,  regardless  of  bells  and  calls.  * 

However,  just  as  you  "appeared,  a  very  stout  lady  entered 
what  in  my  dreams  I  imagined  to  be  my  private  office,  and 
shouted^' Silk  Petticoats"  in  my  ear.  I  was  so  startled  that  I 
slammed  the  door  and  shot  up,  up,  up,  past  "Misses'  and 
Ladies'  Suits,  Coats,  Dresses  and  Hats,"  past  "  Underwear, 
Shoes  and  Art  Goods,"  and  deposited  my  passenger  at  "  Boys^ 
Clothing  and  House  Furnishings."  By  the  time  I  had  corrected 
my  mistake  and  returned  to  the  first  floor,  you  were  leaning 
confidentially  on  the  counter  and  the  Plain  Person  was  busily 
searching  through  stacks  of  music  for  a  song,  whose  title  you 
had  that  moment  invented.  And  though  the  Plain  Person's 
back  was  turned  to  you,  I  could  see  from  where  I  sat  that  she 
was  listening  to  you  and  when  she  turned  she  said  : 

"Thank  you— I  guess  I  can.  Thursday  here  at  six.  Shall  I 
order  that  music  from  the  publsher  ?" 

You  stammered  "Fine!  No,  don't  bother.  That  is,— well, 
you  see,  I  don't  believe  I  care  very  much  about  that  song. 
Thursday,"  and  disappeared  around  the  hosiery  counter.  The 
Plain  Person  turned  sharply  and  caught  my  eye,  and  the  next 
thing  I  knew  I  was  staring  at  her  back,  and  I  thought  I  under^ 
stood  why  Mr.  Fuller  avoided  the  music  department. 

That  night  the  Plain  Person  in  black  rode  up  to  the  "Em- 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  141 

ployees'  Floor  "  in  my  elevator.     I  was  determined  to  begin  an 
acquaintance  with  her. 

*'I  wish  to  beg  your  pardon,"  said  I,  ''but  I  couldn't  help 
seeing  and  hearing — this  morning — Miss — a — " 
"Avison,''  she  supplied. 

And  she  must  have  told  herself  afterward  that  she  would 
never  have  answered  me,  had  I  not  been  old  and  lame.  That 
was  the  beginning  of  our  friendship,  which,  once  begun,  pro- 
gressed rapidly.  She  rode  up  or  down  with  me  once  or  twice  a 
day,  and  when  rush  hours  were  over  she  played  for  me.  You 
used  to  hear  of  me  as  "  The  Elevator  Man''  and  I  never  spoke 
of  you.  Once  or  twice  she  mentioned  "dinner  with  a  friend," 
and  I  knew  whom  she  meant. 

Miss  Avison  wasn't  an  heiress  in  disguise  or  anything  of  that 
sort,  by  which  I  mean  that  she  was  herself,  a  little  more  refined 
in  manner  and  dress  than  the  average  girl  in  the  store.  I  liked 
her  because  she  did  not  wear  dirty  white  shoes  with  a  dirty 
dark  dress,  and  because  she  knew  when,  where  and  how  to 
laugh.  We  laughed  at  everyone, — the  customers,  Mr.  Fuller 
and  ourselves. 

I  wish  you  could  have  seen  us  the  first  time  we  had  luncheon 
together.  My  fat,  German  landlady  supplied  me  with  certain 
provisions  securely  packed  in  a  tin  box,  and  by  her  own  sugges- 
tion Miss  Avison  brought  sandwiches  and  cake.  We  sat  in  a 
bare,  unused,  little  store-room  on  the  top  floor,  I  on  an  old 
ohair  and  Ruth  (as  I  had  now  begun  to  call  her)  on  a  box  by 
the  window. 

"  It's  funny,  you  and  I  being  here,"  she  said. 
"Yes,"  said  I,  "it  is.'' 
"You  seem  so  lonely,  are  you  ?" 

And  before  I  knew  it  I  had  told  her  things  of  which  I  had 
scarcely  allowed  myself  to  think  for  years.  She  listened  quietly, 
looking  out  over  the  roofs  where  the  snow  swirled  thickly  and 
little  puffs  of  white  steam  and  black  smoke  pricked  through 
intermittently. 

"You'll  think  me  very  unsympathetic,"  she  said,  "but  really 
isn't  it  romantic,  so  much  of  love  and  life,  and  then  when  you 
are  old,  none!     And  all  through  one  brave  deed  ! " 

I  looked  down  at  my  worse  than  useless  foot  and  was  glad 
that  she  answered  as  she  did. 

"You  love  romantic  things  ?"  I  asked. 


143  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

'^  I  know  so  little  about  them,  and  I  never  had  a  real  romance — '^ 
she,  knowing  that  I  knew  to  the  contrary,  crimsoned,  which 
made  her  really  pretty — ^*  until — " 

'^  Until/'  I  went  on,  *'one  Thursday  night  at  six." 

"'Eavesdropping  V  she  chided. 

"  I  wish  I  had  been—" 

"It  wasn't  so  very  romantic,"  she  continued. 

"  Not  romantic  ! "  I  exclaimed.  "  I  should  have  thought 
better  of  the  boy,  from  his  appearance.  Mind,  I  wanted  to  da 
you  a  good  turn." 

"'Well,  perhaps  it  was,  mostly  because  we  had  known  each 
other  such  a  short  time,  and  had  never  been  introduced,  but 
did  that  make  any  difference,  really  ?  " 

"  None,"  said  I,  and  I  believe  she  was  glad  I  approved,  for 
she  had  given  the  matter  some  thought. 

**  We  had  dinner  in  a  little  restaurant,  dark  with  green  and 
red  lights.  Oars  was  red  and  the  fringe  on  the  shade  made- 
shadowy  ridges  on  the  table-cloth.  After  dinner  we — Tie — talked 
— and — well  I  guess  I  was  the  only  unromantic  thing  about  it. 
I  felt  it,  but  I  couldn't  say  anything." 

I  was  silent,  wondering,  and  then  asked,  "'  Well,  what  are  you 
going  to  do  ?  " 

For  an  answer  the  whistles  blew,  and  when  comparative  quiet 
came  she  said,  "'  I'm  going  back  to  work." 

So  we  rode  down  in  silence. 

All  the  afternoon  the  piano  jangled  merrily,  and  once  or  twicb 
as  Mr.  Fuller  approached,  shrinking  with  every  step,  a  taunt- 
ing, saucy,  popular  song  or  a  clear  laugh  greeted  his  ears.  I 
judged  that  he  had  heard  both  before,  under  different  circum- 
stances. For  he  was  openly  trying  to  ignore  the  sounds  and 
gather  pompousness  for  the  next  trip.  That  night  you  came 
again  and  went  out  alone.  Mr.  Fuller  gave  you  a  peculiar 
look,  more  like  a  facial  exercise  than  a  smile.  Then  he  turned 
to  the  girl  with  the  fluffy  blonde  hair  whose  unwinking  blue 
eyes  peered  out  at  him  from  piles  of  scented  soap  and  bottles  of 
green  toilet  water.  Had  you  not  been  so  preoccupied  you  would 
have  heard  something  that  you  wouldn^t  have  liked.  That  was 
the  last  time  you  came. 

Gradually  Mr.  Fuller's  attitude  toward  the  music  department 
changed.  He  came  nearer  and  nearer  to  it  with  customers  and 
one  afternoon,  after  an  especially  busy  day,   he  went  to  the 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY  145 

counter  with  more  sternness  than  he  had  ever  before  carried 
past  the  ginghams.  He  scolded  Ruth  sharply,  and  said  in  a 
loud  tone  that  several  complaints  had  been  made  at  the  office, 
which  she  knew  was  untrue.  The  tone  of  the  reprimand  was 
in  itself  an  insult.  I  would  have  given  anything  I  possessed  ta 
have  seen  you  enter  at  that  moment,  rout  the  villain  and  depart 
with  the  heroine  on  your  arm  and  a  copy  of  the  Wedding  March 
in  your  hand.  But  Romance,  once  shunned  by  Ruth,  did  not 
pursue  her  now.  The  matter  was  dropped,  though  I  knew  Ruth 
felt  herself  disgraced,  and  as  she  told  me  a  week  later  she  must 
keep  her  position. 

"You  see,"  she  said,  "if  I  don't  take  care  of  myself  no  one 
else  will,  aud  it's  rather  nice  to  be  spoiled,  even  when  you  have 
to  do  all  the  spoiling  yourself." 

"Your  maid,  Mignon,'^  said  I,  "what  will  she  say  when  she 
sees  you  so  tired  ?  " 

And  she  laughed  back,  "  Oh,  she  won't  be  nearly  so  cross  as 
your  valet  would  be  if  he  could  see  that  hole  in  your  coat-sleeve. 
So  rU  mend  it  before  you  go  home  ! "  which  she  proceeded  to  do. 

And  hardly  had  she  begun  when  Mr.  Fuller  came  puffing 
down  the  aisle  toward  her.  It  seemed  that  an  irate  customer 
had  spoken  about  "incivility  on  the  part  of  the  Person  at  the 
perfume  counter."  And  when  Mr.  Fuller  spoke  to  that  Person 
concerning  the  matter,  using  his  softest  tones  and  most  compli- 
cated and  tiring  facial  exercises,  she  had  loudly  denounced  him 
as  "rude  an^  no  real  gentleman,"  and  turning  her  lacy  back  on 
him  had  cast  over  her  shoulder,  "'  I've  another  engagement  for 
this  evening." 

Plainly  Mr.  Fuller  had  to  retreat  and  as  he  approached  Ruth, 
he  could  not  keep  from  venting  some  of  his  wrath  upon  her. 
The  fact  that  he  began  by  saying  that  she  was  "  rude  an'  no 
reil  lady"  showed  where  his  thoughts  were.  Next  he  listed  her 
as  incompetent,  impertinent  and  lazy— and  finally  spying  the 
coat  he  added  a  few  remarks,  which  I  can  leave  out,  sang  a 
finale  of  "  rude  an'  no  real  lady,"  and  stopped  for  lack  of  breath. 

The  Rear  of  the  Store  had  never  seen  Mr.  Fuller  so  tall. 
They  had  never  seen  that  brown  coat  stretched  to  the  twisting 
pc)int.  In  fact  to  those  behind  the  bed  linens  he  was  regal — if 
anything  regal  was  ever  of  chocolate  hue. 

While  he  was  still  in  the  tallest  stage,  I  limped  up  to  him 
and  spoke  in  a  few  well-chosen  words  of  one  syllable.      I've 


144  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

never  seen  chocolate  melt  so  fast.  He  had  to  retreat  again  and 
IVe  heard  that  the  girl  behind  the  bars  of  soap  was  moved  to 
call  him  "  Shorty  "  ever  after. 

I  didn't  see  Ruth  again  until  the  morning  after  when  I  took 
you  both  up  to  the  '*  House  Furnishings/''  and  I'll  wager  I  could 
guess  what  music  you  bought  as  you  went  out. 


TO-NIGHT 

ANNA  ELIZABETH  SPICER 

I  cannot  sleep  to-night 

For  the  crescent  bow  of  the  moon, 
And  the  fingers  of  the  wind 

That  pluck  me  a  bitter  tune. 

Time  was,  the  wind  and  I 

Went  racing  a-down  the  lane, 
Tapping  with  all  my  might 

At  some  yellow  window-pane. 

Time  was,  the  moon  from  me 

Was  very  far  off, — and  far  I 
But  now  she  shines  in  my  little  room 

And  shoots  my  brains  with  a  star. 

Better  friends  with  me  now 

They  should  be.    I  would  court  the  moon 
If  I  were  alive  again. 

And  I'd  not  pass  the  wind  too  soon. 

O,  I  cannot  sleep  to-night 
For  the  crescent  bow  of  the  moon, 

And  the  fingers  of  the  wind, 
They  pluck  me  a  bitter  tune. 


A  RING  FOR  ANGELINE 

ELLEN   V.    MCLOUGHLIN 

A  dark-haired  young  man  knocked  timidly  at  the  door  of 
Rocco  Spinoso's  living-room.  When  Mrs.  Spinoso  came  to  the 
door,  he  bowed  very  low. 

*'  Hallo,  hallo,"  he  said  nervously. 

"  Hallo,  Tony,"  answered  Mrs.  Rocco,  frigidity  mingled  with 
surprise,  **you  want  see  Rocco  V 

Tony  bowed  again,  followed  Mrs.  Spinoso  into  the  living-room, 
and  stood  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  until  the  man  of  the  house 
appeared.  Rocco  had  all  the  geniality  of  a  prosperous  olive  oil 
vender,  living  in  the  best  tenement  of  Catharine  street.  And  he 
was  respected  by  all  salad-eating  Uticans,  because  his  olive  oil 
was  pure  though  his  price  was  high. 

'•  Tak' a  chair,  tak'  a  chair,  Tony,"  he  began.  '^Nice  day. 
You  goin'  tak'  Sat'day  aft'noon  off  too  ?" 

Tony  struggled  for  speech  ;  he  bowed  again,  sat  down,  and 
clutched  his  hat  frantically. 

"  I  want-a  see  you,"  he  said.  "  I-I-I — "  he  paused  and  began 
again.     "  You  gat-a  more  black-a  hand-a  letter  ?  " 

"  Naw,"  laughed  Rocco,  "I  gass-a  da  perleece  got  da  right 
fallers.  Wanted  free  hunder-a  doll  off'n  me,"  he  added  with  a 
grieved  air. 

Ton}^  nodded  sympathetically.  There  was  a  silence  in  the 
room  for  a  moment,  and  then  Rocco's  visitor,  with  a  desperate 
plunge,  came  to  his  errand. 

'•I  come-a  ta  see  you,"  he  said,  "  I-I-I-like-a  Angeline.  I 
like-a  Angeline-a  ta  marry."  It  was  out  at  last.  Tony  breathed 
a  deep  sigh  of  relief. 

"  I  no  tall  my  sister  who  she  marry,"  objected  Rocco.  "  Go 
ast  Angeline.  I  no  theenk  she  tak  you;  she  got  many  young 
fallers." 

Tony  sighed  and  nodded. 

"  I  go  gat  her,"  continued  Rocco,  "you  gotta  ast  Angeline; 
maybe  she  tak'  you,"  and  he  disappeared  into  the  kitchen,  clos- 
ing the  door  after  him.  He  was  back  in  a  minute,  with  the 
sauciest,  prettiest,  and  most  gaily-dressed  young  woman  in 
*'  Little  Italy  "  following  him. 

2  146 


14(5  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

*'  Here-a  Angeline  now,  ast  her,"  said  Rocco.  "  Tony  want  ta 
marry  you/'  he  explained,  turning  to  his  somewhat  bewildered 
sister. 

Tony  was  startled  by  the  swiftness  of  the  announcement.  He 
jumped  to  his  feet,  clutched  his  hat  with  both  hands,  and  started 
to  bow.  But  something  in  Angeline's  eyes  arrested  the  motion, 
as  she  stood  before  him  coolly  looking  him  over.  Rocco  with- 
drew. 

"You  want-a  be  marryin'  me  ?"  she  questioned. 

Tony  nodded,  looking  away.  "I  gott-a  two  hunder-a  dol?,"' 
he  vouchsafed. 

*'  Two  hunder-a  doll'  ?''  Angeline  mocked  him  scornfully.  "  I 
mak-a  eight  a  week.  I  no-a  theenk  I'm  marryin'  a  man  till  he 
gotta  five  hunder-a  doll'." 

"You  marry-a  me  when  I  gotto  five  hunder-a  doll'?"  Tony 
asked  eagerly. 

"  I  no-a  theenk  you  ever  be  gattin'  so  mooch,"  was  the  dis- 
couraging response.  "  You  ver  simple  man,  Tony.  Black-Hand 
be  gattin'  all  your-a  mon  easy.  You  no  so  smart-a  man  like  my 
brother  Rocco.     He  gattin'  'em  all  put  in  jail." 

"  I  loove-a  you  much,"  Tony's  voice  bore  no  reproach,  only 
timid  entreaty. 

"  Wal,"  deliberated  Angeline,  "I  geeve-a  you  a  year.  You 
mak-a  five  hunder-a  doll'  in  wan  year,  I  marry-a  you.    See  ?" 

He  nodded  eagerly. 

"Now,"  she  continued,  "  you  batter-a  be  gattin'  back  ta  work.. 
I  gotta  some  shoes-a  be  fix.    I'm  bringin'  em  down  pretta  soon." 

Tony  backed  to  the  door,  repeating,  "  Five  hunder-a  doll. 
Wan  year.  You  marry-a  me."  And  then  with  a  last  adoring 
sigh,  he  turned,  opened  the  door,  and  came  face  to  face  with  a 
handsome,  flashing-eyed,  curly-haired  young  Italian  who  was 
coming  in.  The  two  men  nodded  as  they  passed  and  Tony 
slackened  his  steps  enough  to  hear  the  pleased  tone  of  Angeline's 
greeting. 

"Hailo,  Domineek." 

"Hallo."  Dominick  closed  the  door  and  sat  down  before  he 
proceeded. 

"Say,  what-a  for  Tony  Dago  ben  here  ?"  It  was  more  than 
a  question,  it  was  a  command,  and  Angeline  resented  it. 

"  He  wantin*  ta  marry  me,"  she  said  defiantly,  "  I  tal-a  heein 
he  gotta  be  makin'  five  hunder-a  doll'  in  wan  year. " 


THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  147 

'' Yoii  naver  tal  me  dat.  You  tal  me,  '  Don't  ast  me  taday/ 
an'  '  Don't  ast  me  taday,'  an'  now  you  goin'  let  dat  Dago  cut  me 
out  ?  Don't  I  know  mor'n  Tony  ?  Ain't  I  ben  in  Amer'ca  ten 
year  ?  Ain't  I  ben  ta  night  school  all  winter  ?  Ain't  I  takin' 
you  around  lots  mor'n  dat— dat"  Dominick  paused  for  an 
epithet. 

'*  Sure  !  "  Angeline  put  in  hastily.  ''But  I  no-a  theenk  I 
marry-a  you.  You  no  gotta  da  mon,  Domineek.  You  makin' 
da  mon  wan  day  an'  spendin'  heem  da  next.  Tony  gotta  two 
hunder-a  doll'.  I  no-a  theenk  I'm  marryin'  any  man  till  he 
gotta  five  hunder-a  doll'.  I  no-a  geeve  up  my  eight  a  week  for-a 
nothin'." 

"  Nothin '  !  Look  here,"  invited  Dominick,  and  from  the 
pocket  of  his  fancy  white  vest,  he  produced  a  tiny  blue  velvet 
case,  and  before  her  eager  eyes,  balanced  the  little  box  in  his 
hand  for  a  deliberate  moment,  and  then  suddenly  snapped  it 
open.  Angeline  caught  her  breath  as  she  gazed  in  rapture  at 
the  big  stone  that  flashed  and  sparkled  and  threw  beams  of 
colored  lights  from  its  velvet  cushion. 

"Ah!"  Dominick's  voice  was  proud.  "Dago  Tony  ain't 
buyin'  you  no  diamon'  like  dis  I  gass." 

Angeline's  mind  worked  quickly.  "He  gotta  two  hunder-a 
doll',"  she  said.  "You  no-a  payin'  so  mooch  for  a  ring."  But 
her  eyes  were  on  the  glittering  gem  still,  and  Dominick  was  not 
discouraged. 

"  Maybe  I  kin  save  five  hundert  in  a  year.  Five  hundert  and 
da  ring.  You  marry  me  if  I  do  ? "  Dominick's  voice  was  very 
soft  and  his  eyes  were  tender.  Angeline  hesitated  a  second,  but 
when  a  ray  of  afternoon  sun  glanced  from  the  brilliant  in  a 
thousand  different  colors,  she  yielded. 

"Domineek,"  she  asked  shyly  a  moment  later,  "ees  eet  real?" 

He  rose  a  bit  indignant.  "  Real  ?  Sure  its  real  !  Gar'nteed 
for  twenty  year  !  Tan-fifty  cash  !"  and  with  a  sharp  click  he 
shut  the  box  and  replaced  it  in  his  vest-pocket. 

"  I  keep  it  till  I  gat  dat  five  hundert,"  he  remarked,  "Tony 
got  two  hundert.  Tony  ver  simple  man,  I  gass,"  and  he  laughed 
as  he  blew  a  kiss  to  Angeline  and  departed. 

Still  smiling,  and  gayly  humming  a  tune,  Dominick  hurried 
up  th9  street  to  his  rival's  shop  on  the  corner. 

"SHOES  REPAIRED  WHILE  YOU  WATE "  read  the 
sign  over  the  door  of  the  little  shack  which  was  at  once  Tony's 


148  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

home  and  the  workroom  where  he  mended  the  shoes  of  all 
**  Little  Italy."  He  was  alone  and  hard  at  work  when  Dominick 
entered,  but  he  looked  up  with  a  word  of  greeting  and  pointed 
to  a  chair. 

"  How  do,  Tony,"  began  Dominick. 

'^  Hallo,  hallo,"  replied  Tony,  ''You  want-a  some  shoes-a  be 
fix  ?  " 

His  visitor  took  the  appointed  chair,  leisurely. 
''You  work-a  too  hard,  Tony,"  he  said,  "You  ought  ta  tak' 
Sat'day  aft'noon  off,"  he   paused,    and   looked  around.     "Nice 
little  shop,"  he  observed   condescendingly,    "  you  mak'  much 
mon^?" 

Tony  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  kept  on  nailing  a  shiny  new 
sole  to  a  dirty  yellow  shoe. 

"Angeline  say  she  gon  marry  you."  Dominick's  tone  was  the 
mournful  sigh  of  a  rejected  lover.  "  She  sting  me.  You  lucky 
man,  Tony." 

Tony  looked  up  in  surprise  and  wonder,  but  before  he  could 
speak,  Dominick  went  on. 

"  Look  here — I  bought  dis  ta  give  ta  Angeline,"  and  he 
brought  forth  the  diamond  in  its  blue  velvet  box. 

"  She  no  tak-a  j^ou  ?  "  asked  Tony  eagerly,  "She  no  tak-a 
you  ?     She  say  she-a  marry-a  me  ?  " 

"Yes,"  sighed  Dominick,  "and  I  gotta  get  rid-a  dis  ring. 
You  bought  her  a  ring  yet  ?  " 

Tony  shook  his  head.     He  had  not  counted  on  buying  a  ring. 
"  I  give  you  dis  here  diamon'  ring  cheap.  I  gotta  get  rid-a  it." 
■      "  How-a  mooch  ?  " 

"  Wal,  I  pay  two  hundert  an'  fifty,  make  it  ^bout  two  hundert 
doll'!" 

"Two  hunder-a  doll'!"  Tony  paled  at  the  thought.  Then 
he  shook  his  head  vigorously.  "  No  can-a  pay.  Angeline-a  say 
mak-a  five  hunder-a  doll'  in-a  wan  year.  No  can-a  gat  ring." 
He  dismissed  the  subject,  and  returned  to  his  work. 

"You  gat  a  good  bargain,"  purred  Dominick.  "Dis  here 
ring  worth  maybe  four,  five  hundert  doll'.  Ver'  big  stone,"  and 
he  flashed  it  in  the  sunlight  until  Tony  was  blinded  by  its 
brilliance.  "  I  bought  it  fer  Angeline.  She  like  it  ver'  much, 
but  she  no  like  me.     She  most  tak'  me  when  she  see  da  ring." 

"  I  can-a  sail  heem  ?"  questioned  Tony,  "  I  can-a  gat  four-a 
fi\re  hunder-a  doll'  fer-a  heem  ?  " 


THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  U9 

"  Sure  !  I  gotta  sail  it  now  er  I'd  gat  more  out  of  it.  I  bought 
it  fer  Angeline.  Day  give  me  da  laugh  if  I  go  around  an'  try 
ta  sail  it.  Angeline  say  she  goin'  marry  you."  Dominick  sighed 
again. 

For  a  brief  space  Tony  considered,  the  dirty  yellow  shoe  held 
tightly  between  his  knees,  his  hammer  poised  for  a  blow.  It  was 
a  crucial  moment ;  Dominick  held  his  breath.  Then  suddenly 
the  hammer  came  down,  sharply,  decisively. 

*'I  tak-a  heem,"  said  Tony,  "maybe  I  can-a  sail  heem  fer-a 
four-a  five  hunder-a— " 

**  Hallo,"  interrupted  a  voice  in  the  doorway.  The  two  men 
looked  up  with  a  start.  Dominick  with  a  quick  gesture  replaced 
the  ring  in  his  pocket — and  there  stood  Angeline,  looking  from 
one  to  the  other  a  trifle  suspiciously. 

"  What  you  two-a  doin  ?  "  she  demanded,  and  before  Dominick 
could  prevent  it  Tony  was  eagerly  telling  her  of  his  purchase  ; 

*'  I  can-a  sall-a  heem  fer-a  four,  five  hunder-a  doll',"  he  finished 
jubilantly,  "  iio-a  must  wait-a  wan  year.  Domineek  sall-a  heem 
ver  cheap— two  hunder-a  doll'." 

*' Cheap  !"  echoed  Angeline,  and  there  was  a  wealth  of  scorn 
in  her  voice,  "  Domineek-a  gattin'  your-a  mon'  easy.  Dat-a  ring 
cost-a  tan-a  fifty,"  and  she  turned  to  Dominick,  "  I  no-a  marry 
at'ief." 

But  at  that  moment,  the  door  slammed.  Dominick  and  his 
ring  were  gone.  When  they  were  alone,  all  Angeline's  scorn 
and  anger  melted  very  suddenly. 

'*  You  ver  seemple  man,  Tony,"  she  said  softly,  "You  needin' 
some-abody  ta  be  takin'  care  a  you." 

"I  loove-a  you  mooch,"  Tony  replied. 


A  GREY  DAY 

DOROTHY   OCHTMAN 

Dull  grey  trees  and  a  dull  grey  sky, 
Grey  snow  beneath,  where  rain  is  falling. 

Slow  drips  the  water irom  eaves  near  by  ; 
Within,  the  darkness  is  still  and  appalling. 

Cheerless  and  dead  the  wet  leaves  lie. 

Dull  grey  trees  and  a  dull  gre}'  sky, 

And  in  the  dim  west  no  sign  of  clearing. 


JIM'S  MOTHER 

MARY   LOUISE   RAMSDELL 

She  looked  up  good-naturedly,  her  broad  face  beaded  with 
perspiration,  her  plump  arms  flecked  with  foam  from  the  tub 
in  which  they  were  plunged.  I  had  been  bewailing  the  dullness 
of  a  village  summer  and  commiserating  her  on  being  obliged  to 
spend  a  hot  summer  morning  in  a  hotter  kitchen,  deluged  with 
the  hottest  of  soap-suds.  But  she  had  seemed  to  feel  the  need 
of  my  sympathy  so  little  that  I  was  about  to  attempt  a  more 
successful  topic  of  conversation,  when  she  picked  up  the  thread 
I  was  about  to  drop. 

"Waal,  o'  course  I'm  pretty  hefty,  ^n^  sometimes  my  feet  git 
to  dartin'  like  toothache,  before  nightfall,  'n^*  these  last  years  I 
been  havin'  a  stitch  in  my  side  so  bad  that  last  month  I  jest  hat 
to  tell  your  ma  I  couldn't  do  her  wash  that  week.  Es  you  say, 
one  day  is  about  like  the  next  in  Riverdale,  an'  I  been  livin' 
here  forty  years  come  next  June.  But  land  !  I  ain't  got  no  call 
to  complain,  with  Pa  'n'  Jim.  Of  course,"  she  added  apologet- 
ically, ''  Pa  ain't  been  doin'  much  work  for  some  time.  His 
health  was  so  poorly  this  spring,  I  thought  he'd  orter  not.  You 
know  he's  started  on  another  invention,  too,"  with  a  tinge  of 
defiance.  She  drew  a  wet  hand  across  her  forehead,  pushing 
back  the  hair.  "  It's  dretful  hot,"  she  said,  and  her  face  looked 
tired.  "But  fine  hayin^  weather,"  she  added  with  a  cheerful 
smile.     "  Pa's  inventin^  a  patent  hayrake." 

Before  my  mind's  eye  rose  a  picture  of  "Pa"  as  I  had  seen 
him  from  my  earliest  girlhood,  and  might  still  see  him  any 
day  ;  a  slouchy,  loose-jointed  figure  braced  against  the  post- 
office  door,  or  the  little  wooden  station,  elucidating  theories  on 
perpetual  motion,  or  the  management  of  the  commonwealth. 
"  Pa  "  had  been  "  restin'  "  since  my  earliest  recollection  of  him, 
and  was  never  known  to  bestir  himself  except  about  his  meals. 
Those  he  allowed  no  matter,  however  urgent  or  vital,  to  prevent 
being  served  to  him,  hot  and  punctual  at  their  appointed  hours. 

"I  suppose  you  hear  from  Jim  often,"  I  said. 

Her  face  beamed  with  love  and  pride  as  she  opened  a  window 
of  the  steaming  little  kitchen.  "  Mercy,  yes  !  He  writes  regu- 
lar, every  Wednesday.     His  letter's  due  to-day." 

1  5o 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  151 

**  Let's  see,  Jim  is — ah — railroading  now,  isn't  he?"  I  ven- 
tured, caaking  a  wihi  guess.  I  had  rather  lost  track  of  the 
restless  Jim  since  he  left,  six  years  back,  to  seek  his  fortune. 

*'  Land  no,  that  was  two  years  ago.  He's  worked  in  a  mill  in 
Trenton  'n'  run  a  street  car  in  Philadelphy  since  then.  No,  it's 
minin'  this  time."  She  straightened  her  back,  with  a  troubled 
furrow  between  her  eyes,  and  then  bent  over  the  tub  again.  "  It 
worrits  me  to  think  of  it.  Jim  says  them  coal  mines  is  safe  as 
^ettin'  in  church,  but  I  dunno.  I  wish't  he'd  a  went  clerkin'  fer 
Hen  Skinner  down  to  Shelby,  after  he  finished  high  school. 
Then  I'd  a  had  him  with  me,  nights,  and  like's  not  he'd  a  been 
head  o'  the  firm  by  now.  He's  dretful  smart,  Jim  is,  if  he  is 
my  boy.  He  had  a  good  chanst  over  to  Otis,  but  he  says  to  me, 
'  Ma,'  he  says,  '  I  wanta  see  the  world,  "n'  I'm  goin'  to  work  my 
way  around  it.  I  can't  stay  mewed  up  here  in  Riverdale  for 
nobody,  not  even  you.  Ma,'  he  says.  'And  besides,'  he  says, 
*some  day  I'll  come  back  a  rich  man,  and  then  I'll  buy  you  a 
black  satin  gownd,  and  a  velvet  hat  with  a  big  purple  feather 
on  it' — he's  alius  so  jokey,  Jim  is — 'and  take  you  an'  Pa  around 
and  show  you  some  places  a  little  bigger  than  Riverdale,  or 
even  Shelby  !'" 

"  Let's  see,  just  how  far  West  is  he  now  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Pennsylvania.  That  ain't  very  far  around  the  world,  is  it ! 
But  then  I  ain't  never  been  as  far  West  as  York  State,  so  it 
seems  a  long  ways  off  to  me.  He  says  he  likes  the  work  fine, 
for  a  change,  it's  so  different,  and  he's  gettin'  awful  handy  at 
it.  He  can  turn  his  hand  to  anything,  though.  He's  smart, 
Jim  is,  if  he  is  my  boy." 

My  murmur  of  assent  was  lost  in  the  rattle  of  wheels,  and  Ed 
Haskins,  the  rural  free  delivery  man,  drew  up  at  the  door, 
waving  an  envelope.  "  Letter  from  Jim,"  he  cried  genially.  I 
Tan  to  take  it,  while  she  wiped  her  red  hands  on  the  roller  towel, 
her  face  alight  with  happy  anticipation.  She  read  it  slowly  and 
laboriously  at  first,  and  then  with  surprise  and  excitement. 

"Jim's  comin'  home,"  she  cried,  her  eyes  shining  with  joy. 
"  He  thinks  he'll  get  home  next  week.  He's  alius  been  promisiu' 
to  conbe  ever  since  he  went  away,  but  he  ain't  never  been  able 
to  work  it  before.  But  this  time  he  says  he's  almost  sure,  he 
thinks  mebbe  he'll  stay  a  week  or  two.  My,  won't  I  be  glad  to 
see  my  bo}^  !  "  and  a  little  sob  caught  her  throat.  "  I  ain't  goin' 
to  fret  about  him  no  more,  he'll  be  home  pretty  soon,  mebbe  I 


152  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

kin  persuade  him  to  leave  this  job,  when  he  comes  back.  And 
besides/'  and  the  patient  smile  came  back,  "  f rettin'  don't  do^ 
much  good  'cept  to  make  you  down  sick.  And  I  want  to  be 
well  when  Jim  comes.  Sakes  alive,  I  guess  I'll  bust  right  out 
cryin'  when  he  does,  Til  be  that  glad  to  see  him  !  Four  years  t 
I  got  his  room  all  ready  the  day  after  he  went  away,  so  when 
he  came  back  he'd  find  me  expectin'  him.  .  .  .  Jim  comin^ 
home!  .  .  .  I'll  fix  up  my  black  alpaca  real  nice  to  wear  to- 
church  Sundays.  He  alius  liked  that  black  alpaca.  .  .  . 
Land  o'  mercy,  don't  tell  me  it's  quarter  past  eleven  !  I'd  orter 
be  gettin'  dinner  started  for  Pa.  He  gets  so  riled  if  his  meals 
ain't  ready."  She  wrung  the  suds  from  her  hands.  "It's  a 
dretful  hot  day,"  she  said,  her  flushed  face  paled  slightly,  "  but 
fine  fer  dryin',"  she  smiled  cheerfully. 

I  rose  to  go,  amid  her  hospitable  protestations,  and  she  fol- 
lowed me  to  the  door,  wiping  her  hands  on  her  apron  and  apolo- 
gizing for  the  room  in  which  she  had  received  me.  "Next 
time  you  come  in  the  afternoon,"  she  said  heartily,  "and  we 
won't  sit  in  the  kitchen." 

As  I  closed  the  front  gate  and  turned  down  the  street,  Miss^ 
Maxim,  the  village  bird  of  evil  omen  and  smug  bearer  of  bad 
tidings,  hurried  in,  but  paused  and  turned  toward  me,  her 
solemn  face  set  in  an  appropriate  expression,  and  a  bit  of  yellow 
paper  peeping  from  her  hand.  "  Have  you  heard  the  news  ?' 
she  said  in  a  sepulchral  voice.  "  I  was  down  to  the  station  just 
now,  seein'  Cousin  Lib  off — Frank's  wife,  you  know,  she's  been 
visitin'  me — and  Mr.  Torrey  sez  to  me  'Bad  news  here.  Miss 
Maxim,'  he  sez.  'If  you're  goin'  up  High  Street  you  might 
drop  in  'n'  deliver  this  here.  There's  been  an  accident,  'n' 
Jim — '"  she  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a  breath,  her  eyes  turned 
toward  the  little  house  in  embarrassed  surprise.  I  turned  also, 
and  saw  Jim's  mother  coming  down  the  gravel  walk.  From 
the  door  she  had  seen  Miss  Maxim's  lank,  black-swathed  figure,, 
the  yellow  slip  in  her  hand  ;  and  in  Riverdale,  a  telegram  means 
only  one  thing. 

She  held  out  her  hand,  still  hot  and  red  from  the  suds,  and 
road  the  dispatch  in  silence,  once,  twice,  three  times.  Then  she 
looked  up.  "Jim's  dead,"  she  said,  dolly.  "  They'll  bring  him 
home  to-morrow.  .  .  .  His  room's  all  ready.  .  .  ."  The 
clock  in  the  village  church  struck  the  half-hour,  and  the  sound 
brought   present  duties  back  to  her.       "Land,  I  ain't  got  my 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY  153 

dinner.  Pa'll  be  riled,  he  sets  siicli  store  by  his  victuals/'  She 
moved  a  few  steps  toward  the  house,  then  turned  to  us.  "Jim's 
dead,"  she  repeated,  as  if  expecting  contradiction.  Then,  as  we 
stood  silent,  she  raised  her  hand  mechanically  and  pushed  back 
her  hair.     "  It's  dretful  hot,"  she  said. 


THE  FOREST  POOL 

ELOISE  SCHMIDT 

The  quiet  of  midsummer's  afternoon 
Has  settled  over  the  forest  pool, 

And  in  it  are  seen  reflected 
The  shadows,  grown  dark  and  cool. 

The  grasses  are  still  at  the  pool-side, 
And  deep  where  the  water  seems 

Darkest  is  shadowed  a  moment 
A  blue-bird — the  bird  of  dreams. 


FOG 

MARION   DELAMATER   FREEMAN 

There's  a  soft  gray  fog  low-hanging  over  the  sea, 

And  it  muffles  the  cry  of  the  sea-gull  as  it  flies. 

There's  a  long  uneasy  swell  in  the  gray-green  waves 

That  shift  and  rise,  to  fall  with  a  stifled  moan. 

The  long  waves  run  high  up  on  the  wet,  black  rocks, 

And  with  their  rise  and  fall  the  seaweed  sways 

Like  the  arms  of  a  drowning  man,  clutching  in  vain 

At  the  slipp'ry  stones,  to  fail,  to  strive — to  fail 

Again,  and  yet  again  to  try,  and  then 

Each  time  to  be  sucked  back  relentlessly 

By  the  remorseless  sea. 

There's  a  terror  that  grips  at  the  very  heart  of  you 

And  a  fear  that  will  not  be  dispelled — 

Hark  !    Hear  the  toll  of  the  bell-buoy  on  the  bar. 

Like  the  knell  of  souls  that  are  lost  fore'er ! 

And  the  gray-green  waves  slowly  rise  and  fall, 

And  the  gray  fog  drifts  in  cold  from  tbe  sea  ! 


SKETCHES 
MARY  SARAH  MAKES  THE  TEAM 

ELLEN   ELIZABETH   WILLIAMS 

They  were  half  a  dozen  Sophomores,  who  had  found  one  an- 
other during  the  first  week  of  college,  had  "hung  together'^ 
through  Freshman  year,  during  the  summer  had  gone  on  the 
same  week-end  parties  and  were  now  all  in  the  same  house  on 
campus.  They  had  worked  and  played  together,  had  shared  one 
another's  triumphs  and  disappointments  and  were  all  equally 
elated  when  Mary  Sarah  made  the  team. 

*'  I  was  sure  she'd  make  sub,''  exclaimed  Frances  as  the  senior 
team  trailed  away  across  campus,  Mary  Sarah  borne  proudly  in 
the  front  row.     "  But  I  didn't  dare  dream  of  the  reall" 

"  Isn't  it  swell  ?  "  babbled  Catherine.  ''  I'm  going  to  telegraph 
to  Connie  right  away  ;  she'll  be  so  thrilled."  (Constance  was 
■one  of  the  six  who  was  away  over  Sunday  at  a  house  party.) 

Betty,  a  dear  little  thing,  said  nothing  but  dimpled  with 
pleasure  and  telephoned  to  Meadow's  for  "a  dozen  Mrs.  Aaron 
Ward  roses,  to  be  sent  to  Miss  Mary  Sarah  Frothingham.  Craven 
House,  just  as  soon  as  you  possibly  can,  and  thank  you  so  much." 

**Mary  Sal  is  a  sure  'nough  celeb,  now,"  ejaculated  Nell. 
'^'  Come  on,  let's  beat  it  to  chapel  and  get  good  seats.  I  want  to 
see  her  march  out  with  Dot,  Helen  and  the  rest." 

So  the  four  friends  ran  through  the  snow  to  the  Auditorium 
and  Rubber  Row,  to  crane  their  necks  in  an  effort  to  catch 
a  glimpse  of  their  companion,  in  senior  seats. 

*'  I  wonder  if  Catherine  will  think  to  telegraph  Bob  when  she 
does  to  Connie,"  whispered  Nell  to  Frances  at  the  close  of  the 
prayer.  Bob  was  Mary  Sal's  brother  at  Princeton,  who  had  been 
s,  member  of  the  camping  trip  the  six  had  taken  the  past  sum- 
mer and  who  had  even  braved  the  terrors  of  Northampton  with 

154 


THE  SxMlTH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY  155 

^ve  of  his  kind  on  their  way  to  the  Harvard  Game  in  the  fall. 
*'  Bob's  been  all  agog  to  know  if  Mary  Sal  was  improving  and 
whether  she  had  any  chance  for  the  team.'' 

"  I'd  be  glad  to  do  it  if  I  didn't  have  classes  all  the  morning," 
replied  Frances,  "but  I  have  German  and  Physics  and  then  a 
tutor  lesson  'way  down  atthe  Students'  Building — " 

"If  I  had  a  nickel  to  put  in  the  slot,  I  could  telephone  to  the 
office  from  the  house,"  returned  Nell,  "but  I'm  broke." 

"Here  they  come!"  interrupted  Catherine  and  the  four 
leaned  forward  in  their  seats  to  see  their  friend  pacing  up  the 
aisle  arm  in  arm  with  the  captain  of  the  senior  team.  Then, 
with  mutual  felicitations,  they  separated  to  the  various  duties 
of  the  day. 

Catherine  had  the  first  period  free  and  went  at  once  to  the 
telegraph  office  in  College  Hall,  to  boil  down  the  exciting  events 
of  the  morning  into  a  ten  word  message  to  Constance. 

"Yes,  I'll  pay  for  it,"  she  told  the  operator  and  unknotted  a 
fifty-cent  piece  from  the  corner  of  her  handkerchief. 

"A  quarter,  please,"  replied  the  operator.  "  I'm  sorry,  but  so 
early  in  the  morning  I  have  no  change.  Will  you  have  it 
charged  ?" 

Catherine  started  to  assent,  then  on  second  thoughts  she  re- 
plied, "No,  I'll  send  another  one  besides."  And  she  wrote  the 
following  message  : 

"Mr.  Robert  Frothingham, 

145  Benton  Hall,  Princeton,  N.  J. 
Mary  Sarah  made  the  team  to-day. 

Catherine  Chase." 

So,  feeling  virtuous  at  not  having  begun  the  bad  policy  of 
■charging  things,  she  left  the  office.  On  the  way  to  the  Library, 
she  met  Betty. 

"  '  Where  are  you  goiug,  my  pretty  maid?'  " 

cried  Catherine. 

"  '  I'm  going  to  College  Hall,'  she  said," 

returned  Betty. 

"  '  And  what  will  you  do  there,  my  pretty  maid  ?'  " 
"  '  I'm  not  going  to  tell  you,  sir  ! '  she  said." 

and  Betty  tossed  her  pretty  head,  laughed  and  entered  the  tele- 
graph office.  It  had  occured  to  her  that  Mary  Sarah's  family 
would  be  as  delighted  at  the  good  news  as  the  Six.     But  Betty 


156  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

knew  that  Mrs.  FrothingLam  was  an  invalid  and  that  a  telegram' 
would  excite  her  needlessly.  "So  I'll  just  let  Bob  know  at 
Princeton  and  he  can  send  word  as  he  thinks  best."  The  oper- 
ator was  busy  when  she  went  in,  so  she  painstakingly  wrote  the 
telegram,  laid  it  on  the  desk  with  a  quarter  and  left  as  quietly 
as  she  had  come. 

During  her  first  recitation  Frances'  conscience  was  troubled. 
"  I  really  would  have  time  to  wire  Bob  before  Physics  and  he'll 
be  so  anxious  to  know.  Nell's  so  scatter-brained  she  won't  think 
of  it  again.  I'll  just  write  out  the  message  now  and  hurry 
over  after  class."  Accordingly  she  wrote  the  telegram  in  her 
note-book,  signed  her  name  and  the  injunction  to  ctarge  it  to 
Miss  Frances  Daabar,  Cravea  House  and  flew  over  to  College 
Hall  as  soon  as  the  gong  sounded  the  close  of  the  hour. 

The  operator  looked  perplexed  when  she  read  the  message  : 
"Robert  Frothingham,  Princeton."  The  name  sounded  familiar 
but  girls  had  been  pouring  in  all  the  morning  sending  news  of 
elections  to  friends  and  relatives  in  every  part  of  the  country 
and  she  was  overworked.  Thus  it  happened  that  three  messages 
within  one  hour  went  clicking  over  the  wires  to  Robert  Froth- 
ingham in  Princeton— all  from  the  Western  Union  office  in  Col- 
lege Hall. 

Meanwhile,  Nell  was  ensconced  in  a  morris  chair  in  her  sunny 
bay  window.  She  had  studied  her  French,  read  over  her  history 
and  was  now  deep  in  her  favorite  short  story,  Elsie  Dinsmore. 
She  was  re-reading  the  famous  episode  of  the  piano  stool,  when 
she  closed  the  book  with  a  bang — "There  !  I  knew  I'd  forgotten 
something.  There's  nothing  like  Elsie  Dinsmore  to  make  one 
remember  that  one  has  left  undone  those  things  ime  ought  to 
have  done.     Who'll  lend  me  a  nickel,  I  wonder  ?" 

In  the  hallway  she  forcibly  extracted  the  required  amount 
from  a  friend  who  was  bent  on  a  shopping  expedition  to  Spring- 
field. Then  she  entered  the  telephone  booth.  "Hello!  Postal 
Telegraph,  please— I  want  to  send— all  ready  ?  Mr.  Robert 
Frothingham,  Benton  Hall— no,  I  don't  know  the  number — 
Princeton.  Mary  Sarah  made  the  first  team  this  morning.  No 
signature— and  charge  it  please  to  Miss  Helen  Foster,  Craven 
House.  There,  that's  over!"  She  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief  and 
returned  to  the  bay  window  and  Elsie  Dinsmore. 

So  a  fourth  telegram  followed  its  companions  to  Princeton. 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      157 

Mr.  Robert  Frothingliam  lay  in  bed^  reveling  in  the  blissful 
-sensation  that  otily  the  hoar  of  ten  a.  m.  can  give.  He  yawned 
and  stretched,  resolved  to  get  up,  then  crawled  down  again 
under  the  blankets.  He  had  been  to  the  city  for  the  theatre  and 
a  dance  the  night  before  and  had  returned  to  college  on  that  train 
designed  for  the  convenience  of  Princeton  students,  the  "Owl," 
and  the  memories  of  a  pleasant  evening,  combined  with  the 
knowledge  that  he  had  no  classes  until  that  afternoon,  gave  him 
a  feeling  of  satisfaction  with  all  the  world.  When  he  heard  his 
room-mate  fumbling  at  the  door  he,  loth  to  be  disturbed,  closed 
Ids  eyes  and  faked  slumber.  The  room-mate  stood  a  moment  by 
his  bedside,  then  shook  him  vigorously. 
"Get  out,"  murmured  Bobby. 

"Get  up  !^'  replied  the  room-mate.  "Here's  a  telegram  for 
you.  I  found  it  underneath  the  door.  I  hope  it's  not  bad 
news." 

Robert  seized  the  yellow  envelope  and  tore  it  open  anxiously. 
Then  his  face  lighted  up  with  pleasure. 

"  I  say.  Mack  I"  he  exclaimed.  "The  kid  has  made  the  team 
— basket  ball,  you  know.  Means  a  lot  up  there  at  Smith.  She's 
been  crazy  about  it  ever  since  she  went  to  college." 

"  That's  great  !  "  rejoined  Mack,  then,  more  slowly  and  blush- 
ing  furiously,  for  Mack  was  very  shy,  "  I'd  like  to  send  Mary 
^ome  flowers  if  you  think  she'd  let  me.  That's  what  people  do, 
don't  they?" 

"Sure  !  go  ahead,"  laughed  Robert.     "  I  guess  I'll  telegraph 
some  up  myself.     Meadov^'s  is  the  name  of  the  florist  there." 
"  Roses— pink,"  mused  Mack. 

Now  Robert  had  been  thinking  of  sending  roses  himself  but 
a  brother  must  not  be  outdone  by  a  friend,  so  with  outv^^ard 
calm  and  inward  trepidation,  he  said  :  "Send  an  order  for  me, 
too,  will  you  ?  Violets,  a  good-sized  bunch,  with  a  couple  of 
orchids.  And,  before  you  go,  get  out  the  stove.  I'm  going  to 
make  myself  some  coffee." 

Mack,  good  natured  in  all  things,  produced  the  percolator  and 
lit  a  fire  in  the  burner.  Then,  while  Robert  turned  over  for  a 
list  snooze,  he  tip-toed  out  of  the  study.  On  the  landing  Mack 
met  Patrick  O'Brien,  blue-coated  and  brass-buttoned,  in  all  the 
magnificence  of  his  ofiBce  as  Princeton's  only  messenger  boy. 
"Another  wire  for  Mr.  Frothiugham,  sir,"  said  Pat. 
"Give  it  to  me,  Pat.     Mr.    Frothingham   isn't   awake   yet." 


158  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

Mack  opened  the  envelope  and  chuckled  when  he  read  the  mes- 
sage.    ''  Patrick,  would  you  like  to  earn  a  dollar  ?  " 

Pat's  eyes  fairly  popped  from  his  head.  Then  Mack,  with  hi& 
quiet,  good-natured  smile,  and  Pat,  all  Irish  grin,  slowly  des- 
cended the  stairs  of  Benton  Hall. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Robert  and  several  of  his  friends  were  en- 
joying their  breakfast  before  the  fire,  when  their  reminiscences 
of  the  night  previous  were  interrupted  by  a  rap  at  the  door  and 
the  unceremonious  entrance  of  a  little  red-headed  messenger  boy. 

"  Telegram  for  Mr,  Frothingham,  and  the  divil  of  a  time  IVe 
had  findin'  out  where  ye  roomed,"  this  said  with  a  twinkle  in 
his  Irish  eye  and  a  glance  around  to  see  if  **  Mr.  Mack"  were 
there.  **  It's  just  sent  to  Princeton,  N.  J.  'Tis  lucky  yer  name- 
ain't  Smith,  ye  wouldn^t  have  got  yer  wire.  'Tis  from  a  girl, 
too.'' 

"  Here's  a  quarter  for  your  trouble,  sonny,"  said  Bob,  amid 
the  shouts  of  laughter.  Then  he  read  to  his  friends:  **Mary 
Sarah  made  the  first  basket  ball  team  this  morning.  Elizabeth 
Morrison." 

It  was  with  great  presence  of  mind,  he  thought,  that  he  pre- 
tended to  be  as  surprised  as  the  rest. 

''  Let's  send  a  telegram  of  congratulations  !"  suggested  one  of 
the  group.  "Come  on,  Bob,  chip  in."  So  the  friends  dived 
into  their  pockets,  producing  nickels  and  dimes,  and  Bob  made 
up  the  sum  with  the  others. 

**  Flowers  and  a  telegram  ! "  he  muttered.  "  Gee  !  I'm  getting 
in  thick." 

The  fellows  "guyed"  him  a  little  about  Elizabeth  Morrrison  ;: 
he  was  glad  he  hadn't  mentioned  the  receipt  of  a  telegram  from 
another  girl  earlier  in  the  day. 

Alas  !  Such  concealment  was  not  for  long  !  Telegrams  began 
to  arrive  thick  and  fast;  telegrams  stating  rather  indefiiiitely 
that  "your  sister  has  just  made  the  team,"  to  the  detailed  ac- 
counts of  the  actual  "  taking  in."  Then,  the  messages  began  to 
repeat  themselves;  Catherine  Chase's  name  was  signed  to  three; 
Betty's  and  Frances'  names  to  two  each  ;  some  signed  with  the 
names  of  girls  he  knew  ;  others  with  names  he  had  never  heard 
before  ;  one  telegram  bore  no  signature  at  all. 

The  delight  of  Robert's  friends  and  the  dismay  of  Robert  him- 
self increased  at  each  arrival.  All  his  small  change  was  used  ta 
tip  the  messenger  boy.  When  his  last  quarter  was  gone,  Rob- 
ert's temper  went  too. 


THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  15» 

**  If  one  more  telegram  comes,  Patrick,"  he  exploded,  **you 
may  telephone  it  up  but  don't  you  dare  come  near  this  house 
again  ! " 

Then  Robert's  friends  leaned  back  in  their  chairs  and  howled 
with  joy.  "  Your  lady  friends  are  far  too  fond  of  you,  Bobby, 
for  the  good  of  your  temper,"  said  one. 

'^  His  acquaintance  at  Smith  is  certainly  not  limited  !"  hinted 
another. 

The  telegrams  stopped  coming.  Robert  was  called  twice  to  the 
telephone  but  he  refused  to  answer  it.  Then  (to  paraphrase 
Browning)  *' all  calls  ceased." 

Toward  evening  Robert  had  almost  regained  his  equanimity, 
and  smiled  loftily  at  the  jeers  of  his  friends.  Alas  again  !  that 
evening  came  the  knock-out  blow.  They  were  smoking  in  the 
study  when  a  timid  tap  caused  Mack  to  yell,  *'  Come  in  !"  Pat- 
rick allowed  his  snub  nose  and  china  blue  eye  to  be  visible  at 
the  crack.  He  pushed  one  of  the  hated  yellow  envelopes  at 
Robert  and  fled. 

"There's  a  quarter  due  on  it,  sir,  but  you  can  pay  it  at  th& 
oflfice,"  he  yelled  from  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

Robert  ripped  open  the  paper  and  read  these  words  : 

'*  Congratulate  me,  Bobby,  I  play  in  the  game  next  Saturday. 

Mary  Sarah." 

Bobby  squashed  the  yellow  sheet  and  hurled  it  into  the  flames. 
Then,  with  an  inspiration,  he  ran  to  the  window  and  yelled  to 
Patrick  :  "  Hey  you  boy,  come  back  !  There's  an  answer  to 
that  message  ! " 

With  diabolical  care  to  revenge  himself  on  his  sister  by  mak-^ 
ing  the  answer  eleven  words,  he  wrote  :  "  Heartiest  congrats — 
sure  do  wish  you  best  luck  in  the  game." 

'*Too  late  to  countermand  those  flowers  and  the  telegram  the 
fellows  sent  must  have  reached  her  hours  ago.  Bat,  by  heaven, 
I  hope  this  one  wakes  'em  all  up  at  twelve  o'clock  to-night  and 
that  Mary  Sarah  won't  have  a  cent  to  her  name  ! " 

Then  he,  too,  sent  his  telegram  collect. 


ARAN 

ANNA   ELIZABETH  SPICER 

The  Western  people  dwell  in  the  mists, 

In  the  pale  of  the  land  of  dreams  ; 
The  hosts  of  faery  well  they  know, 
Meanful  shadows  that  come  and  go. 

And  the  vision  by  night  that  gleams. 

A  song  I  would  of  the  Western  folk, 

Mystery  prisoned  in  word. 
They  sang  me  little,  daily  things  : 
Hearth  fire  agleam  as  the  mother  sings, 

Note  of  the  trill  of  a  bird. 


"  USELESS '^ 

LEONORA  BRANCH 

'*  Useless"  they  say  you  are.     You  do  not  know 
The  way  to  work,  the  way  to  bear  life's  woe. 
You  are  so  light  of  heart,  so  fancy-free, 
A  butterfly,  too  slight  a  thing  for  me. 

Yet  God  once  made  a  rose,  a  perfect  flow'r. 
That  lived  its  frail,  sweet  life  for  its  brief  hour, 
A  rose  of  flame,  with  heart  of  purest  gold, 
Deep  hidden  'neath  the  petals'  satin  fold, 
A  rose  so  beautiful,  so  perfect,  sweet, 
That  every  common  workman  in  the  street 
Who  smelled  its  fragrance,  went  upon  his  way, 
To  feel  a  sweeter  something  in  his  day. 

God  made  you,  too,  for  none  but  He  could  know 
The  way  to  mingle  fire,  rose  and  snow 
To  make  so  fair  a  woman.     On  your  lips 
He  crushed  the  rose's  red.     Your  finger-tips 
He  fashioned  slenderly  and  softly  there 
Above  your  brow  he  heaped  your  sunny  hair. 

And  weary  souls  who  pass  you  on  their  way. 
Look  up  and  smile  at  you  and  haply  say 
A  word  of  thankfulness,  a  word  of  prayer, 
Because  the  world  and  you  are  wondrous  fair. 

Ah,  you  are  light  of  heart,  how  should  you  seem 
More  than  fulfilment  of  a  precious  dream, 
Yet  they  who  call  you  "useless "  cannot  know 
'Twas  God's  dear  purpose  just  to  make  you  so. 

1  60 


EXTRACTS  FROM  LETTERS  HOME 

MARGARET  LOUISE  FARRAND 

I 

London. 

This  is  the  most  deliciously  amusing  hotel  you  can  imagine. 
Everyone  is  English  and  every  other  one  is  a  clergyman.  Ap- 
parently every  countrj^  vicar  who  ever  comes  to  London,  with 
or  without  his  wife,  stops  at  this  hotel.  It  is  a  very  modern 
place.  There  is  a  bath-room  on  each  floor  and  the  hotel  is 
immensely  proud  of  the  fact  that  baths  are  free.  (In  most 
places,  you  know,  you  have  to  pay  sixpence  for  them.)  You 
order  your  bath  when  you  are  called  in  the  morning,  the 
chamber-maid  draws  it  for  you  and  then  you  wrap  your  kimono 
about  you  and  dodge  after  her  through  miles  of  hall  to  the 
bath-room. 

The  parlor  and  lounge  are  on  the  second  floor.  The  parlor  is 
rather  a  stiff  affair.  All  the  furniture  in  it  was  brought  from 
Versailles,  goodness  knows  why  !  But  the  lounge  is  great  fun. 
It  is  a  sort  of  large-sized  sitting-room,  exactly  the  place  to  have 
tea,  with  a  long  row  of  book-shelves  at  one  end,  filled  with 
bound  volumes  of  Punch,  and  at  the  other  end  a  big  bay- 
window  looking  out  on  the  Embankment.  It  is  great  fun  to 
watch  the  trams  and  the  people  going  by  but  the  best  of  all  is 
the  morning  when  the  men  are  coming  in  to  the  city  to  work. 
There  is  an  exit  from  the  under-ground  right  below  the  window 
and  long  lines  of  men  keep  popping  up  from  below,  all  looking 
wQvj  spruce  and  unbusinesslike  with  their  cutaways,  silk  hats, 
umbrellas  and  buttonhole  bouquets  but  all  smoking  pipes, 
which  rather  spoils  the  effect. 

The  most  interesting  and  English  place  in  the  house  is  the 
dining-room.  In  the  middle  is  a  table  with  cold  joints,  which 
the  head  waiter  carves  for  you  if  you  don't  like  the  hot  dish. 
We  have  a  charming  waiter  who  treats  us  as  if  we  were  the 
royal  family,  at  least,  and  says,  "  Peas,  miss  ?  Oh,  thank  you, 
miss!"'  in  a  most  heartfelt  manner  if  I  help  myself  to  some. 
The  first  night  at  dinner  we,  having  no  finger-bowls,  made  bold 
to  ask  for  some.  The  request  created  great  consternation.  We 
saw  the  head  waiter  hastily  rummaging  about  the  room.     After 

3  161 


162  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

a  long  interval  he  produced  two  glass  bowls  from  a  cupboard 
beneath  the  sideboard  and  bore  them  towards  us  in  triumph, 
dusting  them  vigorously  on  the  way.  We  accepted  them  with 
gratitude  but  never  again  ventured  to  violate  the  sacred  tradi- 
tions of  the  place. 

II 

Shalford,  Surrey. 
Englisher  and  Englisher  !  We  are  now  ''lodging"  with  the 
*'tax  gatherer's  wife"  in  this  pretty  little  village  which  is  so 
small  that  our  letters  have  to  be  addressed  to  "Shalford  near 
Guilford."  We  are  in  the  corner  one  of  a  row  of  cottages  facing 
on  the  common,  each  with  its  neat  little  two-by-four  garden 
surrounded  by  a  stone  wall  which  a  baby  could  step  over  and 
each  with  gay  window-boxes.  Ours,  which  are  the  prettiest, 
have  red  geraniums  and  blue  verbenas.  We  have  the  living 
room,  which  runs  the  length  of  the  cottage,  on  the  ground  floor 
and  three  bedrooms  up-stairs,  one  with  a  feather-bed  and  all 
lighted  by  candles — there  are  lamps  down-stairs.  The  stairs, 
by  the  way,  are  very  steep  and  narrow  and  we  had  a  terrible 
time  getting  our  American  "boxes"  up  them.  One  absolutely 
refused  to  go  and  is  now  gracing  our  living  room  opposite  the 
piano.  The  tax-gatherer's  family  occupy  the  rest  of  the  house 
but  we  have  seen  very  little  of  them  except  Mrs.  Hoxton.  We 
know  that  there  are  two  boys  whom  their  mother  always  ad- 
dresses collectively  as  "Cyril  an"*  Ernie."  "Cyril  an'  Ernie, 
get  up  ! "  "  Cyril  an'  Ernie,  come  to  breakfast !  "  Housekeep- 
ing is  a  delight.  Mrs.  Hoxton  cooks  and  serves  our  meals  and 
every  morning  after  breakfast  she  comes  in  to  suggest  the 
menu  for  the  day.  She  has  in  her  garden  the  most  delicious- 
peas  that  I  have  ever  eaten,  so  we  usually  decide  to  have  fresh 
peas  for  dinner  and  the  peas  of  yesterday  made  into  soup. 
Then  we  make  a  list  of  the  other  things  needful  and  sally  forth 
to  do  our  marketing  at  the  little  row  of  shops  across  the  com- 
mon. The  most  delightful  of  all  is  the  butcher's,  which,  with 
its  open  front,  is  like  a  little  toy  store.  While  waiting  there 
this  morning  we  heard  the  following  dialogue  between  the 
butcher  and  his  wife  : 

"  Mrs.  Shipley  wants  to  know,  have  we  a  duck  ?" 
"To  be  sure,  we  have  a  duck,  but  it's  not  dead  yet ! " 


MOONLIGHT  OVER  THE  SEA 

MARTHA   FABYAN   CHADBOURNE 

From  the  farthest  point  of  the  far  away. 

As  I  gaze  o'er  the  surging  sea, 
To  the  nearest  crystal  of  gleaming  sand. 

Comes  the  shaft  of  the  moon  towards  me. 

I  see  midst  the  ceaseless  glimmer  of  light, 

Midst  the  splendid  peace  of  it  all. 
Myriad  wavelets  flicker  and  flame, 

And  myriad  ripples  fall. 

Now  a  crest  leaps  high  from  the  seething  foam, 

Dares  pause  at  hazardous  height ; 
A  flash,  and  'tis  gone,  another  is  there, 

Gay  plummet  of  marvelous  light. 

On  either  side  of  the  highway  of  light, 

Vast  billows  all  murky  and  deep 
Waver  and  writhe  with  the  wind  and  the  tide. 

Sea  dragons  that  never  may  sleep. 

Far  off  to  the  left,  a  wave-fretted  pier, 

Half  aflash  o'er  columns  and  floor, 
Reaches  out  like  a  hand  from  the  shadow-veiled  sand, 

And  fastens  the  sea  to  the  shore. 


FOG  FROM  THE  SEA 

DOROTHY   OCHTMAN 

The  gray  fog- spirits  slowly  rise 
From  dim  sea-caverns  no  one  sees  ; 

Slow  raise  their  cold  arms  to  the  skies 
And  shroud  behind  them  land  antl  trees. 

A  host  of  phantoms,  cruel,  cold, 
'Mid  treacherous  silence  faster  come, 

And  in  their  still  embrace  enfold 
Belated  sailors,  going  home, 

Who  know  not  whether  rocks  or  lands 

Or  open  sea  before  them  lies, 
For  the  spirits  touch  with  chilly  hands, 

And  breathe  salt  fog  before  their  eyes. 


STEVE 

ANNE  ELEANOR  VON  HARTEN 

Many  visitors  flock  to  Harpswell  Neck  in  the  summer  time  ; 
they  appropriate  the  one  crooked  street,  the  post-office  and  the 
general  store ;  the  dock  is  theirs  ;  the  sailing  craft  riding  so 
gracefully  at  their  moorings,  resplendent  in  their  polished  ma- 
hogany and  glittering  brass,  are  theirs ;  the  hotels  and  the 
cottages  of  shingles  left  to  weather  a  silvery  gray  like  the  rocks 
they  are  built  upon,  are  theirs.  But  notwithstanding  these 
extensive  possessions,  the  visitors  often  intrude  themselves 
inquisitively  into  the  fishermen's  huts  exclaiming  enthusiastic- 
ally over  their  quaintness,  and  expressing  a  determination  to 
*'do"  them  in  charcoal,  pastel  or  water  color,  as  the  case  may 
be,  and  then  go  away  wondering  why  the  humble  occupants 
seemed  to  resent  the  honor.  In  fact,  the  summer  visitors  are 
such  an  overpowering  element  that  it  is  only  when  the  first 
chilly  breath  of  autumn  has  blown  them  back  to  their  cities 
that  the  perennial  inhabitants  of  the  place,  birds  of  a  more 
sombre  hue,  come  into  evidence.  At  such  a  time  one  is  likely 
to  discover  that  Steve  Toothacre  is  a  pillar  of  the  town. 

No  man  was  ever  more  long  and  lean  and  guant  than  Steve. 
When  standing  still  in  his  high  rubber  boots  and  ill-fitting 
clothes  his  awkward  lankiness  was  almost  grotesque  and  yet 
there  was  a  free  and  easy  grace  about  his  lithe  and  powerful 
movements.  From  continual  exposure  his  face  was  as  tough 
and  brown  as  cow's  hide  and  the  sun  and  salt  water  had  so 
wrought  upon  his  hair  that  it  had  no  more  texture  left  than  the 
tuft  at  the  end  of  a  cow's  tail.  The  hard  lines  about  his  mouth, 
stern  witnesses  of  hardship  and  privation,  made  him  seem  much 
older  than  he  really  was.  He  was  unusually  dignified  and 
grave  for  one  of  his  years,  this  air  probably  being  augmented 
by  the  habitual  sadness  of  his  face  or  a  sort  of  melancholy 
common  to  all  people  who  inhabit  the  barren  coast  and  wrest  a 
precarious  living  from  the  sea.  To  his  regular  occupation  of 
deep  sea  fishing  Steve  added  in  the  summer  time  the  work  of 
piloting  pleasure  craft. 

Thus  it  was  that  Steve  became  the  skipper  of  the  Constance  II 

1  64 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY       165 

fifteen  years  ago.  We  children  cannot  remember  the  time 
when  we  did  not  know  him  ;  our  earliest  memories  of  vacation 
time  center  about  him.  It  was  he  who  guided  our  childish 
hands  as  they  grasped  the  sheet ;  it  was  he  who  initiated 
us  into  the  mysteries  of  the  tiller  and  taught  us  to  appreciate  an 
expanse  of  wave  and  sky  with  a  stiff  breeze  blowing.  Although 
we  grew  with  the  years  in  mutual  respect  and  understanding, 
we  conversed  very  little.  There  was  a  shy  and  primitive  reserve 
about  him  and  no  amount  of  artful  suggesting  or  gentle  coaxing 
would  draw  him  out  if  he  wished  to  be  silent.  But  when  he 
did  speak  his  voice  was  very  surprising.  Instead  of  being  deep 
and  powerful,  as  one  might  expect  coming  from  so  great  a 
frame,  it  was  high,  thin  and  squeaky.  This  quality  of  voice  is 
found  in  many  fishermen  of  that  community  and  is  the  result 
of  their  calling  to  each  other  across  long  distances  when  at  sea. 
Their  shrill  and  piercing  cries  sometimes  carry  for  miles. 

When  on  our  many  sails  Steve's  favorite  position  was  in  the 
stern,  where  he  would  stretch  his  lanky  self  at  full  length,  the 
personification  of  careless  laziness  but  with  his  chin  in  his  hand 
propped  up  by  his  elbow,  his  face  never  losing  its  vigilance,  his 
keen  blue  eye  ever  searching  the  smiling  waves  for  a  sign.  His 
look  was  of  one  who  knew  the  treachery  of  the  sea  but  whose 
daring,  tempered  with  prudence,  could  conquer  any  situation. 
This  look  always  gave  us  a  sense  of  security  in  his  safe-keeping. 
But  strangers  never  saw  Steve  in  his  inspired  moments.  He 
disliked  strangers  with  all  his  stubborn  heart  and  whenever  we 
took  any  of  them  sailing  he  became  morose  and  irritable.  Steve 
also  had  a  deep  aversion  for  new  sails,  he  was  offended  by  their 
flashy  and  impudent  whiteness,  and  so  we  never  had  a  new  sail. 
Our  old  one  grew  dingier  and  more  weather-beaten  and  finally 
a  gale  blew  a  big  hole  in  it.  A  white  patch  appeared,  which 
made  the  old  sail  seem  blacker  and  dingier  than  ever  by  con- 
trast. Two  years  later  a  gale  blew  a  hole  in  the  patch  but 
Steve's  ingenuity  was  a  match  for  the  occasion.  A  small  white 
patch  appeared  upon  the  large  one,  which  then  seemed  a  dirty 
gray.  Our  neighbors  laughingly  remarked  that  soon  we  would 
have  an  artistic  scale  of  color  values. 

Our  peaceful  tenor  of  existence  was  disturbed  one  day  by 
two  remarkable  events.  One  was  that  Commander  Peary  was 
reported  to  have  discovered  the  North  Pole.  The  news  was 
telegraphed  to  our  little  post-office  and  three  rough  fishermen 


166  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

started  out  in  a  pound  boat  to  bear  the  message  to  Mrs.  Peary, 
who  lives  about  four  miles  distant  on  Eagle  Island.  The  other 
remarkable  event  was  the  disappearance  of  Steve.  We  were 
all  the  more  surprised  as  our  descriptions  of  the  world  beyond 
Harpswell  N"eck  had  always  failed  to  move  him  and  he  clung  to 
his  native  rocks  as  if  with  a  secret  insight  into  Longfellow's 
sentiment  that 

"  Home-keeping  hearts  are  happiest." 

At  the  end  of  a  week,  however,  he  returned,  with  the  explana- 
tion that  he  had  been  to  Portland  to  get  his  teeth  '*  corked, 
plugged  and  varnished."  By  degrees  it  also  leaked  out  that 
Steve  had  got  himself  a  wife,  no  other  than  Maria,  the  Pearys' 
€ook  !  Perhaps  the  glory  that  now  surrounded  the  residents  of 
Eagle  Island  suffused  its  golden  rays  even  around  the  cook, 
making  her  an  extraordinary  being  in  the  eyes  of  Stephen 
Toothacre.  At  any  rate  we  all  approved  highly  of  Maria  and 
were  glad  that  Steve  had  someone  to  keep  his  little  hut  neat 
and  homelike  for  him  and  sit  beside  him  on  the  beach  among 
the  lobster-traps,  where  he  mended  chinks  in  his  fish-nets  with 
a  mammouth  needle  and  thread  dipped  in  tar. 

The  last  we  saw  of  Steve  was  from  the  deck  of  the  steamer. 
We  were  leaving  Harpswell  and  on  the  dock  below  us  were  the 
upturned  faces  and  floating  handkerchiefs  of  many  friends.  On 
the  outskirts  of  the  crowd,  standing  quietly,  with  Maria  beside 
him  and  a  background  of  mist,  was  Steve.  No  doubt  he  had 
come  to  see  us  off  but  he  seemed  much  more  interested  in  the 
cargo  of  salted  fish.  Presently  the  gang  plank  was  drawn  in, 
the  ropes  were  thrown  off,  we  moved  and  a  sheet  of  fog  closed 
them  all  from  our  view. 

Now  we  sail  in  different  waters  and  with  a  new  skipper  but 
we  have  the  same  boat  and  the  same  old  sail.  Yesterday,  when 
we  were  returning  at  sunset  from  a  run  to  Portsmouth,  the  new 
skipper  intimated  that  our  sail  was  very  shabby.  He  knew 
where  we  could  get  a  good  one.  Would  we  have  it  ?  We  all 
looked  up  at  the  old  sail  and  smiled  at  the  big  gray  patch  with 
the  white  patch  upon  it,  sewed  with  stitches  that  resembled 
nothing  so  much  as  hen-scratching.  No,  we  do  not  want  the 
new  sail,  at  least  for  a  while.  Such  a  work  of  art  is  sacred  to 
the  past  and  our  old  friend  Steve. 


WHEN  YOU  PLAY 

MARION  DELAMATER  FREEMAN 

I  think  of  cool  green  shadows  of  late  afternoon 

Lying  upon  the  grass, 
The  sigh  of  the  summer  breeze  in  the  swaying  tree-tops, 

Of  wind-blown  clouds  that  pass. 

I  dream  of  apple-blossoms  'gainst  a  deep  blue  sky, 

Of  the  lilt  of  bird-song, 
And  the  joyous,  rippling  laugh  of  a  meadow  brook 

Winding  its  way  along. 

And  as  I  dream,  I  lose  the  present's  sadness. 

Forget  to-day  is  gray, 
And  deep  down  in  my  heart  thrills  matchless  ecstasy, 

For  joy  comes  when  you  play  I 


THE  FEAR  OF  ABELLINI 

MARGARET   BLOOM 

Robert  Moulton  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  leisurely  lighted 
a  cigar.  We  had  dined  together  and  had  talked  of  many  things. 
But  now  I  felt  the  great  moment  was  come,  for  after  a  quiet 
dinner  Moulton  always  had  a  story  to  tell  and  his  stories  were 
greatly  to  my  taste. 

Moulton  sat  in  silence  a  few  moments  watching  the  smoke 
-curl  from  his  cigar.  His  delicate  face  was  alight  and  his  well- 
bred  person  would  not  to  the  average  mind  suggest  his  calling, 
for  he  was  a  circus  clown. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  me  speak  of  Rosa  Abellini?"  asked 
Moulton.  "She  was  a  lion  tamer  and  had  three  great  lions, 
vicious  brutes  they  were.  We  called  her  the  *  Great  Abellini/ 
for  she  did  not  know  fear.  I  used  to  watch  her  for  she  fasci- 
nated me  and  pretty  nearly  everyone  else,  I  guess.  Fear  is  a 
part  of  man's  nature  but  Abellini  did  not  have  it.  Her  lions 
cowered  at  her  feet  and  whined  with  terror  when  she  punished 
them.  I  can  see  her  yet  as  she  stood,  a  splendid  figure,  her 
black  eyes  gleaming  and  her  lions  fawning  at  her  feet. 

"  There  was  a  young  Swede  in  the  circus.  He  was  a  carpen- 
ter and  a  good  sort  of  fellow.     He  never  seemed  to  notice  Abel- 


168  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

liai  or  to  hang  around  her  the  way  the  others  did.  He  went 
about  his  business,  as  stolid  a  Swede  as  ever  you  saw.  Pretty 
soon  I  saw  that  Abellini  was  watching  him.  It  was  strange 
that  she  should  for  no  human  creature  was  anything  to  her. 
She  had  no  friends,  no  family,  yes,  even  no  God. 

"  This  went  on  for  a  long  time  and  then  I  saw  a  change  in 
Abellini.  She  trembled  when  a  lion  snarled  at  her  and  once 
cried  out  in  terror  when  a  lioness  crouched  to  spring.  The  lions 
felt  the  change  and  waited  their  chance.  One  day  all  the  lions- 
turned  on  her  at  once.  I  was  near  and  with  the  help  of  the 
others  got  her  out  unharmed.  She  was  as  white  and  trembling 
as  any  woman. 

''She  sold  her  lions  and  gave  up  her  work,  for  a  lion  tamer 
cannot  be  afraid.  I  knew  she  loved  the  Swede  and  her  love  had 
made  her  a  woman." 

Moulton  paused  as  if  his  story  was  ended. 

''  But  what  of  the  Swede  ?"  I  asked. 

'*  Oh,  he  never  understood,"  said  Moulton.  "  He  was  as  blind 
as  a  bat." 

Moulton  threw  away  the  stump  of  his  cigar  and  delicately 
dusted  a  few  ashes  from  his  sleeve. 

"What  became  of  Abellini  ?  "  I  demanded.  "You  can't  leave 
her  this  way.     Tell  me  what  became  of  her." 

"Well,"  said  Moulton,  "we've  come  to  the  point  at  last."' 
He  brushed  off  some  imaginary  ashes  slowly  and  carefully.. 
"  The  truth  is,"  he  said  apologetically,  "Abellini,  having  for- 
gotten the  Swede,  is  going  to  marry  me  at  noon  to-morrow,  and 
I  need  a  best  man." 


AN  ACHIEVEMENT 

MARIE   DORIS   SCHIPPER  GRAFF 

Daddy's  coming  home  to-morrow, 

Gee,  I'm  glad,  hurrah,  hurroo  ! 
Guess  he'll  think  I'm  growin'  up 

When  he  knows  what  I  can  do. 
So  call  me  early,  don't  forget  it, 

I  just  wonder  what  he'll  say. 
For,  you  know,  I've  learned  to  whistle, 

Just  since  Dad  has  been  away. 


LULLABY 

(TO   F.    L.    B.) 
JEANNE  WOODS 

The  night  wind  goes  flowing  so  soft  and  low, 

Singing  a  bedtime  song, 
And  the  sharp  stars  glitter  against  the  bine, 

Like  diamonds  strewn  along, 
They're  the  candles,  I  think,  baby  angels  hold, 

All  going  to  bed  in  a  throng. 

Their  bed  is  a  big,  warm,  fleecy  cloud, 
That  rests  on  the  winds  that  blow. 

And  rocks  the  baby  angels  to  sleep, 
With  a  motion  even  and  slow. 

And  now  the  angels  are  all  asleep, 

For  their  candles  are  dark  on  high. 

And  you,  little  human  child  so  tired, 
Half  asleep  in  the  grass  you  lie, 

So  we'll  light  your  bedtime  candle,  too, 
And  say  good-night  to  the  sky. 


LIFE 

MARTHA   EMMA   WATTS 

Asleep  shall  I  be 

When  I  no  more  feel 
A  thrill  at  the  throb  in  the  robin's  throat, 
Pain  at  the  whip-poor-will's  plaintive  note, 
Yearning  to  see  the  dark  birds  float 
Home 

"Gainst  a  blue-breasted  sky. 

Asleep  shall  I  be, 

But  now  it  is  sweet 
With  the  softly  stirred  trees  to  murmur  a  sigh. 
To  yearn  to  be  with  the  bird  in  the  sky, 
To  thrill  at  the  call  of  his  mate  floating  by 
Home 

'G-ainst  a  blue-breasted  sky. 

169 


ABOUT    COLLEGE 


SOMETHING  DIFFERENT  IN  SUITS 

ROBERTA   FRANKLIN 

Personally  I  don't  believe  there  is  such  a  thing  as  "  something 
•different  in  suits."  It  is  an  elusive  but  most  mysteriously  tan- 
talizing will-o'-the-wisp.  For  weeks  I  have  been  going  to 
Springfield  every  Saturday,  my  mind  fully  made  up  to  catch 
that  will-o'-the-wisp  and  come  back  with  "something  different 
in  suits,"  but  so  far  I  am  a  miserable  failure. 

The  trouble  began  when  I  opened  my  weekly  letter  from  the 
family  and  read  the  sentence,  "  Now  don't  get  a  tailored  suit, — 
get  something  a  little  different."  I  smiled.  How  nice  !  for  I 
was  tired  of  tailored  suits.  I  would  go  right  down  to  Spring- 
field on  Saturday  to  get  it. 

I  did  go  Saturday — I  did  not  get  the  suit.  I  walked  into  the 
^rst  shop  I  saw  and  asked  to  look  at  suits.  A  most  imposing 
lady  in  black  bore  down  upon  me  with  an  armful  of — tailored 
suits.  I  smiled  patronizingly.  "  I  don't  care  to  look  at  tailored 
suits,"  I  said,  in  my  most  grown-up  tone. 

"  What  do  you  want,  broadcloth,  velvet  or  corduroy?"  she 
asked. 

"E — why — ah — yes,  no,  that  is,  different,  you  know,  some- 
thing different."  It  was  funny — I  couldn't  think  exactly  ivhat 
was  different. 

She  disappeared  and  came  back  in  a  moment  with  a  brown 
velvet  suit  with  a  yellow  and  green  plush  collar.  "Very  dif- 
ferent," she  said  as  she  bundled  me  into  the  suit.  I  thought 
it  was. 

"  But  don't  you  think  that  yellow  plush  next  to  red  hair — " 

"  Beautiful,  miss,  just  grand,"  she  replied,  trjnng  to  make  a 
button  and  a  button-hole  six  inches  apart  meet,  "and  it  just 
fits,  too." 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      171 

After  being  forced  to  look  at  myself  from  all  sides  till  my 
«yes  ached  with  the  yellow  and  red,  I  at  last  freed  myself  of  the 
awful  coat  and  picking  np  my  own,  I  murmured  as  I  bolted  for 
the  door,  ''An  important  engagement — I'll  be  down  to-morrow. 
But  then,"  I  thought  as  I  reached  the  street,  "that's  only  one 
shop.  I  don't  believe  it's  a  good  one,  anyway.  I'm  going  to 
try  the  one  across  the  street  with  the  adorable  purple  petticoats 
in  the  window."  But  forewarned  is  forearmed.  When  the  sales- 
lady came  up  to  me  asking  what  I  wanted,  I  said,  "Suits,  but 
nothing  tailored— something  rather  different." 

"  I  have  exactly  what  you  want,"  she  said,  and  left  me,  happy 
in  the  knowledge  that  I  had  chosen  the  right  store. 

A  moment  later  and  she  was  back,  carrying  a  suit ;  a  perfectly 
plain  coat,  not  even  a  bright  button  on  it,  and  a  skirt  with  one 
tiny  tuck  in  the  front.  "Ah,  but  I  want  something  different — 
odd — peculiar — striking — you  know. 

"That's  just  what  this  is.  Look  at  that  jauntily  draped 
skirt,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the  solitary  tuck. 

"  It  will  not  do,"  I  said.     I  would  be  firm. 

"  Well,  that's  the  newest  thing  we've  got— of  course  if  you 
want  something  of  last  year's—"  and  back  she  went,  returning 
with  a  green  velvet,  trimmed  with  innumerable  glass  buttons. 
It  made  me  dizzy  to  think  of  fastening  them.  "  Here  is  this, — 
very  good-looking  but  not  nearly  the  style  of  the  suit  I  showed 
you,"  referring  to  the  lone  tuck  again.  I  told  her  I  didn't  like 
the  buttons.  "  Everything's  buttons  this  year,"  she  said.  Once 
more  she  brought  me  a  suit,  a  mahogany  shade.  Meekly  I 
offered  the  opinion  that  red  hair  and  mahogany  clashed. 
"Everything  from  Paris  is  this  shade,"  she  replied  ;  but  when 
I  saw  her  diving  under  the  pile  of  suits  on  the  table  for  that 
tucked  skirt,  I  arose. 

"  I  didn't  intend  to  get  one  to-day,  anyway.  1  shall  be  down 
to-morrow,"  and  I  left. 

Many,  many  Saturdays  I  have  repeated  this  performance. 
The  results  are  always  the  same.  I  wrote  my  family,  "  I  think 
■a,  girl  who  spends  all  her  money  on  clothes  is  missing  a  great 
many  things.  So  I  have  decided  to  buy  a  little  Victrola  and 
not  get  a  suit. 

Miss  Jordan's  note  :  "And  I  must  say  that  in  a  campus  house 
-even  the  green  suit  with  glass  buttons  would  be  preferred." 


ORIGINAL 

JULIET  STAUNTON 

She  is  battling  with  her  Webster's, 
Striving  desperately  to  win, 

For  the  note  she  would  make  clever 
Must  return  an  Alpha  pin. 

There's  a  flower  in  Field's  window 
That  would  do  it  better  far, 

But  Opinion  says  she  mustn't — 
That  should  be  her  guiding  star. 

So  she  struggles  bravely  onward, 
Thinking,  rhyming  with  great  pain, 

'Till  she  ends  with  an  inspired 
"  Thanking  you  so  much,  again  ! " 


TO  H.  T. 

A.    LILIAN  PETERS 

Oh  thou  so  fresh  and  fair  to  look  upon, 
Perfect  in  form,  delight  of  every  eye, 
Cheering  with  radiant  promise  those  who  come 
And  gaze  on  thee  with  longing  eagerness  ; 
Promise  which  thou  wilt  never  now  fulfill — 
What  has  become  of  all  that  freshening  glow 
Which  radiated  from  thee  even  now? 
Why  art  thou  cold  beneath  my  eager  touch, 
That  burst  before  my  gaze  not  long  ago  ? 
It  must  not  be  I    My  need  for  thee  is  great ! 
Thou'rt  manna  to  my  weary,  hungry  soul — 
I  cannot  live  without  thee  I    Come  relent 
And  summon  back  the  warmth  that's  life  to  me. 
What !    No  response?    No  answer  to  my  plea  ? 
Thou  wilt  not  glow  again — nor  heed  my  prayers? 
Forever  then  persist  in  thy  decree  ! 
Forever  coldly  then  repel  the  hand 
That  seeks  Hot  Toast ! 

112 


MY  FIRST  '^SHOWER*' 

M.    MCDOWELL 

It  was  not  a  "  handkerchief  shower  "  nor  a  "  dishcloth  shower ' 
nor  an  "egg-beater  shower"  nor  any  other  kind  of  a  shower 
•directly  or  indirectly  connected  with  a  wedding,  and  by  '*  di- 
rectly" I  mean  when  you  are  the  bride,  and  by  "indirectly"  I 
mean  when  you  aren't.  It  was  merely  that  time-taking,  shriek- 
producing,  inevitable  complem.ent  of  "gym,"  a  shower-bath. 

I  hope  that  no  one  will  interpret  the  adjective  "first"  as 
meaning  that  I  belong  to  "the  great  unwashed,"  for  I  have 
had  a  large,  in  fact  an  almost  unlimited  experience  with  baths 
of  many  kinds,  beginning  with  that  instrument  of  torture,  the 
daily  cold  plunge,  before  which  you  stand  shivering  for  many 
minutes,  and  then,  murmuring  the  fatal  words,  "One  for  the 
money,  two  for  the  show,"  deliberately  inflict  upon  yourself 
great  discomfort,  and  make  the  bath-room  unnavigable  for 
many  who  are  to  come.  I  also  include  in  my  experience  many 
battles  with  breakers,  and  peaceful  swims  in  mountain  lakes, 
and  that  religious  rite — and  I  use  the  adjective  "religious'^ 
a<lvisedly,  since  cleanliness  is  next  to  godliness — which  used  to 
be  held  sacred  to  Saturday  night.  But  throughout  all  this  vast 
experience,  I  have  always  deliberately  and  carefully  avoided 
the  shower-bath.  Hence  my  predominant  sensation  on  learning 
that  what  was  expected  of  us  from  twelve  till  one  on  Mondays 
and  Tuesdays,  and  three  to  four  on  Thursdays  and  Fridays, 
was  not  unalloyed  bliss. 

I  marched  across  the  gymnasium  floor  after  my  first  lesson, 
with  chin  proudly  erect,  shoulders  back,  and  body  rigid  with  a 
conscious  effort  to  imitate  Annette  Kellermann.  Then  I  hurried 
to  the  basement  and  after  plunging  into  a  number  of  dressing- 
rooms  that  didn't  belong  to  me,  and  being  summarily  ejected 
by  the  irate  and  scantily  clothed  occupants,  I  at  last  found  my 
own.  My  section  (Section  B)  was  to  take  the  "shower"  first. 
The  words  rang  ominously  in  my  ears,  and  something  told  me 
that  I  had  better  hurry.  With  energy  I  fought  my  way  out  of 
my  gymnasium  suit,  struggled  with  the  strings  of  my  shield, 
aud  vainly  strove  to  unfasten  shoe-lacings  that  were  usually 
only  too  apt  to  become  untied  at  critical  moments.     In  spite  of 

173 


174  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

all  my  haste  the  first  bell  rang  before  I  was  ready.  Doors^ 
opened  all  along  the  hall.  The  slap  of  unslippered  feet  sounded 
on  the  rubber  matting,  and  then  came  another  bell,  a  sound  of 
rushing  water,  and  many  excited  squeals.  I  was  too  late  for 
Division  B  !  For  a  moment  hope  awoke  in  me.  Perhaps  I 
wouldn't  have  to  take  a  shower  after  all.  I  was,  however, 
doomed  to  disappointment,  for  a  moment  later  a  knock  sounded 
on  my  door,  and  the  voice  of  an  instructor,  making  itself  heard 
above  the  noise  of  shrieks  and  running  water,  sharply  inquired 
what  I  was  doing.  Sullenly  I  explained  that  I  was  "unavoid- 
ably detained. '' 

"You  may  take  the  shower  with  A  division,"  she  announced 
cruelly,  and  with  a  groan  I  returned  to  the  task  of  undressing. 

All  too  soon  sounded  the  second  bell.  A  long  line  of  drippings 
girls  trooped  down  the  hall,  and  I,  tucking  my  hair  under  a 
tight  rubber  cap,  and  draping  the  combination  towel  and  bath 
robe  about  me,  joined  Section  A.  They  were  a  forlorn-looking- 
collection.  Their  sheets  had  been  arranged  with  varied  skill, 
but  all  could  be  divided  into  two  general  classes,  those  who 
sheltered  their  shoulders  at  the  expense  of  their  legs,  and  those 
who,  with  true  early-Yictorian  modesty,  shielded  their  "limbs'^ 
at  the  expense  of  their  shoulders.  All  looked  cold  and  miser- 
able. Soon  another  bell  rang,  and  we  fled  into  the  "torture- 
chambers." 

"Enter  the  shower-room,  turn  j^our  back  to  the  entrance,, 
remove  the  sheet,  and  suspend  it  from  the  buttonholes  in  the 
upper  corners,  thus  forming  a  door."  The  directions  were  quite 
clear.  Cautiously  1  backed  into  the  shower,  and  started  to  hang 
up  the  sheet,  but  just  then  there  was  a  sudden  rush  of  water. 
Blinded,  breathless,  sputtering,  I  hunted  for  those  buttonholes, 
but  not  a  trace  of  them  could  be  found.  To  hold  up  the  sheet 
was  a  little  trying,  as  I  thereby  received  the  full  force  of  the 
water  just  at  the  back  of  my  neck,  from  which  it  trickled  chillily 
down  my  spinal  column.  That  something  must  be  done  I 
plainly  realized.  I  decided  to  trust  to  the  sheet's  staying  on 
the  hooks  if  I  twisted  it  a  bit.  This  seemed  practicable,  and  I 
stepped  back  under  the  shower.  A  second  later  the  sheet 
dropped  with  a  thud,  and  the  water  streamed  out  into  the  corri- 
dor. Wildly  I  seized  the  now  hated  thing,  and  hung  it  up 
again,  but  this  time  I  made  no  attempt  to  make  it  stay  of  its 
own  accord.      I  spread   myself  out   crucifix-like    against    the 


THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY  175 

dripping  expanse,  and  waited.  After  an  eternity  came  the 
signal.  Never  has  and  never  can  Tetrazini's  highest,  clearest 
note  sound  more  exquisite  to  my  ears  than  did  that  clanging, 
penetrating,  raucous-toned  bell.  The  water  diminished  to  a 
thin  stream,  and  then  finally  stopped  entirely,  and  I,  with  that 
sensation  which  Mrs.  Ewing  describes  as  the  most  blessed  of  all 
others,  relief,  wrapped  myself  up,  and  shivering,  slunk  away. 
It  was  over ! 


RULES  FOR  PACKING  AND  UNPACKING  TRUNKS 

NATALIE   CARPENTER 

I.  Find  the  key.  Do  this  at  least  two  weeks  beforehand  sq 
that  you  may  have  that  delightful  fore-handed  feeling. 

II.  Drop  the  key  into  a  jewelry  box  and  pack  this  well  in  the 
bottom  of  the  trunk.  This  will  cause  excitement  just  before 
you  leave  and  thus  prevent  you  from  being  homesick. 

III.  Pack  the  roll  of  paper  for  your  bureau  drawers  in  the 
bottom  of  your  trunk. 

IV.  Pack  the  coat  to  your  traveling  suit  and  your  veil  in  the 
lower  tray. 

V.  Open  a  bottle  of  Carbona.  Then  pack  it  between  that 
picture  of  the  Elysee  Palace  Aunt  Nell  gave  you  and  your  new 
pink  evening  gown.  This  will  probably  serve  to  break  the 
picture  frame  and  save  you  the  trouble  of  hanging  the  picture. 

VI.  Leave  out  of  the  trunk  your  opera  boots,  dictionary  and 
all  of  your  music.  This  makes  a  nice  little  package  for  you  to 
carry  and  gives  you  a  sort  of  nonchalant  air  as  you  board  the 
train. 

RULES   FOR   UNPACKING 

I.  Place  your  trunk  in  the  narrowest  part  of  the  hall. 

II.  Take  out  all  the  trays  and  arrange  them  in  a  perfect 
hexagon  around  you. 

III.  Get  the  paper  for  your  bureau  drawers  from  the  bottom 
of  the  trunk.  This  saves  a  great  amount  of  work  as  it  exposes 
almost  everything  in  the  bottom  of  the  trunk  thus  allowing  you 
to  get  things  more  easily. 

IV.  Dump  the  top  tray  out  on  your  bed. 

V.  Go  down  to  Beckman's  for  an  ice. 


HEARD    ON    THE    TAR    WALK 


Realized  Longings 


At  last  the  first  half-year  is  o'er, 
The  taxi's  waiting  at  the  door, 
The  girls  are  rushing  to  and  fro, 
It's  Christmas  time,  I'd  have  you  know. 

To  Lilly,  College,  Seelye,  all, 

They  wave  farewell  to  every  hall. 

To  McCallum's,  Kingsley's  and  Niquette's, 

They  sigh  and  wish  they'd  paid  their  debts. 

And  so  they  clatter  down  the  street, 
A  thrill  runs  through  from  head  to  feet, 
They  know  they're  going  home  to-day. 
They  intimate  they're  home  to  stay. 

The  trains  puff  in,  and  then  pull  out, 
Bearing  the  girls  along  their  route, 
They  realize  it  is  no  myth, 
Vacation  has  begun  for  Smith. 

Julia  Tandy  1917. 

Alas! 

Sunset,  star,  and  moonlight  night, 

Winter's  leaden  skies, 
Blush  on  maiden's  cheek  so  bright, 

Tears  in  maiden's  eyes  ; 
Summer,  sailing,  mermaids,  seas, 

Woodland  melody — 
A  wealth  of  poetry  lies  in  these, 

A  wealth — but  not  for  me  ! 

My  mind  must  dwell  on  sterner  things, 

A  rocky  road  tread  I 
And  dare  not  heed  the  bird  that  sings 

The  rose  of  sunset  sky  ; 
The  path  where  errant  laughter  plays 

No  longer  beckons  me  ; 
I  think  of  nothing  nowadays 

Except  my  English  C. 

Adelaide  Heilbron  1915. 

116 


The  Recent  Exhibition  of  Paintings 

Written  with  the  assistance  of  Professor  Churchill. 

During  November  the  college  was  very  much  interested  in 
an  exhibition  of  paintings  at  the  Hillyer  Art  Gallery  loaned 
through  the  courtesy  of  the  Worcester  Art  Museum.  At  present 
a  fine  collection  of  prints  from  the  Congressional  Library  at 
Washington  is  on  view.  These  two  exhibitions  are  but  the 
beginning  of  a  series  to  be  offered  by  the  Art  Department 
during  the  college  year.  We  may  expect  two  more  exhibitions 
of  paintings  and  three  of  color  prints,  etchings  and  other  mate- 
rial. These  exhibitions  are  very  significant  in  the  history  of 
the  Art  Museum.  It  means  that  new  life  will  constantly  be 
brought  in  and  that  the  educational  value  of  the  college  art 
€ollection  will  be  ever  on  the  increase.  It  is  hoped  that  these 
exhibitions  will  be  of  interest  to  people  in  and  round  about 
Northampton. 

In  the  summer  four  pictures  were  sent  to  the  Albright  Mu- 
seum in  Buffalo.  It  is  gratifying  to  know  that  they  were  given 
places  of  honor  and  to  hear  that  splendid  things  were  said  of 
them.  Since  the  Hillyer  Art  Gallery  is  in  a  position  to  return 
the  compliment,  it  can  ask  the  loan  of  pictures  from  other 
collections. 

The  November  exhibition,  though  small,  showed  the  work  of 
six  prominent  American  artists. 

"  Winter  Morning,"  a  charming  study  in  greens  and  reds, 
was  by  Childe  Hassam  of  New  York,  the  most  characteristic 
representative  of  modern  Impressionism  in  the  United  States. 
A  girl  in  a  blue-green  kimono  sits  peeling  an  orange  before  a 
large  studio  window.  Out  of  the  window  in  bewildering  per-* 
spective  through  a  thin  film  of  muslin  curtains,  a  typical  New 
York  horizon  can  be  seen.  The  atmosphere  possesses  an  elec- 
tric vitality,  a  piquant  spiciness,  characteristic  of  the  painter. 
We  are  led  at  once  to  a  comparison  with  the  two  of  his  pictures 
in  our  gallery.  These  two  pictures  have  the  same  exhilarating 
tang.  Hassam's  individuality  is  too  strong  to  allow  of  his  being 
thought  of  as  a  servile  imitator,  yet  his  vision  and  his  tech- 
nical methods  are  distinctly  a  part  of  the  French  Impressionist 

movement. 

4  m 


178  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  J^EOXTHLY 

Of  these  pictures  perhaps  the  least  interesting  to  most  of  u& 
was  the  "American  Girl,"  a  delicate  harmony  in  grey  and 
lavender  by  J.  Alden  Weir.  Nevertheless  the  subject  is  charm- 
ing and  her  charm  seems  to  lie  in  her  spirituality. 

"The  Girl  Playing  Solitaire/'  by  Frank  Benson,  was  disap- 
pointing. ,  At  first  it  attracted  the  eye  more  than  any  other  paint- 
ing in  the  room,  but  it  failed  to  hold  the  interest.  This  may  have 
been  due  to  its  one-sided  color  harmony.  The  yellow  and  grey 
needed  something  for  contrast,  perhaps  a  violet  note.  The  yellow 
could,  then,  have  been  more  subdued  without  appearing  less 
brilliant. 

"  Sally,"  a  portrait  of  the  young  daughter  of  the  artist,  Joseph 
DeCamp,  was  a  general  favorite.  It  is  a  fine  direct  piece  of 
painting  done  by  a  good  draughtsman,  yet  we  expect  something 
more  from  the  truest  art.  This  painting  was  a  shade  too  photo- 
graphic in  quality,  and  possibly  too  obvious  to  retain  its  hold 
on  the  imagination. 

Mary  Cassatt,  who,  though  an  American  woman,  is  one  of  the 
most  prominent  of  French  Impressionists,  was  represented  in 
this  exhibit.  "  Mother  and  Child  "  is  light  in  key  and  the  tech- 
nique is  of  the  same  general  type  as  that  of  "  Winter  Morning." 
It  seems  to  have  been  painted  in  shreds  and  patches  of  pure 
color.  Miss  Cassatt  shows  a  remarkable  knowledge  of  child 
psychology  in  her  work.  Indeed  in  this  painting,  the  climax 
of  the  whole  is  the  child's  head,  so  true  and  fine  and  yet  so 
inscrutable  in  its  expression.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  as  yet 
Smith  College  owns  nothing  from  the  brush  of  this  artist. 

The  gem  of  the  exhibition  was  generally  considered  to  be 
"  The  Venetian  Blind,"  by  Edmund  C.  Tarbell.  The  Venetian 
suraptuousness  of  color,  the  rich,  full  and  varied  technique, 
makes  it  seem  as  if  the  brush  had  "changed,"  as  Fromentin 
says,  "  with  the  diflterent  emotions  of  the  painter."  It  is  this 
variety  that  makes  the  picture  ever  charming — the  patina  of 
the  wood  in  the  antique  sofa,  the  softness  of  the  robe,  the 
rounded  beauty  of  the  form,  the  fluffiness  of  the  hair,  the 
whole  body  supple  and  flexible,  and  yet  firm  and  solid.  Presi- 
dent Seelye  characterized  the  picture  as  "romantic,"  a  peculiarly 
happy  adjective.  No  realistic  study  this,  but  a  breath  from  an 
uncommonplace  world.  To  try  to  visualize  what  DeCamp 
would  have  done  with  the  same  subject  is  an  interesting  feat  of 
the  imagination.  We  have  in  our  own  permanent  collection 
the  "Blue  Bowl"  and  a  portrait  of  President  Seelye,   both 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  179 

by  Tarbell  and  considered  by  the  artist  to  rank  among  his  best 
works. 

Perhaps  the  most  interesting  and  instructive  feature  of  this 
exhibition  was  the  opportunity  it  gave  us  to  compare  the 
pictures  loaned  to  us  with  our  own.  Beautiful  as  some  of  the 
former  are,  they  helped  to  give  us  an  increased  sense  of  the 
qualities  of  those  in  our  own  collection. 

Dorothy  Lilian  Spencer  1914. 

Once  Upon  a  Time 

The  dragon  is  fast  asleep, 

Saint  George  nods  by  the  fire. 
The  holly  glows  upon  the  wall, 

It's  "  O  my  heart's  desire." 

Fun  and  frolic  and  singing, 

Dawn,  and  the  chimes'.sweet  ringing, 

For  it's  Christmas  day, 

And  the  world  is  gay. 
A  red  star  in  the  east  is  swinging. 

It's  Tipsy  Parson  and  boar's  head 

Apples  and  cider  wine. 
It's  mistletoe  and  Yule  logs. 

That  make  the  night  divine. 

The  waits  stand  out  in  the  snow. 
And  they  swing  their  lanterns  bright. 

The  waits  stand  three  in  a  row, 
And  they  carol.  Heart's  Delight ! 

Fun  and  frolic  and  singing, 

Dawn,  and  the  chimes'  clear  ringing. 

For  it's  Christmas  day. 

And  the  world  is  gay  ! 
Down  the  road,  we  all  go  swinging  ! 

Dorothy  Homans  1917. 


Who  Knows? 

If  I  get  B  in  English  A, 
And  C  in  English  B, 
And  D  in  English  C — I  may 
Rewrite  my  English  D. 

Marie  D.  Graff  1915. 


180  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

Senior  Dramatics 

A  Conversation  with  a  Visiting  Aunt 

^'My  dear,  I  have  always  heard  that  Smith  girls  dress  in  a 
rather  extreme  and  extravagant  fashion  but  I  am  glad  to  see 
that  the  report  is  quite  unfounded.  When  we  were  walking  in 
the  neighborhood  of  the  excavations  this  afternoon  I  noticed  at 
least  ten  girls  wearing  plain  white  shirt  waists  and  exceedingly 
full  dark  skirts." 

**  Yes,  Aunt,  a  great  many  of  the  seniors  have  adopted  that 
costume  lately.  You  see,  when  you  are  trying  for  dramatics 
you  have  to  wear  bloomers  and  of  course  that  does  tend  to  make 
one's  skirt  rather  full." 

"  What  are  senior  dramatics  ?  " 

'*  Why,  every  year  the  senior  class  gives  a  play  ;  at  least  they 
usually  do.     This  year  it  is  not  a  play  but  an  achievement." 

*'  What  do  you  mean  by  an  achievement  ?  " 

*'  I  don't  know.  But  the  other  classes  think  that  the  seniors 
know,  and  the  seniors  think  that  the  committee  know,  and  as 
for  the  committee,  no  one  knows  what  they  think  about  any- 
thing.'' 

''  What  is  the  committee  ?  " 

**The  committee  is  what  Dr.  Gardiner  calls  the  *  sine  qua 
non.'  You  might  have  dramatics  without  the  cast,  you  might 
even  have  them  without  Shakespeare,  but  you  could  not  have 
them  without  the  committee." 

*'  What  does  the  committee  do  ?  " 

''  Oh,  in  the  spring  they  really  work  very  hard,  but  in  the 
fall  they  haven't  much  to  do  ;  they  simply  have  trials  every 
Wednesday  and  Saturday  afternoons  from  two  to  six." 

*' Trials  of  what  ?" 

''Trials  of  the  committee's  imperturbability.  You  seethe 
essential  quality  in  a  committee  member  is  the  power  to  conceal 
her  thoughts  and  feelings  and  of  course  it  does  require  con- 
siderable training  to  overcome  the  practice  in  self-expression 
which  we  have  had  during  the  past  three  years  in  aesthetic 
dancing,  class-meetings  and  English  C.  So  the  committee  have 
to  be  trained  to  conceal  their  feelings  and  it  takes  the  whole 
class  to  train  them.  The  committee  sits  in  a  semi-circle  in  the 
big  hall  in  the  Students'  Building  and  the  members  of  the  class 
come  in  one  by  one  and  try  in  a  four-minute   '  stunt '   to  make 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  181 

the  committee  either  laugh  or  cry.  If  they  succeed  they  are 
asked  to  give  the  committee  another  trial,  and  if  on  the  fourth 
trial  the  committee  still  laugh,  then  that  person  gets  a  part  in 
the  play." 

'*Are  people  anxious  for  parts  ?    Are  the  parts  good  ones  ?" 

'*  Oh,  they  are  wonderful  !  They  demand  the  best  that  there 
is  in  you,  particularly  what  Miranda  calls  'imagination,  the 
pearl  in  my  crown.'  They  give  opportunity  for  so  much  origin- 
ality, too.  There  is  one  line  of  Prospero's  for  instance,  '  Ye 
elves  of  hills,  brooks,  standing-lakes  and  groves,' — you  would 
scarcely  believe  the  number  of  different  ways  in  which  that  line 
can  be  said.  And  all  the  parts  are  full  of  action,  especially 
Ariel  :  '  Where  the  cowslips,  there  slip  I.'" 

"What  is  this  remarkable  play  that  seems  to  have  caused 
such  a  commotion  in  the  college  as  a  whole  and  in  the  senior 
class  in  particular  ?" 

''  It  has  a  very  appropriate  name  :  it  is  called  '  The  Tempest.'  " 

Margaret  Louise  Farrand  1914. 


In  the  Art  Gallery 

There  are  heroes  all  around  me, 

But  they're  plaster  casts  and  still, 
They're  not  a  bit  congenial. 

And  they  seem  so  stiff  and  chill. 

I  almost  wish  they'd  come  to  life 

But  second  thoughts  reprove — 
I  cannot  draw  them  as  they  are 

And  what  if  they  should  move ! 

Hazel  Wyeth  1916. 


EDITORIAL 


* 'An  editorial  about  Christmas!"  —  echoed  our  solicitous  in- 
quirer in  a  tone  of  blank  surprise  and  disapproval,  and  then 
apologetically,  "  oh,  of  course  that's  very  lovely.  But  isn't  it  a 
bit  trite,  my  dear,  just  a  bit  trite.  It's  been  done  so  often,  you 
know.  Now  why  not  deal  with  'the  ethical  standards  of  col- 
lege life '  or  even — ''  in  a  glow  of  inspiration  as  she  launched  on 
her  pet  theme,  "  '  is  man  the  intellectual  equal  of — '  "  But  we 
had  retreated  hurriedly  and  thankfully  into  undisturbed  editor- 
ial imaginings  of  our  own.  For  who  can  think  of  logical 
treatises  when  the  mystical,  sweet  fragrance  of  the  Christmas 
spirit  is  already  casting  an  elusive  glamour  over  even  the  most 
commonplace  of  ideas  and  we  are  already  athrill  to  the  first 
softly  whispering  breath  of  mysteries  to  be  fathomed  and  hopes 
fulfilled. 

And  Christmas  trite  ?  We  have  been  two  thousand  years 
trying  to  express  even  a  shade  of  that  infinite  spirit  of  selfless 
love  and  we  have  had  but  a  glimpse  of  the  surface  of  its  un- 
fathomable deeps.  Christmas  trite  !  it's  only  our  repeated 
failure  to  catch  a  little  more  fully  the  spirit  of  its  message  that 
is  trite. 

But  we  can't  escape  it — this  wave  of  joy  and  thankfulness 
that  engulfs  the  world.  Some  of  us  think  we  would  be  Scrooges, 
but  we  can't.  For  the  beauty  of  Christmas  is  that  there  is 
always  some  little  "Tiny  Tim"  of  a  thought  or  an  act  that 
comes  out  to  us  where  we  think  we  are  impregnably  barricaded 
on  our  lonely  desert  isle  and  our  fortress  of  selfishness  and 
brooding  melts  before  it  like  mist  before  the  sun. 

Yes,  it's  joy  that  is  round  about  us  everywhere— and  joy  for 
a  reason.  We  used  to  think  it  was  Christmas  because  the  shop 
windows  were  bright  and  the  air  was  crispy  and  the  snow  sang 
under  our  feet  as  we  ran  along,  and  because  there  were  gifts 

182 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      183 

a,nd  feasting  and  red  ribbon  and  holly  and  lighted  tapers  and 
-carols  in  the  dusk.  And  our  little  Australian  Editor's  Table 
says  Christmas  still  brings  memories  of  the  heavy,  sweet  odor 
of  tropical  flowers  and  the  copper  glaring  sunshine  and  garlands 
and  armsful  of  nodding  j^ellow  bush  flowers  and  children  run- 
ning, singing  through  the  dusk  of  midsummer  Christmas  eve 
and  the  mysterious  wavering  flare  of  lights  in  the  starry  sky — 
the  reflections  of  the  December  bush  fires  of  the  plains.  But  it 
is  the  same  Christmas,  the  same  spirit  of  love  and  unselfishness 
that  spells  happiness.  And  the  season  is  just  a  background  and 
the  customs  are  mere  symbols, — our  inarticulate  strivings  to 
express  our  overflowing  gratitude. 

Perhaps,  during  the  year  we  have  grown  thoughtless  of  others 
We  have  been  engrossed  in  our  own  lives  because  the  rewards 
have  come  richly  upon  us,  or  maybe  because  they  have  seemed 
to  be  withheld  from  us.  In  either  case  it  has  been  so  easy 
to  be  unmindful  of  our  neighbor  in  the  street.  But  now  we 
must  turn  back  to  buy  a  bunch  of  partridge  berries  from 
the  little,  bent,  old  lady  who,  day  after  day,  has  stood  peering  out 
with  dim,  wistful  eyes  from  the  sheltered  corner  of  the  great 
morose  building  at  the  hurrying  streams  of  passers-by.  And 
the  little  boy  whom  we  saw  standing  with  his  face  pressed 
against  the  glass  looking  longingly  at  the  prancing  tin  reindeer 
in  the  shop  window  runs  home  in  breathless  joy,  his  treasure 
hugged  tight  in  his  arms.  And  we  stop  in  our  haste  to  help  the 
timid,  tottering  old  man  in  his  fruitless  efforts  to  secure  his 
fluttering  plaid  tippet  more  firmly  about  his  neck  and  to  guide 
him  over  an  especially  slippery  bit  of  sidewalk.  And  we  pause 
to  send  a  fleeting  smile  up  into  the  hard  face  of  the  stiff  black 
figure  standing  so  alone  at  the  step  of  her  waiting  machine  but 
who  has  turned  to  gaze  with  mute  yearning  into  the  flowing 
stream  of  happy  careless  faces  crowding  close  around  her. 

Yes,  that  is  what  Christmas  means— our  reawakening  to  a 
truer  sympathy  for  others,  a  desire  to  make  everyone  a  sharer 
in  the  happiness  of  the  world.  Our  gifts  are  not  mere  bits  of 
silk  or  silver  but  they  are  the  carrier  pigeons  bearing  messages 
of  hope  and  joy  and  love.  "We  may  all  give  as  lavishly  as  we 
will  of  these  treasures.  And  may  each  one  of  us  this  happy 
holiday  season  become  so  filled  with  its  spirit  that  it  will  abide 
with  us  the  whole  year  through. 


EDITOR^S    TABLE 


The  scientist  always  aims  to  express  his  knowledge  of  pheno- 
mena in  terms  of  measurement.  He  is  not  satisfied  with  the 
statement  that  water  is  composed  of  two  elements,  hydrogen 
and  oxygen,  but  he  must  know  the  proportion  existing  between 
their  ultimate  molecules.  To  help  him  to  his  exact  knowledge 
he  has  five  instruments  of  great  precision  :  the  metric  scale,  the 
thermometer,  the  barometer,  the  microscope  and  the  spectro- 
scope. With  these  he  strives  for  objective  expression,  in  exact 
words  of  measurement.  But  in  the  arts,  where  expression  is  of 
an  individual  or  subjective  nature,  there  is  always  a  great 
temptation  to  depart  from  the  accuracy  of  science.  Such  words 
as  humor,  tragedy,  and  romance  have  a  different  connotation  for 
every  writer  and  every  reader,  because  definition,  the  great  in- 
strument for  artistic  precision  has  not  been  applied'  Sometimes 
a  great  man  makes  the  application  and  with  it  a  permanent  dis- 
crimination. Here  lies  the  value  of  Coleridge's  distinction  be- 
tween imagination  and  fancy.  Of  course  we  can  not  all  be 
Coleridges  and  we  can  not  expect  to  pass  on  to  others  every  idea 
exactly  as  it  impresses  us,  but  we  can  at  least  be  sure  of  what 
we  ourselves  intend  by  our  words,  and  that  the  intention  cor- 
responds to  the  fact. 

The  most  severe  criticism  made  upon  us  by  competent  judges 
both  within  the  college  and  without,  has  been  upon  our  lack  of 
accuracy.  In  technical  and  industrial  schools  accuracy  has  to 
be  the  foundation  of  all  training.  The  products  of  the  students 
may  or  may  not  be  artistic  or  interesting,  but  they  must  be 
exact.  Mechanical  drawings  and  business  letters  must  convey 
correct  information  in  the  fewest  possible  lines.  But  in  a  col- 
lege of  liberal  arts  there  are  comparatively  few  courses  that 
constantly  require  such  accurate  observation  and  strict  con- 
formity to  fact.  So  we  tend  to  become  lax  along  these  lineSj, 
and  lose  one  of  the  dearest  assets  of  both  science  and  art. 


THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  185 

Our  indiscriminate  exaggeration  dependent  on  a  few  over- 
worked expressions  hardly  needs  to  be  pointed  out.  It  is  only 
too  evident  to  all  who  have  ears  to  hear.  Our  inaccuracy  of 
scholarship  is  perhaps  less  glaring  than  our  indiscriminate  voca- 
bulary, but  it  is  nevertheless  a  deep  seated  flaw.  There  is  always 
the  ready  reproach  of  spelling.  But  beneath  this  lies  a  careless 
mental  attitude  in  a  great  part  of  our  work.  We  slip  over  geo- 
graphical, mythological  and  historical  references  with  the  easy 
consciousness  that  we  knew  such  things  existed  and  are  content 
with  that.  We  have  absolutely  no  conception  of  the  number 
and  variety  of  dictionaries  and  encyclopsedias  at  our  disposal 
for  just  such  occasions.  We  confuse  terms.  We  draw  what 
we  think  we  should  see  under  the  microscope  without  regard 
for  what  is  actually  there.  It  must  be  obvious  that  no  matter 
how  many  instruments  of  precision  are  placed  in  our  libraries 
and  laboratories,  we  shall  not  profit  by  them  until  we  have 
secured  an  accurate  mental  attitude.  R.  C. 

In  the  college  magazines  for  November  there  is  a  great  deal 
of  verse  that  we  may  term  fairly  good,  but  only  a  small  quantity 
that  we  may  call  excellent  or  even  fairly  good.  Many  of  the 
stories  this  month  are  extremely  interesting  ;  many,  however, 
are  rather  poor,  and  after  reading  them  we  turn  with  relief  to 
the  essays  and  more  serious  articles.  Of  these  there  are  not 
many,  but  they  are  of  a  high  quality. 

The  Wesleyan  Literary  Monthly  contains  several  good  essays. 
'^Robert  Bridges  "  is  a  well  written  article  concerning  the  new 
poet  laureate  of  England  and  his  poetrj^.  The  statements  made 
are  not  exactly  flattering  to  him,  but  they  are  very  fair  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  the  author  of  this  essay  is  evidently  not  a 
devotee  of  Dr.  Bridges'.  Another  essay  of  interest  is  called 
''Savonarola,  the  Reformer."  It  is  concise  and  clear,  giving 
one  in  a  few  words  an  idea  of  the  spirit  of  the  time  and  also  of 
Savonarola's  influence  over  the  people  of  Florence.  "  Steven- 
son's Foundation  in  Learning"  is  an  ambitious  essay  from  an 
unusual  point  of  view,  and  is  evidently  based  upon  a  careful 
study  of  some  of  Stevenson's  works.  But  do  people  really  think 
of  Stevenson  merely  as  the  "artistic  exponent  of  optimism?'* 
Even  if  they  do,  is  it  not  because  optimism  as  an  important 
factor  in  his  life  is  reflected  in  his  writings  so  that  it  becomes 
very  evident  ?    Do   not   people   take   for  granted   Stevenson's 


186  THE   SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

learning,  and  think  nothing  of  it  while  enjoying  his  books  ? 
We  raise  these  questions  merely  as  suggestions,  with  no  inten- 
tion of  criticising  harshly;  we  hearken  to  the  plea  of  A.  N. 
Onymous  in  ''  Prima  Verba  "  of  the  Eandolph  Macon  Monthly. 
"This  is  our  book,  our  prose,  our  verse, 
Remember  this,  they  might  be  worse." 

In  the  Minnesota  Magazine,  '*The  Realistic  Tendency  in 
Modern  Fiction''  contains  a  great  deal  of  truth.  We  hope, 
however,  that  modern  fiction  is  not  in  quite  such  a  bad  state  as 
this  writer  seems  to  believe.     That  would  be  indeed  deplorable. 

''William  Blake"  in  the  Wells  College  Chronicle  is  an  essay 
that  is  admirably  planned,  as  is  also  "Alice  Meynell "  in  the 
Trinity  College  Record.     They  are  both  very  interesting. 

In  the  Clark  College  Monthly  "As  a  Man  Thinketh"  raises 
the  question  "  What  shall  we  do  with  our  slums  ?"  The  writer 
suggests  no  remedy  for  existing  conditions,  but  in  the  space  of 
a  few  pages  he  states  forcefully  some  of  the  main  problems. 

There  is  one  essay  of  importance  in  the  Harvard  Monthly, 
"  The  Ancient  Theme.""  There  is  also  in  this  magazine  a  review 
of  John  Galsworthy's  "  The  Dark  Flower,"  which  is  interesting 
in  connection  with  an  article  on  "John  Galsworthy"  in  the 
Normal  College  Echo.  The  latter  speaks  of  Galsworthy  as  a 
poet  and  a  reformer,  with  reference  to  the  problems  presented 
in  his  plays,  and  to  his  poetry  and  prose.  The  former  concerns, 
of  course,  only  his  latest  book,  "The  Dark  Flower,"  and  the 
writer  takes  the  point  of  view  that  "  out  of  epic  material  .  .  . 
an  expert  craftsman  has  evolved  a  loose,  disunified,  but  sporad- 
ically charming  result."  D.  O. 


AFTER    COLLEGE 


SENIOR  DRAMATICS   I9H 


1914  presents  "  The  Tempest.'" 

Applications  for  Senior  Dramatics  for  June  11  and  12,  1914,  should  be  sent 
to  the  General  Secretary  at  184  Elm  Street,  Northampton.  Alumnae  are 
urged  to  apply  for  the  Thursday  evening  performance  if  possible,  as  Satur- 
day evening  is  not  open  to  alumnae,  and  there  will  probably  not  be  more  than 
one  hundred  tickets  for  Friday  evening.  Each  alumna  may  apply  for  not 
more  than  one  ticket  for  Friday  evening  ;  extra  tickets  may  be  requested  for 
Thursday.  No  deposit  is  required  to  secure  the  tickets,  which  may  be 
claimed  on  arrival  in  Northampton  from  the  business  manager  in  Seelye 
Hall.  In  May  all  those  who  have  applied  for  tickets  will  receive  a  request 
to  confirm  the  applications.  Tickets  will  then  be  assigned  only  to  those  who 
respond  to  this  request.  The  prices  of  the  seats  will  range  on  Thursday 
evening  from  $1.50  to  §.75  and  on  Friday  from  $2.00  to  $.75.  The  desired 
price  of  seats  should  be  indicated  in  the  application.  A  fee  of  ten  cents  is 
charged  to  all  non-members  of  the  Alumnae  Association  for  the  filing  of  the 
application  and  should  be  sent  to  the  General  Secretary  at  the  time  of  appli- 
cation. 

PERSONALS 

Contributions  to  this  department  are  desired  before  the  end  of  the  month, 
in  order  to  appear  in  the  next  month's  issue,  and  should  be  addressed  to 
Eloise  Schmidt,  Gillett  House.  Northampton,  Massachusetts. 

■'08.     Rose  Dudley  is  Professor  of  Physics  and  Geology  at  the  Illinois  Woman's 
College,  Jacksonville,  Illinois. 

Besse  Mitchell  is  teaching  in  the  High  School  at  New  Milford,  Con- 
necticut. 

Margaret  C.  Rice  is  assisting  Miss  Amy  Sacker  in  her  School  of  Design. 
739  Boylston  Street,  Boston. 

Elizabeth  Seeber  is  teaching  German  in  the  Newton  High  School,  New 
York  City.     Address  :  62  Montague  Street,  Brookljm.  New  York. 

Florence  Thomas  has  announced  her  engagement  to  John  Harvey  Dingle. 

Charlotte  Wiggin  is  a  Montessori  teacher  in  Litchfield,  Connecticut. 

18T 


188  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

eaJ-'08.  Bertha  Shepard  is  Printing  Agent  for  the  Women's  Educational  and 
Industrial  Union  of  Boston.  Address  :  8  Ash  Street,  Danvers,  Massa- 
chusetts. 

'11.     Alice  Brown.     Address  :  2271  Parkwood  Avenue,  Toledo,  Ohio. 

Jane  Donnegan  is  teaching  in  Scranton,  Pennsylvania. 

Harriet  Ellis  is  teaching  in  Somerville,  Massachusetts. 

Josephine  Fowler  is  teaching  in  the  Hitchcock  Free  Academy,  Brimfield,. 
Massachusetts. 

Helen  French  is  at  home,  studying  Domestic  Science. 

Mollie  Hanson  is  teaching  English  in  the  High  School  at  Dedham,  Massa 
chusetts,  and  is  Alumnae  Editor  of  the  Sigma  kappa  Triangle  National 
Quarterly. 

Clara  Heyman  is  doing  volunteer  social  service  work  in  Detroit,  Michigan. 

Anna  Isabel  Hunt  is  Extension  and  Membership  Secretary  in  the  Young- 
Women's  Christian  Association  at  Jackson,  Michigan. 

Marjorie  Kilpatrick  is  doing  settlement  work  at  the  Neighborhood  Settle- 
ment House  at  Bound  Brook,  New  Jersey. 

Lila  King  is  Preceptress  in  the  High  School  at  Knoxboro,  New  York. 

Else  Kohlberg  has  announced  her  engagement  to  Dr.  Branch  Craige  of" 
El  Paso,  Texas,     The  marriage  will  take  place  in  January. 

Merle  Shidler  has  returned  from  a  two  months'  visit  in  California. 

Harriet  Smith.  Address:  1316  Monroe  Street,  Northwest,  Washington. 
District  of  Columbia. 

Rebecca  Smith.     Address  :  4920  Greenwood  Avenue,  Chicago,  Illinois. 

Margaret  Townsend  is  taking  a  course  in  Shorthand  and  Typewriting. 

Freda  Gertrude  von  Sothen  is  teaching  Mathematics  in  the  High  School' 
at  Pleasantville,  New  ^ork. 

Louise  Wallace  is  teaching  in  Bluefield,  West  Virginia. 

'12.     Mrs.  A.  O.  Andersson  (Ruth  H.  Harper).     Address  :    3734  McKinney 
Avenue,  Dallas,  Texas. 

Katharine  Bradbury  is  taking  a  graduate  course  in  Household  Economics- 
at  Simmons. 

Prances  Carpenter  is  doing  secretarial  work  for  her  father. 

Isabelle  Cook  is  chairman  of  the  Department  of  Public  Safety  of  the- 
Civic  Club  of  Portland,  Maine. 

Harriet  Codding  has  announced  her  engagement  to  Wellwood  Hugh 
Maxwell. 

Margaret  Doyle  is  teaching  in  the  English  Department  of  the  Technical 
High  School  of  Fall  River,  Massachusetts. 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  189 

■'12.     Helen   Forbes  is  doing  club  work   among    department- store    girls  in 
St.  Louis. 

Elsie  Fredriksen  is  reporting  for  the  Utica  Press. 

Ruth  Lawrence  is  student  secretary  for  King's  Chapel  in  Boston. 

Gwendolen  Lowe  is  teaching  at  Miss  Finch's  School  in  New  York. 

Mary  Nickerson  is  doing  social  service  work  in  the  Orthopedic  Outpatient 

Department  of  the  Massachusetts  General  Hospital. 

Louise  Pickell  is  studying  at  the  Sargent  School  of  Gymnastics  in  Cam- 
bridge. Massachusetts. 

Arline  Rorke  is  teaching  in  the  High  School  Department  at  the  George 
Junior  Republic,  Freeville,  New  York. 

Matilda  Vanderbeek  is  tutoring  two  little  girls  on  a  cattle  ranch,  sixty 
miles  from  Silver  City,  Mexico. 

Margaret  Wood  is  teaching  in  the  Eleanor  Miller  School  of  Expression, 
in  Pasadena,  California. 

Correction :  Ruth  Lewin  has  announced  her  engagement  to  Graham 
Foster  of  New  York  City. 

Ruth  Paine  has  announced  her  engagement  to  John  Henry  Blodgett. 

'13.    Margaret  Adler  is  studying  at  Columbia  University  and  doing  practi- 
cal work  in  a  club  for  the  study  of  social  work. 

Phebe  Arbuckle  has  a  fellowship  for  training  in  social  work  at  the  Col- 
lege Settlement  in  Philadelphia.  Address :  502  South  Front  Street, 
Philadelphia,  Pennsylvania. 

Avis  Canfield  is  taking  a  secretarial  course  at  Simmons.  Address  :  Stuart 
Club,  102  Fenway,  Boston,  Massachusetts. 

Katherine  Carr  is  student  worker  in  the  Women's  Educational  and  Indus- 
trial Union  of  Boston.  She  is  also  taking  a  course  in  Stenography  at 
Simmons. 

Florence  Dale  is  studying  Domestic  Science  and  Music  at  the  University 
of  Minnesota.  Address:  Kappa  Kappa  Gama  House,  Minneapolis, 
Minnesota. 

Hazel  Deyo  is  correspondent  for  the  New  York  Journal. 

Elizabeth  MacFarland  and  Lucia  Smith  are  teaching  in  a  Sugar  Planta- 
tion Camp  School  on  the  Island  of  Main,  Hawaiian  Islands.  Address  : 
Camp  1,  Puunene,  Main,  Territory  of  Hawaii. 

Mary  Worthen  is  at  home  in  Hanover,  New  Hampshire. 

Gladys  Wyman  is  taking  special  courses  at  Bryant  and  Stratton's  Com- 
mercial School  in  Boston. 


190  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

MARRIAGES 

'04.     Anne  Gregory  to  James  Watts  Young,  November  5,  1913.     Address : 
99  Claremont  Avenue,  New  York. 

'08.     Mabel  Boardman  to  Robert  Weyburn  Laylin.     Address  :  2096  Summit 
Street,  Columbus,  Ohio. 

Elizabeth  Evelyn  Enright  to  Julian  Ira  Lindsay.    Address :  446  South 
Union  Street,  Burlington,  Vermont. 

Katherine  Clara  Kerr  to  Herbert  Alexander  Crowder,  June  24,  1913. 

'10.    Alice  May  Otman  to  Gilbert  R.  Baumback,  October  15,  1913.     Address  : 

114  High  Street,  Peoria,  Illinois. 
'11.    Helen  Ames  to  Earl  Morton  Fischer,  September  10,  1913. 
'12.     Gladys  Gherryman  to  Howard  Tilghman,  October  29,  1913. 

Gladys  Crowley  to  Dr.  Fergus  Almy  Butler,  November  3,  1913. 

Gertrude  Lake  to  Clinton  Merrick,  November  27,  1913. 

BIRTHS 

'99.    Mrs.  Roland  Rogers  Cutler  (Mary  E.  Goodnow),  a  son,  Edward  Roland, 
born  September  6,  1913. 

'02.     Mrs.  Charles  S.  Fallows  (Eda  Bruna),  a  daughter,  Elizabeth  Bruna,^ 
born  October  31,  1913. 

'05.     Mrs.  Paul  L.  Kirby  (Inez  Barclay) ,  a  son,  Paul  Franklin,  born  August 
10,  1913. 

'07.     Mrs.  G.  Houston  Burr  (Muriel   Robinson),  a  daughter,  Muriel,   born 
September  27,  1913. 

'08.    Mrs.  John  Benjamin  Porteous  (Edith  Frances  Libby),  a  daughter,  Fran- 
ces Swasey,  born  June  25,  1913. 

Mrs.  Henry  Wood  Shelton  (Dorothy  Camp),  a  son,  John  Sewall,  born 
September  2,  1913. 

Mrs.  Neil  Dow  Stanley  (A.  Florence  Keene),  a  son,  Herbert  Neil,  born 
July  23,  1913. 

Mrs.  Silas  Snow  (Frances  Ward  Clary),  a  son,  Davis  Watson. 

ea?-'08.    Mrs.  Clarence  Arthur  Mayo  (Marjorie  Chase  Robinson),  a  son,  Clar- 
ence Arthur,  born  September  2,  1913. 

'10,    Mrs.  John  M.  Ely  (Jessie  Laurel  Sullivan),  a  daughter,  Laurel  Eliza- 
beth, born  June  12,  1913. 

Mrs.  E.  K.  Swift  (Katherine  "Whitin),  a  daughter,  Elizabeth  Robinson, 
born  June  8,  1913. 

Mrs.   C.   Warren  (Margaret  Cushman),   a    son,  John  Cushman,  born 
August  13,  1913. 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      191 

Mrs.  C.  N.  Waldron  (Dorothy  Waterman),  a  son,  William  Augustus, 
born  August  1,  1913. 

'11.    Mrs.  William  J.  Best  (Flora  Ray),  a  daughter,  Mary  Best,  born  Septem- 
ber 22,  1913. 

Mrs.  Alfred  L.  Clifton  (Gladys  Burgess),  a  daughter,  Margaret  Lee,  born 
October  21,  1913. 

Mrs.  Maurice  Bower  Saul  (Adele  Scott),  a  son,  Maurice  Bower,  born  June 
17,  1913. 

Mrs.  Quincy  W.  Wales  (Isabel  Guilbert),  a  son,  Guilbert  Quincy,  born 
November  18,  1913. 

Mrs.  Richard  Chute  Potter  (Bertha  Bod  well),  a  son,  Richard  Chute,  born 
November  21,  1913. 

ex-'W.    Mrs.  Arthur  Curtis  Judd  (Edith  Henley),  twins,  Estelle  and  Robert, 
born  in  October,  1913. 

ea;-'12.    Mrs.  Jamison  Handy  (Ethel  Tremaine),  a  daughter,  Chaille,  born 
June  27,  1913. 

Mrs.  W.  Pearce  Raynor  (Nelle  Tyler),  a  daughter,  Helen  Edwards,  born 
May  19,  1913. 

Mrs.  Raymond  Varney  (Mary  Adams),  a  son.  Burton  Adams,  born  June 
16,  1913. 


CALENDAR 

December  17.     Oratorio,  "The  Messiah." 

"         20.     Group  Dance. 

**         23-January  2.     Christmas  Vacation. 

''  10.     Group  Dance. 

Tyler  House  Reception. 

"  14.     Fourth  Concert  in  the  Smith  Coilege^Concert 

Course.     Fritz  Kreisler. 


(Cbe 


Smitb    Colleae 
flRontblp 


3anuarp^  1914 
®wneb  mb  pixbllebcb  b^  tbe  Senior  Class 


CONTENTS 


Shakspere's  Substitutes  fob  Scenery 

The  Border  Line 

In  the  White  Birch  Wood 

The  Criminal     . 

Closed  Gentian 

Plat-Time 


Dorothy  Ochtman  19 U  193 

Eloise  Schmidt  1914  207 

Grace  Angela  Richmond  1916  210 

Katharine  D.  Kendig  1916  211 

Hyla  Siowell  Waiters  1915  215 

Ruth  Cobb  19U  216 


SKETCHES 

A  Matrimonial  Bureau 

The  Harp     . 

The  Necessity  for  Courage 

Under  the  Sea 

The  Cold,  Grey  Dawn 

Playin'  'Possum     . 

The  First  Storm  .     - 

Yesterday 

The  Song  of  ihe  Waitress 

A  Portrait 

Adventures 


Frances  Milliken  Hooper  1914  218 

Jeanne  Woods  1914  223 

.     Ellen  Bodley  Jones  1916  223 

Marion  Delamater  Freeman  1914  227 

.     Margaret  Louise  Farrand  IDI4  227 

Blanche  Rothschild  Lindauer  1915  228 

Helen  Virginia  Frey  1915  230 

Grace  Angela  Richmond  1916  230 

Mira  Bigeloio  Wilson  1914  231 

Anna  Elizabeth  Spicer  1914  233 

Eleanor  Louise  Halpin  1914  233 


ABOUT  COLLEGE 

Behind  the  World  .  .  .         Marion  Freeman  1914  234 

An  Eye  for  an  Eye         .  .  .  Barbara  Cheney  1915  234 

Pathetic  Fallacies  and  Matters  of  Course 

Hannah  White  1914  236 


An  Enlightenment 
Concerning  the  Art  of  Building 
In  Line         .... 
The  Wail  of  the  Tailored  Maid 


.     Annie  Minot  1915  237 

Eff^e  Oppenheimer  1914  238 

Elka  Saul  Lewi  1915  239 

Mary  L,  Wellington  1916  241 


HEARD  ON  THE  TAR  WALK       . 

.    242 

EDITORIAL 

. 

.    247 

EDITORS  TABLE 

. 

.    249 

AFTER  COLLEGE 

. 

.    252 

CALENDAR       . 

•           «           . 

.    256 

Entered  at  the  Post  Office  at  Northampton,  Massachusetts,  as  second  class  matter 
Gazette  Printing  Company,  Northampton,  Mass. 


THE 

Smith  College  Monthly 

Vol.  XXI  JANUARY,  1914  No.  4 


EDITORS: 

Lois  Cleveland  Gould 
Leonora  Branch  Anna  Elizabeth  Spicer 

Margaret  Louise  Farrand         Marion  Delamater  Freeman 
Rosamond  Drexel  Holmes  Frances  Milliken  Hooper 

Margaret  Bloom  Dorothy  Lilian  Spencer 

Ruth  Cobb  Dorothy  Ochtman 

Eloise  Schmidt 

business  manager  and  treasurer 
Ruth  Hellekson 

assistant  business  managers 
Esther  Loyola  Harney 
Bertha  Viola  Conn 


SHAKSPERE'S  SUBSTITUTES  FOR  SCENERY* 

DOROTHY   OCHTMAN 

At  the  present  time  we  are  so  accustomed  to  the  use  of  scenery 
in  our  theatres  that  a  play  almost  wholly  devoid  of  any  accom- 
panying scenery  is  practically  unheard  of.  Probably  the  sole 
examples  of  this  on  the  modern  stage  are  the  plays  given  by  the 
Ben  Greet  Players,  and  the  majority  of  people  prefer  a  play  of 
Shakspere^s  that  is  staged  with,  beautiful  scenery  to  one  that 
is  presented  with  little  scenery  in  ,the  Elizabethan  manner. 
We  enjoy  the  gorgeous  scenic  effects  ;  mere  physical  beauty 
appeals  to  us  for  its  own  sake,  and  we  need  make  no  intellectual 
effort,  but  simply  enjoy  what  we  see  and  hear. 

*  Editor's  Note.  This  essay  received  the  prize  for  1913  offered  by  Mr.  H.  H.  Fumess 
to  the  juniors  of  Smith  College  for  the  best  essay  on  the  specified  Shaksperean  subject. 


194  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

The  attitude  of  people,  however,  toward  plays  and  stage- 
settings  was  different  in  Shakspere's  day.  Critics  tell  us  that 
practically  nothing  that  we  would  term  scenery  was  used  at 
the  time^  and  probably  had  never  been  used  on  the  English 
stage.  For  indoor  scenes  some  furniture  was  used,  but  there 
was  very  little  in  the  way  of  painted  scenery  such  as  we  have 
on  the  stage  to-day,  and  the  audience  was  apparently  satisfied 
with  this,  for  plays  were  well  attended.  To  one  for  the  first 
time  introduced  to  this  subject,  it  seems  hardly  probable  that 
an  Elizabethan  audience  that  had  never  known  sceuery  should 
need  a  substitute  for  it,  so  why  should  we  look  for  anything  of 
the  sort  in  Shakspere's  plays  ?  It  is,  however,  possible  that 
people  did  not  feel  the  lack  of  scenery  for  the  very  reason  that 
its  place  was  filled  by  some  means  within  the  matter  of  the 
plays  themselves.  Before  the  truth  of  this  may  be  determined, 
it  is  necessary  to  consider  in  what  the  various  functions  of 
scenery  consist. 

The  most  obvious  use  of  scenery  is  that  of  making  plays  seem 
more  real.  A  king  and  his  court  seem  natural  and  life-like 
when  surrounded  by  the  splendor  of  a  palace,  and  robbers  in 
the  woods  are  more  like  real  brigands  when  seen  in  their  accus- 
tomed haunts.  There  is  no  doubt  but  that  good  scenery  adds 
greatly  to  a  play  by  making  it  more  actual  and  real  in  the 
minds  of  those  in  the  audience.  Poor  scenery,  on  the  other 
hand,  takes  away  from  the  effect  of  the  play,  because  discrepan- 
cies of  any  sort  distract  the  attention  of  the  audience.  If  scenic 
effects  had  been  attempted  in  the  theatres  of  London  at  the 
time  of  Shakspere,  it  is  highly  probable  that  the  result  would 
not  have  been  particularly  good.  A  play  of  Shakspere's  pre- 
sented in  the  Globe  Theatre  with  such  scenery  as  could  be  com- 
manded at  the  time  would  have  been  very  like  that  given  by 
Bottom  and  his  fellows  before  Theseus  in  ^'A  Midsummer-Night's 
Dream,"  though  it  could  hardly  have  been  so  enjoyably  ludi- 
crous. One  would  hardly  care  to  see  the  rest  of  "A  Midsum- 
mer-Night's Dream  "  presented  in  this  way.  But  with  beautiful 
scenery,  such  as  we  are  able  to  have  now,  plays  are  apparently 
more  real  to  us  than  they  are  with  none  at  all. 

Good  scenery,  also,  appeals  to  the  sense  of  beauty  possessed 
by  those  in  the  audience,  so  that  the  play  as  a  whole  is  much 
more  impressive  than  it  would  be  without  scenery.  Theatrical 
managers  take  advantage  of  this  fact  in  producing  plays  and 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  195 

one  will  generally  find  the  most  beautiful  scenery  where  it  will 
either  strengthen  some  weak  portion  of  a  play  or  make  a  climax 
more  powerful  by  appealing  to  the  sesthetic  consciousness  of 
those  in  the  audience.  This,  and  the  fact  that  scenery  makes  a 
play  seem  real,  are  the  most  important  functions  of  scenery, 
and  they  are  botb  large  factors  in  the  success  of  a  play. 

Taking  into  consideration  these  advantages  of  having  scenery, 
one  readily  sees  that  a  play  given  without  it,  as  in  the  time  of 
Shakspere,  must  necessarily  lose  a  great  deal  of  its  charm  and 
perhaps  even  of  its  power,  if  there  were  nothing  to  take  the 
place  of  scenery.  And  that  there  are  in  Shakspere's  plays  cer- 
tain definite  means  by  which  the  functions  of  scenery  are  per- 
formed, is  evident  even  to  a  reader  of  Shakspere  who  cannot 
profess  to  be  a  critic.  These  things  that,  in  conjunction  with 
the  imagination  of  the  audience,  form  substitutes  for  scenery, 
were  possibly  never  brought  into  the  plays  by  Shakspere  for 
this  purpose.  Whether  he  did  so  or  not  is  indeed  a  fact  of  ver}^ 
little  importance  here.  These  substitutes  for  scenery  are  of  two 
varieties,  those  that  aid  people  to  imagine  the  scenery  of  the 
plays,  and  those  that  take  the  place  of  scenery  by  their  appeal 
to  the  sesthetic  sense  of  the  audience.  Of  course  the  audience 
that  we  are  to  consider  here  must  be  as  far  as  possible  an  Eliza- 
bethan one,  and  not  a  typical  audience  of  to-day. 

The  means  by  which  people  are  helped  to  imagine  the  scenery 
are  various.  The  one  occurring  most  universally  in  Shakspere's 
plays  is  the  picture  quality  of  the  words  and  speeches.  Elegant 
and  stately  language,  long,  flowery  speeches,  gracious  compli- 
ments, and  epithets  sucli  as  "Your  Majesty"  and  "My  Lord,'^ 
all  indicate  scenery  such  as  a  king's  court  would  have,  and 
influence  each  person  in  the  audience  to  picture  the  scene  for 
himself  with  practically  no  conscious  effort.  In  the  same  way, 
scenes  of  battlefield,  of  the  army  in  camp,  in  taverns,  or  in  the 
streets  of  Rome,  all  tend  to  imply  their  accompanying  scenery 
by  the  very  words  and  speeches  characteristic  of  the  place. 
This  means  by  which  scenery  is  supplied  is  to  be  found  through- 
out all  of  Shakspere's  plays,  early  plays  as  well  as  late,  so  that 
it  would  necessitate  needless  repetition  to  take  this  up  in  each 
play. 

It  is  principally  in  the  historical  plays  and  in  "Cymbeline," 
"King  Lear,"  "Hamlet,"  "The  Winter's  Tale,"  "Macbeth*' 
and  "Antony  and  Cleopatra"  that  substitutes  for  court  scenery 


196  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

are  required.  "King  Henry  YIII^^  opens  with  a  scene  in  an 
ante-chamber  in  the  palace.  The  audience  is  of  course  informed 
by  means  of  placards  or  something  of  the  sort  that  the  scene 
takes  place  there,  but  there  is  no  actual  scenery  to  make  it 
appear  real.  The  speeches  of  the  Duke  of  Norfolk  and  Buck- 
ingham, however,  with  their  easy  grace  and  sometimes  elabo- 
rate use  of  metaphor,  serve  at  once  to  put  the  audience  in 
sympathy  with  the  scene  and  aid  them  to  imagine  the  richness 
of  the  palace  for  a  background.  The  effect  is  heightened  by 
the  use  of  titles  when  near  the  end  of  the  scene  Buckinghana  is 
arrested  with  these  words  : 

"My  Lord  the  Duke  of  Buckingham,  and  Earl 
Of  Hereford,  Stafford,  and  Northampton,  I 
Arrest  thee  of  high  treason,  in  the  name 
Of  our  most  sovereign  king." 

The  greater  part  of  the  scenery  throughout  the  play  is  of  the 
same  character,  and  substitutes  take  its  place  in  a  like  manner. 
'^King  Richard  II''  opens  in  much  the  same  way  that  "King 
Henry  VII "  does  ;  the  audience  is  immediately  given  the  setting 
of  the  play.      In  this  play  the  speeches  of   the  characters  are 
often  extremely  long — so  long  that  they  would  never  be  toler- 
ated upon  the  stage  to-day,  except  perhaps  in  Germany.      But 
in  Shakspere's  time,  these  long  and   often   intricate   speeches 
with   their   abundant  use  of  metaphor  and   picturesque  words 
served  to  take  the  place  of  the  gorgeous  scenery  that  accompa- 
nies plays  that  are  presented  now.      In  "King  Richard  III" 
most  of  the  speeches  are  shorter  than  in  "King  Richard  II," 
but  they  form  substitutes  for  scenery  in  no  less  measure.     In 
this  play  the  frequent  repetition  of  significant  words  or  phrases 
strengthens  the  speeches  and   makes  them  forceful  as  well  as 
elaborate,  as  befits  the  language  of  the  court.     In  both  parts  of 
"King  Henry  IV,"  the  scenes  in  the  palace  and  in  the  houses 
of  nobles  are  much  more  effective  by  reason  of  contrast  with 
scenes  in  the  street  and  tavern.      The  audience  is  refreshed  by 
the  change  from  scenes  of  one  type  to  those  of  another  so  dis- 
tinctly different,  and  because  of  increased  interest  in  the  play, 
is  more  ready  to  imagine  the  scenery.      In  "Hamlet,"  "  Cym- 
beline,"  "  The  Winter's  Tale,"  and  the  historical  plays  "King 
Henry  V"  and  "  King  Henry  IV,"  the  scenery  of  the  palace  or 
court  is  supplied  in  much  the  same  way  as  in  these  other  plays. 
In  "Macbeth"  and  "King  Lear"  the  action  is  rapid  and  there 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      197 

is  less  to  take  the  place  of  scenery  in  the  court  scenes.  Where 
the  characters  are  so  strong  as  to  dominate  a  scene  and  hold  the 
attention  of  the  audience  completely,  the  scene  seems  real  and 
there  is  less  need  for  scenerj^  than  if  this  were  otherwise. 
''Antony  and  Cleopatra"  contains  few  substitutes  for  Cleo- 
patra's palace.  Reference  to  the  Nile  and  Egypt  frequently 
remind  the  audience  that  the  scene  is  laid  in  such  a  place,  but 
these  references  are  too  few  to  create  a  definite  picture  in  the 
minds  of  those  in  the  audience,  especially  an  audience  that  has 
never  seen  Egypt  and  in  all  probability  heard  little  of  it. 

Very  similar  to  the  way  in  which  court  scenery  is  represented 
is  that  belonging  to  the  houses  of  noblemen  and  wealthy  people. 
The  greater  part  of  the  scenes  in  "  Twelfth  Night '^  takes  place 
in  the  house  of  Olivia  and  in  that  of  the  Duke  of  Illj^ria.  The 
speeches  in  these  scenes  are  much  simpler  than  those  in  the  court 
scenes  of  the  historical  i>lays,  so  that  they  imply  less  in  the  way 
of  elaborate  scenery.  There  are,  however,  the  unmistakable 
traces  of  the  nobility  of  the  personages,  to  be  found  in  their 
courtly  manner  of  speaking  and  the  deference  of  their  retinue 
to  "  My  Lord  ''  or  "  My  Lady.''  This  lends  the  background  for 
the  action  and  takes  the  place  of  scenery  to  some  extent.  The 
scenes  in  Olivia's  house  in  which  Sir  Toby  and  Sir  Andrew  first 
appear,  would  seem  to  require  the  scenery  of  an  inn  or  tavern 
rather  than  that  of  a  house.  But  the  audience  is  reminded  that 
these  do  belong  in  Olivia's  house  from  the  frequent  reference  to 
her,  and  later  on  in  the  play  Olivia  appears  in  the  same  scenes 
that  Sir  Toby  and  Sir  Andrew  do.  In  "The  Taming  of  the 
Shrew,"  the  scenery  for  the  houses  of  Baptista  and  Petruchio 
is  suggested  by  the  wealth  and  prosperity  evident  from  the 
speeches  and  general  character  of  the  scenes.  This  is  the  case 
also  in  "  The  Merchant  of  Venice."  Here  the  audience  is  led  to 
expect  that  Portia's  house  is  sumptuously  furnished  from  Bas- 
sanio's  description  of  her  in  a  scene  prior  to  the  first  that  is  laid 
in  her  house.  Very  like  this  in  "The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  "  is 
the  way  in  which  Baptista's  wealth  and  position  are  given  in 
the  scenes  preceeding  that  which  takes  place  in  his  house,  so 
that  tlie  audience  may  imagine  a  house  suitable  even  before  the 
scene  itself  is  presented.  The  scenery  belonging  to  houses  of 
Dukes  and  Lords  of  wealth  and  renown  is  represented  in  a  like 
manner  in  many  of  the  })lays. 

There  are  few  plays  in  which  the  life  of  the  middle  class  is 


198  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

set  forth.  Probably  the  people  of  these  classes,  who,  we  are 
told,  made  up  the  greater  part  of  the  audience  typical  of  the 
theatres  of  Shakspere's  time,  preferred,  on  the  whole,  plays  of 
some  other  variety.  At  any  rate,  it  was  the  fashion  among 
plaj^wrights  to  portray  the  life  of  the  nobility  rather  than  that 
of  the  common  people.  Shakspere's  "  Merry  Wives  of  Wind- 
sor" is  the  only  one  of  his  plays  that  deals  entirely  with  middle- 
class  life.  The  substitutes  for  scenery  for  the  houses  are,  how- 
ever, of  the  same  nature  as  those  in  "Romeo  and  Juliet"  or 
"Othello."  From  the  speeches  of  the  characters  and  the  lan- 
guage they  use,  the  audience  recognizes  the  type  of  people  and 
imagines  their  surroundings.  The  audience  probably  does  this 
the  more  readily  because  scenes  of  this  kind  would  be  most 
familiar  to  an  Elizabethan  audience.  Closely  allied  to  the 
scenery  of  "Merry  Wives  of  Windsor"  is  that  of  the  tavern 
scene  in  the  first  part  of  "  King  Henry  IV."  Falstaff  and  Poins 
appear  first  with  Prince  Henry  in  a  room  in  a  palace  and  there 
is  here  almost  nothing  to  take  the  place  of  scenery.  From  the 
speeches  of  Falstaff  and  Poins  one  would  scarcely  expect  the 
scene  to  be  laid  in  a  palace,  while  on  the  other  hand  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  tavern  is  also  lacking.  An  audience  would  not  be 
likely  to  know  from  the  scene  itself  where  it  was  supposed  to 
take  place.  And  this  is  of  very  little  importance  ;  the  main 
interest  of  the  scene  is  in  the  characters  and  in  what  they  say 
and  plan  to  do.  In  Act  II  scene  1,  however,  which  represents 
an  inn-yard,  and  in  the  scenes  which  take  place  in  the  Boar's 
Head  Tavern,  substitutes  for  scenery  are  to  be  found  in  the 
speeches,  whose  wordings  and  subject  matter  are  both  charac- 
teristic of  the  place  and  powerful  in  producing  the  imagery 
which  causes  the  audience  to  imagine  scenery. 

We  must  now  turn  to  scenes  which  may  be  somewhat  un- 
pleasant, but  fortunately  there  are  few  of  them.  These  are 
prison  scenes  which  are  to  be  found  in  "'Measure  for  Measure," 
"The  Two  Noble  Kinsmen"  and  "Cymbeline."  Very  little 
scenery  is  needed  for  a  prison  ;  perhaps  the  less  there  is  the 
better,  and  there  is  little  here  to  indicate  scenerj^.  The  general 
attitude  of  the  prisoners  or  their  desire  to  be  free,  occupies  the 
undivided  attention  of  the  audience.  This  is  true  also  with 
scenes  laid  in  the  Tower  of  London,  though  that  is  no  ordi- 
nary prison.  People  of  London  are,  almost  without  exception, 
familiar  with  the  Tov\'er  and  know  of  the  mysteries  and  horrors 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTPILY  199 

connected  with  it.  The  scenes  in  the  Tower  in  "King  Richard 
in"  need  no  scenery  to  make  them  more  real.  There  are  con- 
tinual references  to  the  Tower  through  the  whole  play,  and  its 
gloom  penetrates  scenes  that  do  not  take  place  there.  In  those 
that  do,  the  sympathy  of  the  audience  is  excited  for  the  unfor- 
tunate ones  imprisoned  there  to  a  degree  that  could  not  be 
greatly  heightened  by  the  effect  of  scenery.  The  scenes  are 
real  as  they  are,  for  their  very  bareness  is  characteristic  of  the 
prison. 

Other  places  where  scenery  is  required  are  the  cells  of  friars, 
monasteries  and  nunneries  such  as  are  to  be  found  in  "  Measure 
for  Measure  "  and  in  "Romeo  and  Juliet.'^  Speeches  that  are 
easily  recognized  as  typically  those  of  friars  or  nuns  help  to 
carry  out  the  idea  of  austerity  and  simplicity  that  is  usually 
connected  with  them  and  the  places  in  which  they  live.  Very 
different  is  the  scene  at  the  church  at  the  supposed  burial  of 
Hero  in  "Much  Ado  About  Nothing,"  which  is  made  realistic 
without  the  aid  of  scenery,  by  means  of  tapers  carried  by  attend- 
ants, and  the  solemn  hymn  and  music.  The  earlier  scene  in 
the  same  play  where  Hero  and  Claudio  are  to  be  married,  is  so 
full  of  incident  that  there  is  no  need  for  scenery  to  make  it  seem 
real  and  there  is,  for  this  reason,  nothing  to  take  its  place. 

We  have  now  taken  up  the  most  significant  types  of  scenes 
that  take  place  indoors.  When  we  proceed  to  the  scenery  neces- 
sary to  the  outdoor  world,  that  of  forests,  villages  and  the  lake, 
a  new  substitute  is  to  be  found.  This  consists  in  the  description 
of  the  scenery  or  frequent  allusions  to  it  by  the  characters.  It 
is  often  used  in  conjunction  with  the  other  substitutes  that  we 
have  discussed,  so  that  an  idea  of  the  scenery  is  given  the  audi- 
ence through  the  character  of  the  speeches,  and  the  picture 
completed  by  definite  allusions  to  certain  details.  The  whole 
serves  to  heighten  the  reality  of  the  scene.  These  two  varieties 
of  substitutes  are  often,  however,  used  independently.  The 
second,  or  the  description  of  the  scenery  by  the  characters,  is 
practically  never  used  in  indoor  scenes,  the  one  important 
exception  to  this  being  the  description  of  Imogen's  room  by 
lachimo  in  "Cymbeline."  There  is  much  more  need  for  it  in 
scenes  that  occur  out-of-doors,  since  people  appearing  there  are 
often  not  in  their  accustomed  surroundings. 

The  second  rather  than  the  first  sub^-titute  is  generally  to  be 
found  in  scenes  of  parks  or  gardens  belonging  to  the  houses  of 


200  THE   SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

nobles.  In  many  of  these  scenes,  however,  there  is  nothing  to 
take  the  place  of  scenery.  This  is  the  case  throughout  the 
greater  part  of  '^Love's  Labour's  Lost"  which  takes  place 
almost  entirely  in  the  park  of  the  King  of  Navarre  ;  the  play  is 
so  full  of  humor  and  vivacity  that  the  audience,  in  attending  to 
that,  has  little  regard  for  scenery.  And  indeed  it  is  of  no  great 
importance  here,  for  the  play  seems  real  without  it.  There  is 
likewise  nothing  to  take  the  place  of  scenery  in  the  first  scene 
of  *^  Cymbeline"  which  is  laid  in  the  garden  behind  Cymbeline's 
palace,  but  which  might  just  as  well  be  in  the  palace  itself  so 
far  as  any  indications  of  scenery  are  concerned.  On  the  con- 
trary, in  ''King  Richard  II,"  Act  III,  scene  4,  the  scene  in  the 
Duke  of  York's  garden  is  graphically  represented  and  could 
take  place  nowhere  else.  The  speeches  of  the  gardener,  filled 
with  words  and  phrases  characteristic  of  the  place,  help  the 
audience  to  imagine  a  well-cared-for  garden  and  reference  to 
"these  trees"  and  "  yon  dangling  apricots "  make  the  picture 
fairly  well-defined.  No  such  detailed  picture  is  likely  to  be 
imagined  of  Capulet's  garden  in  "Romeo  and  Juliet,"  Act  II, 
scene  2  ;  here  the  only  direct  references  to  the  surroundings  are 
those  to  the  night  and  to  the  moon  "that  tips  with  silver  all 
these  fruit-tree  tops."  In  the  same  play,  the  next  scene  in  the 
gardeii  (Act  II,  scene  5)  has  nothing  in  the  way  of  substitutes 
for  scenery.  This  is  simply  another  case  where  the  audience  is 
so  deeply  interested  in  the  play  that  there  is  no  need  for  scenery. 
The  scene  in  Windsor  Park,  in  "  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,"  is 
one  in  which  no  very  elaborate  scenery  is  needed  ;  the  general 
background  of  the  trees  of  the  park  lighted  up  by  the  tapers  of 
the  "fairies"  may  easily  be  imagined  and  the  words  of  the 
speeches  in  connection  with  the  "  fairies"  make  the  effect  more 
picturesque.  The  orchard  scene  in  "  Much  Ado  About  Noth- 
ing," Act  III,  scene  1,  is  made  realistic  by  Hero's  descrip- 
tion of  the 

' '  Bower 

Where  honeysuckles,  ripened  by  the  sun, 

Forbid  the  sun  to  enter     .     .     ." 

and  the  reference  to  the  ''  woodbine  coverture."  But  two  other 
scenes  of  the  same  orchard  (Act  II,  scene  3,  and  Act  V.  scene  2)> 
one  coming  before  and  one  after  this  one,  have  no  substitutes 
for  scenery  and  there  seems  to  be  no  reason  for  this  since  the 
three  scenes  are  similar.  The  last  of  the  three,  however,  is  not 
a  scene  that  is  localized  or  peculiar  to  any  one  place. 


THE   SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY     •  201 

In  scenes  that  are  laid  in  the  country,  the  scenery  is  supplied 
by  means  of  the  characters  and  their  speeches  rather  than  any 
description  of  scenery.  Such  is  the  case  in  ^'  Timon  of  Athens/ 
in  the  scenes  of  Timon's  cave  near  the  seashore  and  the  woods 
near  by.  Here  the  picturesque  element  is  supplied  by  the 
stormy  character  of  Timon  and  his  bitter  speeches  and  the  deso- 
lation and  barrenness  of  the  place  made  very  evident.  The 
scenery  proper  to  the  mountainous  country  near  Milford  even 
in  "Cymbeline^^  is  not  so  clearly  represented;  the  audience  is 
interested  in  what  is  taking  place  and  the  rapid  action  precludes 
the  need  of  scenery  to  some  extent.  What  scenery  there  is 
must  arise  from  the  speeches  that  refer  to  nature,  the  mountains 
and  the  cave,  and  the  fact  that  the  inhabitants  of  the  cave  are 
outlaws.  A  much  wilder  scene  is  depicted  in  "  The  Tempest"  ; 
the  audience  feels  that  the  island  is  very  wild  and  rugged,  and 
Prosperous  magic,  the  fairy  Ariel  and  the  monster  Caliban 
combine  to  make  the  whole  more  strange  and  unearthly.  Ex- 
cept for  the  storm  scenes,  there  are  few  parts  in  which  the 
scenery  is  actually  described,  and  for  this  very  reason  the  effect 
is  more  mysterious.  The  opening  scenes  of  the  play  with  their 
graphic  representation  of  storm  and  shipwreck,  prepare  the 
audience  for  the  wonders  that  are  to  follow.  The  play  is  one 
that  stimulates  the  powers  of  the  imagination  so  that  the  char- 
acter of  the  speeches  more  readily  forms  a  substitute  for  scenery. 
This  is  the  case  also  with  the  scenes  in  ^'  Macbeth"  in  which  the 
witches  appear  ;  their  weird  speeches  impress  the  audience  with 
the  bareness  and  desolation  of  the  heath.  In  the  scenes  on  the 
heath  in  ''King  Lear"  the  scenery  is  applied  in  a  similar 
manner.  The  storm  is  made  very  vivid  indeed  by  Lear's  half- 
crazed  utterances  that  defy  it,  bidding  the  winds  to  blow  and 
crack  their  cheeks,  and  the  lightning  to  singe  his  white  head. 
And  then  he  says  : 

"Nor  rain,  wind,  thunder.  jBre.  are  mj-  daughters  : 
I  tax  not  you,  you  elements,  with  unkindness  ; 
I  never  gave  you  kingdom,  called  you  children, 
You  owe  me  no  subscription  ;  then  let  fall 
Your  horrible  pleasure;  here  I  stand,  your  slave, 
A  poor,  infirm,  weak  and  despised  old  man." 

The  pity  of  it  and  the  feebleness  of  the  old  man  make  the  storm 
seem  more  terrible  than  before,  perhaps  with  one  of  those 
ominous  lulls  in  a  storm  that  are  forebodiiii^:  of  worse  to  follow. 


202  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

Later  on  in  the  same  play,  in  Act  IV,  scene  4,  Edgar  makes  his 
father  believe  that  thej  are  climbing  the  hill  at  Dover  that  he 
may  leap  down  from  the  cliff,  when  they  are  really  upon  a  level 
field  ;  this  gives  the  audience  an  idea  of  what  the  scenery  actu- 
ally should  be. 

The  scenery  surrounding  happy  rural  life  is  a  contrast  to  this 
that  we  have  just  discussed,  but  the  substitutes  for  it  are  the 
same.  Scenes  of  this  type  are  to  be  found  in  "The  Winter^'s 
Tale"  and  "As  You  Like  It."  The  feast  of  sheep-shearing  and 
other  rustic  scenes  in  the  "Winter's  Tale"  need  little  scenery, 
and  the  place  of  this  is  taken  by  speeches  characteristic  of 
country  people.  In  "As  You  Like  It"  this  is  the  case  with 
scenes  of  the  same  variety,  where  the  scenery  is  described  in 
only  a  few  places. 

The  greater  part  of  "As  You  Like  It"  takes  place  in  the 
forest  of  Arden,  and  the  scenery  belonging  to  the  forest  arises 
from  frequent  references  to  it  on  the  part  of  those  living  there. 
They  are  not  the  inhabitants  usually  associated  with  a  forest, 
such  as  fairies,  robbers,  or  country  people,  and  their  speech 
smacks  of  the  court  rather  than  of  the  woods.  But  allusions  to 
the  surroundings  such  as  are  to  be  found  in  Act  II,  scene  7  : 

".     .     .    in  this  desert  inaccessible 
Under  the  shade  of  melancholy  boughs," 

and  in  Act  III,  scene  2  : 

"  O,  Rosalind  !  these  trees  shall  be  my  books, 
And  in  their  barks  my  thoughts  I'll  character," 

help  the  "audience  to  imagine  the  scenery.  This  substitute  for 
scenery  is  the  one  most  widely  to  be  found  in  the  forest  scenes. 
It  is  used  to  a  less  extent  in  "  The  Two  Noble  Kinsmen"  and  in 
"  Titus  Andronicus,"  where  the  action  of  the  play  is  rapid,  and 
in  the  forest  scenes  in  the  second  part  of  "King  Henry  IV. ^* 
In  "The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona"  there  are  few  references 
to  the  scenery  in  Act  IV,  scene  1,  and  Act  V,  scene  3.  Outlaws 
are  known  to  frequent  woods  and  solitary  places  ;  their  speeches 
are  peculiar  to  themselves  and  to  the  forest  and  from  these  the 
audience  may  imagine  the  scene.  In  the  first  part  of  Act  V, 
scene  4,  however,  Valentine,  who  has  not  been  with  the  outlaws 
long  enough  to  acquire  their  speech,  talks  of  "this  shadowy 
desert,  unfrequented  woods."  In  the  third  part  of  "King 
Henr}^  VI,"  Act  III,  scene  1,  takes  place  in  a  forest  and  at  the 


THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  203 

Deginiiiiig  of  the  scene  the  two  keepers  speak  of  shrouding 
themselves  ''under  this  thick-grown  brake"  to  wait  for  the 
coming  of  the  deer.  This  gives  the  audience  the  setting  for 
what  is  to  follow,  where  the  interest  in  the  action  is  great  and 
there  is  little  to  indicate  the  scenery.  In  "A  Midsummer- 
Night's  Dream  "  the  wood  near  Athens  is  made  real  to  the  audi- 
ence b}^  means  of  references  to  it  by  the  lovers  who  are  wander- 
ing there,  and  also  by  the  presence  of  the  fairies  and  their  airy 
speeches  and  songs  which  belong  to  no  place  so  much  as  a  forest. 
In  Act  III,  scene  2,  the  fact  that  it  is  night  is  made  plain  by 
various  allusions,  such  as  Helena's  speech, 

"  O  weary  night.  O  long  and  tedious  night, 
Abate  thy  hours ;  shine,  comforts  from  the  east." 

This  idea  of  the  passage  of  time,  of  the  change  from  night  to 
day,  is  nowhere  so  well  carried  out  as  in  "  Romeo  and  Juliet.'^ 
In  Act  II,  scene  2,  Romeo  speaks  several  times  of  night  and  the 
moon.  At  the  beginning  of  the  next  scene  the  time  of  day  and 
the  scenery  peculiar  to  it  are  given  at  once  when  Friar  Law- 
rence says  : 

"  The  grey-eyed  moon  smiles  on  the  frowning  night, 
Conqii'ring  the  eastern  clouds  with  streaks  of  light, 
And  flecked  darkness  like  a  drunkard  reels 
From  forth  day's  path.     .     .     ." 

In  Act  II,  scene  4,  there  are  allusions  that  make  it  obvious  that 
it  is  morning,  and  in  scene  5  Juliet  tells  of  waiting  three  long 
hours,  from  nine  to  twelve,  so  that  here  one  feels  the  atmosphere 
of  noon.  This  may  not  be  strictly  accorded  scenery  but  the 
notion  of  the  passage  of  time  cannot  easily  be  represented  on 
the  stage  without  scenery  except  in  this  way,  so  that  it  is  in 
reality  part  of  the  stage  setting.  The  idea  of  night  is  repre- 
sented in  much  the  same  way  in  "King  Lear"  and  in  the 
"  Merchant  of  Venice,''  Act  V,  scene  1. 

There  are  in  several  plays  scenes  that  take  place  at  the  sea- 
shore or  on  shipboard.  One  of  these  is  to  be  found  in  "Peri- 
cles.-' Critics  tell  us  that  this  play  is  not  wholly  Shakspere's, 
bnt  there  is  reason  to  believe  that  he  wrote  Act  III,  scene  1, 
where  the  scene  is  a  ship  in  a  storm.  Here  the  storm  is  de- 
scribed by  Pericles,  and  the  speeches  of  the  sailors,  which  pecu- 
liarly belong  to  the  sea,  help  the  audience  to  imagine  the 
scenery.  In  the  first  scene  of  "  The  Tempest,''  too,  the  speeches 
of  the  mariners,  the  ship-master  and  the  boatswain  form  substi- 


204  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

tutes  for  scenery.  A  scene  in  "Antony  and  Cleopatra"  that 
takes  place  on  a  ship  is  of  a  very  different  character  and  the 
scenery  is, indicated  only  by  occasional  words  that  remind  the 
audience  that  the  scene  belongs  on  a  ship  near  Egypt.  These 
reminders  cannot  be  said  to  form  substitutes  for  scenery  to  any 
great  extent.  There  are  few  scenes  which  require  the  scenery 
of  the  seacoast  and  these  are  really  unimportant.  Two  of  them 
occur  in  "  Twelfth  Mght,"  Act  I,  scene  2,  and  Act  II,  scene  1, 
and  in  these  it  is  the  conversation  of  the  characters  that  in  some^ 
measure  takes  the  place  of  scenery.  In  the  second  part  of 
"King  Henry  VI/'  howevei,  the  scenery  is  not  described,  in 
Act  II,  scene  1,  nor  do  the  characters  present  belong  particu- 
larlj  to  a  place  of  that  sort.  The  audience  is  interested  in  what 
is  going  on  and  no  scenery  is  needed  to  make  it  seem  real ;  the 
scene  might  almost  be  laid  in  some  other  place,  except  that  it 
occurs  after  a  fight  at  sea  which  is  not  introduced  into  the  play. 

The  many  scenes  of  battle  which  are  presented  on  the  stage 
are  all  of  them  on  land.  These  scenes  are  to  be  found  chiefly  in 
the  historical  plays  and  in  those  which  deal  with  Rome,  and  the 
action  is  in  general  so  rapid  that  not  much  scenery  is  required. 
The  scenes  are  made  realistic  by  means  of  speeches  charaflbter- 
istic  of  the  battlefield.  Men  engaged  in  battle  can  hardly  be 
expected  to  describe  the  scenery  and  this  is  not  often  the  case. 
There  is  more  room  for  the  description  of  scenery  in  scenes  of 
the  army  in  camp  and  we  might  reasonably  expect  to  find  thi& 
substitute  in  connection  with  such  scenes  but,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  it  is  seldom  present.  In  "Julius  Csesar  "  the  camp  is  indi- 
cated only  by  such  characteristic  words  as  the  challenge  "Stand 
ho  !"  and  the  talk  about  the  army  ;  the  same  is  true  in  "Corio- 
lanus"  and  in  "  Troilus  and  Cressida." 

There  now  remains  one  variety  of  scene  which  is  important, 
since  it  occurs  in  nearly  all  of  the  plays  with,  in  most  cases, 
nothing  to  take  the  place  of  scenery ;  this  consists  in  street 
scenes.  These  are  mainly  scenes  that  are  not  localized,  belong- 
ing to  no  particular  place  necessarily,  and  they  are  of  use  in  the 
plays  chiefly  as  a  means  of  informing  the  audience  of  certain 
facts  or  of  completing  the  plot.  A  good  example  of  this  use  is 
to  be  found, in  "  King  Henry  VIII."  In  Act  II,  scene  1,  and  in 
Act  IV,  scene  1,  two  gentlemen  meet  each  other  in  a  street  in 
Westminster  and  tell  each  other  the  news,  and  from  this  the 
audience  knows  what  has  happened.     There  is  no  substitute  for 


THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  205 

scenery  here  as  the  scenery  is  not  essential.  Scenes  of  a  similar 
character  are  to  be  found  in  most  of  Sbakspere's  plays.  There 
are,  however,  some  street  scenes  in  which  scenery  is  of  use  in 
making  the  scene  seem  real  and  where  substitutes  for  it  are  to 
be  found.  Such  occur  in  "Julius  Caesar''  and  in  "  Coriolanus," 
where  the  language  used  combined  with  frequent  references  to 
Rome  or  to  the  Capitol  suggest  scenery  that  is  appropriate.  In 
scenes  of  a  highway  at  night,  as  in  the  first  part  of  "King 
Henry  IV,"  Act  II,  scene  2,  the  scenery  is  indicated  by  refer- 
ences on  the  part  of  Prince  Henry,  Falstaff,  and  his  compan- 
ions. This  is  also  the  case  in  the  second  part  of  "  King  Henry 
YI"  in  Act  II,  scene  4.  Here  the  punishment  of  the  Duchess 
of  Gloster  takes  place  in  a  street  and  the  audience  is  kept  in 
mind  of  the  fact  by  such  words  as 

"  Uneath  may  she  endure  the  flinty  streets, 
To  tread  them  with  her  tender-feeling  feet," 

and  the  Duchess'  speech  : 

"Methinks  I  should  not  thus  be  led  along, 

And  followed  with  a  rabble  that  rejoice 
To  see  my  tears.     .     .     ." 

Most  of  the  street  scenes  in  Shakspere's  plays  are  not  of  this 
variety,  and,  belonging  to  no  particular  locality,  require  neither 
scenery  nor  any  substitute  for  it. 

We  have  now  taken  up  the  most  significant  varieties  of  scenes 
to  be  found  in  the  plays  and  it  becomes  evident  that  the  func- 
tion of  scenery  that  tends  to  increase  the  reality  of  a  play  is 
performed  by  the  effect  upon  the  audience  of  the  character  of 
the  speeches  and  of  actual  description  of  scenery.  Where  the 
scenery  of  a  play  is  left  almost  wholly  to  the  imagination  of 
each  one  in  the  audience  it  will  surely  be  such  as  to  suit  every- 
one and  there  can  be  no  dissatisfaction  caused  by  inadequate 
staging. 

There  is  still  to  be  considered  the  other  function  of  scenery, 
that  of  appealing  to  the  sense  of  beauty  possessed  by  those  in 
the  audience.  The  substitute  for  this  is  to  be  found  in  the 
poetry  of  the  plays,  if  the  word  poetry  be  used  in  a  wide  sense 
as  the  expression  of  imaginative  feeling.  Most  of  us  at  the 
present  day  would  not  be  likely  fully  to  appreciate  "  King  Lear" 
and  "The  Tempest,"  which  are  among  the  most   poetical  of 


206  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

Shakspere's  works,  if  they  were  presented  without  scenery. 
Bat  in  the  time  of  Shakspere,  when  people  were  accustomed  to 
very  little  scenery  on  the  stage,  poetry  itself  filled  the  place  of 
scenery  to  a  great  extent.  Beautiful  and  effective  scenery 
appeals  to  the  sense  of  beauty  inherent  in  each  person  in  the 
audience,  and  fills  out  and  completes  a  play,  helping  to  empha- 
size certain  parts  and  subdue  others.  Poetry  accomplishes  the 
same  end  by  its  appeal  to  the  aesthetic  sense  of  those  in  the 
audience,  and  it  will  be  noticed  that  as  a  rule  those  parts  of  a 
play  in  which  the  imaginative  power  is  highest  are  those  that, 
for  aesthetic  reasons,  should  be  emphasized.  Poetry,  then, 
performs  one  of  the  functions  of  scenerj^,  and  so  is  possibly  one 
factor  that  served  to  take  its  place  on  the  stage  of  Shakspere's 
day.  This  substitute  for  scenery  is  to  be  found  in  all  of  the 
plays,  though  of  course  to  no  great  extent  in  some  of  the 
inferior  ones,  so  that  there  is  no  need  of  discussing  each  play 
even  if  an  amateur  reader  were  capable  of  criticising  the  poetry 
of  Shakspere. 

In  general,  then,  we  find  that  the  substitutes  for  scenery  to 
be  found  in  Shakspere's  plays  are  of  two  varieties,  the  one  com- 
pleting the  work  of  the  other.  To  make  a  scene  look  natural 
and  real,  we  have  the  scenery  imagined  by  the  audience  from 
the  suggestions  in  the  speeches  that  are  peculiar  to  certain 
places,  often  made  more  concrete  by  descriptions  of  the  scenery 
itself  or  direct  allusions  to  it.  As  the  substitute  for  the  beauty 
of  a  scene  and  its  effect  upon  the  audience,  we  have  the  poetry. 
It  is  customary  to  have  scenery  now,  and  an  audience  of  the 
present  day  usually  prefers  it  for  this  reason ;  one  cannot  help 
wondering,  however,  whether  an  Elizabethan  audience  did  not 
profit  more  from  the  plays  than  we  do.  In  Shakspere's  time 
people  could  not  miss  the  beauty  of  the  language  and  the  poetry 
by  looking  too  often  at  the  scenery,  and  the  use  of  imagination 
could  not  be  other  than  a  benefit  to  them. 


THE  BORDER  LINE 

ELOISE   SCHMIDT 

Miss  Myrtle  and  Miss  Nancy  were  perhaps  the  only  neighbors 
in  old  Norcross  who  had  never  quarrelled.  They  had  lived  side 
by  side  for  fortj^  years  and  had  never  had  occasion  to  build  a 
fence  between  their  cottages.  They  were  indeed  unusual  neigh- 
bors, for  there  was  hardly  a  house  in  Norcross  which  was  not 
carefully  fenced  off  from  the  contact  of  another. 

Many  a  house  had  a  high  board  fence  at  the  back,  for  a  back- 
door neighbor  is  apt  to  be  the  most  trying  ;  some  neighbors  were 
separated  by  great  spiked  fences  which  could  not  possibly  be 
stepped  over  or  crawled  through,  and  others  by  little  stiff 
hedges.  The  Bourne's  big  house  on  the  corner  went  unfenced 
for  a  long  hot  summer  and  then  one  week  a  high  iron  fence  ap- 
peared on  the  edge  of  its  lawn,  separating  the  Bourne  estate 
from  the  little  grass  plot  of  the  Scragg's  yellow  house.  Then  the 
climax  in  fence-building  was  reached  in  Norcross.  No  sooner 
was  the  high  iron  fence  erected  than  a  higher,  spikier  fence  re- 
inforced it  on  the  Scragg's  lawn.  It  probably  cost  Mr.  Scragg, 
the  little  bookkeeper,  two  or  three  months  of  his  tiny  salary, 
but  oh,  the  glory  of  reinforcing  a  Bourne  with  a  finer  Scragg' 
erection  ! 

And  so,  gradually,  most  of  the  houses  of  Norcross  were  fenced 
on  one  side,  two  sides  or  all  four  sides.  Election-day  caused  the 
high  iron  enclosures ;  Miss  Trigger,  the  village  dress-maker, 
caused  the  little  stiff  hedges,  and  family  disagreements,  parties 
and  wills  caused  the  plain  wooden  fences. 

But  while  the  rest  of  the  village  were  disagreeing  and  building- 
enclosures,  Miss  Nancy  and  Miss  Myrtle  lived  side  by  side  and 
agreed.  Inwardly  they  felt  a  little  aloof  from  the  rest  of  the 
neighborhood,  for  their  quarreling  and  haggling  seemed  so  ridi- 
culous. They  smiled  happily  at  each  other  and  agreed  that 
they,  at  least,  were  not  narrow.  They  cleaned  house,  trimmed 
their  summer  hats,  canned  fruit  and  ate  Sunday  dinners  to- 
gether the  year  around.  Even  their  gardens  grew  together. 
The  vegetable  garden  was  in  Miss  Nancy's  yard  and  the  flowers 
in   Miss  Myrtle's.     When  Miss  Myrtle  was  younger  her  lonely 


208  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

father  had  planted  and  tended  a  flower  garden  while  Miss 
Nancy's  thrifty  mother  was  digging  in  her  vegetable  garden. 
Gradually  Miss  Myrtle's  flowers  scraggled  across  the  small  space 
between  the  gardens  and  the  two  were  one. 

One  day  Miss  Myrtle  and  Miss  Nancy  were  working  over  the 
vegetables — Miss  Nancy,  in  her  blue-checked  apron,  kneeling 
over  the  potato  vines  and  Miss  Myrtle  in  her  white  ruffled  break- 
fast jacket  tying  up  the  pea  vines. 

"You  remember  cousin  Eichard,  who  went  to  Calif  ornia  ?  " 
questioned  Miss  Nancy. 

"Oh  5^es,  the  one  who  sent  you  the  poinsettia  postal  last 
Christmas,  Nancy  ?" 

"  Y9S.  Well,  he's  going  to  London  on  business  next  month 
•end  he  wrote  and  asked  if  he  could  send  Chickering  down  here 
for  a  little,  while  he  was  away.  Chickering  is  his  little  son,  you 
know.  He  was  always  so  sudden.  Cousin  Richard  was,  that  I 
never  have  time  to  stop  him  even  if  I  want  to.  So  Chickering 
will  be  coming  some  time  this  week  I  guess." 

"Well  Nancy,  think  of  us  with  some  young  life  among  us  ! 
Just  think!"  exclaimed  Miss  Myrtle.  "Let's  see,  how  old  is 
Chickering  ?  He  was  born  the  year  Sara  Porter  and  the  Mac- 
Leans  fell  out,  wasn't  he  ? — that  was  eight  years  ago.  What 
room  will  he  have,  Nancy  ?  The  little  brown  room  ?  And 
shan't  I  bring  over  something  to  put  in  it  ?" 

By  the  end  of  the  week  Miss  Myrtle  could  no  longer  bear  to 
have  Nancy  planning  for  company,  and  she  not.  So  after  much 
consultation  Miss  Myrtle  decided  she  too  would  have  a  guest. 
Thereupon  she  invited  her  great  grand-niece,  Tessa  Marianna, 
to  occupy  the  little  gray  room  at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  The 
two  neighbors  planned  tea-parties,  rides,  and  trips  to  the  woods 
for  the  children. 

The  first  week  after  Chickering  and  Tessa  came,  seemed  a 
busy  whirl  for  the  two  quiet  housekeepers.  Miss  Myrtle  had  to 
cook  twice  as  much  for  her  meals  and  poor  Miss  Nancy  four 
times  as  much  for  her  guest.  After  the  children's  first  ferocious 
appetites  were  satisfied  and  they  began  to  feel  at  home,  the 
neighbors  found  a  little  time  to  sit  together.  They  would  rock 
gently  on  Miss  Myrtle's  piazza  and  watch  through  the  vines  as 
the  children  romped  on  the  grass. 

Chickering  and  Tessa  played  for  a  week  very  happily  at  circus, 
school  and  farm.     But  one  day  Chickering  found    "  a  bunch  a' 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  209 

fellas''  down  the  street  and  then,  early  before  breakfast,  and 
soon  after  dinner,  Chickering  would  run  off  alone.  Tessa  waited 
patiently  on  the  steps  the  first  morning,  sulked  and  waited  in 
the  afternoon,  and  whined  about  alone  in  the  evening.  Miss 
Myrtle  planned  a  little  tea-party,  the  first  day,  when  she  saw 
her  grand-niece  was  lonely  ;  the  next  day  she  read  to  her,  but  it 
seemed  useless.  Tessa  would  get  up  while  Miss  Myrtle  was 
reading  and  follow  Chickering  down  the  street  only  to  come 
back  rebuffed  and  sobbing. 

'*  On  Sunday  he'll  surely  play  with  her,"  Miss  Myrtle  thought. 
**They  can  play  tea-party  in  my  flower-garden.  Nancy  surely 
won't  let  him  play  with  those  rowdy  boys  on  Sunday." 

But  Sunday  afternoon  came  and,  right  before  Miss  Nancy's 
eyes,  Chickering  ran  away  from  Tessa  down  the  street  to  the 
rowdy  gang.  Monday  morning  was  hot  and  sultry  and  Miss 
Myrtle  felt  that  on  washday  at  least  Chickering  should  be  kept 
at  home  to  play  with  Tessa.  But  again  Chickering  ran  away, 
as  Tessa  tried  to  join  him.  Miss  Myrtle  left  her  washing 
resolutely,  hung  up  her  apron  and  crossed  the  grass-plot  be- 
tween the  two  houses.  The  front  door  slammed  as  Miss  Myrtle 
entered. 

The  front  door  slammed  harder  as  Miss  Myrtle  left  the  house. 
As  she  crossed  the  vegetable  garden  she  stepped  on  one  of  Miss 
Nancy's  tomatoes.  That  afternoon  Miss  Myrtle  left  the  house 
«arly  with  Tessa.  It  was  the  first  time  in  ten  years  that  Miss 
Myrtle  had  gone  to  Sewing  Circle  without  Miss  Nancy. 

The  next  morning  Tessa  did  not  bring  over  the  usual  bunch 
of  flowers  nor  come  for  the  morning  vegetables.  Later  Tessa 
and  her  great-aunt  left  the  house  with  a  picnic-basket  and  they 
did  not  return  until  after  twilight. 

"They've  been  gone  a  long  time.  I  guess  Myrtle  took  Tessa 
out  to  the  cave  where  we  planned  to  go  with  the  children," 
thought  Miss  Nancy  as  she  sat  alone  on  her  porch.  Miss  Nancy 
sat  alone  the  rest  of  the  evening  listening  to  Myrtle  and  Tessa 
talking  in  the  garden  and  the  loud  shouts  of  Chickering's  friends 
down  the  street.  But  she  did  not  call  Chickering  home  nor  join 
Miss  Myrtle  and  Tessa  in  the  garden. 

All  that  week  Chickering  left  Tessa  to  play  alone  and  Miss 
Myrtle  amused  her  defiantly.  One  hot  night  after  a  strenuous 
evening  with  Tessa,  Miss  Myrtle  picked  up  her  yard-stick  and 


210  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

crossed  the  lawn.  She  dropped  down  on  her  hands  and  knees 
by  the  flower  garden  and  felt  along  in  the  grass. 

'^  There  must  be  some  marker  between  our  lots,"  she  whispered 
as  she  felt  in  the  grass  inch  by  inch,  "  I  won't  give  her  an  inch 
more  than  necessary,  I'm  sure.  Maybe  it's  down  by  the  path." 
She  crawled  around  the  big  bridal-wreath  bush  and  then  for  an 
instant  Miss  Myrtle's  heart  stopped  beating,  for  there  on  her 
hands  and  knees,  feeling  in  the  grass  was  Miss  Nancy.  The  two 
looked  at  each  other.  Just  then  Chickering's  voice  rang  out^ 
"  Come  on  Tess  !  Let's  do  it  again.     Ain't  it  fun  ! " 

Miss  Myrtle  and  Miss  Nancy  looked  at  each  other  and  laughed. 


IN  THE  \7HITE  BIRCH  WOOD 

GRACE  ANGELA  RICHMOND 

Fleet  song  fled  away  in  the  Spring 

To  the  white  birch  wood. 

I  followed  her,  for  I  thought  her  fair, 

And  I  canght  a  glimpse  of  her  red-gold  hair, 

And  I  heard  her  laughter's  joyous  ring 

In  the  white  birch  wood. 

Apple  blossoms  are  like  her  cheek, 

Deep  blue  are  her  eyes. 

And  deep  down  in  a  woodsy  hollow 

I  found  her  again — I  was  bound  to  follow— 

She  stood  there  waiting,  all  maiden,  meek. 

Deep  blue  were  her  eyes. 

So  I  drew  her  close  to  my  heart 

In  the  white  birch  wood. 

And  then,  with  an  echo  of  joyous  laughter 

She  fled — it  was  useless  to  follow  after — 

And  she  left  me  there,  with  the  pain  and  smart. 

In  the  white  birch  wood. 


THE   CRIMINAL 

KATHARINE   D.    KENDIG 

"  Next  sto — p,  '  Rin rin — /  "  announced  the  conductor  un- 
intelligibly and  banged  shut  the  door,  leaving  to  the  few  pas- 
sengers still  sitting  near  the  back  of  the  car  the  work  of  puzzling 
out  the  meaning  of  his  statement.  With  a  yawn,  the  Boy 
dropped  his  Popular  Mechanics  and  picked  up  the  time-table. 

"Springfield  next.  Only  about  a  half  an  hour  more!"  he 
said  to  the  Girl  beside  him,  who,  interrupted  in  her  perusal  of 
a  poem  in  Scribner's  looked  up  murmuring  an  absent  "  that's 
good,"  and  fell  to  studying  the  passengers  around  her. 

There  was  the  Boy,  of  course,  who  was  her  brother.  Then 
directly  in  front  of  her  was  a  Busy  Woman  who  was  eternally 
hunting  through  her  belongings  for  things  she  could  not  seem 
to  find,  never  at  rest  for  one  minute  and  at  present  engaged  in 
a  monologue  addressed  to  the  small,  weary  man  beside  her. 

"Jerry,  aren't  we  almost  there  now?  Hadn't  we  better  get 
the  bags  together  ?  Reach  down  my  hat  for  me  now,  do,  and  — 
and — "  The  weary  man's  only  response  was  an  occasional  grunt, 
and  finally  the  girl  turned  her  attention  to  the  man  across  the 
aisle  from  her.  "Foreigner!"  She  sniffed  and  nudged  her 
brother.  "Doesn't  he  look  like  a  villian  from  a  melodrama  ?" 
she  asked.  "Look!  he  hasn't  changed  his  position  since  he 
first  sat  down  !"  The  villian,  oblivious  of  his  recent  classifica- 
tion as  such  continued  to  sit  "  all  hunched  up  in  a  heap,"  glaring 
ahead  of  him  under  black  brows,  his  large  frame  almost  con- 
cealing the  sulky  little  child  beside  him  near  the  window, — the 
child  who  was  a  small  counterpart  of  the  man,  from  his  black 
matted  hair  to  his  sitting  posture. 

"  Ugh  !"  said  the  girl  and  began  to  examine  the  dapper  one 
in  the  seat  in  front  of  the  villian.  The  dapper  one  was  a  small 
man,  very  neat,  very  precise,  moving,  whenever  he  did,  with 
little  bird-like  gestures.  He  was  rather  nervous,  it  seemed,  and 
threw  occasional  half -frightened  glances  over  his  shoulder,  tak- 
ing off  his  gloves,  putting  them  on  again,  opening  and  shutting 
the  little  black  bag  beside  him,  yet  never  for  a  moment  losing 
the  appearance  of  being  a  very   fashion-plate   of  a  man.     He 

211 


212  THE   SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

glanced  over  toward  tlie  girl  once,  and  she,  as  their  eyes  met, 
buried  herself  in  her  magazine  again,  losing  all  interest  in  her 
fellow-passengers. 

Meanwhile  the  train  was  going  more  and  more  slowly  till, 
after  a  few  minutes  during  which  it  had  scarcely  progressed  at 
all,  it  stopped  completely.  When  it  is  all  dark  outside,  and  the 
lights  within  are  only  dim,  flickering  ones  ;  when  the  noise  made 
by  the  train  as  it  clicks  over  the  rail  ceases  completely  ;  when 
the  train  seems  miles  away  ''from  anywhere,"  the  effect  of  its 
stopping  is  very  disconcerting.  After  a  few  prolonged  minutes 
of  silent  waiting,  the  passengers  on  this  particular  train  began 
to  get  uneasy.  The  busy  woman  became  yet  more  busy,  the 
weary  man  more  weary,  and  the  dapper  one  tied  his  gloves  up 
into  a  hard  little  knot.  Only  the  villian  remained  as  he  had 
been,  although  the  girl  imagined  that  he  glared  somewhat  more 
threateningly  than  before. 

The  boy  became  very  restless.  ''  I'm  going  to  see  what's  up," 
he  announced  and  went  out  on  the  platform.  He  was  back  in  a 
moment.  "  I  can't  see  much  of  anything,"  he  said,  "  It  is  pitch 
black,  but  I  think  we're  on  a  sort  of  bridge.  I  saw  a  gleam  on 
some  water  below  us." 

The  busy  woman  heard  him.  "How  long  do  you  think  we'll 
be  here  ?"  she  asked.  "Jerry,  hadn't  you  better  ask  a  con- 
ductor ?"  Jerry  merely  grunted  again  in  answer,  and  his  weari- 
ness became  even  more  evident,  if  that  were  possible.  There 
was  another  period  of  waiting  during  which  the  busy  woman 
wandered  down  the  aisle. 

"  Hah  !"  she  said  suddenly,  "little  lad,  where  did  you  come 
from  ?"  The  girl  turned  to  see  who  the  little  lad  might  be.  Be- 
hind her  sat  a  small  boy,  wrapped  in  a  red  mackinaw  many 
sizes  too  large  for  him.  He  was  occupying  as  little  space  as 
possible,  huddled  up  near  the  window.  On  being  addressed  he 
seemed  to  shrink  into  his  mackinaw  further,  but  the  busy 
woman  was  not  to  be  withstood. 

"  Did  you  get  on  at  New  York,  little  lad  ?"  she  asked.     "And 
are  you   all   alone?      Aren't  you   lonesome?"      The  little  lad 
screwed  around  uncomfortably. 
"Um-huh  !"  he  muttered. 

"  Aren't  you  a  brave  little  lad  ?  "  she  said.  "  My  !  we  wouldn't 
think  of  letting  our  little  boy  travel  alone,  would  we,  Jerry  ? 
What  can  your  folks  be   thinking   of  ?    Little  lad,   don't  you 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      213 

want  to  go  and  ask  the  conductor  what  is  delaying  the  train, 
and  come  tell  us,  like  a  dear  boy  ?  Jerry  won't ! "  Here  she 
flung  a  disgusted  look  at  the  weary  man  who  on  meeting  her 
eye  grunted  again. 

There  was  a  burst  of  delicate  laughter  from  the  dapper  one, 
who  immediately  stifled  it,  and  sat  bolt  upright,  looking  very 
self-conscious  and  foolish.  But  the  busy  woman  did  not  take 
her  eyes  off  the  little  lad  so  that  he  finally  disentangled  himself 
sulkily  from  his  mackinaw,  and  walked  slowly  down  the  aisle 
and  out  to  the  platform. 

After  some  time  he  returned,  his  eyes  big  with  excitement. 
"  Aw,  gee  !  "  he  said.  "  What  do  y'  'spose  ?  Some  one  on  this 
train's  a  big  wallopin'  crim'nal,  and  they  ain't  goin^  to  let  us  go 
on  until  the  perlice  have  searched  the  whole  train  !  Gee  ! "  he 
added,  ''  we're  on  a  bridge,  and  y'  can't  git  off  it !  They'll  git 
the  crim'nal  O.  K. !  " 

The  dapper  one  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  little  start. 
'"Nd  they  are  men  gaardin'  each  door"   said   the  little   lad, 
looking  at  the  dapper  one  triumphantly,  while  he  himself  snug- 
gled back  into  his  seat  again,  conscious  that  his  tale  was  receiv- 
ing due  attention. 

The  busy  woman  cast  an  instant  glance  of  suspicion  on  the 
dapper  one,  who  also  had  seated  himself  again,  and  had  become 
more  bird-like  than  ever. 

"Jerry,"  she  said,  "  move  over.  I'm  going  to  bring  the  little 
lad  here  with  us.     He'll  bo  safer." 

"  Nothin' doin' ! "  came  from    the    owner   of   the   mackinaw. 
^'Yoii  might  be  the  ciim'nal !" 
The  busy  woman  threw  up  her  hands  in  amazement. 
"  Me  !"  she  exclaimed.     '*  Jerry,  did  you  hear  that  ?    I  never 
did  a  thing  wrong  in  my  life  I '' 

"More  than  mo.st  of  us  can  say,"  whispered  the  boy  to  his 
sister,  and  the  weary  man  became  less  weary  for  a  moment 
while  he  glared  at  the  little  lad.  The  dapper  one  glanced  ner- 
vously over  his  shoulder  at  her,  and,  after  a  tense  silence,  she 
sat  limply  down  beside  her  husband. 

"  I  don't  like  the  looks  of  that  foreigner,"  said  the  girl  to  her 
brother.     "  I  wish  the  policemen  would  hurry  to  this  car." 

The  boy  trrinned  a  little,  "It  is  a  sort  of  funny  feeling,"   he 

admitted,  "  sitting  here  with  a  '  criminal'  maybe  in  our  midst !  " 

A  man  who  had  been  sitting  at  the  further  end  of  the  car— the 


214       THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

only  other  passenger  beside  the  group  in  the  back,  arose  sud- 
denly, and  started  down  the  aisle.  He  was  an  extremely  portly 
gentleman  and  his  gold  watch  chain  glittered  in  the  flickering 
gas-light.  ''Anyone  got  a  match  ?"  he  queried  pleasantly,  as  he 
reached  the  nervous  group. 

There  was  an  instant  blaze  of  suspicion  on  the  faces  of  all  save 
the  villian  who  still  glared  ahead.  The  weary  man  sat  bolt  up- 
right.    The  little  lad  chuckled. 

''What  do  you  want  with  a  match  9  "  asked  the  busy  woman. 
Suspicion  had  fallen  from  her  for  a  moment  to  rest  on  this  new 
arrival.     "  Why  do  you  want  a  match  ?  "  she  repeated. 

The  portly  gentleman  looked  a  little  aghast  at  the  hostile 
faces  ;  murmured  that  he  had  thought  of  going  to  the  smoker 
but  could  find  no  match.  The  situation  was  explained  to  him 
very  tersely,  and  the  weary  man,  egged  on  by  his  wife  said,  ''So 
you  don't  leave  this  car  if  loe  can  help  it ! "  while  the  portly 
gentleman  sat  stiffly  down,  very  red-faced,  and  with  all  his 
geniality  gone. 

After  a  long,  long  silence  the  boy  suddenly  said,  "Fm  going 
to  find  out  about  this  ! "  and  started  to  walk  toward  the  plat- 
form. 

Then  came  a  voice  from  a  most  unexpected  quarter.  The  vil- 
lain, without  any  change  in  his  expression,  still  glaring  under 
black  brows  at  the  red  velvet  seat  rumbled  forth,  "  Sit  down  ! " 

It  was  the  boy's  turn  for  despair.  He  sat  down  indignantly, 
and  said,  "Aw,  shut  up  !"  to  the  little  lad  who  had  chuckled 
again.     The  girl  was  furious. 

"Oh!''  she  whispered,  "that  hateful  man.  1  knotv  he's  the 
one.     I  hate  him  ! '' 

Fifteen  minutes  more  passed  in  furtive  suspicion.  The  girl, 
still  watching  them  all  with  speculative  gaze,  whispered  to  the 
boy  her  opinions.  The  dapper  one  continually  glanced  over  his 
shoulder  at  all  his  fellow  passengers  :  the  portly  gentleman 
gazed  balefully  (for  no  apparent  reason)  at  the  sulky  child  with 
the  villain  ;  the  weary  man  sank  back  into  his  seat.  But  the 
busy  woman  was  by  far  the  most  agitated — now  standing  up, 
now  sitting  down,  now  searching  for  that  uufound  something 
among  her  belongings  ;  so  visibly  distressed  that  at  length  the 
eyes  of  all — for  they  remembered  the  little  lad's  accusation — 
were  fixed  upon  her,  and  she  found  herself  very  uncomfortably 
the  centre  of  interest. 


THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY  215 

Suddenly  came  the  conductor. 

'*  We'll  start  at  once  now  !  There's  been  a  delay  ahead — sev- 
eral sections,"  he  explained  and  passed  on  to  the  next  car.  The 
whistle  blew.  There  were  shouts  of  "All  aboard,"  and  the  train 
started  forward.  The  passengers  gazed  in  amazement  at  each 
other. 

The  busy  woman  marched  down  to  the  little  lad's  seat.  The 
girl  craned  her  neck  to  see.  The  lad  was  huddled  up  against 
the  window  as  he  had  been  before  tho  disturbance,  but  now 
there  was  a  positive  gleam  in  his  eye. 

'^  Explain  !  "  the  busy  woman  said  shortly— quite  the  shortest 
speech  she  had  made. 

Said  the  little  lad — "  I  ain't  no  "little  lad.'  Fm  big  and  ma 
had  to  send  me  on  the  train — she  didn't  want  to  any  mor'n  you'd 
want  to  send  that  kid  of  your'n.  They  wasn't  no  crim'nal.  I 
made  it  up,  but  I'm  glad  if  I  got  you  scared  ! " 


CLOSED  GENTIAN 

HYLA  STOWELL  WATTERS 

Richer  blue  than  the  rippling  stream, 
Deeper  blue  than  the  August  sky, 

Blue  like  eyes  that  are  seen  in  a  dream, 
Blue  like  a  swallow  skimming  by. 

Singly  here  in  the  tall  green  grass  ; 

There  a  group  like  a  wondrous  sea. 
Hearts  close-hidden  from  rts  who  pass,- 

Hearts  disclosed  to  the  lover  bee. 


PLAY-TIME 

RUTH    COBB 

They  all  played  together  in  the  big  attic,  the  boy,  the  girl  and 
the  other  children.  The  place  was  airy  with  walls  of  delicate 
green,  and  windows  that  let  the  sun  stream  in  from  its  rosy 
dawn  to  its  rosy  setting.  The  place  was  very  neat  too.  There 
were  no  musty  trunks  that  scatter  their  quaint  finery  and  for- 
gotten toys  among  the  cobwebs  on  a  rainy  morning.  From  one 
window  the  children  could  always  watch  the  clouds  where  they 
drenched  the  round  topped  hills  of  the  Pacific  Heights,  but  if  a 
daring  shower  ventured  down  the  slope  it  must  spatter  in  the 
very  face  of  the  sunshine,  and  arch  the  mountains  with  a  brilliant 
bow.  The  boy  and  the  girl  could  stand  silent  for  a  long  time  with 
the  rainbow,  while  the  other  children  spun  their  tops  of  painted 
card. 

At  one  end  of  the  attic  was  another  window  where  a  telescope 
stood  adjusted  to  the  full  range  of  ocean  lying  between  Diamond 
Head  and  the  harbor.  The  children  knew  to  a  minute  when 
every  steamer  was  due  from  the  mainland,  and  with  the  first 
glimpse  of  a  prow  nosing  the  Head  they  crowded  around  the 
telescope. 

"She's  five  hours  and  forty  minutes  late — thirty  minutes 
ahead  of  last  trip.  Left  'Frisco  on  time,  Jack  ?  ''  questions  one, 
following  the  vessel's  track  across  the  violet  waters, 

"  Yep,"  answers  Jack,  consulting  the  scrap  book  of  shipping 
news  at  his  side.     "  How's  her  decks  ?" 

"Cleared.  Storm  in  the  '  potato  patch,'  I  guess.  Cap'n's  on 
the  bridge." 

"  She's  a  bird  !     Just  see  her  skim  !  "  they  say. 

But  the  boy  and  the  girl  stood  a  little  longer  after  the  other 
children  turned  back  to  their  play.  The  boy  wondered  what 
lay  beyond  those  marvelous  ocean  depths,  and  the  girl  loved 
the  broad  band  of  golden  beach  beside  the  blue.  Cocoanut 
palms  bordered  it.  Then  a  great  splash  of  scarlet  poinceana. 
drew  her  gaze  inland  and  passed  it  over  to  a  checkered  expanse 
of  glittering  rice  fields.  Over  the  rice  fields  rose  Diamond 
Head,   sharp   indigo.     The   boy's   gaze  had  also  wandered  to  it 

21  6 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  217 

from  the  ocean.  So  they  stood  together  and  searched  out  the 
glittering  jewels  in  its  caves  of  shadow,  diamonds  in  the  rough 
fohls  of  lava. 

**Aud  that  one — no,  it)ok  thern,  in  the  top  of  his  old  crown — 
that  one  we  will  spend  to  travel.  We'll  go  away  out  there 
where  the  transports  run.  And  we'll  sail  uj)  strange  rivers  to 
lands  where  no  man  ever  set  foot." 

"And  the  flowers,"  whispered  the  girl,  "they  hang  in  golden 
showers  all  the  way." 

A  flying  missile  struck  the  window  above  their  heads,  and  the 
boy  and  the  girl  turned  to  join  in  the  general  sport.  On  one  of 
the  walls  a  peg  had  been  driven  in,  and  the  game  was  to  shoot 
rubber  bands  at  the  peg.  With  a  little  skill  and  a  large  amount 
of  luck  they  could  be  njade  to  slip  over  it  and  hang  triumphant 
before  the  admiration  of  the  shooters.  The  fun  was  in  full 
swing  and  tiny  motes  be^an  to  dance  in  the  broad  sun  beam  as 
skirts  swished  about  and  shoes  clumped  on  the  smooth  boards. 
All  the  rubber  bands  were  in  use,  so  for  a  little  time  the  boy 
and  the  girl  looked  on  while  the  other  children  aimed,  drew^  and 
let  go.  Then  the  boy  spied  a  big  red  one  lying  neglected  where 
it  had  fallen  by  the  window.  He  pounced  upon  it,  and  turning 
quickly,  let  fly.  The  rubber  hit  its  mark  and  dangled  from  the 
peg. 

"  Now  me,  now  me,"  begged  the  girl.     "  Just  one  shot.  !  " 

The  tinkle  of  a  lunch  bell  from  the  world  below  tripi)ed  up 
the  stair-case  and  the  other  children  turned  to  meet  it  with  a 
joyous  shout. 

'*  Just  one  then,"  assented  the  boy.  '' Now  this  shot  settles 
it,"  he  declaied.     "Can  V(ai  or  can't  you?     Can   \u\\   or   can't 

you?" 

"'  I  can,  I  can,'''  she  chanted,  then  turned  away  in  bitter  dis- 
appointment. But  the  boy  was  on  his  knees  beside  the  bit  of 
rubber.  Carefully,  not  to  disturb  a  curve  of  it,  he  placed  it  on 
his  open  palm  just  as  it  had  fallen,  and  tiptoed  to  her  side.  She 
turned,  ami  her  defiance  changed  to  surprise.  With  a  gallant 
little  obeisance  he  placed  it  in  her  hand,  a  perfect  red  heart,  just 
as  it  had  fallen.  Then  with  a  .sudden  impulse  the  boy  fled  to 
the  stairway  and  hid  behind  the  door  while  the  otiier  children 
trooped  down.  The  girl  lingered  till  they  were  gone,  then  he 
crept  from  his  hiding  place  and  slowly,  hand  in  hand  they  left 
the  sunny  attic  and  their  playtime. 


SKETCHES 
A  MATRIMONIAL  BUREAU 

FRANCES  MILLIKEN  HOOPER 

Chapter  I. 

Mr.  ISTelson  turned  slowly  in  his  chair.  "  But  I  tell  you  again, 
I  must  first  know  the  nature  of  your  business.  Can^t  you  see 
that  we  owe  a  certain  guarantee  of  protection  to  our  employees  ? 
How  do  I  know  that  you  come  for  a  good  purpose  ?  What  as- 
surance have  I  that  the  girl  would  care  to  have  me  give  you  this 
information  ?    Furthermore — " 

'*  I— I — a — I  would  rather  not  tell,  sir." 

"  Very  well !  That  is  all  I  can  do  for  you,"  and  swinging  back 
to  his  desk,  Mr.  Nelson  dashed  his  pen  into  the  ink-well  and  re- 
turned to  the  unfinished  report  before  him. 

"  Then,  sir,  I  think  I  shall  tell,  sir— I  think  I  shall  tell." 

Mr.  Nelson's  pen  scratched ;  the  large  office  clock  ticked. 
Scratch-tick-tick-scratch-scratch-scratch — 

*'  I  think,  sir,  you  did  not  hear,  sir.  I  said  I  was  going  to 
tell."    There  was  a  long  pause. 

*^  Mr.  Nelson,  sir.     I  said  I  was  going  to  tell." 

Mr.  Nelson  looked  up.     •'  Haven't  you  gone  yet  ?" 

*'  I — that  is — no,  sir,"  a  twitching  of  the  face  and  an  uncross- 
ing and  crossing  of  knees.  ''If  you  would  be  so  kind  as  to 
listen,  sir.     You  see,  it  is  very  confidential." 

"Goon." 

'*  Well,  you  see,  sir,  I  am  from  Montana ;  I  am  a  postman  on 
Rural  Free  Delivery  number  four.  I  am  unmarried  but  there 
ain't  no  unmarried  women  so  how  can  I  be  otherwise  ?  "  (more 
crossing  and  uncrossing  of  knees)  "I — I — well,  I  am  desirous  of 
being  otherwise,  sir.  I  don't  like  the  single  life  ;  I  want  a  home 
and— and  I  want  someone  to  eat  my  three  little  humble  meals 
with,  sir,  and  I  tell  you  I  want  to  be  married." 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      219 

**Now,  for  the  past  year,  sir,  I  have  been  running  my  name 
an  the  *  Matrimonial  Magazine  '  and  I  have  had  several  appli- 
-cants,  sir,  but  they  don't  none  of  them  do.  One  of  them  almost 
^id;  but  I  let  her  come  out,  just  to  see  the  place,  and  I  had  her 
put  up  at  Bob  Sartwell's  and  Bob  has  a  mother  he  was  living 
with  then— well  that  ain't  here  nor  there— excepting  the  girl 
married  Bob."  A  long  gaze  was  sent  into  Mr.  Nelson's  eyes  and 
1;he  pale  face  and  plastered  hair  before  him  seemed  so  miserable 
•and  weak.     The  situation  was  not  humorous  ;  it  was  pitiable. 

*'Now  Rosie,  sir,  this  Rosie  Palanski,  has  been  in  the  Maga- 
zine for  a  little  over  two  mouths  and  sir,  I  love  that  Rosie's  face; 
I  think  I — sir,  I  think  I  would  like  to  marry  her.  I  think,  sir — 
I  think — she  ain't  got  the  same  kind  of  looks  as  those  others  and 
she,  sir,  she— I  think,  sir — I  think  I  would  like  to  marry  her." 

**  Just  a  moment,"  and  Mr.  Nelson  took  down  a  large  ledger 
from  the  top  of  his  desk.  "  Pablinski,  Padderax-)hagy,  Pam- 
berino — "  he  followed  down  the  index,  "  Palanski,  Rosie  ;  here 
we  are.  Yes,  there  is  such  a  girl  in  our  employ.  You  can  not, 
however,  see  her  until  lunch  hour.  For  no  reason  whatsoever, 
excepting  emergency,  do  we  let  the  employees  come  off  the  floor. 
It  is  eleven  o'clock  ;  the  gong  rings  at  noon.  Wait  here  or  come 
back,  just  as  you  choose.  In  the  meanwhile,  however,  I  shall 
interview  the  girl  myself  and  if  she  does  not  desire  to  see  you  I 
shall  have  to  ask  you  to  leave." 

"Oh,  sir,  but  she  does  want  to  see  me.  She  says  so.  She 
thinks,  sir — she  thinks  she  is  going  to  like  me  and,  sir,  if  we  do 
— that  is,  if  she  likes  me  and  I  like  her,  we  are  going  back  to 
Montana  to-morrow." 

'^What!" 

''Yes,  sir — she  says  so,  too." 

"  Then  the  girl  already  knows  you  ?" 

"Oh  no,  sir,  but  we  have  corresponded  several  times  through 
the  magazine." 

'*  How  did  you  know  she  worked  here  ?  Did  the  Magazine 
tell  you  that  ? " 

"No,  I — I  think,  sir — that  is,  the  Magazine  will  not  give  ad- 
dresses. Everything  must  be  done  through  its  hands,  for  you 
know,  sir,  I  suppose  there  is  some  who  don't  want  their  friends 
to  know  and  those  folks  uses  names  not  their  own  and  it  is  only 
through  certain  red-tape  in  the  Magazine  that  you  find  out  their 


220  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

real  names.  Then  there  are  some  who  would  be  afraid  to  let 
their  families  know,  and  that  is  the  case  of  Rosie.  She  says 
that  if  her, Pa  knew  what  she  was  doing  he  would  lick  her.  He 
licks  her  a  lot  anyway  and  makes  her  work  in  the  evenings  for 
him.  She  never  told  me  what  doing.  She  ain't  never  had  any 
fun  ;  she  ain't  got  any  notion  of  what  an  open  country  is  and 
she  can't  believe  that  there  is  such  places  where  people  live 
miles  and  miles  apart  and  where  there  is  miles  and  miles  of  just 
land.  She  says  that  sounds  like  Heaven.  She  ain't  never  had 
a  chance  to  meet  men  ;  and  it  isn't  so  much  a  man  that  she 
wants,  anyway — it's — it's — I  don't  know,  sir,  but  if  you  ever  got 
any  idea  of  what  it  means  to  want  somebody — and  you  ain't  got 
a  friend  or  person  in  the  world  who  really  cares  for  you,  then 
you  would  understand  ;  and  if  you  do  understand,  then  it  don't 
need  explaining.  Rosie  says  she's  half  sick  of  living  and  she 
says  if  something  doesn't  happen  soon  she  is  going  to  run  away 
— she  don't  know  where  and  she  don't  care.  Just  the  other  day 
I  got  a  letter  from  her  and  it  says  she  worked  at  the  Eno  Gum 
Factory.  That's  why  I  came  here.  Oh,  sir,  this  meeting  means 
a  lot  to  me.  I've  come  all  the  way  from  Montana  to  get  her  and 
and— God  help  us,  sir." 

Chapter  II. 

Burr,  Montana,  R.  F.  D.  No.  4. 
Dear  Miss  Rosie  : 

When  I  came  down  there  for  you  I  was  just  looking  for  a 
companion.  I  wanted  somebody  to  care  for  me.  I  wanted  to 
have  somebody  pour  out  the  coffee  for  me  and  say  good  morning 
to  me.  I  was  lonesome.  You  were  lonesome  too  but  in  a  dif- 
ferent way.  I  thought  perhaps  we  could  make  a  bargain,  but 
it  didn't  go.  Miss  Rosie,  I  didn't  know  then  ;  I  didn't  under- 
stand ;  but  every  day  since  I've  been  learning.  I've  cut  your 
picture  out  of  the  magazine  and  I  keep  it  with  me  all  the  time 
and  take  it  out  and  look  at  it  and  talk  to  it  and — and  I  feel  as 
though  somehow,  someway  you  must  come.  Oh  Miss  Rosie, 
you  wouldn't  say  no  if  you  only  understood.  I  am  sending  you 
a  ticket  to  Burr  and  with  it  this  five  dollars.  I  haven't  more 
but  I  get  fifty  dollars  a  month  you  know  ;  we  can  live  on  that. 
I  want  you.     I  love  you. 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  221 

Not  a  sign  of  excitement,  not  a  degree  of  difference  could  Mr. 
Nelson  see  in  Rosie  Palanski.  Her  cheeks  with  the  same  pa]  lid 
color  and  her  ej'ea  without  a  spark  of  keenness  or  wit  or  appre- 
ciation of  anything,  her  poor  little  bent-over  figure  all  remained 
unchanged.  Rosie  had  liked  the  little  postman  with  his  fidgety, 
rigid  body,  his  pale  face  and  plastered  hair.  She  had  liked  his 
frock  coat  and  his  red  necktie.  He  was  indeed  a  grand  man. 
Rosie  liked  him.  Yes,  he  was  quite  handsome,  too.  Then  why 
didn't  she  marry  him  ?  Why  didn't  she  go  with  him  to  the 
country  she  called  heaven  ?  Why  didn't  she  go  ?  Mr.  Nelson 
asked  himself  this  question  many  times.  He  told  the  story  to 
his  friends  and  now  and  then  they  would  say  to  him  : 

"Well,  Nelson,  how  goes  your  Matrimonial  Bureau  V  or: 

"  Has  the  girl  gone  to  Montana  yet  ?" 

For  a  month  or  so,  if  Rosie  had  only  known  it,  she  had  been 
the  subject  of  much  talk,  the  butt  of  many  jokes,  the  pivot  of  a 
thousand  arguments.  And  then,  in  the  rush  of  business  and 
the  rush  of  life,  Rosie  was  forgotten.  Mr.  Nelson  had  forgotten, 
Mr.  Nelson's  friends  had  forgotten — but  not  the  little  postman. 
He  wrote  to  Rosie  many  letters. 

She  wrote  letters  too. 

Chapter  HI. 

The  Matrimonial  Magazine, 
Co.  Jackson  and  Clark,  Chicago,  111. 

Dear  Sirs  : — My  husband  and  I  are  very  happy.  We  have 
been  married  a  little  over  a  year.  We  met  through  your 
columns  ;  that  is  why  I  write.  We  want  to  thank  you  and  to 
give  you  a  testimony  that  may  perhaps  help  others.  My  hus- 
band saw  my  picture  in  the  magazine  and  thought  if  he  could 
only  see  me  he  would  be  sure  not  to  be  disappointed  and  that  he 
might  take  me  back  to  Montana  with  him.  He  was  a  Rural 
Free  Delivery  man.  I  was  working  in  the  Eno  Gum  Factory. 
He  came  and  we  both  liked  each  other.  Bat  I  didn't  go  back 
with  him.  I  wanted  to  go  but  I  didn't  dare.  Bat  when  my 
husband  one  day  really  sent  me  a  ticket  and  some  cash  and  told 
me  to  run  away,  I  couldn't  help  it,  I  couldn't  resist  no  longer. 

We  have  the  dearest  little  cottage  with  green  vines  which 
climb  up  the  front  stoop  and  lots  of  red  geraniums  in  the  front 
yard.  There  isn't  any  roar  and  buzz  and  there  ain't  a  person  in 
the  world  to  beat  me  or  to  scold  at  me.     There   is   ground    and 


222  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

land  and  trees  everywhere.     And  oftentimes  I  go  with  my  hus- 
band in  the  little  buggy  when  he  delivers  the  mail. 

With  gratitude  forever  and  a  God  bless  you  in  your  noble 
work  from  my  husband  and 

Yours  truly, 

RosiE  Palanski  Brown.. 
Burr,  Montana,  R.  F.  D.  No.  4. 


THE  HARP 

JEANNE  WOODS 

Long,  peaceful  hospital  corridors 

Cool  silences  fill, 
And  I  lie  in  my  little  white  chamber, 

Musing  and  still. 

Curtains  float  white  at  the  windows 

In  the  sunset  breeze, 
And  yellow  leaves  drift  down  beyond  them 

From  golden-hued  trees. 

The  sun  slants  down  the  quiet  street, 

Through  the  lazy  rain  of  drifting  leaves, 

I've  watched  them  fall,  half-dreaming,  hour  on  hour. 

But  hark  I  the  hush  is  shattered  !    Silence  breaks, 

And  sudden,  like  a  ripple  of  bird  song, 

A  harp's  gold  strings  are  swept  in  ecstasy 

Far  down  the  street.    My  heart  leaps,  gypsy-like 

With  longing  to  be  out,  be  out,  and  off ! 

Wide-eyed,  I  listen.     Still  the  golden  strings 

In  ecstasy  vibrate  and  there  is  heard, 

'Mid  falling  autumn  leaves,  the  rush  of  brooks, 

The  bluebird's  note,  the  music  of  May  winds, 

The  rustle  of  young  leaves  and  silver  grasses 

A-shine  with  dew — a  sparkling  song  of  spring. 

And  then— 'tis  gone  1  the  silence  rushes  in. 

I  strain  to  hear  one  liquid  note  the  more, 

One  bird  call  but  the  fairy  harp  is  gone  I 

And  once  again  the  sunshine  quiet  lies, 

The  leaves  drift  slowly  down  from  autumn  trees. 

Long,  peaceful  hospital  corridors 

Cool  silences  fill, 
And  I  lie  in  my  little  white  chamber, 

Musing  and  still. 


THE  NECESSITY  FOR  COURAGE 

ELLEN   BODLEY   JONES 

**  I  don't  think  you'll  get  much  this  time,  do  you  ?"  The  tone 
was  quiet  and  even,  of  that  peculiarly  resonant  and  melodious 
quality  seldom  heard  nowadaj^s  in  this  age  of  screaming  motor 
horns  and  loud-mouthed  men. 

The  man  in  the  black  mask  had  started  back  at  the  first  sound 
of  the  voice,  dropped  his  match-box  and  now  stood  with  his 
back  against  the  door,  peering  into  the  darkness  with  straining 
eyes  to  locate  the  speaker  before  raising  his  revolver.  Over  by 
the  window  something  moved  and  then,  at  the  click  of  a  switch, 
the  room  was  flooded  with  electric  light.  As  his  eyes  became 
accustomed  to  the  glare,  he  made  out  the  figure  of  a  man  in  a 
Morris  chair. 

The  face  of  the  speaker  was  admirably  akin  to  the  voice,  quiet 
and  serene,  yet  with  a  look  of  almost  impenetrable  severity  and 
dominance.  *' Because  if  you  do,  maybe  you'd  better  takeoff 
your  shoes  before  you  begin."  He  leaned  back  against  the 
green  plush  cushion  in  the  attitude  of  a  tired  child  and  reached 
for  a  cigar  from  the  box  near  him  on  the  table. 

Somehow,  he  never  knew  just  how,  the  burglar  was  staring 
open-mouthed,  while  his  revolver  hung  limply  by  his  side. 
Under  his  black  mask  his  quick  eye,  long  accustomed  to  notic- 
ing details,  had  seen  a  slender,  pearl-handled  revolver  peeking 
around  the  side  of  the  cigar-box  but,  to  his  surprise,  the  other 
made  no  move  to  reach  for  it. 

"  Here,  have  a  cigar,"  the  man  in  the  morris-chair  continued, 
tossing  one  towards  the  figure  by  the  door.  "It  is  the  proper 
thing,  I  have  heard,  for  the  trapped  man  to  offer  the  gentleman 
burglar  refreshments.  If  this  were  a  strictly  orthodox  scene  you 
should  have  me  covered  by  now  and  should  be  telling  me  that 
one  move  on  my  part  meant  death,  while  I,  in  the  tones  of  the 
hero,  dared  and  defied  you  to  shoot  me  dead.  But  you,  checked 
by  some  noble  instinct  before  choked  up  by  your  vile  passion, 
suddenly  decide  that  it  is  a  cowardly  and  ignoble  thing  to  kill 
a  man  unarmed,  so,  tossing  me  your  revolver,  you  calmly  walk 
out  the  front  door,  while  I  magnanimously  refrain  from  calling 
up  the  police.     Isn't  that  the  way  it  goes  ?" 


22i  THE   SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

The  man  in  the  mask  stood  motionless,  alert,  listening  for 
the  faintest  sound  and  watching  the  slightest  movement  on  the 
part  of  the  man  before  him.  But  no  mouse  could  have  been 
more  docile  than  he. 

"  Don't  they  usually  read  that  way  ?"  the  man  in  the  morris- 
chair  asked  again. 

"  Maybe  they  do.  Look  here  now,  you  press  that  button  and 
you're  a  dead  one,"  said  the  burglar,  raising  his  revolver  for 
the  first  time  level  with  the  breast  of  the  man  opposite.  He 
seemed  wakened  from  his  stupor. 

''Oh,  this  is  rich  !  Yes,  that's  the  thing  to  say  !  To  think 
that  I  should  be  a  part  of  a  living  melodrama  !  I  never  believed 
half  they  said  on  the  stage  until  now.  Would  you  mind  if  I 
reached  for  my  note-book  ?  I  am  an  author,  you  see,  and  any 
such  material  as  this,  to  me,  is  invaluable." 

"  Never  mind  the  note-book  !    You  just  keep  still." 

"It  really  is  quite  a  problem,  isn't  it?"  mused  the  other. 
*' What  are  you  going  to  do  with  me  ?  You  don't  quite  like  to 
kill  me,  any  more  than  they  do  in  the  books,  and  yet,  if  you 
don't,  how  are  yon  going  to  rob  the  house  ?"  His  face  had  an 
expression  of  quizzical  amusement  together  with  a  shade  of 
anxiety,  not  so  much  for  himself  as  for  the  annoyance  he  was 
causing  his  guest.  ''  Of  course  you're  probably  a  great  deal 
brighter  than  I,"  he  drawled,  "being  in  the  business,  but  I 
would  suggest  handcuffs  and  a  gag.  There  are  a  pair  in  the 
upper  right-hand  drawer  of  that  desk,  valuable  relics,  too,  the 
very  ones  they  took  off  Benedict  Arnold  just  before  he  was 
huQg.  Really  historic,  you  know.  You  can  reach  for  them 
with  your  left  hand  and  still  cover  me  with  your  right.  As  for 
the  gag,  I"m  sorry  I  haven't  one  handy  but  there  are  several 
clean  handkerchiefs  on  the  mantelpiece  which,  in  a  pinch, 
might  do  very  well.  What  do  you  say?"  He  smiled  good- 
humoredly,  showing  an  even  row  of  teeth  white  as  a  dog's. 
The  burglar  looked  at  him  nervously.  Was  he  laying  a  trap 
for  him  ? 

"  Or,  possibly,  you  wouldn't  like  to  use  the  necessary  violence. 
Well,  here  is  another  scheme.  Behind  you  on  the  table  is  a 
bottle  of  chloroform.  I  killed  some  kittens  this  afternoon. 
One  of  those  handkerchiefs  soaked  in  that  would  put  me  off  to 
sleep  for  an  hour  or  two  in  no  time.  Don't  forget,  my  friend, 
that  you  have  me  covered.      I  am  merely  putty  in  your  hands. 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY  225 

Why  are  you  so  uneasy  ?  Here,  have  a  cigarette.  They're 
wonderfully  soothing  to  the  nerves.  Come,  don't  be  anxious  !" 
A  wagon  rattling  by  on  the  street  outside  caused  the  perspira- 
tion to  stand  out  on  the  burglar's  temples.  He  began  shifting 
for  the  door  knob. 

''My  friend,"  the  man  in  the  morris-chair  continued,  "cour- 
age is  necessary  for  any  profession,  above  all  for  the  profession 
of  burglary.  Why  just  think  of  all  the  ways  I  might  have  to 
trap  you  !  A  spring  in  the  floor  under  my  chair  might  ring  a 
bell  'way  down-stairs  in  the  servants'  quarters.  In  fact,  it 
might  be  a  special  kind  of  burglar  alarm.  By  this  time,  a 
policeman  might  be  waiting  for  my  signal,  the  pressing  of  this 
mysterious  button  under  my  heel,  to  enter.  I  might  even  have 
a  patent  catch  on  that  door  behind  you,  so  that  when  it  was 
once  closed  it  could*  not  be  opened  without  a  combination.  Try 
it  and  see  if  it  will  spring.  Behind  you,  next  the  door,  is  a 
secret  panel.  Wlio  knows  but  what  a  man  may  be  standing 
there  now,  with  a  revolver  cocked  in  your  face  ?  Oh,  do  not 
glance  around,  I  was  only  saying  he  might  be  there.  Or  per- 
haps, even  if  you  cross  the  threshold  into  the  next  room  for 
plunder,  a  dog,  trained  to  lie  without  a  sound  until  just  the 
right  moment,  may  leap  at  you.  One  leap— that  is  all,  for  'my 
hounds  are  bred  out  of  the  Spartan  kind.'  And  even  should 
you  escape  the  dog,  on  all  the  thresholds  may  lie  burglar  alarms, 
ready,  on  the  mere  pressure  of  a  spring,  to  raise  up  a  perfect 
hell  of  a  racket,  a  racket  that  might  be  heard  to  heaven  itself. 
Look  at  my  eyes  !  See  how  they  snap  in  the  light.  I  may  be 
a  hypnotist,  that  can,  by  the  mere  uplift  of  my  hand,  make  you 
drop  your  revolver  and  you  yourself  telephone  to  the  police  to 
come  and  take  you.  You  see  how  great  the  need  of  courage  is 
in  any  profession.  What  do  you  say  to  it  ?  Shall  it  be  chloro- 
form or  the  handcuffs?"  The  burglar  was  shifting  uneasily 
and  now  had  his  gun  barrel  aimed  squarely  at  his  neighbor's 
head. 

"You  cut  out  your  gab  !  You  want  to  die  ?" 
"Now,  that's  another  place  where  courage  is  needed.  You 
might  shoot  me  and  escape  but  what  about  that  goading,  tortur- 
ing hell  of  remembrance  ?  What  about  the  dread  of  the  gal- 
lows ?  Look  at  my  eyes!"  The  burglar  looked.  They  were 
snapping  like  fire  and  resembled  those  of  a  snake  about  to 
■charm  a  bird.      They  were  glued,  with  the  intensity  of  a  mad 


226  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

man's,  on  the  burglar's  face.  It  seenied  to  the  burglar  that 
they  looked  through  him,  and  far  beyond. 

"  How  would  it  be,"  the  other  resumed  slowly,  never  lowering 
his  gaze,  ''to  have  those  eyes  always  on  you  ?  Kill  me,  and 
you'll  have  their  companionship  always.  Companionship  is  a 
great  thing.  You'd  better  decide.  It's  nearly  five  minutes 
since  I  might  have  pressed  that  button  ;  it  only  takes  the  police 
five  minutes  to  get  up  here  from  Main  Street." 

A  machine  groaned  around  the  corner,  and  stopped. 

"That  may  be  they  now.  Perhaps  I'd  better  get  down  the 
decanter.  Reach  for  it,  will  you?"  He  glanced  towards  the- 
burglar  only  to  hear  the  door  slam  and  a  rush  of  feet  down  the 
hall.     The  burglar  had  departed. 

The  man  in  the  morris-chair  yawned,  and  idly  picked  up  the 
pearl-handled  revolver.  It  was  not  loaded.  Then  he  sighed 
again,  as  he  felt  in  the  empty  match-box. 

"  Deuce  of  a  thing  to  have  your  legs  paralyzed  so  you  can't 
even  get  up  and  get  a  match.  Now  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  wait 
until  one  or  two  o'clock,  until  the  servants  come  home  and  help 
me  to  bed,  just  because  I  was  so  good-natured  as  to  let  them  all 
go  out  at  once."  The  electric  light  was  blazing  down  in  his 
face  but  he  seemed  not  to  mind  it.  In  fact,  he  acted  like  one  in 
the  dark.  In  a  moment  he  reached  for  his  cane  and  began 
moving  it  along  the  floor  until  it  struck  against  the  box  of 
matches  the  burglar  had  dropped.  He  fished  it  along  with  his 
cane  and,  when  it  was  safely  in  his  hand,  a  broad  smile  again 
brought  to  light  those  rows  of  even  teeth.  He  lighted  a  cigar 
and  as  he  inhaled  the  first  fragrant  breath  he  again  settled 
back  with  the  movement  of  a  tired  child,  with  a  sigh  of  con- 
tentment. 

Soon  alow  laugh  broke  the  quiet  of  the  room.  "To  think 
that  a  husky  burglar  ran  away  from  me,  a  blind  cripple,"  he 
chuckled.  "  I  tell  you,  the  necessity  for  courage  is  a  pressing^ 
one,  for,  if  I  hadn't  routed  that  burglar,  how,  oh  how  would  I 
have  gotten  these  matches  ?  " 


UNDER  THE  SEA 

MARION  DELAMATEK  FREEMAN 

Down  ill  the  green  depths  under  the  sea, 
I'd  love  to  wander,  to  and  fro, 
Where  the  sea  anemones  like  to  grow, 
Down  in  the  green  depths  under  the  sea. 

Down  where  the  gold  fish  gleam  and  dart^ 
I'd  roam  in  the  coral  castles  tall, 
By  the  light  of  a  starfish,  lest  I  fall, 
Down  where  the  gold  fish  gleam  and  dart. 

Down  where  the  sunbeams  never  reach, 
Under  the  sea,  I  would  frolic  all  day. 
With  the  little  sea-horses  I  would  play, 
Down  where  the  sunbeams  never  reach. 

Up,  up  where  the  foam-tipped  waves  dash  high, 
I'd  rise  and  dash  through  the  cool  salt  spray. 
If  only  I  were  a  mermaid  gay. 
Up.  up  where  the  foam-tipped  waves  dash  high. 


THE  COLD,  GREY  DAWN 

MARGARET  LOUISE  FARRAND 

The  cold,  grey  dawn  is  on  the  height, 
The  cold,  grey  dawn  is  on  the  hill. 

And  he  has  left  me,  my  delight. 
And  yet  I  love  him  still. 

He  left  me  with  a  bitter  smile, 
He  left  me  with  a  word  of  scorn, 

Have  I  stood  here  a  little  while. 
Or  a  thousand  years  in  the  cold  grey  dawn? 

The  joy  in  my  heart  is  turned  to  grief. 

But  oh  my  love  it  will  not  die. 
It  flutters  like  that  single  leaf 

Against  the  cold,  grey  sky. 

He  has  gone  stepping  down  the  hill, 
As  blithe  and  gay  as  a  summer's  morn  ; 

But  all  my  life  I  shall  live  still 
In  the  cold,  grey  dawn. 

227 


PLAYIN'  TOSSUM 

BLANCHE   ROTHSCHILD   LINDAUER 

^'G'wan  dere  Niggah,  t'ain't  no  use  ter  pertend  with  me,  I 
nose  you  wants  ter  go  a  'possum  huntin'  and  de  parson's  comin' 
fob  dinner  ain't  nothin'  but  a  low-down  'scuse."  Lizah  filled 
the  little  cabin  door  with  her  dark  portliness  and  shook  an 
accusing  finger  at  little  Uncle  Mose,  who  was  wavering  from 
foot  to  foot  on  the  solitary  step.  Behind  Lizah,  a  little  wooly 
head  protruded  and  a  series  of  facial  contortions  signalized  to 
Uncle  Mo"  that  Riifus  was  eager  to  join  in  the  'possum  hunt. 
Finally  the  child  gathered  up  courage  and  begged  to  go  *'jes 
this  once,  coz  he'd  been  a  pow'f al  good  chile  an'  he  was  mos'  a 
man  now."  But  Aunt  Liz  was  in  no  tender  mood  and  dismissed 
her  eager  pickaninny  with  a  command  to  go  straight  to  bed  and 
stop  "  pesterin'  "  her  with  fool  ideas.  One  'possum  hunter  in  a 
famil}^  was  enough. 

It  was  a  glorious  night  with  the  full  August  moon  lighting 
up  the  cornfields  that  were  baking  up  outside  the  little  cabin. 
Tennessee  was  in  the  clutches  of  its  midsummer  drought  and 
only  the  eerie  light  of  the  moon  could  transform  the  parched 
and  sun-baked  country.  As  Uncle  Mo'  turned  into  the  first 
cross-lane  that  led  to  the  bog  of  'possum  fame,  a  little  dark 
figure  waylaid  him  and  looking  down  he  saw  his  small  son 
Rufus  grinning  broadly  at  his  escape  from  maternal  vigilance. 
Now  Mo'  was  much  relieved  at  the  thought  of  company  for  his 
naturally  timid  soul  shrank  at  the  thought  of  traversing  the 
fearsome  bog,  so  he  grasped  Rufe  by  his  tiny  hand  and  refrained 
from  all  allusions  to  paternal  discipline.  Along  they  crept, 
skirting  the  border  of  the  thick  woods  and  seeking  the  moonlit 
ways  that  held  no  fears.  But  soon  they  reached  the  bog  and 
leaving  the  reassuring  light  behind,  plunged  into  its  tempting 
depths. 

"  Oh  Lord,"  shrieked  Uncle  Mo',  ''the  debbil  has  sure  got  dis 
poh  ole  sinful  nigger,"  as  he  felt  his  foot  sink  into  the  mire  and 
was  unable  to  extract  it. 

"Oh  Daddy,  I  caynt  go  no  farther,  fob  I  sees  de  mos'  terrible 
ghostes  and  dey's  creatures  biting  an'  a  holding  me,"  quavered 
the  still  more  frightened  child,  as  the  shadows  and  the  sucking 

228 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  229 

earth' conspired  to  terrify  him.  But  on  they  proceeded  with 
continued  cries  and  moans  until  suddenly  Uncle  Mo'  let  forth  a 
joyous  shriek,  "  De  Lord  be  presarv^ed,  we  is  saved,  we  is  saved, 
foh  I  feels  de  good  earth  under  me  and  sees  de  very  tree  I  wants 
foh  good  or  Towser  is  a  barking  at  its  trunk  louder  dan  de  call 
ob  Judgment  Day." 

Then  came  the  task  of  shaking  down  the  animal  and  Uncle 
Mo'  proposed  sending  Rufus  up  to  shake  the  limb  while  he  held 
the  bag  below.  The  child  was  afraid  but  saw  nothing  to  do  but 
beard  the  enemy  in  its  den.  Slowly  he  climbed  up,  until  finally, 
paralyzed  with  fear,  he  saw  the  two  green  eyes  staring  at  him. 
He  knew  he  could  not  proceed,  for  an  instant  he  was  wild  with 
fright  and  despair  and  then  an  idea  seized  him. 

Meantime  Uncle  Mo'  was  watching  below,  his  hands  grasping 
the  open  bag,  his  eyes  tight  shut,  his  mouth  open  and  cold 
sweat  pouring  down  his  face.  He  heard  a  shout,  then  felt  the 
bag  heavy  and  clapping  his  hands  over  the  opening  he  threw  it 
over  his  shoulder  and  shouting  to  Rafe  to  follow  him,  hastened 
home.  The  bag  had  lost  its  terrors,  the  way  seemed  to  disap- 
pear under  his  flying  feet  and  eager  and  excited  he  panted  into 
the  little  cabin,  cautiously  deposited  the  bag  and  then  for  the 
first  time  wondered  at  Rufe's  delay  in  following  him.  Aunt 
Liz  also  forgot  to  scold  about  Rufe's  disobedience  at  the  sight 
of  the  squirming  bag  and  with  arms  akimbo  and  a  broad  grin 
wrinkling  her  black  face  she  watched  Mo'  cautiously  shut  all 
possible  exits  and  venture  toward  the  bag,  stick  in  hand. 
Timidly  he  opened  the  string  and  stood  ready  to  subdue  the 
beast  as  it  tumbled  out.  There  was  a  moment  of  unaccountable 
silence  and  then  a  very  scared  Rufe  crawled  out  of  the  bag  and 
hid  behind  his  mammy's  skirts.  Mose  and  Lizah  were  speech- 
less with  surprise  and  Rufe  fearing  the  worst  burst  out : 

"  Oh  please  don't  be  terrible  mad,  hones'  I  didn't  want  to  do 
it  but  dos  green  eyes  shinin'  right  through  me,  scared  me  plumb 
stiff  and  de  Lord  done  sent  de  idee  to  me,"  and  then  a  twinkle 
crept  into  his  eyes  and  made  its  way  into  his  sobbing  voice, 
**an'— an'  you  know,  mammy,  you  oughtn't  fer  ter  whip  me, 
foh  I'se  jess  been  playin'  'i)ossum." 


THE  FIRST  STORM 

HELEN  VIRGINIA   FREY 

Venturing  timidly,  half  afraid, 
Touching  the  earth  but  to  melt  away, 
Wavering  scouts  of  a  winter's  day, 
Ventured  the  snow. 

Merrily  rollicking,  freakishly  frolicking, 
Tumbling  and  turning  and  twisting  on  high, 

Quicker  and  quicker. 

Thicker  and  thicker, 
Forth  from  the  battlement  clouds  of  the  sky 

Sallied  the  snow. 

Angrily  whirling,  ruthlessly  swirling, 
Cruelly  hurtling  its  lances  of  cold, 

Bitterly  lashing, 

Recklessly  dashing 
Down  from  King  Winter  the  fearless  and  bold, 

Battled  the  snow. 

Steadily,  endlessly,  shifting  and  drifting, 
Burying  earth  in  the  winter's  white, 
Winner  at  last  in  the  hard-fought  fight, 
Conquered  the  snow. 


YESTERDAY 

GRACE  ANGELA  RICHMOND 

We  wandered  down  the  garden  path 

But  yesterday  ;  each  thing  that  grew 

You  loved  ;  you  stooped  to  kiss  a  rose, 
And  gave  it  life  anew. 

To-day  across  the  garden  path 
The  rose  lies  broken-hearted  ; 

The  garden's  glory's  faded  quite. 
Since  you  departed. 

Dear  lady,  Autumn's  winds  blow  chill, 

And  sadly  falls  the  rain  ; 
The  rose  is  dead  ;  but  your  return 

Would  give  it  life  again. 

Ah,  suffer  not  so  great  a  change. 

No  longer  cruel  be. 
Heturn  and  with  your  golden  smile 

Restore  the  rose — and  me  ! 

330 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  WAITRESS 

MIRA   BIGELOW   WILSON 

No  man  has  lived  well  who  has  not  sometime  been  in  love 
with  a  craft,  a  trade,  a  thing  he  does  with  his  own  hands  for 
the  sake  of  his  next  meal.  Your  steel  magnate  finds  the  ex- 
perience a  practical  asset  for  his  business.  You  yourself  can 
perhaps  remember  the  thrill  of  pleasure  at  a  dinner  at  Rose 
Tree  or  a  theater  trip  to  Springfield  earned  (shall  we  say  ?)  by 
darning  stockings  for  your  opulent  and  otherwise  occupied 
roommate.  Or  possibly  you  attained  your  wealth  by  the  uu- 
thanked  but  not  profitless  task  of  shutting  windows  and  waking 
sleepers  o'  mornings. 

Some  of  us,  since  that  was  the  way  the  adventure  of  our  lives 
was  turning,  have  daily  earned  our  dinners  before  we  ate  them. 
The  knack  of  this  waitress  craft  is  fine  service  and  silence.  The 
spirit  is  not  at  bottom  un- Christlike  for  such  crafts  are  created 
fundamentally  because  they  are  needed,  not  because  someone  is 
greeedy  to  earn. 

But  to  me  it  seems  that  no  one  has  ever  properly  voiced  the 
craft-song  of  the  waitress.  Perhaps  that  is  because  it  is  essen- 
tially a  song  of  the  silence.  They  of  the  barrack-room,  the  gal- 
ley oarsmen,  the  cotton  pickers,  the  blacksmith,  the  gondolier 
have  had  their  dues.  Even  "  Cnut,  King  "  could  sing  to  hearten 
his  sailors  as  they  rowed.  But  we  sing  neither  to  or  with  the 
maid.  We  merely  suggest  in  terms  inaudible  to  other  ears, 
^' Serve  the  judge's  wife  first  and  be  careful  to  crumb  the  cloth 
■after  the  salad." 

So  be  it.  The  roast  beef  and  salad  appear  and  disappear  ;  off 
go  the  crumbs,  now  begineth  the  third  lesson  ;  coffee  is  served. 
It  all  happens  silently,  the  waitress,  merely  a  moving  object  in 
the  background,  a  shadow  in  tones  of  black  and  white,  slips  in 
and  out  at  a  swinging  door. 

And  it  will  happen  as  silently  the  next  time,  water  flashing  in 
crystal  glasses,  shimmering  brass  finger  bowls  arranged  in  con- 
nection with  fragile  china,  silver,  linen,  and  lace  ;  and  the  whole 
offered  up  to  your  ordinary,  practical  diner  as  brazen  bowls  of 
sacrifice  and  incense  might  be  presented  to  an  East  Indian 
•divinity.     The  service  is  so  fine  that  it  is  forgotten  ;  and  conse- 

23  1 


232  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

quently  the  conversation  flourishes  and  the  waitress,  if  she  be- 
not  an  unwilling  listener,  draws  an  early  reward. 

Ah,  the  waitress  !  If  the  group  about  the  table  but  appre- 
ciated the  subtle  understanding  way  of  her.  I  would  sing 
warning  of  the  waitress  and  admiration  for  her  and  envy.  I  am 
convinced  that  the  normal  person  has  an  overpowering  desire  at 
times  to  be  seen  and  not  heard.  It  is  our  natural  delight  in 
observation,  nor  is  it  a  perverted  desire,  for  on  it  surely  rest  our 
knowledge  and  our  ethics.  And  the  waitress  has  for  an  hour 
three  times  a  day  just  this  enviable  opportunity  to  observe.  The 
observations  of  a  waitress,  an  ordinary  Northampton,  non- 
restaurant,  un-collegiate  waitress  would,  I  dare  say,  astonish  a 
psychologist  and  frighten  a  moralist.  To  my  knowledge  the 
judgements  of  the  butler's  pantry  are  fair  and  fundamental  al- 
together. The  maid  behind  her  chair  can  determine  from  the 
way  Miss  Jones  converses,  serves  herself  to  the  cranberry  sauce 
and  passes  the  butter  to  her  neighbor  exactly  what  Miss  Jones 
is,  whence  she  came  and  whither  she  is  going.  The  insight  of 
some  of  the  waitresses  I  have  known  has  been  almost  super- 
natural. And  it  holds  unless  Miss  Jones  happens  to  be  the  mis- 
tress. Then  the  judgement  is  no  longer  disinterested.  A  barrier 
of  greenbacks  and  the  demands  of  service  is  apt  to  rise  between 
the  maid  and  that  essential  condition  of  one's  doing  table  work,, 
the  mistress.  But  heaven  protect  Miss  Jones,  the  stranger  at 
our  gates,  from  the  frank  and  searching  gaze  of  the  waitress- 
who  passes  her  the  gravy. 

All  this  ability  that  the  maid  gains  is  not  through  any  virtue 
of  her  own,  but  owing  to  the  admirable  experimental  conditions- 
under  which  she  works.  I  have  shuddered  sometimes  to  serve 
people  whom  I  wished  to  call  my  friends  for  fear  the  secret  of 
their  worst  selves  should  be  revealed,  they  should  be  disinclined 
to  eat  the  crusts  of  their  bread,  they  should  do  selfish  things 
either  actively  or  passively  with  the  conversation,  they  should 
be  greedy  rather  than  hungry. 

Perhaps  we  are  a  bad  lot,  wielders  of  trays  and  platters, 
pitchers  and  pickle  forks  and  of  that  deadly  weapon  of  observa- 
tion, yet  we  deserve  a  song.  And  it  turns  out  to  be  our  silence^ 
your  silent  approval.  The  test  of  our  efficiency  is  the  rythmical 
beat  of  that  silence,  broken,  only  that  it  may  be  apprehended 
the  better,  by  the  rattle  of  a  stove  lid  far  beyond  the  swinging 
doors.     That  is   from  the  cook^s  realm,  another  realm,  incom- 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  233 

parable  with  ours.  By  much  lifting  of  stove  lids  and  shutting 
of  oven  doors,  rolling  of  rolling  pins  and  flourishing  of  pepper- 
shakers  the  cook  develops  a  noble  craft ;  but  we — we  have  added 
to  our  craft  (though  to  be  sure  through  no  fault  of  our  own) 
something  not  unlike  a  science  of  humanity. 


A  PORTRAJT 

ANNA  ELIZABETH   SPICER 

A  wreath  of  primrose  on  her  shimmering  hair, 

A  stack  of  bluebells  in  her  small  white  hands. 
Nearby,  a  daisy  chain,  woven  with  skilful  care, 

On  the  westward  slope  of  the  little  hill  she  stands. 
The  butterflies  troop  through  the  sunshine  in  fluttering  bands 

Like  dizzy  rainbows.     She  poises  like  one  of  them  ; 
Her  eyes  gaze  toward  distant,  half- visible  lands 

That  border  the  far  sea's  hem. 


ADVENTURES 

ELEANOR  LOUISE  HALPIN 

I  love  to  have  adventures. 

Don't  you? 
And  after  I'm  tucked  into  bed  at  night, 
I  alwaj^s  pretend  I'm  a  truly  knight, 

I  do. 

I  love  to  play  I'm  an  Injun  brave. 

Do  you  ? 
And  I  love  to  yell  and  whoop  and  shout 
Around  the  house,  when  the  folks  are  out, 

I  do. 

I  love  to  lie  bj^  the  fire. 

Do  you? 
And  pretend  I'm  a  real  and  truly  king. 
Like  the  one  in  the  song  that  Nora  can  sing, 

I  do. 

I  love  to  have  adventures. 

Don't  you  ? 
They're  the  nicest  things  that  a  kid  can  do, 
And  they  come  whenever  you  tell  them  to, 

They  do. 


ABOUT    COLLEGE 


BEHIND  THE  WORLD 

MARION  FREEMAN 

How  long  does  it  take,  I  wonder. 
For  a  message  to  reach  the  sky? 

I've  pnzzled  and  pondered  and  figured, 
And  I'll  tell  you  the  reason  why. 

I  want  to  find  out  the  hour, 
The  minute,  the  second,  when 

The  stars  will  have  heard  the  verdict 
And  put  out  their  lights  at  ten  ! ! 


AN  EYE  FOR  AN  EYE 

BARBARA   CHENEY 


One  of  the  advantages  of  education  is  that  it  banishes  from 
our  minds  many  of  the  fancies  and  superstitions  of  youth.  I 
am  being  educated.  One,  at  least,  of  the  fancies  and  supersti- 
tions of  my  youth  has  left  me.  Shades  of  my  hard-working 
ancestors,  rejoice  ! 

I  used  to  think  that  a  cyclops  was  a  strange  and  terrible 
creature.  When  Ulysses  encountered  them,  I  really  felt  a 
great  deal  of  anxiety  and  sympathy  for  him.  Now  I  am  forced 
to  consider  him  a  fanciful  and  superstitious  youth.  The  world 
is  full  of  Cyclops  and  has  been  for  years.  Some  of  them  have 
been  very  useful  citizens,  and  educated  people  much  more  timid 
than  Ulysses  have  stopped  in  their  homes  without  harm. 

Thomas  Jefferson  was  one.  My  evidence  for  this  would 
please  even  Mr.  Kimball.  A  certain  duke,  whose  name  I  will 
not    mention,   because   I   have    forgotten    it,    made   a  detailed 

234 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY       235 

description  of  his  personal  interview  with  the  president.  He 
describes  Jefferson  as  having  ''a  gray,  twinkling  eye,  full  of 
-good  humor."  Now  if  both  his  eyes  had  been  gray  the  duke 
would  surely  have  mentioned  the  fact,  or  if  one  had  been  gray 
and  one  brown  he  must  have  told  that,  too.  We  once  had  a  cat 
with  one  blue  eye  and  one  green  and  no  member  of  the  family 
ever  thought  of  giving  a  detailed  description  of  her  without 
calling  special  attention  to  this  peculiarity.  So  I  am  convinced 
that  Jefferson  was  a  cyclops. 

Napoleon  was  one,  too.  I  hope  this  statement  will  give  you 
a  little  shock  for  it  did  me  when  I  first  heard  it.  My  knowledge 
is  due  to  no  less  a  person  than  "Albert  Bushnell  Hart,  LL.  D., 
Professor  of  History  in  Harvard  College."  He  speaks  of  the 
great  man  as  having  "a  prophetic  eye  peering  far  into  the 
future."  As  Professor  Hart  is  praising  Napoleon  he  certainly 
would  give  him  two  far-sighted  eyes  if  possible.  On  the  other 
hand  if  the  other  eye  had  been  near-sighted,  the  poor  man 
would  have  had  to  wear  glasses  and  we  know  he  didn't.  Isn't 
it  all  simple,  but  isn't  it  astonishing  ?  Just  think  of  a  cyclops 
having  the  power  to  make  folded  arms  dignified  and  fashionable 
in  spite  of  all  the  footmen  in  the  world.  At  any  rate  Ulysses 
is  supported  by  the  English  nation  in  his  dread  of  the  one- 
eyed  race. 

Here  are  two  beautiful  examples  of  cyclops  who  were  famous 
and  highly  respected,  but  more  are  needed  to  show  how  widely 
they  are  scattered  over  the  world.     And  more  are  not  wanting. 

Think  of  Little  Willie's  adventures  at  school.  What  a  cold, 
penetrating  eye  his  Severe  Teacher  had  I  Remember,  too, 
Lovely  Cecilia.  ^'She  regarded  him  with  an  eye  that  would 
have  melted  a  heart  of  stone."  Perhaps  your  sympathies  have 
been  with  her  hitherto,  but  recollect :  she  is  a  cyclops  and  per- 
haps made  Uncle  Will  seem  less  cruel  to  you. 

I  would  leave  one  lesson  with  you  to-day,  my  friends,  as  my 
Sunday  School  Teacher  used  to  say.  It  is  this  :  Do  not,  please 
do  not  increase  the  number  of  cyclops  in  the  world.  We  have 
grown  used  to  them.  We  do  not  fear  tliem  as  Ulysses  did,  but 
we  can't  quite  like  them  yet.  There  are  many  cross-eyed  people 
in  the  world  ;  people  who  are  able  to  hurry  down  the  street  to 
save  a  human  life,  with  one  eye  on  the  clock  in  the  distant 
tower,  the  other  on  the  narrow  road  before  them.      These  are 


236  THE   SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

bad  enough  and  numerous  enough.  Let  those  who  insist  on 
optical  peculiarities  be  content  with  these,  and  let  us  stick  to- 
the  more  cheerful  fashion  of  two  eyes  per  head. 


PATHETIC  FALLACIES  AND  MATTERS  OF  COURSE 

HANNAH  WHITE 

That  the  13th  is  unlucky 

Is  not  a  superstition  new, 
But  it's  only  when  we're  seniors 

That  we  know  "  19th  "  is  too. 

Once  people  thought  that  ill  luck  came 
From  a  hare  that  crossed  your  path, 

But  now  we  know  that's  nothing 
To  the  power  that  "  Bunny"  hath. 

Politeness  isn't  a  lost  art,  ' 

In  spite  of  what  "  they  say"  ; 
Of  course  we  learn  it  here,  and  get 

More  "civil "  day  by  day. 

In  Bible  lore  'tis  told  us 

That  few  dared  Jordan  cross  ; 
If  we  cross  "Jordan  "  here  we  know 

That  it  will  be  our  loss. 

Class  spirit  is  quite  overdone, 

At  least  it  would  so  seem, 
When  every  senior  greets  us 

With  the  query  "Art  14  ?  " 

We  hope  to  pass  our  courses — 

And  yet  of  course  it's  Fate — 
But  in  the  course  of  time,  we're  sure 

That  we  will  graduate. 


AN  ENLIGHTENMENT 

ANNIE    MINOT 

I  am  an  old  bachelor  and  never  knew  much  about  college  girls 
except  that  I  had  heard  they  were  a  narrow-minded,  selfish  lot 
of  girls,  only  interested  in  their  own  activities  and  in  having  a 
good  time.  I  had  always  believed  this  report  because  not 
knowing  anything  about  it  I  had  no  reason  for  not  believing  it. 

The  other  day  I  happened  to  be  in  Northampton  and  wanted 
to  read  some  old  records  about  the  colh^ge  and  so  went  to  the 
college  library.  I  got  my  records  and  sat  down  near  the  libra- 
rian's desk  to  read,  but  I  couLln't  seem  to  get  very  far  for  the 
gills  took  np  most  of  my  attention,  and  besides  I  thought  I'd 
see  for  myself  if  the  reports  I  had  heard  of  them  were  true. 

First  a  girl  came  up  and  asked  for  books  on  "  Life  in  China 
To-day."  My  imagination  began  to  work  immediately.  She 
was  rather  a  serious-looking  girl,  probably  she  was  to  go  as  a 
missionary  and  was  now  preparing  herself.  This  didn't  seem 
narrow  or  selfisli,  but  probably  she  was  an  exception  to  the  rule. 
She  was  followed  immediately  by  a  girl  who  seemed  to  be 
getting  her  resources  together  to  fight  the  Bill  Board  Plague 
after  she  graduated.  Another  rather  sad,  worn  damsel  seemed 
to  be  trying  to  convince  some  friend  to  take  Latin,  for  after 
looking  over  an  essay  on  the  "Practical  Value  of  Latin,"  she 
said  almost  in  despair,  "  Oh  dear,  I  never  can  write  an  argu- 
ment which  she'll  accept." 

The  next  one  in  the  never-ending  line  of  applicants  was  easy. 
She  wore  a  mannish  tailored  suit  and  linen  collar  and  asked  for 
information  about  Mrs.  Pankhurst.  "So  they  have  suffragettes 
here,  too,"  I  thought.  She  looked  rather  harmless.  I  wondered 
if  she  were  a  militant  or  one  who  made  the  careful  distinction 
that  she  was  a  "gist"  not  a  *'gette."  Then  a  group  of  three 
rather  young,  worried  looking  girls  came  up  and  anxiously 
scanned  the  papers  for  developments  in  Mexico.  I  gathered 
that  they  had  relatives  or  friends  there  whose  lives  were  in 
danger.  And  so  for  an  hour  there  came  iti  quick  succession 
girls— girls — girls— inquiring  for  books  on  Palestine,  the  Devel- 
opment of  Schools,  Gjvernor  Salzer,  the  Balkan  War.     Such  a 

231 


238  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

diversity  of  interests  !     Why  did  people  call  these  girls  narrow  ? 
I  had  never  seen  a  group  of  people  so  broad. 

At  five  o'clock  I  gave  back  the  records  and  came  home,  after 
having  been  whisked  from  Palestine  to  the  Shaw  case  and  from 
there  to  James  Whitcomb  Riley  and  the  Northampton  Players^ 
and  my  head  was  in  a  whirl.  I  had  read  one  paragraph  some 
twenty-five  times  and  remembered  that  Smith  College  was 
founded  by  Sophia  Smith  in  Northampton,  which  facts  I  had 
known  years  before,  but  I  had  learned  one  great  lesson,  and 
now  I  know  that  for  breadth  of  interests  and  zeal  for  publia 
welfare  and  serious  views  of  life,  go  to  the  college  students,, 
especially  Smith  students. 


CONCERNING  THE  ART  OF  BUILDING 

EFFIE   OPPENHEIMER 

I'm  not  a  critic 
Nor  yet  a  connoisseur  of  art, 

And  yet,  at  times 
An  awful  "  something  "  grips  my  heart, 
When  I  behold  in  Hamp  the  pot-pourri 
Of  architectural  styles  ;  it  nettles  me. 

Ionian,  Doric,  Romanesque, 

Egyptian,  Celtic,  Arabesque, 

They  vie  in  splendor  ;  side  by  side  they  stand — 

A  variegated  group — some  mean,  some  grand  I 

The  Auditorium  and  the  Libe. 
Two  structures  whose  fagades  imbibe 
The  Grecian  cast,  while  Washburn  boasts 
An  English  scheme  of  newel  posts  ;— 
The  Catholic  Church  and  College  Hall 
Are  Gothic  (if  they're  art  at  all). 

Oh,  what  a  medley  of  design  ! 
No  aesthetic  taste  in  shade  or  line, 
Where  Doric,  Gothic,  Romanesque, 
Produce  a  hodge-podge  so  grotesque. 


IN  LINE 

ELK  A    SAUL   LEWI 

I  am  waiting  to  see  Miss  Jordan.  For  the  next  two  hours  I 
expect  to  be  engaged  in  that  pleasing  occupation.  It  is  not 
that  I  am  perishing  for  the  sight  of  her — oh  no,  I  can  gaze  my 
fill  at  her  almost  daily,  as  she  makes  the  front  row  of  faculty 
stand  out  by  her  presence.  Also,  I  can  see  her  any  Tuesday  at 
Hatfield  House  between  the  hours  of  four  and  six.  But  also, 
she  would  see  me,  officially,  before  the  Thanksgiving  recess, 
and,  since  she  does  not  want  to  see  me  one-twentieth  as  badly 
as  I,  officially,  need  to  see  her,  I  am,  at  2.15,  waiting  for  her 
four  o'clock  office  hour. 

I  need  to  see  her  very  badly,  for  I  have  never  written  an  argu- 
ment outline  !  It  sounds  shocking,  but  it  is  true.  I  have  de- 
bated, time  and  again —principally  on  woman  suffrage  (pleasing 
generality  of  ante-collegiate  days  !),  when  I  always  had  to  lead 
the  negative  because  no  one  else  felt  that  way,  and  on  the  advan- 
tages of  two  half-holidays  a  week  over  one  whole  one.  In  this 
matter  my  athletic  tendencies  made  me  combatively  affirmative, 
and  quite  pig-headed  about  appreciating  the  other  side  of  the 
question.  So  I  know  nothing  about  making  out  an  argument 
outline. 

There  are  fifteen  other  girls  waiting  to  interview  the  Empress 
of  English  C  (Adams-Lund)  and  D  (Adams-Mainland),  I  am 
first  through  my  determination  to  be  so,  aided  by  chance.  I 
was  bound  not  to  repeat  yesterday's  experience,  when  I  de- 
scended from  elocutionar}'  heights  and  took  my  place  in  line, 
only  to  be  third  from  the  door  when  the  clock  struck  and  Logic 
called. 

I  wonder  if  she  realizes  that  I  am  hot  and  weary  of  sitting 
and  long  for  the  cooling  breezes  that  blow  upon  Dippy  Hill  ? 
The  idea  of  an  ice  at  the  Clab  House  is  attractive,  and  hot 
chocolate  with  English  muffins  and  home-made  strawberry  jam, 
to  be  had  for  an  hour  or  so's  brisk  walking  seems — well,  worth 
walking  for.  And  this  with  luncheon  only  an  hour  behind, 
and  still  an  hour  and  a  half  to  wait. 

Never  have  I  been  in  so  studious  a  company.  I  brought 
embroidery  to  occupy  me,   but  the   little   song  with  which  I 

230 


240  THE   SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

always  accompany  my  efforts  in  this  line  proved  irritating  to 
tlio  others,  so  I  ceased  scalloping.  If  I  could  only  sing,  I  know 
it  would  make  me  feel  better;  but  I  cannot  blame  my  com- 
panions for  disliking  that  tune.  My  voice  is  distinctly  a  "  left- 
over''— I  could  not  get  on  even  the  Commencement  choir,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  I  can  reach  low  C  ! — and  the  motif  that 
goes  with  scalloping  is  rather  nondescript.  If  anyone  else  tried 
to  palm  it  off  on  me,  I  know  it  would  bore  me  to  decisive  action. 
But  I  quite  enjoy  it— it  makes  me  feel  so.  virtuous  and  efficient 
— singing  at  one's  work,  you  know,  and  all  that. 

After  the  patience  of  the  community  had  given  out,  I  wrote 
up  my  diary.  That  did  not  take  long,  as  I  write  only  a  page  a 
day  and  am  very  prompt  at  keeping  it  up  to  date. 

Then  I  turned  to  my  newspaper.  I  knew  this  would  not  hold 
me  for  more  than  half  an  hour,  for  the  only  things  in  it  that 
interest  me  are  the  Editorial,  Home,  and  Sporting  Pages.  But 
this  time  it  took  me  a  shorter  time  than  usual  to  get  through  it. 
The  Editorial  page  contains  a  column — known  by  the  author's 
disciples  as  "The  Colyumn  "—entitled  "Always  in  Good  Hu- 
mor." This  entertained  me  until  I  struck  a  quotation  from 
"The  Custom  of  the  Country,"  which  brought  my  thoughts 
back  from  Broadway  to  the  empty  office  at  my  right  hand. 

The  Home  Page  held  me  not  at  all,  for  it  was  positively  sensi- 
ble, so  I  turned  in  despair  to  the  Sporting  Page.  There  I  found 
temporary  relaxation,  for  across  the  top  was  a  cartoon  of  a 
turkey  preparing  -for  the  holiday  season  by  making  his  will. 
This  brought  up  pleasant  thoughts  of  home  and  family  and 
friends,  until  suddenly  I  realized  that  if  I  had  not  learned  to 
write  an  argument  outline  by  Tuesday  next,  the  aforementioned 
family  and  friends  would  celebrate  without  me  while  I  struggled 
with  refutations  and  principles  up  in  Northampton.  This  was 
very  fitting,  but  not  very  optimistic,  so  I  folded  up  the  paper 
and  tried  the  embroidery  again. 

The  victim  of  my  attacks  is  a  collar.  It  began  as  a  Com- 
mencement present  for  a  1913  girl,  but  is  now  being  completed 
as  a  Christmas  present  for  my  aunt.  Probably  if  I  did  not  feel 
musicallj^  inclined  the  minute  a  threaded  needle  is  in  my  hand, 
the  persons  for  whom  my  things  are  originally  intended  would 
get  them  more  often.  Occasionally  this  does  happen,  but  all 
concerned  feel  as  if  there  had  been  an  accident. 

I  soon  found  that,  without  the  inspiration  of  my  little  ditty,  I 
was  a  failure  as  an  embroiderer.     Black  despair  fell  upon  me. 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY  241 

I  believe  in  our  required  English  papers  ;  in  fact,  if  the  out- 
come of  ray  impending  interview  be  favorable,  I  shall  write  an 
argument  in  their  defense.  Bat  why  should  I  have  to  spend 
two  and  one-half  hours  decorating  the  not-too-well-heated-and- 
ventilated  corridors  of  Seelye  Hall  when  my  exercise  card  is 
crying  for  food  ?  The  answer  is,  ten  minutes  in  time  saves 
hours  of  waiting.  I  have  procrastinated,  I  know,  and  I  am 
quite  resigned  to  my  punishment.  Besides,  just  look  at  the 
English  13  I  have  half-done  ! 


THE  WAIL  OF  THE  TAILORED  MAID 

MARY   L.   WELLINGTON 

My  winder  suit  I've  given  S.  C.  A.  C.  W. 

It  was  oh  I  so  long  and  chnging  and  with  drapery  so  new, 

I've  sold  every  frill  and  ruffle 

And  have  tried  in  vain  to  muffle 

My  longing  for  a  floating  veil  or  two. 

But  no  !    All  frills  must  vanish 

For  she  said  she  liked  me  "  mannish. 

So  masculine  I'll  be  if  I  must  die, 

And  in  collars  high  or  choking 

And  a  skirt  whose  width's  provoking 

I  stride  about  the  town  a  tall  white  lie  ! 

For  I'm  really  very  feminine 

I  just  love  lorgnettes  and  everything 

That  Fashion  has  decreed  for  women's  wear. 

And  a  single  pleated  frill 

Can  give  me  such  a  thrill  1 

You'll  never  know  just  how  till  you've  been  there. 

Now  !    After  all  that  I've  endured  ! 

Just  so  her  love  might  be  assured 

By  whom  think  you  she  sets  a  greater  store? 

By  me?    Ah  no,  the  little  rogue 

Is  now  "all  for"'  the  girl  in  "Vogue" 

And  there's  no  use  for  my  string  ties  any  more. 


HEARD    ON    THE    TAR    WALK 


, 

Obsie 

G. 

H. 

s 

.  OF 

X. 

C. 

H. 

T. 

M. 

G. 

L. 

H. 

* 

M. 

H. 

S. 

H. 

L. 

P. 

When  The  Girls  Are  Away 
(A  tragedy  iu  one  act.) 

Time:  Christmas  Vacation. 
Place:  Smith  College  Campus,  Northampton. 

Characters,  in  order  of  appearance  as  played  by  themselves  ("It  all  de- 
pends on  the  point  of  view."): — 

Abbreviations 
LiBE,  ......  LlBE 

Obsie,  the  Star, 

Graham  Hall,  the  Airy, 

Spirit  of  Christmas," 

Collie  Hall, 

John  M.  Greene, 

Lilly  Hall, 

Campus  Houses  (Chorus) 

Harmon  E., 

Seelye, 

Lyman  Plant, 

SCENE  I. 
Time:  New  Year's  Day. 

Libe.      It's  one  half  hour  past  midnight,  so  let's  assemble  here 

For  one  last  talk  before  it's  time  to  say,  '*  Happy  New  Year." 
Myself,  I'm  rather  lonely,  there's  not  a  single  sound, 
The  world  is  not  itself  at  all  when  there's  no  girl  around. 

Obsie.    I  beg  to  disagree  with  you,  the  sky's  been  fine  to  day; 

The  Moon's  fine  now;  as  for  the  girls,  they're  happier  away. 

We  all  need  this  vacation,  so  come  and  make  amends 

For  your  uncompliment'ry  words,  and  chat  with  your  old  friends. 

G.  H.    Spirit  of  Christmas,  flying  by,  come  stay  with  us  a  minute, 
Giving  us  cheer  for  this  New  Year  before  we  must  begin  it. 

S.  of  X.  Aye,  for  a  minute,  friends,  1  may  for  far  I've  had  to  roam; 
I've  been  to  visit  every  girl  and  welcome  her  at  home. 
Northampton  town's  a  fair  town  and  students  hold  it  dear, 
And  I  alone  am  not  allowed  encouragement  while  here. 
But  let  us  all  celebrate  to-night  before  our  time  is  done. 
And  use  each  precious  minute  before  the  clock  strikes  one. 

242 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  243 

C.  H.      Methodical's  my  habit  and  my  nature  isn't  fast, 

I  strike  on  time  though  no  one  heeds  until  ten  minutes  past. 
I  would  like  a  vacation;  I  don't  have  too  much  fun. 
For  people  watching  the  New  Year  must  wait  till  I  say  "  one." 
J.  M.  Gr.  Though  people  love  my  organ  "  Vox  humana"  best  of  all, 
I  sometimes  wonder  if  the  tune  that's  sung  by  Collie  Hall 
Is  not  more  welcome;  though  my  bells  like  Christmas  Spirit  say 
"  Be  Happy,"  your  bell  tells  them  all  it's  time  to  run  and  play. 
L.  P.      If  any  of  you  would  dress  up,  I'll  lend  you  all  my  green, 

There's  holly,  mistletoe,  and  the  only  green  rose  ever  seen. 
LiBE.      You  need  not  boast,  for  quantity's  not  quality  alway, 

And  I  have  all  the  trailing  vines  they  plant  on  Ivy  Day, 
Chorus  of  Campus  Houses: 

We're  glad,  we're  glad,  we're  glad  we're  here, 

We're  proud  to  be  on  hand. 
There's  nothing  like  the  campus  life 

In  all  the  college  land. 
We  sung  a  song  of  youth  and  joy 

That  every  year  unfurls, 
And  here's  a  Happy  New  Year 
To  all  Smith  College  Girls  ! 
S.  of  X.  And  while  we  are  about  it,  now,  how  jolly  it  would  be 
To  send  a  cheerful  message  off  to  each  poor  faculty. 
They  work  so  hard  they  have  forgot  the  day  of  girl  or  boy, 
So  let's  by  wireless  telegraph  send  each  a  wish  of  joy. 
All.  Here's  to  the  absent  Faculty, 

We  give  a  rousing  cheer. 
Let's  hope  vacation  will  seem  long 
And  likewise  short  the  year. 
C.  H.      I  have  a  sad  foreboding,  so  much  goes  on  in  me. 

That  something's  going  to  happen  that  will  not  joyous  be. 
I've  given  many  "warnings,"  "  excuses"  too  in  time. 
My  "  list's"  worn  out,  it  is  no  doubt  'cause  I'm  not  in  my  prime. 
I  hate  to  spoil  your  pleasure,  but  must  insinuate 
That,  by  my  spiral,  I'm  afraid  it  must  be  getting  late  I 
M.  H.     I  never  like  the  tunes  you  choose,  their  monotones  do  pall, 

But  I  must  say  this  gloomy  "One"  is  quite  the  worst  of  all. 
L.  H.     Of  people  to  complain  of  tunes  I  place  j'ou  at  the  last, 

Such  bedlam  falls  within  your  walls  and  has  for  ages  past. 
You've  no  right  to  complaining;  now  just  what  would  you  say 
If  you  had  to  lose  your  prestige  all  for  a  rival  gay? 
The  thought  that  worries  me  is,  what  naming  will  they  do 
About  the  new  one?    Do  you  think  they'll  call  her  Lilly  II.? 
S.  of  P.  There's  no  more  time  to  argue.    Peace  !  Good  will !  We  must  run 
Unto  our  sleep.    Hear  Collie  Hall  ?    His  clock  is  striking  one. 
All  retire  silently. 


244  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

SCENE  II. 
Time:  8.55  P.  M.     January  7,  1914. 
Obsie.    The  night  is  fair  and  all  bodes  well  as  far  as  I  can  see, 

I  think  we  are  to  dwell  in  peace,  untouched  by  student  glee. 
G.  H.     A  pretty  picture  there  you  paint,  that's  rather  good,  for  you, 

1  do  love  a  vacation,  perspective  rare  and  new. 
C.  H.      Oh,  woe  betide  !     What  do  I  see  from  up  here  on  my  tower  ? 
There  is  a  train;  and  it's  almost  my  time  to  strike  the  hour; 
And  getting  off  this  train  are  girls;  each  now  runs  for  a  hack. 
Alack-a-day,  what  shall  we  do?    The  students  have  come  back  I 
Chorus  of  Campus  Houses  : 

Oh,  what  to  do  ?    Oh,  what  to  do  ? 

The  answers  never  learned. 
We  love  the  girls  when  far  away. 

But  now  they  have  returned  ! 
Though  absence  makes  the  heart  grow  fond. 

This  nearness  strikes  us  cold. 
We  must  look  neat,  the  girls  to  greet, 
Or  scandals  will  be  told. 
L.  H.      Are  you  glad  to  come,  friend  Seelye,  to  the  end  of  this  revel  thine? 
What  do  I  hear?    To  greet  the  year ?    It's  Collie  saying,  Nein  ! 
(Silence  until  all  students  are  apparently  girl-cotted  for  the  night.) 

SCENE  III. 
Time:  10.15  P.  M.     Same  night. 
M.  H.     There's  not  a  sound  a-breaking  the  stillness  night  has  sent,  - 

I  wonder  if  each  student  had  her  light-cut  'fore  she  went? 
L.  H.      Don't  talk  to  me  for  I  must  rest  and  in  sleep  drown  my  sorrow, 

Here  was  I  full  of  hope,  but  I'll  be  full  of  Lab.  to-morrow. 
J.  M.  G.  But  you  are  lucky  both  of  you  and  ought  to  thank  your  fate, 

Just  think,  I  must  be  up  iu  time  to  keep  my  chapel  date. 
C.  H.      I  go  one  worse:  you  have  that  time  on  which  a  sleeper  dotes, 

While  I'm  on  watch  'fore  half  past  eight  to  get  '•  important"  notes. 
LiBE.      I  must  say  I  won't  so  much  mind  being  full  of  buzz  once  more; 
There  are  worse  things  in  life  than  girls  as  I  have  said  before; 
They  have  their  tragedies,  as  to  us  they  mean  tragedy. 
So  I  shall  make  the  best  of  them,  as  they  try  to,  of  me. 
All.  We'll  try  to  make  the  best  of  it, 

And  hope  the  girls  will  too. 
Smith  girls  of  nineteen  fourteen 

Happy  New  Year  to  you  ! 
Don't  be  too  hard  upon  us. 

Our  troubles  are  no  myth, 
And  know  "  Cooperation  " 
Is  what  we  want  at  Sojiith. 
S.  H.      "  Q-ood-night,"— It's  time  to  say  it,  a  foi*eboding  comes  again. 

We  always  hurry  here — What's  that  ?    It's  Collie  t 
0.  H.  Half  past  ten. 

Rosamond  Drexel  Holmes  1914 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      245 

I  wish  I  could  begin  this  with  a  quotation — I 

Her  Week    should  like  to  start  in  by  saying  breezily:  "I 

remember   once   reading  soraewliere   that  even 

the  best  sense  of  humor  sometimes  goes  back  on  one,"  or  "  I  was 

reminded  recently  of  that  familiar  saying  :    "  There  is  no  one  so 

lucky  as  to  possess  a  sense  of  humor  which  never  fails  him.'^ 

The  only  (but  vital!)  reason  that  I  do  not  resort  to  this 
method  of  procedure  is  that  I  never  read  nor  heard  a  quotation 
even  dimly  resembling  either  of  those  of  which  I  have  made 
use,  so  I  shall  have  to  forego  any  such  apt  introduction  and 
come  plainly  down  to  the  facts  themselves. 

I  have  a  friend  who  has  a  sense  of  humor.  I  have,  for  that 
matter,  a  great  many  friends  all  similarly  endowed,  but  this 
particular  friend's  particular  sense  of  humor  is,  to  my  way  of 
thinking,  unusually  keen. 

Now  had  I  been  able  to  use  the  quotation  I  couldn't  quote,  I 
might  have  here  reverted  to  it  with  fine  effect,  but  under  the 
circumstances  I  shall  be  forced  into  being  content  with  merely 
stating  that  this  unusually  keen  sense  of  humor  suffered  an 
eclipse  during  an  entire  week.  It  happened  as  follows  :  My 
friend  (whom  I  shall  call  Mary  mainly  because  her  real  name  is 
as  un-Maryish  as  possible)  had  recently  what  she  termed  "The 
hardest  week  in  the  history  of  college."  I  was  well  prepared 
for  this  week  of  Mary's,  which  should  have  made  it  easier  for 
me,  for  on  Friday  of  the  week  before  she  began  preparing  me. 
This  she  did  by  cutting  short  my  "  I  haven't  time  to — '^  with 
'*  Don't  speak  to  me  ol  time.  If  you  only  knew  what  I  have  to 
do  next  week  you'd  never  mention  time  again  !"  or,  when  some 
ill-starred  person  on  Sunday  mentioned  '^work  for  to-morrow," 
^'Work,  my  dear  !  I'd  just  like  to  tell  you  the  amount  of 
work  I  ve  got  to  do  to-morrow.  If  you  knew  what  I've  got 
ahead  of  me  this  week  you  wouldn't  mention  work  in  my 
presence  ! " 

But  Monday  the  real  excitement  began.  She  came  into  my 
room  after  breakfast  when  I  was  hurrying  into  my  coat  and 
hat,  and  there  was  that  in  her  face  which  should  have  warned 
me,  but  "  Coming  to  chapel  ?"  said  I  cheerily. 

"Chapel!"  she  shrieked,  "Chapel!"  and  I  wonder  that  I 
lived  to  regret  my  words.  "If  you  only  knew  what  I  ve  got 
before  me  to-day  you  wouldn't  mention  chapel  to  me.  Why, 
at  nine  I  have  Logic,  at  ten  an  English  written,  at  eleven  I 


246  THE  SxMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

tutor  and  I  have  Historj^  at  twelve.  After  luncheon  (which  I 
shall  probably  cut  to  study)  I  have  Art  until  four  and  tutor 
until  six.  And  you  talk  of  chapel  to  me  !  Why  at  seven — " 
by  this  time  I  was  at  the  front  door  but  the  window  flew  up  and 
her  head  appeared — "at  seven  to-night,"  she  continued,  "I 
study  history,  from  eight  to  nine—"  but  I  never  did  hear  what 
she  did  at  nine.     Her  voice  couldn't  carry  that  far. 

I  did  not  see  her  again  until  dinner,  I  took  good  care  of  that, 
and  then  by  my  own  arrangement  I  sat  at  the  other  table.  But 
during  a  momentary  lull  her  voice  rose  loud  and  clear.  "At 
eight  to-morrow  morning,"  she  was  saying. 

From  then  on  life  for  me  became  one  grand  game  of  dodge. 
I  went  out  to  meals,  I  came  in  late  at  night,  I  locked  the  door 
of  my  room,  but  all  to  no  avail.  I  went  out  to  the  tune  of 
"  How  can  you  take  the  time— Tve  been  working  since  seven 
o'clock. ''  I  came  wearily  in  to  be  greeted  with  a  grudging 
"You  look  tired,  too,  but  if  you  only  knew  what  I've  been 
through.  Why  last  night — "  and  I  locked  my  door  only  to 
hear,  "If  she  had  one-eighth  as  much  to  do  as  I  have  there 
might  be  some  point  in  being  so  exclusive.  Why,  since  nine  on 
Monday  morning — " 

I  finally  arrived  at  the  stage  of  open  rudeness,  but  I  passed 
Mary  again  and  again  rushing  frantically  to  and  from  classes 
accompanied  by  a  bewildered  looking  friend,  and  always  as  I 
passed  I  caught  the  too  familiar  words,  "At  twelve,  Friday, 
my  dear  !"  or  "  Three  hours'  sleep  last  night  and  up  at — " 

Even  the  most  wretched  week,  however,  must  eventually 
come  to  an  end  and  on  Saturday  night  I  entered  the  house  with 
a  blessed  feeling  of  relief — no  more  avoiding  of  Mary,  no  more 
locked  doors  or  dining  out.  Her  awful  week  was  over,  and  she 
would  be  her  old  amusing  self  again.  Lightly  I  ran  up-stairs 
and  she  stuck  her  head  out  of  her  door. 

"Oh  hello!"  her  voice  was  cordiality  itself.  "Come  right 
in  here.  I  haven't  seen  you  for  an  age,  and  I  do  want  to  tell 
you  all  about  the  week  I've  just  been  through." 

Adelaide  Heilbron  1915. 


EDITORIAL 


Quite  the  most  unpleasant  time  of  the  college  year  and  one 
that  conscientious  as  well  as  shirking  students  approach  with 
dread  is  examination  week.  This  period  is  a  bugbear  to  the 
students  and  to  all  in  touch  with  them,  not  so  much  because  of 
the  character  of  the  examinations,  but  because  of  the  spirit  of 
nervous  excitement  and  unnatural  agitation  in  which  the  ma- 
jority of  the  gills  approach  them. 

Each  year  there  are  a  few  feeble  efforts  to  lessen  this  evil. 
There  is  always  some  sane  student  who  appreciates  the  value  of 
the  "  air  of  academic  calm  "  and  in  a  fervent  appeal  through 
*'  Public  Opinion  ^'  begs  those  who  are  prone  to  give  audible  ex- 
pression to  their  fears  to  have  compassion  on  their  neighbors 
and  curb  their  desire  to  voice  their  feelings.  Also,  in  many  of 
the  houses,  examinations  are  not  discussed  in  the  dining  room. 
In  this  way  there  is  at  least  one  common  meeting  place  that  is 
free  from  their  blighting  influence. 

But  when  scrutinized  calmly  away  from  the  artificial  glare  of 
examination  week  what  is  this  fear  that  grips  the  student  body 
and  what  foundation  has  it  ?  Most  of  the  girls  have  done  their 
work  honestly  and  have  reviewed  conscientiously  and  they  have 
a  reasonable  amount  of  confidence  in  their  own  ability  to  ex- 
press what  they  know.  Yet  they  weakly  and  with  no  thought 
of  sane  resistance,  let  themselves  be  swept  away  by  unfounded 
fear  and  engulfed  in  a  turbulent  stream  of  nervous  imaginings 
that,  if  they  would  but  stop  to  analyse  them,  they  would  know 
were  groundless. 

There  is  but  one  way  for  this  evil  to  be  met  and  that  is  through 
individual  effort.  If  each  one  of  us  would  decide  not  to  let  her- 
self be  needlessly  wrought  up  about  examinations  the  frightened 
people,  happily  for  the  rest  of  us,  would  be  in  the  minority. 
And  if  those  few  would  keep  their  seemingly  well  founded  fears 

847 


248  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

to  themselves  and  thus  not  inoculate  all  with  whom  they  come 
in  contact,  the  greatest  burden  of  examination  would  be  lifted^ 

For  in  giving  free  reign  to  our  nervous  imagining  we  not  only 
are  undermining  our  own  capacity  to  think  clearly  but  we 
are  harmful  to  every  one  around  us.  Fears  are  as  contagious 
as  yawning.  Two  or  three  girls  with  their  "  I'm  scared  to- 
death/'  "  I  don't  know  a  thing/'  "  I  know  I'm  going  to  flunk/^ 
can  infect  a  room  full  of  composed  students  if  the  latter  do  not 
refuse  to  be  disconcerted  by  them. 

Why  is  it  not  as  much  a  matter  of  pride  to  go  into  an  exami- 
nation calmly  as  it  is  for  an  athlete  to  enter  his  contests  calmly. 
No  athlete  would  permit  himself  to  dwell  upon  his  fears  and 
conjure  up  unknown  terrors.  He  would  know  this  would  un- 
dermine his  powers  and  keep  him  from  doing  his  best  work.. 
And  yet  we  college  students  who  of  all  people  should  recognize 
the  value  of  clear-headedness  deliberately  permit  our  mental 
efficiency  to  be  hacked  at  and  mutilated  by  every  tramp  and 
beggarly  fear  that  whines  for  admittance  into  our  minds. 

This  year  with  but  little  effort  on  the  part  of  each  one  of  us 
the  evil  of  too  much  flower  giving  has  been  stopped.  If  we 
could  make  as  definite  a  crusade  against  this  most  foolish  habit 
of  bowing  before  groundless  fears,  much  of  the  gloom  that  en- 
gulfs us  as  we  enter  upon  examination  week  would  melt  away 
like  mist.  And  we  should  find  that  in  reality  this  is  not  such  a 
fearful  time,  in  fact  that  examination  week  has  more  distinct 
merits  than  we  had  ever  before  seen. 

If  Smith  College  students  had  the  reputation  for  taking  ex- 
aminations sanely  it  would  be  something  of  which  we  could  be 
as  justly  proud  as  of  our  college  spirit.  Furthermore,  the  atti- 
tude of  calmness  cultivated  now  will  stay  with  us  through  life. 
Refusing  to  be  disturbed  till  we  have  proof  that  there  is  cause 
we  shall  find  that  nine-tenths  of  our  fears  simply  do  not  exist 
at  all. 


EDITOR'S    TABLE 


Seven  days  have  slipped  away  since  we  came  back. 
Words  and  more  than  seven  times  we  have  turned  to  catch 
the  echo  of  a  happy  Christmas  laugh.  It  grows 
faint  as  the  vista  of  days  lengthens,  but  the  clasp  of  the  home 
hands  and  a  vigorous  rub  with  the  world  have  braced  us  for 
the  work  of  the  new  term.  Just  one  more  long  breath  and  we 
are  ready  for  the  midyear  plunge  into  a  sea  of  words.  There 
they  are  all  eager  for  the  fight :  big  surging  words  that  bowl 
you  over  in  their  steady  advance  and  little  surf  breakers  that 
trip  you  up  unawares  and  a  constant  undertow  of  commonplaces 
tliat  insist  on  being  known.  They  are  everywhere.  Names, 
dates,  statistics,  laws,  rules,  tables  will  confront  us  at  every  turn 
to  deluge  our  waking  hours  and  haunt  our  sleeping  minutes. 

This  matter  of  words  is  a  grievous  one  and  much  depends 
upon  it.  A  single  word  may  make  or  mar  a  record  that  has 
been  skillfully  balanced  on  the  narrow  nondescript  for  sixteen 
weeks.  That  single  word  is  a  tyrant.  Its  absence  is  even  more 
powerful  than  its  presence.  Omit  it  and  yon  are  lost.  Commit 
it  and  still  you  may  not  be  safe.  It  is  no  wonder  that  we  shrink 
before  such  a  motleys  host  of  tyrants.  And  yet  there  are  smaller 
cliques  of  these  little  monsters  that  are  more  deadly  than  the 
assembled  multitude.  They  run  in  couplets  or  quatrains  and 
the  end  words  of  the  alternate  lines  are  apt  to  bear  a  striking 
resemblance  to  each  other.  Such  contrivances  should  be  ac- 
companied by  a  diagram  that  will  graphically  illuminate  the 
whole,  each  individual  idea,  the  relation  between  the  ideas  and 
the  relation  of  each  to  the  whole.  Old  Janet  McGillavorich 
from  Mauchline  expresses  our  sentiments  with  terrible  honesty. 
'*  Ttiis  trick  of  not  saying  i-ight  out  what  you  mean  turns  my 
stomach.  Padding  out  some  lines  to  make  them  a  bit  longer, 
and  chopping  off  ends  of  words  to  make  them  shorter  ought  to 
be  beneath  any  reasoning  creature.'' 

249 


250  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

Words  are  a  great  trial.  They  are  so  great  a  trial  that  to  tell 
the  truth  about  them  we  have  had  to  lie  about  them,  as  they 
say  of  the  weather  iu  Arizona.  For  we  must  admit  it  true  that 
even  words  have  their  fascination.  They  turn  jester,  play  parts, 
pop  up  where  you  l^ast  expect  them  and  perform  a  variety  of 
tricks  and  ca[)ers.  Sometimes  with  Spooner  we  find  ourselves 
cherishing  "half- warmed  fishes^'  and  sometimes  we  find  a  pun 
that  is  worth  the  laugh.  A  rare  epigram  always  finds  favor  in 
our  sight  so  we  were  amused  to  the  point  of  forgetting  that 
words  may  be  tyrants  when  we  heard  to-day  that  "  The  Harvard 
of  the  species  is  more  deadly  than  the  Yale."  R.  C. 

We  must  confess  that  we  are  in  a  quandary  this  month.  In 
the  first  place,  onr  exchanges  are  limited  in  number,  so  that  we 
can  give  no  criticism  that  will  be  representative  of  this  month's 
magazines  as  a  whole  (obviously  we  cannot  attempt  to  criticise 
those  which  have  not  yet  put  in  an  appearance).  And  in  the 
second  place,  those  that  we  have  are  excellent  in  some  ways 
and  poor  in  others.  There  are  a  few  good  short  stories,  some 
good  verse,  two  or  three  excellent  essays,  and  a  few  editorials 
of  interest.  Unfortunately  we  have  not  space  in  which  to  con- 
sider all  these,  and  after  due  deliberation  we  have  decided  that 
it  will  be  best  to  criticise  the  poems  and  stories,  since  there  is  a 
greater  quantity  of  good  material  to  be  found  there  than  else- 
where. 

The  Occident  and  the  Yale  Literary  Magazine  stand  first 
among  the  magazines  that  we  have  at  hand,  both  for  quantity 
and  quality  of  their  literature.  In  the  Occident  there  are  three 
stories  that  are  particulaily  good.  "The  Sieep  Walker"  is  an 
ingenious  story,  the  plot  of  which  ceuteis  about  a  murder  in 
which  the  circumstances  are  a  little  out  of  the  ordinary.  The 
scene  is  laid  on  shipboard  during  a  storm  and  this  increases  its 
dramatic  effect.  "  Tres  Dedos"  is  also  an  nnusual  story,  which 
is  grimly  humorous  at  the  end.  "  Kaffeklatsch"  is  another 
good  story.  In  it  the  character  of  Frau  K.  K.  Oberauinspektor 
is  very  well  drawn,  and  the  story  is  told  in  a  delightful  way. 
There  is  a  quantity  of  verse  in  the  Occident  this  month.  Per- 
haps the  best  poems  are  "Julia,"  "Cutlar  Macculluch,"  and 
"The  Western  Dawn."  "The  Western  Dawn"  is  a  long  poem 
well  sustained  ;  it  is  a  more  ambitious  attempt  than  is  usually 
to  be  found  in  the  college  magazine.      "Cythere"  is  another 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  251 

long  popm,  but  tlie  treatment  here  is  not  quite  so  successful  as 
that  of  tbe  poem  just  mentioned. 

Of  tlie  poetry  in  the  Yale  Literary  Magazine  "The  Lonely 
Road/'  "A  Vision"  and  "Ballade"  are  worthy  of  mention. 
We  quote  the  first  verse  of  "  Ballade"  : 

"  'A  pili^rim  cowled  in  light  is  love 

Who  kneels  at  man}'  shrines  and  prays,' 
So  sang  I.  knowing  nought  thereof, 

'He  kneels  beside  the  thronging  ways. 
And  even  in  the  dust  he  lays 

His  reverent  soul  at  Mary's  feet 
Beneath  her  a  11 -caressing  gaze, 

For  only  dreams  of  love  are  sweet.' " 

In  this  magazine  there  are  two  good  stories.  "The  Age  of 
Chivalry  "  is  very  well  written,  and  probably  to  a  great  extent 
true,  but  a  little  unpleasant  for  this  very  reason.  "  The  Ambi- 
tion of  Jean-Claude"  is  also  very  interesting. 

In  the  Pliaretra  for  December,  "For  Father"  is  a  story  with 
a  great  deal  of  human  ititerest,  and  well  told;  the  atmosphere 
is  well-nigh  perfect,  "Kintaro,  Little  Son  of  Gold,"  too,  is  an 
excellent  story.  Two  other  stories  that  are  worth  reading  are 
"The  Way  of  the  Tiaiisgressor,"  in  the  Normal  College  Echo, 
and  "The  Rolands,"  in  the  Sorosis. 

D.  O. 


AFTER    COLLEGE 


SENIOR  DRAMATICS  J9J4 


1914  presents  *'  The  Tempest." 

Applications  for  Senior  Dramatics  for  June  11  and  12,  1914,  should  be  sent 
to  the  Gi-eneral  Secretary  at  184  Elm  Street,  Northampton.  Alumnae  are 
urged  to  apply  for  the  Thursday  evening  performance  if  possible,  as  Satur- 
day evening  is  not  open  to  alumnae,  and  there  will  probably  not  be  more  than 
one  hundred  tickets  for  Friday  evening.  Each  alumna  may  apply  for  not 
more  than  one  ticket  for  Friday  evening  ;  extra  tickets  may  be  requested  for 
Thursday.  No  deposit  is  required  to  secure  the  tickets,  which  may  be 
claimed  on  arrival  in  Northampton  from  the  business  manager  in  Seelye 
Hall.  In  May  all  those  who  have  applied  for  tickets  will  receive  a  request 
to  confirm  the  applications.  Tickets  will  then  be  assigned  only  to  those  who 
respond  to  this  request.  The  prices  of  the  seats  will  range  on  Thursday 
evening  from  $1.50  to  $.75  and  on  Friday  from  $2.00  to  $.75.  The  desired 
price  of  seats  should  be  indicated  in  the  application.  A  fee  of  ten  cents  is 
charged  to  all  non-members  of  the  Alumnae  Association  for  the  filing  of  the 
application  and  should  be  sent  to  the  General  Secretary  at  the  time  of  appli- 
cation. 

PERSONALS 

Contributions  to  this  department  are  desired  before  the  end  of  the  month, 
in  order  to  appear  in  the  next  month's  issue,  and  should  be  addressed  to 
Eloise  Schmidt,  Gillett  House.  Northampton,  Massachusetts. 

'10.     Grace  Briggs  has  announced  her  engagement  to  Philip  Walters. 

Mrs.   Walter  Doll  (Eva  Barns).      Address :    54  Elm  Street,   Westerly^ 
Rhode  Island. 

Rachel  Eleanor  Donnell.     Address  :  University  of  Michigan,  Ann  Arbor^ 
Michigan. 

Margaret  Gilbert  has  announced  her  engagement  to  Reverend  William 
LeRoy  Haven. 
'11.     Florence  Angell  is  assistant  to  Dean  Comstock  of  Smith  College.    Ad- 
dress :  42  Franklin  Street,  Northampton,  Massachusetts. 

Lois  Cunningham  will  spend  the  winter  travelling  in  Europe. 

252 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  253 

"'11.     Miriam  Levi  is  with  Otis  Skinner  in  the  "Kismet"  Company.  At  present 
the  company  is  touriiij^  through  the  West.     Address:  Number  4,  The 
Antwerp,  Avondale,  Cincinnati,  Ohio. 
Vita  Slater  is  teaching-  in  the  High  School  at  Newton,  Kansas.     Address  : 

333  East  Ninth  Street,  Newton.  Katisas. 
Mary  Tweedy  is  Assistant  in  Biology  in  the  Wadleigh  High  School,  New 

York  City. 
Mrs.  Lawson  W.  Wright  (Josephine  F.  Tripp).      Address:  1014  Main 
Street,  Evanston,  Illinois. 
■*12.     Marion  Denman  is  in  Boston  for  the  winter,  studying  at  the  Burdette 
Business  College. 
Maida  Herman  is  doing  secretarial  work  in  the  firm  of  Ham,  Frederick 

and  Yont  in  Boston. 
Helen  Hulbert  is  Physical  Director  at  KempeiHall,  Kenoska,  Wisconsin. 
Grace  Kroll  is  doing  social  work  in  Boston. 
'13.     Eleanor  Abbot  is  teaching  Mathematics  at  St.  Helen's  Hall,  Portland, 
Oregon. 
Marjorie  Anderson    is  acting    as    Secretary  in   Miss    Spence's    School. 

Address  :  80  West  55th  Street,  New  York  City. 
Lucile  Atcherson  will  be  travelling  in  Europe  until  February. 
Christine  Babcock  is  teaching  Latin  and  French  in  Franklin  Academy, 

Malone,  New  York. 
Maude  Barton  is  doing  volunteer  settlement  work  at   the  South  End 
House  in  Boston.      In  January  she  will  begin  a  three  years'  nursing 
course  at  the  Massachusetts  General  Hospital  in  Boston.      Address  : 
21  Orient  Avenue,  Newton  Centre,  Massachusetts. 
Edna  Balch  is  teaching  English  and  Mathematics  in  the  High  School  at 

Marshalltown,  Iowa. 
Rose  Baldwin  has  announced  her  engagement  to  Robert  L.  Meech. 
Annie  Batchelder  is  teaching  an  ungraded  school  at  Harbert,  Michigan. 
Barbara  Bell  is  studying  Art  in  Minneapolis. 
Emily  Brander  is  Secretary  at  Irving  School,  35  West  84th  Street,  New 

York  City. 
Mabel  Bray  is  teaching  at  Hillside  School,  Norwalk,  Connecticut. 
Helen  Claflin  is  studying  at  the  New  York  State  Library  School,  Albany, 

New  York. 
Anna  Cobb  is  teaching  French  and  English  in  Rockland  High  School, 

Rockland,  Maine. 
Jessie  Coit  is  studying  Organ  and  Piano  in  Newark,  New  Jersey. 
Blanche  Dow  is  teaching  Expression  in  the  Milwaukee-Downer  Semi- 
nary, Milwaukee,  Wisconsin. 
Amelia  Dutcher  is  at  home.      Address :  37  Linwood  Avenue,  Newton, 
New  Jersey. 


254  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

'13.  Phyllis  Ferirns  is  In'^tructor  of  Harmony,  Orchpstration  and  Piano  in  the- 
Sherwood  Masic  School,  The  Fine  Arts  Building.  Chicago,  Illinois. 

Marietta  Fnller  is  taking  the  Library  School  Course  at  the  New  York 
Public  Library,  Fifth  Avenue  and  ^2nd  Street,  New  York  City. 

Helen  Gould  is  doing  secretarial  work  in  a  private  office.  Address  r 
Riverside,  Illinois. 

Helen  Gillette  is  raising  berries  and  small  fruits  at  "Wilder,  Vermont. 
Elizabeth  Greene  is  a  field  worker  for  the  Phipps  Psychopathic  Clinic  of 

the  Johns  Hopkins  Hospital,  Baltimore,  Maryland. 
Louise  Hale  is  instructor  in  French  in  Purdue  University,  Lafayette, 

Indiana. 
Juliette  Halla  is  teaching  in  the  Mary  Warren  Free  Institute,  Troy,  New 

York. 
Helen  Hodgman  is  doing  volunteer  work  for  the  Brooklyn  Bureau  of 

Charities  in  preparation  for  professional  social  work. 
Eunice  Hinman  is  at  home.      Address :    189  Summit  Avenue,  Summit^ 

New  Jersey. 
Elizabeth  Johnson  is  teaching  Botany  and  English  in  the  Virginia  Col- 
lege for  Young  Women,  Roanoke,  Virginia. 
Helen  Kaox  is  studying  Design  at  the  Westfield  Normal  School. 
Gladys  McLain  is  at  home,  doing  private  tutoring  in  primary  work. 

She  is  also  studying  Interior  Decorating. 
Mary  Mead  is  doing  library  work  and  filing  in  the  Bond  Department  of 

the  Guarantee  Trust  Company  of  New  York  City. 
Dorothy  Merriam  is  at  home  in  Washington.  District  of  Columbia. 
Harriet  Moodey  is  at  home.     Address :  603  Watchang  Avenue,  Plainfield^ 

New  Jersey. 
Dorothy  Olcott  is  studying  French  and  Music  at  home.     She  is  also  chair- 
man of  a  King's  Daughters'  Day  Nursery. 
Elizabeth  Olcott  is  at  home  studying  Art  and  French  and  teaching  in  a 

Home  for  Girls. 
Marian  Parker  is  taking  a  course  in  Household  Economics  at  Simmons 

College.     Address:  43  Stedman  Street,  Brookline,  Mas.'achusetts. 
Nellie  Paschal  is  teaching  German  and  Mathematics  in  Brantwood  Hall, 

Bronxville,  New  York. 
Gertrude  Patterson  is  at  home.     Address  :  Piketon,  Ohio. 
Caroline  Paulman  is  teaching  German  and  English  in  the  High  School  at 

Peabody,  Massachusetts. 
Winifred  Praeger  is  at  home  studying  at  Kalamazoo  College,  Kalamazoo, 

Michigan. 
Madeline  Pratt  is  at  home.      Address :  414  Union  Street,  Elmira,  New 

York. 
Helea  Readio  is  working  among  the  mountain  people  at  Saint  Thomas*^ 

Mission,  Polk  County,  North  Carolina. 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  255 

Clara  Ripley  is  at  home.  Address  :  173  Harvard  Street,  Dorchester, 
Massachusetts. 

Mildred  Roberts  is  teachin.i?  Languages  in  the  Newmarket  High  School, 
Newmarket,  New  Hampshire. 

Helen  Sewall  is  Reader  in  the  Music  Department.  Smith  College.  Ad- 
dress :  2(jl  Crescent  Street.  Northampton,  Massachusetts. 

Sophia  Smith  is  assistant  to  Reverend  Mr,  Keeler  of  the  First  Church  of 
Northampton.  Address  :  53  Crescent  Street,  Northampton,  Massa- 
chusetts. 

Mary  Strange  is  teaching  Latin.  French  and  English  in  the  High  School 
at  Three  Mile  Bay.  New  York. 

Mildred  Tilden  is  Assistant  Secretary  at  the  Fessenden  School,  West 
Newton,  Massachusetts.  Address  :  37  Banks  Street,  Waltham,  Massa- 
chusetts. 

Lucy  Titcomb  is  teaching  Violin  in  Augusta,  Maine,  and  studying  Music 
in  Boston. 

Emily  Van  Order  is  Supervisor  of  Music  in  the  Winsor  School,  Long- 
wood.  Boston. 

Margie  Wilbur  is  Instructor  in  Latin  and  German  and  Preceptress  at 
Hobart  High  School.  Hobart,  New  York. 

Clara  Williamson.  Temporary  address:  The  Beaconsfield,  Brookline, 
Massachusetts. 

Marguerite  Woodruff  is  teaching  Science  and  Music  at  Croton-on-Hudson, 
New  York. 

MARRIAGES 

*10.    Eva  Barnes  to  Walter  Doll.      Address  :  3816  Park  Avenue,  Chicago, 
Illinois. 

Florence  Curtis  to  L.  E.  Harrah,  September  10,  1913. 
Abbe  F.  Feirin  to  Charles  Skinner,  Junior,  November  27,  1913. 
Margaret  Hart  to  Herbert  T.  Patton.  November  8,  1913. 
Mary  Chase  King  to  James  Payton  Leake,  October  4,  1913. 
Caroline  Montgomery  to  William  H.  Nelson.  September  18,  1913. 
Amy  Wallburg  to  Benjamin  G-.  Southwick,  September  2,  1913. 
Constance  Watson  to  James  W.  Pollock,  October  25,  1913. 
Olive  Watson  to  G.  Willard  Freeman,  October  6,  1913. 
Ednah  A.  Whitney  to  Herbert  T.  Gerrish,  September  25,  1913. 
'11.    Jean  Johnson  to  Thomas  Jewett  Goddard,  December  13, 1913.     Address  : 

157  East  81.-t  Street,  New  York  City. 
Mary  O'Malley  to  William  M.  Hnssie,  August  28,  1913.     Address  :  2309 

West  Lehigh  Avenue,  Philadelphia,  Pennsylvania. 


256  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

BIRTHS 

'10.     Mrs.  W.  S.  Chilson  (Helen  Evans),  a  son,  William  Wallace,  born  Sep- 
tember 25,  1913. 

Mrs,  P.  T.  Coons  (Elizabeth  Brown),  a  daughter,  Elizabeth,  born  Septem- 
ber 18,  1913. 

Mrs,  R.  A.  Delesderniers  (Frances  Mann),  a  son,  Dwight  Maynard,  born 
August  3,  1912. 

Mrs.  W.  McP.  Goodrich  (Helen  Jeffers),  a  daughter,  Carol,  born  August 
16,  1913. 

Mrs.  C.  M.  Hart  (Adiene  Bergen),  a  son,  Carman  Bogart,  born  October 
13,  1913. 

Mrs.  Karl  Kiedaisch  (Katherine  Jenkins),  a  son,   George  Jenkins,  born 
September  9,  1913. 

Mrs.  J.  A.  Migel  (Margaret  Dauchy),  a  son,  Julius  Dauchy,  born  Novem- 
ber 5,  1913. 

Mrs.  W.  W.  Taylor  (Marjorie  Wells),  a  son,  Walter  Williard,  born  Octo- 
ber 17,  1913. 
'13.     Mrs.  Betts  (Esther  Cook),   a  son,   Nelson  Benjamin,  born  November  1, 
1913. 


CALENDAR 

January     17.     Meetings  of  Alpha  and  Phi  Kappa  Psi  Societies. 
Latin  Play. 
''     19-27.     Midyear  Examinations. 

27.     Senior  Class  Party. 
'*  29.     Second  Semester  Begins. 

"  31.     Group  Dance. 

February     4.     Concert  under  the  auspices  of  the  Western  Massa- 
chusetts Branch  of  the  A.  C.  A. 
**  7.     Junior  Frolic. 

*^  11.     Freshman-Sophomore  Basket  Ball  Game. 

Junior-Senior  Debate. 
'*  14.     Meetings  of  Alpha  and  Phi  Kappa  Psi  Societies. 


XLbc 


Smitb    College 
niontbl^ 


]februar?^  1914 
Qvoncb  an&  Ipubll9be5  b?  tbe  Senior  Claee 


CONTENTS 

A  French  Precieuse  and  an  English  Blue  Stocking 

Ruth  Bartholomew  1915    257 


Earth-Bound 

In  February 

Afternoons        .  .  ^ 

Dusk        .... 

Salem  and  Hawthorne 

The  Affairs  of  Lizzie 

At  Twilight 

SKETCHES 

Mary  Sarah's  Glee  Club  Man 
"O  Changing  Swallow" 
Passers-by    .  .  .  . 

Last  Night 
The  Eternal  Feminine    . 

ABOUT  COLLEGE 


Grace  Angela  Richmond  1916  270 

Leonora  Branch  1914  270 

Katherine  Buell  Nye  1915  271 

Helen  Violette  Tooker  1915  274 

Martha  Chadbourne  1914  ^'74 

Esther  Loyola  Harney  1914  375 

Marion  Delamater  Freeman  1914  283 

Ellen  Elizabeth  Williams  1915  284 

Dorothy  Lilian  Spencer  1914  292 

Leonora  Braiich  1914  293 

Jeanne  Woods  1914  294 

Annie  Preston  Bridges  1915  295 


Applied  Logic 

Experience  as  Teacher 

HEARD  ON  THE  TAR  WALK 
EDITORIAL        . 
EDITOR  S  TABLE 
AFTER  COLLEGE 
CALENDAR 


Barbara  Cheney  1915    299 
Marion  S.   Walker  1915    301 


306 
310 
312 
315 
320 


Entered  at  the  Post  Ofllce  at  Northampton,  Massachusetts,  as  second  class  matter 
Gazette  Printing  Company,  Northampton,  Mass. 


THE 

Smith  College  Monthly 

Vol.  XXI  FEBRUARY,  1914  No.  5 


EDITORS: 


Lois  Cleveland  Gould 
Leonora  Branch  Anna  Elizabeth  Spicer 

Margaret  Louise  Farrand         Marion  Delamater  Freeman 
Rosamond  Drexel  Holmes  Frances  Milliken  Hooper 

Margaret  Bloom  Dorothy  Lilian  Spencer 

Ruth  Cobb  Dorothy  Ochtman 

Eloise  Schmidt 

BUSINESS  manager  AND  TREASURER 

Ruth  Hellekson 

assistant  business  managers 
Esther  Loyola  Harney 
Bertha  Viola  Conn 


A  FRENCH  PREQEUSE  AND  AN  ENGLISH  BLUE 

STOCKING 

RUTH  BARTHOLOMEW 

The  woman  of  France  first  came  into  prominence  in  the  intel- 
lectual world  in  the  seventeenth  century,  when  after  years  of 
warfare,  both  civil  and  foreign,  the  people  had  time  to  turn 
their  interest  away  from  the  business  of  protecting  their  country 
to  the  higher  development  and  refinement  of  themselves  as  indi- 
viduals. A  desire  for  self-improvement  and  culture,  socially, 
morally,  intellectually,  gradually  became  predominant.  It  was 
in  this  refining  that  the  Preci^use  of  France  stands  out  as  a 
great  positive  influence. 


258  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

The  name  itself  implies  several  of  the  prominent  character- 
istics of  the  French  woman  of  that  time.  Freely  translated,  a 
''femme  pr^cieuse"  is  a  woman  over-nice,  finical  and  precise  to 
the  point  of  affectation,  logical  to  the  point  of  absurdity.  It  is 
easy  to  see  the  effect  that  such  a  mentality  would  have  when 
once  it  applied  itself  to  general  refinement.  Culture  became 
the  goal  of  ambition  and  women  pursued  it  regardless  of  mod- 
eration. In  the  reaction  against  the  coarseness  and  vulgarity 
of  previous  camp-bred  generations  manners,  customs,  language 
and  literature  underwent  a  sort  of  false  purification  resulting 
for  the  time  being  in  ridiculous  exaggeration. 

Among  those  intimately  connected  with  this  refining  move- 
ment, Catherine  de  Vivonne,  better  known  in  history  as  Madame 
de  Rambouillet,  is  the  most  prominent ;  partly  because  she  was- 
the  first  to  enlist  but  mostly  because  she  represents  the  highest 
type  of  French  woman  of  her  day.  It  is  true  that  she  was  only 
half  French.  Her  mother  was  an  Italian  noblewoman,  her 
father,  a  French  ambassador  to  Rome.  Until  she  was  twelve 
years  old  she  lived  in  Italy,  where  she  very  naturally  absorbed 
the  Italian's  love  of  culture  and  refinement.  At  twelve,  she 
married  the  Marquis  de  Rambouillet  and  went  with  him  to 
France.  There  she  was  immediately  received  into  the  court, 
but  the  coarse  vulgarity  of  it  was  distasteful  to  her,  so  after  a 
few  years  she  retired  to  her  residence  in  the  Rue  St.  Thomas 
du  Louvre,  where  she  formed  a  miniature  court  of  her  own, 
called  THotel  de  Rambouillet. 

The  marquise's  idea  in  withdrawing  from  the  court  and  form- 
ing her  own  private  circle  was  purely  one  of  revolt  against  the 
low  standards  and  base  character  of  the  kingly  following  and 
her  instinctive  craving  for  higher  ideals  in  all  phases  of  life. 
She  believed  that  only  by  careful  attention  to  each  word  and 
action  could  the  language  and  manners  of  her  people  be  brought 
to  a  nobler  level.  Farther,  she  thought  that  in  order  to  instil 
such  ideals  into  their  minds  they  must  have  constant  association 
with  the  beautiful  and  the  sesthetic.  They  must  live  in  con- 
genial surroundings  where  their  ideals  could  be  always  before 
them.  She  held  that  people  should  be  judged  not  by  their 
nobility  of  rank,  but  by  their  nobility  of  character.  Rich  and 
poor  alike  were  held  up  to  this  one  consideration  and  their 
innate  ability  to  appreciate  the  fine  and  pure  determined  their 
worth. 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  259 

In  her  family  relations,  Madame  de  Rambouillet  felt  that 
these  same  principles  should  dominate.  The  home  should  be 
the  center  of  all  that  is  finest  and  best,  a  sweet  family  life, 
pervaded  with  harmony  and  enriched  by  the  highest  cultural 
influences.  Thus  the  children  would  grow  up  knowing  no 
other  tendency  of  life,  peculiarly  sensitive  to  delicacy  in  any 
form.  So,  education  whether  for  young  or  old  was  a  process  of 
refinement  through  constant  association  with  all  that  is  best  in 
art,  literature  and  science. 

The  Marquise  believed  that  women  naturally  possessed  more 
of  these  desirable  qualities  than  did  men  and  so  she  placed 
woman  first  in  the  scale,  emphasizing  her  superiority  and  her 
consequent  need  of  higher  education  in  order  that  she  might 
exercise  the  greatest  possible  influence  on  man.  With  true 
perception  she  saw  that  if  women  could  meet  men  as  their 
intellectual  equals,  they  would  at  once  become  more  congenial, 
more  sympathetic,  and  therefore  more  mutually  helpful. 

In  carrying  out  these  ideas  Madame  de  Rambouillet  first 
gave  her  thought  to  the  building  of  the  home  itself.  She 
planned  it  with  great  foresight  and  much  originality.  The 
decorations  were  magnificent,  the  furniture  was  chosen  with 
exquisite  taste.  There  were  the  most  artistic  color  combina- 
tions and  rich  blendings  of  heavy  velvets  and  tapestries.  The 
gardens,  too,  were  beautiful  with  their  flowered  walks,  secret 
arbors  and  a  great  crystal  fountain.  All  this  the  Marquise 
chose  as  suitable  surroundings  for  people  of  the  highest  intel- 
lectual type.  Through  her  entire  life,  THotel  de  Rambouillet 
remained  the  principal  seat  of  her  activities.  There  she  assem- 
bled her  friends,  such  friends  as  I  have  already  described,  fine 
men  and  women  with  true  appreciation  of  culture.  There  she 
exercised  her  influence  over  them,  prompting  them  to  complete 
denunciation  of  the  common  and  unrefined.  She  had  a  ver}^ 
strong  personality,  so  charming  tha.t  those  who  came  into  con- 
tact with  it  were  quick  to  respond  and  proud  to  own  its  sway. 
So  her  friends  were  eager  to  help  her  realize  her  ideals.  Almost 
constantly  associated  with  her  in  her  home,  they  strove  to 
perfect  themselves  in  the  ordinary  things  of  life.  Manners 
became  more  polished,  conversation  more  select.  At  the  morn- 
ing levde,  in  the  daily  strolls  about  the  gardens,  in  informal 
gatherings  in  the  Blue  Room  or  at  the  luxurious  banquets  in 
the  evenings,  their  aim  was  always  before  them.  Everything 
was  done  precisely  "  au  fait"  ;  etiquette  was  all  important. 


260  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

The  Marquise  also  laid  particular  emphasis  on  literature. 
Her  followers  read  all  of  the  current  books.  In  fact,  many  of 
them  were  the  greatest  literary  lights  of  the  time, — such  as 
Corneille,  Bossuet,  Mademoiselle  de  Scudery,  Madame  de  La 
Fayette  and  Madame  de  S^vignd.  Often  they  met  together  to 
hear  these  authors  read  their  own  writings  or  to  listen  to  the 
madrigals  and  lighter  work  of  those  of  less  genius.  Every  one 
was  encouraged  to  write,  but  all  their  work  was  subjected  to 
the  highest  criticism  and  heavy  censure  fell  iipon  any  trace  of 
vulgarity  or  grossness. 

These  gatherings  were  not  always  confined  to  literary  discus- 
sions. Their  talk  ran  from  topics  of  religion,  politics  and  war 
to  an  analysis  of  the  sentiments  and  the  meaning  of  love.  In 
all  these  pastimes  the  women  met  the  men  on  an  equal  footing. 
Their  ideas  and  arguments  were  discussed  and  judged  by  the 
same  standards  as  those  of  the  men.  Not  only  tbe  marquise 
herself,  but  all  of  the  women  associated  with  her  became  as 
well  versed  and  as  well  educatsd  as  the  men. 

But  with  her  declining  years,  when  the  marquise's  power  was 
failing,  exaggeration  crept  in  and  her  ideals  grew  to  be  a  fad. 
In  their  eagerness  to  reach  excellence,  the  people  went  to 
extremes.  Manners  became  absurd  and  conversation  was  so 
over-refined  that  it  was  necessary  to  edit  a  dictionary  ^'prdcieuse" 
in  order  to  understand  the  meaning  of  the  thousand  ridiculous 
words  they  coined. 

Madame  de  Rambouillet  has  always  been  so  closely  linked 
with  her  '* salon"  that  her  character  has  come  to  be  emphasized 
in  that  connection  only  ;  but  I  feel  that  back  of  her  public  life 
there  was  a  private  life  which,  though  largely  overlooked  by 
after  generations,  meant  more  to  her  than  anything  else.  So 
much  stress  has  been  laid  on  her  duties  as  a  hostess  and  on  her 
efforts  as  the  guiding  intellectual  spirit  of  a  great  institution 
that  we  are  ioclined  almost  to  forget  that  she  had  any  other 
interests  or  at  least  to  wonder  how  she  had  the  time  and  energy 
to  give  her  attention  to  her  more  intimate  family  life. 

Though  Madame  de  Rambouillet  was  only  twelve  years  old 
when  she  married,  and  so  could  hardly  have  had  anything  to 
do  with  the  choice  of  her  husband,  had  such  been  the  custom  of 
those  times,  she  found  in  the  Marquis  de  Rambouillet  a  very 
congenial,  lovable  husband.  He  was  eleven  years  older  than 
she,   but  from   the   first  he  recognized  her  fine  qualities  and 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY  201 

admired,  respected  and  adored  her.  One  of  the  king\s  ambassa- 
dors, he  had  to  be  present  at  the  court  most  of  the  time  that  he 
was  in  Paris.  There  the  marquise  did  not  accompany  him,  for 
besides  her  great  task  of  hostess  to  her  friends,  she  had  a  large 
family  to  demand  her  care, — seven  children  in  all,  five  girls  and 
two  boys.  In  the  home  life  there  was  the  same  delicate  spirit 
of  refinement  ever-present.  The  relations  between  father  and 
mother  were  so  entirely  happy,  so  unusually  beautiful,  that 
there  was  practically  no  element  of  discord.  They  were  exceed- 
ingly fond  of  their  children,  consequently  it  was  a  great  sorrow 
to  them,  when,  in  1632,  both  of  their  sons  died  within  the  year. 

At  this  time  as  at  all  others,  Julie  d'Angennes,  the  marquise's 
eldest  daughter,  was  a  constant  comfort  and  help  to  her  mother. 
Of  all  her  children,  Julie  seemed  to  have  more  nearly  the  same 
tastes  and  ideals  as  the  marquise  herself;  hence  their  great 
congeniality  and  Julie's  ability  to  understand  and  sympathize 
with  her  mother.  Later  on,  when,  in  1652,  the  death  of  the 
marquis  seemed  to  be  the  culmination  of  a  long  series  of  disap- 
pointments, due  to  the  disloyalty  of  Claire  Diane,  her  second 
daughter,  the  marquise  found  Julie  and  her  husband,  Monsieur 
de  Montausier,  an  even  greater  comfort.  And  their  little 
daughter  was  an  inestimable  delight  to  the  marquise  in  her 
declining  years. 

The  history  of  Julie's  romance  with  the  Marquis  de  Montau- 
sier, though  not  bearing  directly  on  the  character  of  the  mar- 
quise, does,  I  think,  show  negatively  an  interesting  phase  of 
her  thought.  The  romance  occupied  ten  years, — ten  years  of 
constant,  insistent  effort  on  the  part  of  the  young  marquis  and 
of  equally  insistent  refusal  on  the  part  of  Julie,  who  even  more 
pr^cieuse  than  her  mother,  felt  that  marriage  should  come  only 
after  a  long  series  of  "romantic  adventures,"  as  she  called 
them.  Of  course,  there  were  doubtless  other  reasons  that  influ- 
enced her.  In  the  first  place,  there  was  her  great  attachment 
to  her  mother.  Secondly,  both  Julie  and  her  mother  were 
ardent  Catholics,  while  M.  de  Montausier  was  a  Protestant. 
Thirdly,  the  marquis  was  three  years  younger  than  Julie.  But 
besides  these  reasons,  certain  it  is  that  Julie  deliglited  in  keep- 
ing the  marquis  in  suspense  and  that  for  several  years  she 
thus  played  with  him  for  simple  enjoyment.  In  the  mean- 
time the  marquis  in  order  to  win  her  had  chang»-d  his  religion 
and  had  won  fame  for  himself  in  numerous  campaigns.      The 


262  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

'^Guirland  de  Julie"  represents  bis  last  gallant  attempt  to  gain 
her  hand,  and  it  proved  a  "coup  d'^clat.'^  A  large  album  con- 
taining a  flower  for  every  page,  with  a  suitable  poem  under 
it,— this  conglomeration  of  art,  done  by  the  greatest  painters 
and  poets  of  the  day,  accomplished  the  desired  result  and  Julie, 
with  the  encouragement  of  her  mother,  became  Madame  de  Mon- 
tausier. 

The  very  fact  that  Madame  de  Rambouillet  did  not  discour- 
age Jalie  in  her  conduct  during  these  years  showed  that  she  did 
not  disapprove  of  her  attitude  ;  so  that  though  the  marquise 
was  not  so  extreme  in  her  ideas  as  those  who  followed  her  in 
the  next  few  years,  we  can  see  in  her  traces  of  that  same  ten- 
dency which  soon  reached  a  point  of  positive  absurdity  with 
the  French  women. 

Though  Madame  de  Rambouillet  was  herself  on  the  verge  of 
this  exaggeration,  her  fine  sense  of  things  kept  her  from  going 
too  far.  Bat  she  recognized  in  others  about  her  this  tendency 
and  it  was  one  of  the  sorrows  of  her  last  years  to  realize  that 
the  fulfillment  of  her  ideas,  once  so  promising,  was  now  far 
from  accomplishment.  For  the  people  in  their  mad  rush  for 
culture  had  lost  all  sense  of  proportion  and  had  gradually 
shifted  their  aim  to  that  of  being  different  from  everybody  else. 

There  were  other  things,  too,  darkening  the  end  of  the  mar- 
quise's life.  The  meetings  at  I'Hotel  de  Rambouillet  had  grad- 
ually dwindled  on  account  of  the  marquise's  poor  health.  She 
could  receive  only  a  few  of  her  most  intimate  friends.  Most  of 
her  old  followers  had  already  died.  No  one  quite  realized  how 
greatly  she  suffered  from  the  loss  of  her  husband.  They  had 
been  such  congenial  companions  for  fifty  years  that  she  hardly 
knew  how  to  live  without  him.  Julie  and  her  family  were  the 
only  ones  left.  Their  ceaseless  devotion  did  much  to  sweeten 
the  passing  of  those  last  days. 

Finally,  in  1663,  Madame  de  Rambouillet  died.  During  her 
life-time,  she  was  universally  loved  and  admired  and  after  her 
death  the  feeling  remained  unchanged.  People  were  quick  to 
recognize  in  her  a  keen  mind,  clever  wit,  innate  refinement  and 
a  great,  irresistable  charm  of  character.  It  is  a  notable  fact 
that,  great  and  prominent  though  she  was,  there  is  practically 
no  record  df  her  having  an  enemy  or  of  there  being  anyone  who 
even  disliked  her,  except  in  the  case  of  Claire  Diane,  the  daugh- 
ter who  denounced  not  only  her  mother  but  her  entire  famil5\ 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  263 

This  can  be  said  of  very  few  public  characters  who  were  as 
great  and  did  as  much  as  Madame  de  Rambouillet. 

Almost  fifty  years  aft«r  the  death  of  Madame  de  Rambouillet 
and  practically  one  hundred  after  the  French  women  first  became 
active  in  their  self-improvement,  the  English  women  began  to 
show  signs  of  the  same  tendencies.  But  nowhere  and  at  no 
time  was  the  movement  carried  on  under  any  such  well-planned 
organization  or  with  such  consistency  as  in  France.  The 
nearest  point  of  correspondence  in  England  lies  in  a  certain 
literary  club  in  London,  called  the  Blae  Stocking.  This  was 
made  up  mostly  of  women  and  aimed  to  introduce  into  society 
a  healthier,  more  intellectual  life  and  to  supplant  gossip  by  a 
higher  type  of  literary  discussion.  The  Blue  Stocking  Club, 
however,  was  not  the  idea  of  any  one  person  and  did  not  have 
back  of  it  the  consistent  effort  of  a  competent  leader,  such  as 
Madame  de  Rambouillet.  It  was  simply  a  social  gathering 
which  came  into  being  and  drifted  out  again  after  a  short, 
almost  unorganized  existence.  It  has  been  called  an  "angli- 
cized Hotel  de  Rambouillet/'  but  the  only  justification  for  the 
name  lies  in  the  fact  that  its  aim  lay  along  the  same  lines  as 
that  of  I'Hotel  de  Rambouillet,  though  it  did  not  possess  any 
such  compass.  Still,  in  the  same  way  that  the  term  "  prdcieuse" 
came  to  have  its  meaning  in  France,  the  term  "  Blue  Stocking" 
grew  up  in  England.  The  name  was  applied  to  anyone  who,  in 
making  an  effort  toward  a  higher  intellectual  standard,  had 
overstepped  the  mark  and  become  pedantic.  But  the  term 
implied  in  it,  too,  several  of  the  prominent  English  character- 
istics, those  of  carelessness  and  slovenliness.  This  last  idea,  as 
also  the  name  of  the  original  club,  came  from  one  of  its  mem- 
bers, a  Mr.  Stillingfleet,  who  always  wore  blue  stockings,  the 
fancy  dress  requirement,  no  matter  what  style  of  suit  he  had 
on.  Hence  the  idea  of  inconsistency  of  dress,  unconvention- 
ality,  slouchiness.  Thus  a  Blue  Stocking  was  characteristically 
Entrlish  as  a  "  prdcieuse  "  was  French. 

The  very  best  example  of  these  English  characteristics  was 
Lady  Mary  Pierrepont,  afterward  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Mont- 
ague, who  was  born  in  Nottinghamshire  about  one  hundred 
years  after  Madame  de  Rombouillet.  She,  too,  was  of  noble 
parentage.  Unfortunately,  her  mother  died  when  she  was  only 
four  years  old,  so  there  was  no  restraining  hand  to  guide  her  as 
she  grew  up.      Her  father,  who  was  very  proud  of  her  beauty. 


264  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

oversaw  her  education  and  took  care  that  she  was  versed  in  all 
the  fashionable  accomplishments.  The  little  Lady  Mary  had  a 
keen,  quick  mind.  She  was  a  good  Latin  scholar,  had  a  read- 
ing knowledge  of  Greek  and  a  passionate  love  for  books.  From 
the  day  she  was  born  she  began  to  think,  and  her  extensive 
reading  while  young  gave  her  unusually  mature  ideas  which 
she  was  ever  ready  to  express. 

First  of  all,  she  possessed  a  peculiar  scorn  for  custom,  conven- 
tion  and  style.  In  a  letter  written  at  nineteen,  Lady  Mary,  in 
reference  to  the  study  of  grammars  and  dictionaries,  says  :  "  In 
making  my  pleasures  consist  of  these  unfashionable  diversions, 
I  am  not  of  the  number  who  cannot  be  easy  out  of  the  mode.  I. 
believe  more  follies  are  committed  oat  of  complaisance  to  the 
world  than  in  following  our  own  inclinations.  Nature  is  seldom 
in  the  wrong,  custom  always;  it  is  with  some  regret  that  I 
follow  it  in  all  the  impertinences  of  dress  ;  the  complaisance  is 
so  trivial  that  it  comforts  me  ;  but  I  am  amazed  to  see  it  con- 
sulted even  in  the  most  important  occasions  of  our  lives  ;  and 
that  people  of  good  sense  in  other  things  can  make  their  happi- 
ness consist  in  the  opinions  of  others,  and  sacrifice  everything, 
in  the  desire  of  appearing  in  fashion.  I  call  all  people  who  fall 
in  love  with  furniture,  or  clothes,  and  equipage,  of  this  number, 
and  I  look  upon  them  as  no  less  in  the  wrong  than  when  thej^ 
were  five  years  old,  and  doted  on  shells,  pebbles  and  hobby- 
horses." 

A.gain,  Lady  Mary  takes  an  antagonistic  attitude  toward  the- 
then  prevailing  opinion  concerning  woman's  sphere  and  educa- 
tion. She  revolts  against  the  fact  that  women  are  encouraged 
in  all  the  effeminate  pursuits  of  life  but  that  they  are  laughed 
at  when  they  strive  after  higher  learning.  On  the  other  hand, 
she  recognizes  the  ridiculous  appearance  of  a  ''  learned  woman. '^ 
She  aims  at  a  happy  medium.  For  while  she  she  believes  that 
men  are  the  superior  sex  and  that  any  woman  who  denies  it 
rebels  against  the  law  of  the  Creator,  she  maintains  that  igno- 
rance in  a  woman  makes  it  possible  for  a  man  to  corrupt  her 
and  to  convince  her  to  any  way  of  thinking  because  she  has  not 
the  knowledge  or  ability  to  argue  for  herself. 

As  far  as  regards  marriage,  Ladj^  Mary  had  some  very  high 
ideals.  She  felt  that  happiness  consisted  in  perfect  congen- 
iality ;  that  marriage  based  on  love  alone  would  be  unhappy, 
because  the  ability  to  be  good-humored,  agreeable  and  cheerful 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY       265 

determines  a  person's  lovableness  and  people  are  not  always 
disposed  to  be  aimable.  Furthermore,  the  conple  must  make 
up  their  minds  to  be  content  with  what  thuv  l.ave,  wherever 
they  are,  otherwise  dissatisfaction  will  result.  Here  again  she 
emphasizes  the  fact  that  the  woman  is  really  inferior  to  the 
man  and  that  she  therefore  must  be  willing  to  follow  whatever 
is  best  for  his  good  and  development. 

So  much  for  a  few  of  the  big  principles  in  Lady  Mary's 
thought.  It  is  almost  impossible  to  give  a  definite  statement  of 
her  other  ideas,  as  she  is  constantly  changing  from  one  side  to 
the  other  without  always  apparent  reason.  In  this  case  it  is 
easier  to  take  up  these  ideas  in  connection  with  her  life. 

When  she  was  twenty-two,  she  married  Sir  Edward  Wortley 
Montague.  She  met  him  through  his  sister.  Mistress  Anne,  her 
very  dear  friend.  He  was  a  very  quiet,  reserved,  not  particu- 
larly brilliant  man,  so  it  is  hard  to  see  just  what  attraction  a 
woman  like  Lady  Mary  could  find  in  him.  Still,  it  cannot  be 
doubted  that  she  found  something  to  hold  her,  although  it  is 
hard  to  tell  whether  or  not  she  really  loved  him.  They  had 
constant  quarrels  during  their  engagement,  which  was  broken 
off  time  and  again  only  to  be  renewed  immediately.  Their  dis- 
putes were  not  over  arrangements  for  the  time  after  their 
marriage  ;  concerning  these  Lady  Mary  agreed  perfectly  with 
Mr.  Montague.  She  professed  not  to  care  for  wealth  and  seemed 
willing  to  do  anything  he  wished.  They  quarreled  jealously 
and  pettishly  as  to  whether  or  not  they  really  loved  each  other. 
Throughout  the  correspondence  of  this  period,  it  is  easy  to  see 
that  Lady  Mary  is  not  sure  of  herself,  that  she  instinctively 
feels  she  will  not  be  happy  with  Mr.  Montague,  and  yet  she 
goes  ahead  in  opposition  to  her  family  and  finally,  after  putting 
off  the  decision  until  the  day  before,  still  unsettled  in  her  own 
mind,  she  elopes  with  him. 

Shortly  after  their  marriage,  parliamentary  business  called 
Mr.  Wortley  to  London,  while  Lady  Mary  went  to  visit  some 
friends  in  Nottinghamshire.  Then,  there  seems  to  be  a  com- 
plete change  in  the  tone  of  her  letters.  They  are  those  of  a 
devoted  bride.  Apparently,  Mr.  Wortley  does  not  write  her 
often  enough  and  the  worry,  doubts  and  fears  expressed  in 
those  letters  make  me  wonder  if  this  is  not  really,  after  all,  the 
expression  of  true  love.  The  same  tone  prevails  in  her  letters 
after   her  sou  is  born,  but   gradually  they   begin  to  show  her 


^66  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

interest  in  another  line.  Her  ambition  for  her  husband  takes 
the  lead.  She  is  anxious  for  him  to  be  a  prominent  politician. 
She  urges  the  necessity  of  money  in  order  to  gain  power.  She 
seems  to  realize  that  Mr.  Wortley  is  not  making  the  best  of 
every  opportunity  and  she  tells  him  to  be  more  "impudent." 
Finally  he  is  elected  to  parliament  again  and  Lady  Mary  goes 
to  London,  where,  for  a  time,  she  becomes  a  true  woman  of 
fashion.  She  is  a  great  favorite  at  the  court ;  she  caters  to 
style  in  dress,  to  convention  in  manners,  but  she  goes  no  further. 
Following  the  tendency  of  the  court,  she  does  not  hesitate  to 
use  the  low,  vulgar  language  of  George  the  First's  followers  and 
she  seems  to  have  felt  very  little  if  any  repulsion  at  the  thought. 

It  is  during  this  stay  in  London  that  Lady  Mary  became  inter- 
ested in  the  Blue  Stocking  Club  and  took  part  in  its  meetings. 
But  her  literary  interest  was  not  limited  to  this  field.  Through- 
out her  letters,  she  gives  plenteous  criticisms  of  the  books  she 
reads.  She  has  a  keen  insight  into  character,  a  clear  judgment 
and  a  taste  for  good  literature  that  make  her  views  at  once 
interesting  and  valuable.  Lady  Mary's  greatest  contribution 
to  literature  is  of  course  these  letters  which  I  have  so  frequently 
mentioned.  They  are  fascinating,  vivid,  clear,  full  of  life  and 
representative  of  life. 

In  1716  Mr.  Montague  received  his  appointment  as  ambassa- 
dor to  Constantinople  and  Lady  Mary  accompanied  him  there. 
While  in  the  East,  she  became  acquainted  with  the  use  of  inocu- 
lation for  small-pox.  This  she  had  the  courage  to  introduce 
into  England  on  her  return.  Indeed,  she  even  was  brave  enough 
to  try  it  on  her  own  family  as  proof  of  its  efficacy.  That  Lady 
Mary  appreciated  the  beauty  of  cleanliness,  we  see  from  her 
letters  written  during  this  first  trip  abroad  on  her  way  through 
Holland.  There  she  notices  the  clean  streets  and  houses  of  the 
Dutch  towns  and  points  out  as  a  result  the  clean  character  of 
the  people,  the  absence  of  beggarj^  and  the  noticable  presence 
of  cheerfulness.  She  says,  "  Here  is  neither  dirt  nor  beggary 
to  be  seen.  One  is  not  shocked  with  those  loathsome  cripples, 
so  common  in  London,  nor  teased  with  the  o^jportunity  of  idle 
fellows  and  wenches,  that  choose  to  be  nasty  and  lazy.  The 
common  servants  and  little  shopwomen  here  are  more  nicely 
clean  than  most  of  our  ladies ;  and  the  great  variety  of  neat 
dresses  is  an  additional  pleasure  in  seeing  the  town."  Yet, 
though  Lady  Mary  realized  the  importance  of  health  to  such  an 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      267 

extent  that  she  was  willing  to  meet  considerable  opposition  and 
ridicule  in  Ens^Lmd  in  order  to  introduce  vaccination,  though 
she  saw  the  favorable  results  of  cleanliness  so  practical  in 
Holland,  she  failed  to  make  any  effort  to  keep  herself  clean  or 
to  urge  others  to  do  so.  She  seemed  to  realize  that  the  dirt  and 
filth  of  London  was  responsible  for  such  miserable  conditions, 
and  yet  she  did  not  even  so  much  as  move  a  finger  or  suggest  a 
reform. 

After  her  return  to  England  Lady  Mary  and  her  husband 
resided  at  Twickingham,  near  Mr.  Pope,  to  the  great  joy  of  the 
poet,  who  was  very  fond  of  Lady  Mary.  Then  comes  their 
famous  quarrel,  the  whys  and  wherefores  of  which  I  shall  not 
attempt  to  deal  with  here.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  this  quarrel 
is  one  of  the  bitterest  in  history  and  became  a  matter  of  large 
public  comment,  for  by  this  time  Lady  Mary  was  well  enough 
known  to  have  many  friends  and  many  enemies  who  took  sides 
accordingly.  At  any  rate  scandal  was  certainly  provoked  by 
Lady  Mary's  unconventionalities. 

This  perhaps  gives  us  a  clue  to  the  reason  for  Lady  Mary's 
separation  from  her  husband  in  1739  and  her  long  stay  of 
twenty-two  years  abroad.  Leigh  Hunt,  who  judges  her  in  a 
rather  censorious  manner,  says  :  "In  certain  matters  her  inde- 
pendence of  conduct  was  such  as  to  render  it  impossible  for  her 
husband  either  to  live  with  or  to  separate  from  her  without 
scandal."  But  we  cannot  be  absolutely  sure  that  this  was  the 
cause,  for  there  is  no  real  evidence  of  it.  Even  Lady  Mary's 
family  professed  to  know  no  adequate  reason.  The  separation 
was  apparently  brought  about  in  a  perfectly  quiet,  friendly 
manner.  It  was  not  a  legal  arrangement, — just  a  mutual  acqui- 
escence, making  it  possible  for  Lady  Mary  to  retire  abroad. 
During  all  her  stay  she  corresponded  frequently  with  her  hus- 
band, and  there  is  alwaj^s  a  marked  friendliness  of  tone,  some- 
times even  affection  in  her  attitude  towards  him.  On  the  other 
hand,  Mr.  Wortley  constantly  gives  her  his  confidence  in  all  his 
concerns;  he  shows  evidence  of  gre^t  resy)ect  and  care  for  her 
well-being.  Whatever  the  true  circumstances  of  her  long  stay 
abroad,  I  believe  that  it  was  certainly  wise  for  Lady  Mary  to 
leave  Eagland,  because  as  she  grew  older  she  became  more  and 
more  erratic,  with  even  less  regard  for  appearances.  She  had 
already  many  enemies  who  would  have  jumped  at  the  least 
-chance  of  further  attacking  her.      Of  course  Lady  Mary  con- 


268  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

tinned  making  enemies  while  abroad,  but   the  opposition  was 
less  intense. 

Daring  these  twenty-two  years  Lady  Mary  settled  in  Italy. 
She  bought  a  house  and  became  much  interested  in  gardening 
and  the  rearing  of  silkworms.  The  letters  of  this  period  are 
full  of  the  most  interestiag  descriptions  of  the  customs  of  those 
about  her.  Many  of  these  letters  are  written  to  Lady  Bute,  her 
daughter,  who  seems  to  have  been  one  of  the  very  few  to  hold 
her  mother's  affection  through  her  whole  life.  There  is  na 
doubt  of  the  fact  that  Lady  Mary  loved  her  daughter  dearly 
and  found  in  her  a  congenial  companion  and  valuable  friend. 

In  these  letters  there  are  also  frequent  interesting  allusions 
to  things  happening  in  England.  One  of  them  is  an  admirable 
example  of  Lady  Mary's  unconventional  frankness.  She  says  : 
**  I  am  sorry  for  the  untimely  death  of  poor  Lord  Cornbury  ;  he 
certainly  had  a  very  good  heart.  I  have  often  thought  it  a 
great  pity  it  was  not  under  the  direction  of  a  better  head." 

In  another  of  her  letters  she  describes  her  household.  With 
this  same  household,  shortly  after  the  death  of  her  husband,  in 
1761,  she  returned  to  England.  Her  cousin,  who  then  went  to 
visit  her,  describes  her  establishment  thus:  "  I  was  very  gra- 
ciously received  and  (you  may  imagine)  entertained  by  one- 
who  neither  thinks,  speaks,  acts,  nor  dresses  like  anybody  else. 
Her  domestic  establishment  is  made  up  of  all  nations ;  and 
when  you  get  into  her  drawing-room,  you  imagine  you  are  in 
the  first  story  of  the  Tower  of  Babel.  An  Hungarian  servant 
takes  your  name  at  the  door  ;  he  gives  it  to  an  Italian,  who 
delivers  it  to  a  Frenchman  ;  the  Frenchman  to  a  Swiss,  and  the 
Swiss  to  a  Polander  ;  so  that  by  the  time  you  get  to  her  Lady-- 
ship's  presence,  you  have  your  name  changed  five  times  without 
the  expense  of  an  Act  of  Parliament."  Imagine  such  a  thing 
happening  at  THotel  de  Rambouillet ! 

Lady  Mary  had  not  long  to  live  in  England.  Her  health  was 
failing  rapidly  and  she  died  ten  months  after  her  return,  in 
August,  1761.  Even  after  twenty-two  years  of  absence,  Lady 
Mary  had  enemies  who  were  ready  to  exaggerate  her  uncouth 
appearance  and  make  her  more  eccentric  than  she  really  was. 
She  had  such  vivacity  of  spirit,  such  a  lively  disposition,  that 
unfortunately  she  made  as  many  enemies  as  friends.  Delight- 
ing to  follow  her  own  free  will,  in  thought,  speech,  action,  she 
fretted  a^ifainst  the  convention  of  the  times.      She  had  in  her 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  269 

nature  a  biting  streak  of  sarcasm,  which  made  her  unusual 
endowments  doubly  dangerous.  She  herself  was  as  tactless  as 
she  was  headstrong;  but  had  she  married  a  man  who  could 
have  managed  her  and  sympathized  with  her,  she  might  have 
proved  a  devoted  wife,  for  her  long,  lasting  affection  for  her 
daughter,  Lady  Bute,  shows  her  capable  of  a  deep,  perma- 
nent love. 

In  a  comparison  of  Madame  de  Rambouillet  and  Lady  Mary 
as  individuals,  we  recognize  first  that  they  are  both  superior 
women,  of  high  intellectual  qualities.  They  both  had  a  desire 
for  reform,  but  Madome  de  Rambouillet  went  much  farther, 
carrying  that  desire  into  every  phase  of  life,  while  Lady  Mary 
applied  it  to  intellectual  standards  only.  Consequently,  the 
influence  of  the  marquise  was  much  greater  than  that  of  Lady 
Mary.  Lady  Mary  lacked  that  instinctive  love  of  refinement  so 
dominating  in  Madame  de  Rambouillet.  Her  great  tactfulness, 
sweet  character  and  charming  personality  further  insured  her 
influence,  while  Lady  Mary's  corresponding  tactlessness,  biting 
sarcasm  and  fiery  disposition  so  offset  her  more  attractive  char- 
acteristics that  they  lessened,  rather  than  increased,  her  power 
over  the  great  majority  of  people.  Wherever  Madame  de 
Rambouillet  attracted  notice,  she  did  so  in  a  quiet,  delicate, 
yet  fascinating  way,  but  Lady  Mary  shocked  the  world  into 
attention. 

Considering  these  two  women  not  only  as  individuals,  but  as 
types  offering  examples  of  the  chief  points  of  difference  between 
their  respective  races,  we  find  even  more  contrast.  Madame  de 
Rambouillet  and  the  French  are  a  logical,  tactful,  consistent, 
conventional,  careful,  law-abiding  people  ;  while  Lady  Mary 
and  the  English  are  illogical,  tactless,  inconsistent,  unconven- 
tional, careless,  always  looking  for  the  exception  rather  than 
the  rule. 


EARTH-BOUND 

GRACE   ANGELA  RICHMOND 

Now  am  I  free  ;  no  care  nor  toil  to  bind, 

In  endless  space  eternally  I  fly; 

A  wind-swept  flame,  a  flash  of  sunshine,  I, 

A  cloud  that  drifts  before  a  joyous  wind. 

Eternal  life  and  happiness — and  yet 

The  hawthorn  blooming  in  the  crooked  lane, 

The  scent  of  lilacs  after  summer  rain, 

A  note  of  music, — passion  thrilled  with  pain- 

And  I  remember  what  I  would  forget, 

And  dreaming,  dreaming  feel  regret. 


IN    FEBRUARY 

LEONORA  BRANCH 

"  Daffy-down-dilly  lias  come  up  to  tovni 
In  a  yellow  petticoat  and  a  green  gown.'' 

She  passed  along  the  city  street 
With  hair  unbound,  her  dimpled  feet 
All  bare  and  rosy,  in  her  eyes 
The  azure  promise  of  the  skies, 
The  green  and  yellow  of  her  gown 
Lighting  the  greyness  of  the  town. 

I  did  not  see  her  wandering 

The  city  through — who  looks  for  Spring 

In  February  ? — but  I  saw 

An  old  man  with  a  hat  of  straw, 

A  cane,  and  in  his  eyes  a  smile, 

A  look  of  knowing  things  worth  while  ; 

And  farther  on  I  met  a  maid, 

In  gown  of  green,  that  tender  shade 

The  willows  wear,  what  time  the  stream 

Breaks,  babbling,  through  its  wintry  dream. 

And,  hurrying  upon  my  way, 

I  caught  a  glimpse  of  boys  at  play 

With  tops,  and  at  the  corner  there 

I  felt  a  something  in  the  air — 

A  fragrance,  faint,  elusive,  sweet. 

Stole  from  the  pavement  'neath  my  feet, 

And  stooping  down  to  breathe  my  fill 

I  saw  the  yellow  daffodil 

You'd  dropped,— and  so  was  sure  at  last, 

That  it  was  Spring  herself,  had  passed. 

210 


AFTERNOONS 

KATHERINE   BUELL   NYE 

"One  for  the  money,  two  for  the  show,  three  to  get  ready 
and — four  to  go  I  "  Down  from  the  third  step  you  jumped  and 
landed  in  a  pile  of  leaves,  where  you  lay,  listening  to  the  faint 
rustlings  and  whisperings  and  cracklings.  But  over  the  con- 
fused sounds  came  clearly, 

"Eighty-five,  ninety,  ninety-five,  fi-ve  hundred!  Ready, — 
coming  !  '^ 

You  lay  concealed  until  you  heard, 

"  One,  two,  three  for  Eddy.'' 

"One,  two,  three  for  '  Maryon'." 

Then  a  long  silence  and, 

"  Rotten  eggs  an'  beefsteak  for  Jim  an'  Harry." 

Unable  to  remain  quiet  a  second  longer  you  rushed  up  to 
"bye,"  and  were  made  "  it "  because  you  were  the  last  to  come. 
Yoa  screwed  your  eyes  up  and  started  boldly. 

"Five,  ten,  fifteen,  twenty,"  but  from  there  on  you  didn't 
know  the  numbers  and  kept  up  a  sing-song  imitation,  guessing 
at  the  intervals,  then  ; 

*'  One  hundred,  two  hundred,  three  hundred,  four  hundred,^ 
five  hundred,  ready, — coming  !  " 

It  took  no  time  to  decide  where  to  look,  for  you  knew  the 
rules  of  the  game,— first  the  garden,  then  the  barn.  In  the 
garden  you  peered  behind  small  stones  and  jumped  around  big 
trees,  you  gazed  up  into  the  branches,  and  through  the  layers 
of  brown  leaves  the  blue  sky  glowed.  Then  you  crawled 
through  thickets  of  low  shrubs  and  felt  that  you  were  a  giant 
in  the  forest,  for  the  branches  begaii  at  the  height  of  your  knees 
and  by  jumping  you  could  see  over  their  tops.  But  there  was 
no  one  in  the  garden. 

At  last  you  stood  in  the  barn  door,  a  small  blue  figure  in  the 
big  dim  square.  Way  over  in  the  corner  the  afternoon  sun 
poured  in  at  a  small  window  and  yellow  dust  particles  danced 
up  and  down  the  narrow  path  of  light.  To  your  left  there  was 
darkness,  and  over  all  a  silence,  throbbing  with  suppressed 
breathing   and   scarcely  broken   by  the   horses'   stamping  and 


272  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

switching  their  tails.  Unsteadily  you  tiptoed  to  the  row  of 
carriages,  with  their  shafts  braced  high  in  the  air.  They  were 
empty.  You  passed  the  stalls,  made  a  thorough  examination  of 
the  hay-mow  and  still  more  stealthily  approached  the  harness 
room,  progressing  slowly  and  balancing  yourself  with  out- 
stretched arms. 

Halt  I  There  was  the  faintest  sound,  not  unlike  the  softest 
stirring  of  the  falling  leaves,  a  slit  of  pink  seen  through  the 
crack  of  the  door.  You  turned  and  sped  through  the  echo- 
ing barn.  Your  footsteps  thundered  behind  you,  but  grew 
lighter  as  you  reached  the  open  door.  Across  the  scrunching 
gravel  and  over  the  soft  grass  you  ran  and  fell  exhausted  on  the 
back  steps  calling, 

"  One  two  three  for  Mary  on  I  " 

When  the  barn  grew  so  dark  that  the  terror  overbalanced  the 
pleasure  of  hiding  in  it,  a  bonfire  attracted  your  attention,  and 
you  all  helped  Michael  -rake  leaves  for  the  privilege  of  burning 
them  in  big  smouldering  piles.  How  the  smoke  followed  you 
around  and  got  in  your  eyes  !  Later  you  made  fiery  fans  in  the 
air  with  glowing  sticks,  then  red  snakes  against  the  purple  haze. 

Awful  orgies  ensued,  accompanied  by  war  dances,  moans  and 
groans,  shrieks  and  wails.  The  back  porch  was  the  prison  and 
there  lay  the  captives  bound  and  gagged  awaiting  their  end  in 
terror. 

Suddenly  a  shaft  of  light  appeared  beyond  the  wall  of  smoke 
just  back  of  the  fire.  The  gloomy  dungeon  was  illuminated, 
and  a  well  known  voice  called, 

"  Supper  time  !     Come  right  in  and  get  cleaned  up  !  " 

The  captives  were  saved. 

Again  the  afternoon  was  before  you.  The  sun  bored  a  queer 
hole  through  the  grey  sky  and  made  a  shining  path  among  the 
snowflakes  as  they  circled  toward  your  window.  Afternoon  ! 
and  what  a  multitude  of  things  you  could  do.  Faint  memories 
of  things  you  had  done,  on  just  such  days  as  this,  flitted  through 
your  mind  and  were  chased  by  other  memories.  '*  The  host  of 
things  you  longed  to  do  !"  But  soon  these  stole  away  and  new 
thoughts  crept  in.  Thoughts  of  games  you  had  never  played, 
stories  you  had  never  read,  dreams  which  you  had  never 
dreamed — and  so  you  built  new  castles  which  to-morrow  would 
be  as  familiar  as  their  predecessors  of  to-day. 

Up  and  up  you  gazed,  through  the  fine  falling  snow  which 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY  273 

tumbled  from  the  flat  gray  sky.  You  watched  the  tiny  flakes,  like 
pills,  first  catching  sight  of  one  as  it  grew  dark  against  the  cloud 
and  careened  nearer  and  nearer,  now  circling  downward  and 
now  caught  up  and  twirled  giddily  until  at  last  the  sun  touched 
it  and  glistening  white  it  settled  on  the  sill  before  you.  There 
it  lay,  that  brave  ship,  with  frozen  rigging  and  icy  prow,  whose 
tiny  cabin  contained  the  warmest  of  stoves,  the  cosiest  of  bunks 
and  piles  and  piles  of  books  and  charts.  Down,  down  you  had 
been  carried  on  that  shif),  before  a  capricious  wind,  now  in  a 
black  storm,  now  wedged  in  binding  ice  fields,  and  at  last  you 
had  sailed  into  port,  home  at  last  from  *'  The  Land  Beyond  the 
Winter  Sun." 

You  turned  from  the  window  slightly  hazed  by  your  sudden 
return.  How  natural  home  seemed,  nothing  changed  since  you 
started  on  that  long  voyage.  The  fire  burned  briskly  and  there 
lay  the  costume  which  you  wore  one  morning  when  you  played 
Indian.  There  were  your  books  and  your  paints.  Paints ! 
The  very  thing  !  So  no  sooner  were  you  home  from  your 
journey  than  you  settled  down  to  your  life's  work. 

You  were  to  be  an  artist.  You  had  always  liked  to  paint,  and 
nothing  appealed  more  strongly  to  your  imagination  than  a 
clean  white  page,  neatly  mapped  out  into  little  spaces,  which 
you  transformed  into  brightly  colored  scenes  from  farm  life. 
You  confessed  to  a  weakness  for  blonde  hair  and  large,  bright 
blue  eyes.  All  of  your  milk  maids  were  blessed  with  these  and 
they  usually  wore  pink  dresses,  which  contrasted  advantage- 
ously with  a  red  or  yellow  cow. 

And  what  a  difference-  you  could  make  in  milk  maids  I  You 
could  do  them  hurriedly  and  run  over  the  lines,  in  which  cases 
the  cows  usually  had  pink  noses  and  tails,  and  the  blue  eyes 
were  alarmingly  large — or  you  could  take  great  pains  and  make 
^'really  truly,  curly,  hair,"  a  pink  and  white  striped,  or, — with 
the  greatest  care,— a  checked  dress  I  With  such  a  milk  maid 
you  always  made  spotted  cows. 

But  soon  the  "  paint  water  "  grew  dirty,  the  face  died  down. 
It  was  cold  and  dark  outside  the  window  and,  glancing  over 
your  shoulder,  you  saw  that  the  snowflakes  were  little  white 
fingers,  tapping— tapping.  So  you  ran  through  the  dark  hall 
and  down  the  stairs  to  the  bright,  warm  kitchen,  where  kettles 
simmered,  and  steam  tipped  and  clicked  their  lids.  Sizzling 
sounds  came  from  pans  on  top  of  the  stove,  and  smells  of  fresh 
bread  and  roast  meat  from  the  pantry.  ^ 


DUSK 

HELEN   VIOLETTE   TOOKER 

Shy  Dusk  passed  slowly  through  the  silent  land, 
And  gently  o'er  the  earth  her  mantle  trailed 
Till  every  leaf  and  flower  was  shadow-veiled. 
And  in  the  twilight  sky  the  breezes  fanned 
The  sparkling  stars  to  life,  and  here,  below, 
Like  swift  reflections  gleamed  the  fire-flies'  glow. 


SALEM  AND  HAWTHORNE 

MARTHA  CHADBOURNE 

Across  his  path 

A  shadow  lay. 

He  paused  or  hastened  on,  yet  still, 

'T  was  there,  his  ceaseless  follower, 

A  thing  all  mixed  with  gloom  and  gray. 

Dim  shadow,  speak  ; 

What  was  thy  goal  f 

He  saw  thee  once 

In  summer  time 

Fall  fleetingly  upon  the  rose. 

Winged  by  his  eager  discontent, 

None  sought  a  rest  where  less  of  grace 

And  ease  were  found 

What  was  thy  goall9 

Stern  winter  came. 

In  silhouette 

Thou  didst  appear  upon  the  page 

Of  crystal.     Not  till  then  were  seen 

Thy  outline's  firm  austerity; 

He  knew  it  well. 

What  was  thy  goal  9 

Didst  thou  not  aid 

His  power  to  paint 

In  coloring  subdued,  yet  clear 

As  aye  to  him  thy  phantom  was 

The  consequence  of  Human  Sin  ? 

Grim  shadow,  speak  ; 

Was  this  thy  goal  9 

274 


THE  AFFAIRS  OF  LIZZIE 

ESTHER  LOYOLA  HARNEY 

To  begin  with,  we  have  always  lived  in  Salem.  Salem  is  the 
most  conservative  and  old-fashioned  town  in  Massachusetts.  It 
is  now  a  city,  but  being  a  city  does  not  affect  Salem  much. 
Salem  always  considers  itself  a  town  and  that  town  to  which,  in 
the  glorious  days  of  the  Revolution,  the  port  was  transferred, 
after  Boston  had  its  "Tea  Party."  Our  forefathers  had  the 
good  luck  to  be  transferred  to  Salem  town  in  the  filthy,  straw- 
bottomed  boat  of  the  seventeenth-century  colonizing  companies 
instead  of  in  the  steerage  of  an  eighteenth-century  steamer.  It 
is  a  town  which  progress  has  gently  aroused  from  a  colonial 
afternoon  nap  of  "forty  winks"  after  the  danger  had  passed  of 
the  little  nap  becoming  a  long  sleep,  like  that  of  Rip  Van 
Winkle.  Antiquity,  old  lace,  real  silver  and  that  enduring 
quality,  "  genteelness,"  is  stamped  upon  every  door-knocker. 
We  have  "knockers"  on  our  doors  in  Salem,  never  "bells." 
When  the  other  colonies,  in  the  early  days,  were  busy  making 
"  pine-tree  shillings"  or  cultivating  tobacco,  the  town  of  Salem 
was  busy  stamping  that  quality  upon  its  men  and  women,  the 
dignity  of  aristocratic  "  genteelness."  To  be  sure,  the  business 
sections  of  the  city  are  like  any  other  cities,  or  as  nearly  alike 
as  it  is  possible  for  Salem  to  adapt  itself,  but  this  story  has  not 
business  to  deal  with,  but  with  Salem  and  two  old  maids  or, 
properly,  "spinster"  ladies,  as  we  are  legally  designated  in  all 
our  papers. 

My  father  was  a  doctor.  His  shiny,  old-fashioned  "  shingle" 
or  door-plate  is  up-stairs  now  in  the  attic  of  our  home  among 
all  our  old  heirlooms.  There  were  three  children,  the  eldest 
John,  who  is  now  a  doctor,  myself  and  Lizzie.  Mother  died 
when  Lizzie  was  born,  and  so  neither  of  us  two  girls  remem- 
ber her.  Father  was  killed  when  I  was  twelve  and  when 
Lizzie  was  eleven  years  old.  His  horse  threw  him  and,  since 
then,  the  Doctor,  who  was  at  that  time  twenty  years  old,  and  a 
student  at  Harvard,  has  refused  ever  to  ride  horse-back.  I 
have  always  ridden  and  still  keep  my  own  mount.  Lizzie  pre- 
fers automobiles,  but  more  of  Lizzie's  preference  later.     Father 

2T6 


276  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

had  two  maiden  sisters,  who  are  still  living,  and  who  shut  up 
our  old  house,  which  was  the  original  family  home,  and  took 
both  Lizzie  and  me  to  live  with  them  when  father  died.      The 
Doctor  went  abroad  to  Dublin  to  medical  school,  and  then  to 
Paris  to  finish  his  training.      He  came  back  finally  and  settled 
down  in  Salem  to  practice  his  profession.     It  was  a  great  relief 
to  Lizzie  and  me  when  Doctor  came  back  ten  years  later.     We 
were  naturally  very  gay  and  frivolous  girls.      But  our  maiden 
aunts  soon  took  us  in  hand  and  we  were  modelled  on  the  Salem 
''genteel"  statue.      We  both  went  to  Washington  to  boarding 
school  for  four  years  and  came  back  to  be  introduced.     Lizzie 
always  did  hate  society — from  the  back  window  view  which  she 
had  of  its  doings  at  home.     She  naturally  fretted  more  and  was 
more  restless  than  I  was.     Nothing  mattered  to  me  as  long  as  I 
could  have  all  the  books  I  wanted  and  my  beloved  horse.     But 
Lizzie  was  afraid  oP  horses  and  hated  books.     She  really  didn't 
know  what  she  wanted — until  she  got  her  automobile.      After 
our  one  winter  season  of  dignified  festivities,  consisting  of  very 
formal  teas,  a  "ball"  or  two  a  season,  many  long  and  wearying 
series  of  "  calls,"  during  which  Lizzie  sat  straight-laced,  in  her 
chair,    answered    very    politely   and    spasmodically   my   aunts' 
attempt  to  draw  her  out,  shook  hands  stiffly  with  our  hostess, 
and  heaved  a  deep  sigh  of  relief  when  once  out  into  the  open 
air,  Lizzie  and  I  were  "  out."     We  were  expected  to  be  married 
off  right  away — so  people  thought.      Oar  aunts  looked  to  our 
brother  for  eligible  husbands,  but  the  Doctor  was  a  busy  man 
professionally,  and   then,  too,  he  was  busy   himself  trying  to 
induce  a  Lynn  maiden  to  marry  him  and  come  to  Salem.     This 
infuriated  our  aunts  ;   so  much  so  that  a  family  rupture  seemed 
pending.     The  Doctor  politely  but  forcibly  reminded  my  aunts 
that  he  was  capable  of  choosing  his  own  wife  for  himself,  and 
that  he  would  brook  no  interference  ;   also,  that  since  he  was 
supposed  to  have  such  an  excess  of  very  fine-quality  blood  in 
him,  he  didn't  think  it  would  matter  who  the  girl  was  or  what 
she  was. 

To  all  this,  happening  as  it  did  in  our  presence  —  we  were 
usually  asked  to  go  to  our  room  when  such  things  were  dis- 
cussed— we  were  attentive  listeners,  Lizzie  and  I.  Lizzie  for- 
got herself  and  cried  out  ''Bravo!"  when  the  Doctor  threw 
out  his  gauntlet  of  words  to  the  aunts,  and  this  was  the  last 
straw  !     Our  aunts  plainly  asked  us  on  which  side  we  stood,  the 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  277 

*^  family-pride  "  side,  tbeirw«,  or  the  other  side  (with  a  contempt- 
uous sniff  at  this  point).      Lizzie  jumped  up  immediately  and 
ran  across  the  room  to  the  side  of  our  brother.     My  aunts  looked 
at   me.      Aunt   Eleanor,    for   whom  I  am  named,  gave  me  an 
appealing  look,  but  Aunt  Edith  was  like  a  stone  statue.     I  did 
not   hesitate.      I  walked   over   after   Lizzie  and   stood   by   the 
Doctor.     I  was  the  eldest,  I  already  considered  the  Doctor  as  a 
married  man  ;   so,  "Aunt  Edith,"  I  began,   "  Lizzie  and  I  will 
move  out  this  afternoon  to  the  Doctor's  house  and  stay  there 
while  our  old  home  will  be  fixed  over.     We  will  live  in  the  old 
home,  Lizzie  and  I.      I  am  twenty-three  and  feel  my  responsi- 
bility.    As  mistress  of  our  old  home,  I  want  you  to  know  that 
you  and  Aunt  Eleanor  will  always  be  welcome.      Please  have 
no  ill  feelings  toward  us  about  this  decision.      We  must  follow 
the  dictates  of  our  own  conscience."'      I  said  this  very  firmly, 
feeling,  as  I  did,  that  alread}^  I  was  an  old  maid  like  my  aunt 
before  me.     My  aunt  bowed  stiffly,  excused  herself  with  exqui- 
site politeness,  and  withdrew  to  her  own  room.      A.unt  Eleanor, 
left  alone,  melted  into  a  flood  of  tears.      I  flew  into  her  arms, 
and  tried  to  soothe  her.      The  Doctor  came  up  and  patted  her, 
man  fashion,  on  the  shoulders,  telling  her  that  it  was  all  right, 
and  we  would  all  soon  be  just  as  calm  as  ever.      He  retreated 
hastily,  however,  leaving  Lizzie  and  me  to  say  farewell.     Aunt 
Eleanor    helped    us    get    our    clothes    together.      Aunt    Edith 
remained  in  her  room  with  the  door  locked.     Twice  Lizzie  and 
I  knocked,  but  to  no  avail.      At  length  Lizzie  ran  off  in  high 
spirits,  and  I  called  in,  "  Good-bye  for  a  while,"  to  Aunt  Edith's 
old-fashioned,  white-enamelled  door.      Aunt  Eleanor  kissed  us 
"good-bye"  and   promised  to  come  to  see  us  no  matter  what 
happened,  and  I  promised  to  come  back  and  pour  for  her  at  a 
tea  which  she  was  giving  the  next  Saturday.      She  warned  us 
not  to  let  the  story  of  our  "  misunderstanding  " — '*  scandal,  you 
mean,"  put  in  Lizzie — leak  out.      The  same  old  story  that  we 
had  had  dinned  iiito  our  ears  since  childhood — the  honor  of  the 
family,  our   pride,  our  unity,  etc.,  etc., — were  terms  to  which 
Lizzie  and  I  had  become  so  accustomed  that  we  recited  them  off 
by  rote  as  we  did  our   Catechism.      Already   Lizzie   had   cast 
them  aside,  and  even  my  own  slow  and  steady  self  was  formu- 
lating a  new  doctrine  of   independence.      On   our   way  to  the 
Doctor's  Lizzie  and  I  decided  that  we  were  "democrats,"  she  a 
radical  one,  if  there  is  such,  and  I,  the  more  conservative  sort. 


278  THE   SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

We  had  the  old  home  all  fixed  over.  Lizzie  and  I  each  paid 
half  the  expenses  out  of  our  own  money.  We  had  new  lighting- 
fixtures  put  in,  more  bath-rooms,  a  large  sleeping  porch  on  the 
back  side  of  the  house,  overlooking  our  back  garden  and  the 
high  shrubbery  which  separates  our  home  from  the  home  of 
our  aunts.  I  forgot  to  say  that  we  were  near  neighbors,  sepa- 
rated from  each  other  by  high  shrubbery  through  which  was  a 
high  connecting  gate.  The  houses  were  not  near  together, 
because  each  house  had  a  large  back  lot  and  garden.  The 
Doctor  supervised  the  renovation  of  the  house.  He  insisted 
upon  having  a  tennis-court,  to  my  surprise.  Since  then  he  has 
used  it  considerably.  He  it  was  who  suggested  the  tearing 
down  of  the  partition  between  the  two  back-parlors,  and  trans- 
forming them  into  a  huge,  long  living-room  with  a  big  modern 
fireplace.  I  had  all  the  rooms  done  ovei.  It  does  a  house  no 
good  to  keep  it  shut  up  so  many  years,  and  it  was  autumn 
before  the  Doctor  would  let  us  move  in.  When  we  did  move, 
it  was  into  a  very  beautiful  home.  All  Salem  gasped  at  our 
extravagance. 

In  the  meantime  the  Doctor  bought  an  automobile.  Aunt 
Edith  always  detested  them  and  refused  to  give  up  her  horses, 
and  so  I,  having  my  saddle-horse  all  the  time,  naturally  thought 
them  detestable,  too.  Lizzie,  however,  used  to  get  all  her 
young  men  friends — when  she  dared — to  take  her  out  in  their 
motors.     She  loved  them,  and  thereby  hangs  the  tale. 

Lizzie  wanted  a  machine.  Lizzie  was  her  own  mistress  and 
could  command  her  own  money  to  a  certain  extent,  and,  at  any 
rate,  she  could  buy  an  automobile.  So  Lizzie  went  about  auto- 
seeking.  She  wanted  a  '' red-devil" — she  used  the  word  fre- 
quently and  delightedly,  now  that  Aunt  Edith  wasn't  around. 
One  morning  she  came  down  to  breakfast  with  a  daring  look  in 
her  eyes.  "  Tm  going  to  buy  an  automobile,"  she  announced. 
1  looked  up  from  my  coffee  enquiringly.  "Don't  you  dare  to 
stop  me,  Eleanor  Grey," — she  usually  called  me  Nell, — ''for 
once  in  my  life  Fm  going  to  do  wliat  I  feel  like  doing."  In  less 
than  an  hour  Lizzie  and  I  were  on  our  way  to  Boston  to  buy  a 
machine. 

In  Boston  we  found  not  only  one  "  red-devil,"  but  one  thou- 
sand. Lizzie  stubbornly  refused  to  let  the  Doctor  know  what 
she  was  about.  "Besides,"  she  argued,  "he's  so  head-over- 
heels  in  love  that  it's  all  he  can  do  to  attend  to  his  patients."    I 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      279 

meekly  agreed  with  her.  I  always  do.  First  we  went  up  to 
Park  Square,  where  we  found  ourselves  among  what  we  called 
*' horrid  men."'  I  could  feel  them  laughing  up  their  sleeves 
when  Lizzie  said  she  wanted  "something  red."  If  they  had 
politely  referred  us  to  Jordan,  Marsh  Co.,  as  I  feared  they 
would,  I  would  have  called  a  policeman,  I  was  so  tired  and 
bewildered.  I  don't  think  that  they  thought  Lizzie  had  the 
price  of  a  pair  of  gloves  to  her  name,  the  way  they  acted. 

We  went  to  lunch  at  one  o'clock.  Lizzie  ordered  lobster.  I 
began  to  fear  for  her.  Red  is  an  awful  color  to  get  on  one's 
mind.  I  objected,  therefore,  when  she  ordered  tomatoes  and  a 
strawberry  ice.     "  Betrer  have  a  neutral  color,"  I  murmured. 

"Nell,"  she  said  sharply  to  me,  "are  you  still  thinking  of 
decorations  for  the  house  ?"     But  she  ordered  "  caf^  parfait." 

In  the  afternoon  we  walked  down  Boylston  Street  to  look  in 
at  the  shops.  "  Perhaps  we'll  see  something  in  red  coats  for 
the  machine,''  Lizzie  said  to  me.  But  I  hustled  her  on  to  a  car, 
and  soon  we  were  in  the  most  exclusive  shops  where  they  sell 
autos.  We  knew  it  when  we  opened  the  door.  A  very  cordial 
and  polite  gentleman  ushered  us  to  two  chairs.  I  was  spokes- 
man, for  Lizzie's  facilities  of  eye  and  tongue  were  all  directed 
in  looking  at  the  cars  lined  up  against  the  wall. 

"We  want  to  see  the  models  of  your  car, — " 

"Something  in  red,"  interrupted  Lizzie  in  an  absent  voice. 

"  Something  that  a  woman  can  drive  herself,"  I  continued  in 
a  tone  as  cold  as  ice.  My  training  with  Aunt  Edith  began  to 
show  itself,  when  Lizzie  failed  to  take  the  initial  step,  /was 
now  buying  the  machine.  We  walked  down  aisle  after  aisle  of 
the  stock-room,  the  man  talking  volubly  about  cranks,  carbu- 
retors, ignition,  battery,  and  other  equally  unintelligible  terms. 
An  inspiration  seized  me.  The  blind  way  we  were  going  at  the 
whole  affair  suddenly  showed  itself  to  me.  "  What  concern," 
I  asked  in  a  bored  tone,  causing  Lizzie  to  start  and  look  over 
her  shoulder  for  Aunt  Edith,  "  makes  your  car  ?  "  Never  would 
I  let  him  see  that  we  hadn't  had  sense  enough  to  look  at  the 
blazing  sign  over  the  door  I  He  told  me  and  I  truthfully  had 
never  heard  of  "the  concern"  before.  I  didn't  tell  him  that, 
however.  After  we  had  examined  the  cars,  Lizzie  burst  forth 
impetuously,  despite  my  warning  glances  : 

"Haven't  you  any  ^red-devils'  ?" 

The  man  smiled  politely  and  said  that  the  color  in  fashion 


280  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

now  was  blue  or  grej  in  their  cars,  but  if  a  customer  wished^ 
the  color  could  be  changed.  I  thanked  him  and  took  his  circu- 
lar and  busiaess  card.  He  looked  at  Lizzie  curiously,  as  he 
ushered  us  gallantly  out.  She  had  hardly  spoken  and  had  acted 
as  if  she  was  walking  up  above  this  sphere  of  existence. 

'*  Lizzie,^^  I  said  when  we  were  out  on  the  sidewalk  again,, 
''we  are  crazy  old  maids,  that's  what  we  are.  We  ought  to 
iiave  a  man  with  us." 

^'  Pshaw,  lot  of  good  a  man  would  do  us  I  I  want  an  automo- 
bile," she  answered. 

We  walked  on.  I  read  the  signs  now.  Lizzie  was  subdued  a 
bit.  I  was  the  one  to  blaze  the  trail  into  the  next  store.  Sud- 
denly I  caught  sight  of  a  sign  that  looked  familiar  to  me. 
''The  American  Roadster  Company,''  I  read  aloud.  Where- 
had  I  seen  that  before?  "Come,  Lizzie,"  I  said  decidedly, 
'Hhis  is  where  you  find  your  devil,  red,  white,  or  blue,  I  don't 
care  which."  I  remembered  noiu.  I  had  seen  that  sign  on  the 
Doctor's  machine. 

We  entered.  I  asked  to  see  a  demonstrator.  The  attendant 
smiled  and  answered  that  they  kept  no  supplies  in  their  stock- 
room, only  "show"  cars.  Very  haughtily  I  informed  him  that 
he  misunderstood  me,  /wished  to  see  the  manager  of  the  firm. 
The  man  left  us  for  a  minute.  Lizzie  walked  off  alone.  She 
was  looking  for  a  red  car  and  I  watched  her.  Suddenly  she 
turned  and  sped  quickly  up  the  aisle.  I  couldn't  see  where  she 
went,  for  the  man  was  approaching  me.  It  was  a  different  man. 
Perhaps,  I  thought,  this  man  is  the  manager.  I  began  to  tell 
him  what  I  wanted,  when  I  was  rudely  interrupted  —  and 
shocked,  too— by  a  voice  calling,  "  Nell  !  Nell!  Oh  Nell  Grey  ! 
Come  here  I"  I  fled  down  the  aisle,  followed  by  the  aston- 
ished man. 

There  was  Lizzie  in  the  car,  a  low,  grey  thing  that  looked  all 
tlie  world  like  a  sleeping  grey-hound  !  She  was  turning  the  big 
wheel  around  with  fingers  that  were  as  loving  as  thej^  were  in- 
expert.    I  stared  speechless  ! 

She  became  aware  of  our  presence  but  didn't  look  up.  "  Nell, 
look  at  the  darling  pedals,  and  the  funny  little  tubes  of  shiny 
brass,  and  look  at  the  nice  brakes  I "  she  cried  breathlessly. 

I  stared  at  her. 

The  man  broke  the  spell  with  a  nice  quiet,  little  chuckle. 
He  sprang  into  the  low  seat  beside  her.  "It  is  a  beauty,"  he 
answered,  "and  it  just  fits  you.'' 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  281 

''  I  want  it'"  said  Lizzie.     "  Fll  take  it/' 

Then,  we  all  laughed,  and  only  /thought  of  Aunt  Edith  and 
Salem.  The  very  idea  of  Lizzie  and  that  little  low-strung  car 
which  had  a  look  of  enormous  power!  I  didn't  think  of  the 
extravagance.  I  thought  of  the  horror  in  Aunt  Edith's  eyes  at 
the  sight  of  Lizzie  behind  that  wheel.  Salem  had  lifted  its  eye- 
brows at  our  leaving  the  aunts  ;  my  assisting  at  Aunt  Eleanor's 
tea  set  it  wondering.  The  Doctor,  I  knew,  would  just  sit  down 
and  laugh  and  laugh  ;  then  he  would  wipe  his  glasses  and  go 
out  to  ride  with  Lizzie,     /would  have  to  explain. 

Lizzie  broke  into  my  thoughts.  "  I  can  have  this  very  one," 
she  cried,  and  turning  to  the  man,  "you  ivill  come  down  and 
teach  me,  won't  you  ?  I  am  sure  it  will  be  very  easy  to  learn  to 
drive." 

"  It  is  getting  late,  Lizzie,"  I  said  coolly,  "  and  we  must  go." 
I  turned  to  the  man  who  was  watching  Lizzie's  pretty  face  ex- 
pressing all  her  animation  and  delight.  He  is  a  little  too  much 
interested,  I  thought.  So  it  was  agreed  that  he  should  bring 
the  car  over  the  road  the  very  next  day.  I  suggested  that  per- 
haps he  couldn't  be  spared  and  that  a  mechanic  might  serve  as 
teacher.  To  this  suggestion,  he  replied  courteously  that  it  was 
his  business  to  do  the  demonstrating  and  that  he  would  be 
delighted  to  have  such  an  interested  pupil.  To  which  I  replied, 
in  as  business-like  a  manner  as  possible,  considering  how  much 
like  a  sixteen-year-old  girl  my  sister  was  acting.  I  gave  him 
our  cards  and  referred  him  to  our  bank.  He  was  very  polite, 
too  much  so  to  Lizzie,  I  thought.  We  left  him,  Lizzie  in  an 
exalted  frame  of  mind,  which  bordered  on  the  talkative  state, 
and  I,  in  a  more  thoughtful  mood  than  ever  I  had  been  before. 
Truly,  thought  I,  my  training  and  habits  of  life  are  beginnings 
to  crop  out. 

When  we  got  to  Salem  we  met  a  friend  of  Aunt  Eleanor's  at 
the  station.  She  offered  to  take  us  home  in  her  limousine. 
I  refused  politely  but  Lizzie  broke  forth  into  a  "  Wait  until  you 
see  my  new  roadster."  I  felt  the  cold  astonished  stare — right 
through  my  left  shoulder — whicli  answered  this  announcement. 

"  Lizzie,"  I  said,  horridly,  "  we  are  about  to  pass  the  ofiSce  of 
the  newspaper.  Why  don't  you  drop  in  and  leave  a  notice 
about  your  new  car  ?  " 

*'  Don't  be  cross,  Nell,"  she  said,  "  I'm  so  happy  ! " 

"  Who  told  you  it  was  a  roadster  ?"  I  asked  her. 


282  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

'''He  did,  the  man,  and  tie  said  it  was  the  classiest  little  car 
made,"  she  answered. 

What  !  could  my  eyes  behold  the  truth  and  my  ears  hear  it 
correctly  !  our  Lizzie,  flushing  prettily  and  looking  ten  years 
younger,  talking  slang  !  We  had  reached  our  door.  ''I  trust,'' 
I  said  in  a  cold  voice,  'Hhat  you  will  not  take  on  any  of  these 
modern  fashions  of  slang-talk  with  the  acquisition  of  your 
roadster." 

She  dropped  a  curtsey  and  opened  the  gate.  '*No,  Aunt 
Edith,  I  promise  you,  no."  But  she  burst  into  merry  laughter 
and  I  joined  in  with  her.  We  laughed  and  laughed  and  both 
of  us  felt  like  naughty  school  children  returning  home  from 
some  mad  prank. 

After  dinner,  I  sat  down  to  read  quietly.  Lizzie  began  to 
play  the  piano  softly  in  the  next  room. 

"Nell,"  she  called  in,  **  you  don't  suppose  Doctor  will  be 
jealous  ?  " 

''  No,  dear,"  I  answered.  '^  If  it  makes  you  happy,  he'll  love 
it." 

Her  fingers  played  over  the  keys  in  a  soft  absent-minded 
fashion. 

''  Lizzie,"  I  called,"  aren't  you  glad  you  didn't  get  the  red 
things  in  the  shops  ?  " 

She  came  into  the  room  then  and  sat  on  the  arm  of  my  chair. 
She  began  to  laugh.  *'  Something  in  red  ?"  I  said  softly,  and 
then  we  both  laughed. 

''  He  luas  a  nice  man,  wasn't  he  Nell  ?  "  she  asked. 

"I  have  never  met  the  gentleman,  Lizzie,"  I  said,  pretending 
to  be  stern. 

'*The  Doctor  has,"  she  said  after  a  pause.  ''Yes,"  to  my 
astonished  exclamation,  ''  the  man  said  that  he  was  in  his  class 
at  Harvard  ! " 

*'  Harvard  is  a  large  college,"  I  said  quickly. 

"And  Doctor  is  a  big  man,"  she  answered  teasingly. 

I  thought  for  a  moment.  "How  did  he  know  who  you  were  ?" 
I  asked  suddenly. 

"  I  dropped  my  handkerchief  and  he  picked  it  up  and  saw 
my  name  on  it.  Then  he  asked  me  about  the  Doctor,"  she 
replied  with  a  little  blush. 

"  Lizzie,"  I  said,  and  I  felt,  as  if  I  were  Aunt  Edith  and 
sweet  Aunt  Eleanor  combined,  "  the  Doctor  and  J  will  be  the 
chaperones  henceforth  !  " 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      283 

I  closed  ray  book.  My  little  sister  was  irresistible.  Pride, 
lienor,  traiuiiig,  all,  aielted  under  the  touch  of  the  slim  fingers 
that  were  caressing  my  hair.  Let  people  talk  and  let  my  aunts 
gasp,  I  didn't  care  !  All  the  haunting  visions  that  ran  through 
my  head  of  militant  women,  suffragettes,  mannish  women,  and 
so  forth,  chased  themselves  into  the  corner  and  were  choked  to 
death.  Lizzie  would  never  develop  that  way  !  I  smiled.  To 
think  that  an  automobile  could  bother  two  old  maids  that  way  ! 
We  were  children  after  all. 

•*  Lizzie,^'  I  said,  as  I  pulled  her  down  nearer  to  me,  "  I  hope 
that  '  red-devil'  of  yours  won't  make  too  much  trouble.'' 


AT  TWILIGHT 

MARION   DELAMATER   FREEMAN 

Dim  ships  against  a  twilight  sky, 
Gray-winged,  drifting  slowly  home. 

Over  the  still,  pale  sea  they  float, 
Wanderers,  wearily  home  they  come. 

Out  of  the  dusk  of  the  twilight  sky 
Seagulls,  voiceless,  drifting  come, 

Over  the  faintly  glimmering  sea, 
Silently,  wearily  drifting  home. 

Out  of  the  silent  twilight  world, 
Out  of  the  strife  of  the  day  I  come, 

Into  your  outstretched  arms,  dear  heart. 
Silently,  wearily.  I  come  home. 


SKETCHES 
MARY   SARAH'S  GLEE  CLUB  MAN 

ELLEN   ELIZABETH   WILLIAMS 
I 

Five  of  "  The  Six''  were  congregated  in  Frances's  room,  dis 
cussing  the  Glee  Club  Concert.  Outside  it  wag  snowing  and 
one  by  one  the  friends  -had  drifted  in  to  dispose  themselves  in 
Harrison  Fisher  College  Girl  attitudes  upon  Frances's  bed  or  on 
the  floor.  The  choice  of  this  particular  room  may  be  explained 
by  the  fact  that  their  hostess  was  making  fudge.  No  one  knew 
Frances's  receipt.  She  had  a  knack  of  throwing  the  ingredients 
hit  or  miss  at  the  chafing-dish  and  of  cooking  whatever  stuck 
there  to  just  the  right  consistency.  When  the  exact  degree  of 
perfection  was  obtained,  she  would  beat  the  mixture  on  the 
window-sill.  To  be  sure,  such  vigorous  treatment  whipped  up 
great  blobs  of  liquid  candy,  which  dropped  onto  the  side  of 
the  house  and  there  left  souvenirs  of  many  a  good  time  but 
this  extravagance  was  justified  by  the  success  of  the  finished 
product. 

"I  wrote  to  Harry  but  he's  in  business  now  and  didn't  dare 
ask  for  leave  of  absence  and  Wallace  is  in  training  for  the 
track  team  and  so  I  had  to  ask  Charlie  after  all,"  Catherine  was 
saying. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I'll  do  about  my  dress,"  sighed  Frances. 
*'It's  torn  right  across  the  front  and  I  can't  match  the  chiffon 
here  or  in  Springfield.  Now,  Nell,  it's  your  turn  to  beat  the 
fudge." 

*'Whew  !"  ejaculated  Nell  as  she  obeyed,  "  I'm  glad  I'm  not 
planning  to  fuss  !  None  of  this  wild  uncertainty  about  men  or 
clothes  for  me,  thank  you  !  I'm  going  off  to  Springfield  that 
day  and  enjoy  myself." 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      285 

"It's  not  a  bother  I"  contradicted  Catherine.  "We've  got 
everything  planned  and  it's  still  two  weeks  till  Glee  Club.  All 
our  men  are  coming,  our  dance  cards  are  filled  out  and  Fran  has 
plenty  of  other  dresses  besides  the  apricot  chiffon." 

"  Here,  Nell,  dump  the  fudge  in  this  plate.  You  may  lick  the 
pan  if  you  like  but  promise  to  wash  it  afterward.  Listen  to 
that  stamping  in  the  hall.  That's  Mary  Sarah  coming  home 
from  basket-ball.  When  she  bangs  like  that  it  means  that 
practice  has  been  bum — " 

"Bum — bum — bum— bum — bum — bum,"  finished  the  others. 
Mary  Sarah  appeared  tragically  in  the  doorway.     She  waved 
a  white  epistle  in  one  hand.     "  Girls  I   what  do  you  think  has 
happened  ?"  she  moaned. 

"  What  ?  "  chorused  the  five. 

"  IVe  been  asked  to  the  Haughton  prom  and  I  can't  go  !" 
"Can't  go!"     "Why  not?"     "When  does  it  come?"     "  Is  it 
because  you're  in  training  ?"     "  Let's  see  the  invite."     "Who's 
the  man  ?" 

Mary  Sarah  shook  the  snow  off  her  coat  and  sitting  down  on 
the  floor,  unbuttoned  her  Arctics.  These  she  flung  to  the  other 
side  of  the  room  as  the  outward  and  visible  sign  of  her  inward 
and  spiritual  rage. 

"  Listen,  then,"  she  said,  spreading  out  the  various  engraved 
cards  included  in  the  invitation.  "They're  all  bids  to  teas  and 
fraternity  dances  and  Germans  and  to  think  I  can't  go  to  one  I" 
"Well,  why  can't  you  go?"  persisted  Frances.  "See,  the 
first  dance  isn't  till  the  eleventh  and  you'll  be  out  of  training 
then." 

"  Out  of  training,  of  course  I  but,  goosie,  don't  you  see  the 
prom  is  the  twelfth  of  March  and  that's  the  night  of  our  Glee 
Club  Concert  and  that  hateful  John  Stevenson  is  coming  up 
from  Thrale  as  my  guest  ! " 

The  blow  had  fallen  and  with  its  weight  it  crushed  the  five. 
Mary  Sarah  lay  prostrate  on  the  floor.  The  rest  sat  in  dejected 
attitudes  or  silently  admired  the  club  and  fraternity  seals  on 
the  invitations  as  they  passed  from  hand  to  hand.  Nell  poked 
the  fudge  to  see  if  it  had  hardened. 

"  I'll  write  to  John  Stevenson  and  tell  him  you're  dead,"  she 
suggested  cheerfully. 

"  You're  crazy,"  responded  Mary  Sarah  ungratefully. 
"  Or  sick,"  pursued  Nell. 


286  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

"'  Now  I've  got  the  man  on  my  hands  I  can't  back  out,  can  I  ?  "" 
grumbled  Mary  Sarah.  "It's  all  Edward  Winslow's  fault, 
anyway." 

'^  I've  never  heard  of  Edward  Winslow  but  I  don't  see  what 
he  has  to  do  with  it/'  protested  Nell. 

"Oh,  don't  you  know  about  him?"  exclaimed  Frances. 
"  He's  the  man  Mary  Sarah  asked  first  and  when  he  couldn't 
come — " 

"The  tall,  handsome  one  ?"  Constance  interrupted. 

"  If  you'll  just  be  quiet  a  minute,"  suggested  Nell,  "  maybe 
Mary  Sal  will  tell  the  story  herself.  As  she  seems  to  be  the  one 
most  concerned,  she'll  be  more  likely  to  get  it  straight." 

"  It  was  this  way,"  Mary  Sarah  explained,  grateful  for  the 
restored  quiet.  "Ed  lives  across  the  street  from  us  at  home 
and  we've  *  paled'  together  ever  since  we  were  that  high.  After 
he  went  to  Thale  we  rather  lost  track  of  each  other  but  he  asked 
me  out  a  lot  when  I  was- at  home  Christmas  and  so  I  thought 
I'd  get  back  at  him,  as  it  were,  by  having  him  up  here  for  Glee 
Club.  Well,  everything  was  arranged,  when  about  three  days 
ago  came  a  letter  saying  he  had  just  been  elected  to  Shell  and 
Beans,  or  some  such  society,  and  the  initiation  comes  the  twelfth 
of  March.  Of  course  it  would  just  kill  his  reputation  if  he 
weren't  there." 

"So  you  asked  this  Stevenson  instead  ?" 

"No,  Ed  suggested  it.  He  said  he  knew  how  inconvenient  it 
was  to  have  a  guest  give  out  so  late  in  the  game  and  might  he 
suggest  his  roommate,  John  Stevenson,  as  a  substitute.  I'd 
heard  a  great  deal  about  '  Steve '  and  he  about  me,  though 
we've  never  met,  and  he's  splendid  from  all  accounts.  Besides 
I  don't  know  any  other  fellows  this  side  of  Haughton  and  I  was 
awfully  pleased  at  Ed's  thoughtfuluess  and  wrote  him  that  I'd 
be  ^charmed  to  entertain  Mr.  Stevenson.'  I  can't  go  back  on  my 
word,  can  I,  and  telegraph  him  not  to  come  after  all  ?  " 

"Ed  is  a  model  of  virtue  to  be  so  considerate,"  Catherine 
sighed  from  experience. 

"Oh,  Ed's  all  right,"  acquiesced  Mary  Sarah,  without  enthu- 
siasm, "only  I've  known  him  too  long  to  be  crazy  about  him." 

"  Now  if  it  were  Colin  MacDonald — "  hinted  Nell.  (Colin 
roomed  with  Mary  Sarah's  brother  at  Haughton.)  "Aha  !  he's 
the  man  who's  invited  you  to  the  prom  !  Talk  about  your 
Sherlock  Holmes  ! " 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  287 

Mary  Sarah  blushed.  *'  Yes/'  she  acknowledo^ed,  *'  Mack  has 
asked  rae  and  I  want  to  go  more  than  anything  I've  been  invited 
to  in  my  life." 

Betty  leaned  over  and  kissed  her.  "No  wonder  you  want 
to  go,  honey,  and  go  you  shall,  John  Stevenson  or  no  John 
Stevenson  !" 

*'How,  pray  ?  You're  not  going  to  poison  him  off  instead  of 
killing  rae  as  Nell  sugsjested  ?  " 

"Listen  to  your  fairy  godmother,"  advised  Betty.  "You 
said  John  Stevenson  has  never  seen  you — how  is  he  going  to 
recognize  you  then  ?  Nell,  here,  wasn't  going  to  have  a  man. 
Now  can  you  add  two  and  two  to  make  four  ?" 

"  You  mean — "  gasped  Mary  Sarah. 

Betty  nodded  gravely.  "Nell  takes  your  dance  program, 
your  concert  tickets,  your  man.     You  go  to  Haughton," 

"  Betty  I"  cried  Nell  reproachfully.  "  This  from  you  of  all 
persons  ! " 

"  It  staggered  me  a  little  when  I  thought  of  it  myself,"  con- 
fessed Betty,  "but  it  works  out  very  simply."  Theu  she  out- 
lined her  plan. 

Mr.  Stevenson,  knowing  Mary  Sarah  only  through  the  descrip- 
tions of  Edwai'd  Winslow,  could  never  tell  the  difference  be- 
tween his  proposed  hostess  and  any  other  girl,  especially  as 
Nell  and  Mary  Sarah  were  so  nearly  alike  in  height  and  coloring 
that  a  description  of  one  might  easily  fit  the  other.  Nell  was  to 
be  crammed  with  information  concerning  Edward  Winslow, 
his  character  and  career,  in  order,  by  mentioning  various  child- 
hood escapades,  to  cap  the  climax  of  reality.  The  plan  was  to 
be  revealed  to  only  the  most  necessary  persons  and  a  secoud 
member  of  The  Six  was  to  be  constantly  near  to  ward  off  the 
uninitiated.  They  all  agreed  that  Nell  was  just  the  one  to 
make  a  success  of  their  plan. 

"I  won't  do  it,  I  won't  do  it  I  "  she  reiterated.  "I  can't 
dance  !  I  hate  men— can't  talk  to  them  I  I'd  let  slip  some 
awful  slang  and  disgrace  Mary  Sal  for  life.  It's  a  crazy  idea, 
anyway.     Why,  suppose  I  should  meet  the  man  afterwards  !  " 

"  It  wouldn't  happen  once  in  a  hundred  years,"  pleaded  Mary 
Sarah.  "He  lives  in  Golddust,  Wyoming — or  somewhere  out 
West.  You've  never  heard  of  him  before  and  you'll  never  see 
him  afterwards.  And,  oh  Nell,  I  did  think  you  were  a  true 
sport ! "     She  had  hit  Nell's  tender  spot. 


288  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

^^All  right,  ril  do  it  !  "  she  agreed  suddenly.  "  I'll  be  as  like 
you  as  I  can  be.  I'll  convince  'Steve'  I'm  you.  Only  don't 
you  blame  the  consequences  on  me  ! " 

Nell  went  out  and  banged  the  door  behind  her. 

II 

The  Glee  Club  concert  came  as  usual  on  a  Wednesday  and 
Mary  Sarah  left  for  Haughton  Monday  night.  She  felt  very 
happy  and  calm.  "The  Plot,"  as  the  six  conspirators  called 
their  plan  of  substituting  Nell  for  Mary  Sarah,  yes,  "  The  Plot " 
was  advancing  perfectly. 

To  be  sure,  a  letter  from  Edward  Winslow  to  Mary  Sarah 
had  at  first  considerably  discomposed  Nell.  He  had  written  : 
*'I  wish  I  had  a  photograph  of  you  to  show  Steve  but  I've 
painted  such  a  beautiful  portrait  of  your  character  to  him  that 
he's  just  waiting  for  the  "^on-your-mark-set-go  ! '  signal  to  make 
tracks  for  Smith  next  Wednesday."  The  fear  that  she  would 
not  fulfill  '  Steve's'  expectations  had  so  frightened  Nell  that  it 
required  all  Betty's  persuasions  to  keep  her  from  breaking  down 
completely. 

"You  must  be  as  Mary  Sarah-ish  as  possible.  Why,  Nell 
dear,  you're  an  awfully  good  actress,  it  ought  to  be  easy  for 
you.  You're  the  only  one  in  our  crowd  who  could  do  a  thing 
of  this  sort."  Thus  they  wheedled  Nell  into  a  half -fearful 
anticipation  of  "  fussing  Glee  Club." 

"Steve"  was  to  arrive  a  little  early  on  Wednesday  in  order 
to  get  acquainted,  so  at  half-past  two  that  afternoon,  when  the 
maid  announced  that  a  young  gentleman  was  waiting  for  Miss 
Frothingham  in  the  parlor,  "Mary  Sarah,"  morally  bolstered 
by  her  encouraging  friends,  descended  the  stairs.  She  was 
wearing  her  first  train  dress,  for  she  was  not  planning  to  dance 
and  as  it  dragged  a  little  at  every  step  it  made  her  feel  very 
grown-up  and  theatrical.  On  the  landing  she  paused  and 
peeked  through  the  railing  towards  the  parlor.  For  a  moment 
her  heart  stopped  beating  and  she  clutched  the  banisters  with  a 
little  gasp.  Alone  in  the  great  parlor,  leaning  nonchalently 
against  the  mantel  in  a  typical  Gibson  pose,  stood  the  hand- 
somest man  Nell  had  ever  seen.  He  was  tall  and  dark,  with 
perfectly-fitting  shoulders  and  an  Arrow-Collar  expression. 
Nell's  heart  had  long  been  founded  on  man-hating  principles 
but   now  that   the  only  man  was  come — well,  perhaps  taking 


I 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  289 

Mary  Sarali's  place  would  not  be  such  an  unpleasant  ordeal 
after  all. 

With  a  self-conscious  start  to  compose  herself,  Nell  trailed 
down  the  stairs  into  the  parlor.  The  man  did  not  seem  to  notice 
her.  Nell  advanced,  her  hand  outstretched,  and  began  the  little 
speech  she  had  prepared  : 

"Mr.  Stevenson,  I  believe?  Yes,  lam  Mary  Sarah  Froth- 
ingham.  (Shades  of  George  Washington!"  thought  Nell.) 
"  It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  come  here  this  afternoon  to  take 
Ed's  place.     I  hope  we  shall  be  able  to  give  you  a  good  time." 

John  Stevenson  stammered,  "  I  assure  you  the  pleasure  is 
entirely  mine,  Miss— er— Frothingham."  His  sentence  had  a 
<iueer,  questioning  turn. 

"You've  never  been  to  Smith  before  ?"  purred  Nell. 

"  Positively  first  appearance,^*  rejoined  the  other  but  he  didn't 
seem  quite  sure  of  the  fact. 

There  was  an  awkward  pause.  Nell  was  sure  she  was  being 
examined  from  top  to  toe  and  she  objected  to  such  a  procedure 
from  any  man,  even  from  this  Adonis. 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  come  up  to  Ed's  description,"  she  said 
coldly.  "El  has  too  smooth  a  tongue,  I  am  afraid,  perhaps  it's 
because  he  kissed  the  Blarney  Stone— yes,  he  really  did,  you 
know.  Didn't  he  ever  tell  you  about  that  ?  His  family  and 
our  family  went  abroad  together  when  we  were  about  twelve 
and  I  remember  being  so  jealous  of  Ed  because  his  mother 
would  allow  him  to  be  let  down  by  the  heels  and  my  mother 
said  I  couldn't." 

As  Nell  talked  she  gained  assurance.  She  remembered  how 
Mary  Sarah  had  told  this  story  and  she  now  embellished  it  with 
one  of  Mary  Sarah's  characteristic  gestures  and  a  little  of  what 
was  familiarly  termed  "Mary  Sal's  Pittsburg  Patois." 

John  Stevenson  stared.  "  You  are  like  Mary  Sal— like  Mary 
Sarah's  description,"  he  hurried  on,  "only  I  don't  think  even 
Ed  with  all  his  Blarney  did  you  justice." 

"You  know,"  laughed  Nell,  leading  the  way  to  the  Ingle- 
nook,  "  I  think  Ed  is  a  bit  biah^   don't  you  ?" 

John  Stevenson  looked  taken  aback.  "  Oh,  do  you  ?  I  never 
thought  so  but  of  course,"  this  rather  slowly,  "I  know  Ed  so 
well,  I  guess  I  see  beneath  the  surface  more." 

"Oh,  I  know  Ed  through  and  through,"  Nell  assured  him 
with  unnecessary  vehemence.  "Why,  we've  'paled'  together 
•ever  since  we  were  that  hiiih."  ^ 


290  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

They  were  joined  by  Catherine  and  an  Amherst  youth.  ''Is 
that  you,  Mary  Sal  ?  Please  let  me  introdnce  Mr.  Kensington. 
Miss  Frothingham— Mr.  Kensington." 

*'And  Mr.  Stevenson — Miss  Chase— and  Mr.  Kensington." 

The  four  now  esconsed  themselvss  in  the  Ingle-nook  to  await 
the  opening  of  the  dance.  They  were  soon  joined  hj  the  other 
members  of  The  Six  with  their  guests  and  by  skilfully  shielding 
Nell  from  the  chaperone,  they  avoided  the  embarrassing  situa- 
tion that  might  have  arisen  had  that  lady  addressed  the  girl  by 
her  rightful  name. 

The  afternoon  passed  like  a  dream  to  Nell.  It  was  really 
marvellous  how  smoothly  "The  Plot"  unrolled  itself.  The 
men  were  all  very  attractive,  Mr.  Stevenson  was  appropriately 
attentive  and,  all  in  all,  Nell  was  nervously  happy  in  piloting 
Mary  Sarah's  guest  through  the  intricacies  of  a  Smith  Glee 
Club  Concert.  It  was  only  when  the  men  left  to  dress  for 
dinner  and  she  went  slowly  up-stairs  that  she  realized  how 
tense  had  been  her  fear  of  making  a  break.  She  threw  herself 
down  wearily  on  the  bed. 

*' Go  away,  girls,"  she  told  her  friends  as  they  crowded  in. 
*^  You  know  'most  as  much  about  it  as  I  do.  I'll  come  in  for 
you  to  fasten  me  a  little  later  ! " 

* 'Jack  Stevenson  is  good  looking,"  sighed  Constance.  "He 
must  run  the  far-famed  Edward  Winslow  a  close  second." 

As  for  Nell,  during  the  evening  the  strain  began  to  tell.  At 
sapper,  she  was  strangely  silent  and  found  herself  gazing 
abstractedly  at  Jack  Stevenson  when  she  thought  he  was  not 
looking.  She  was  feverishly  flushed  and,  had  she  known  it, 
looked  better  than  ever  before.  Jack  watched  her  admiringly 
and  when  she  caught  him  staring  at  her  she  became  rapidly 
self-conscious  and  wondered  if  she  had  done  anj'thing  that 
could  cause  him  to  suspect  that  she  was  not  the  genuine  Mary 
Sarah.  Then  she  would  throw  herself  into  her  role  with 
redoubled  vigor. 

It  was  strange  how  frequently  their  conversation  returned  to 
Ed  and  Nell  blamed  or  praised  him  according  as  she  remem- 
bered points  from  Mary  Sarah's  instructions  against  him  or  in 
his  favor. 

She  was  glad  that  she  was  not  obliged  to  talk  a  great  deal  at 
the  concert.  It  was  nice  to  lean  back  and  listen  to  the  music 
and  feel  the  eyes  of  a  very  stunning  man  fastened  on  her  with 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      291 

an  expression  which  showed  that — well,  that  she  was  not  repul- 
sive to  him.  They  walked  home  from  the  concert  across  the 
star-lit  campus  in  silence.  It  was  only  when  they  were  again 
on  the  steps  of  Craven  House  that  tht3y  spoke. 

"Good  night,  Miss  Frothin2:ham,"  he  said.  ''You  have 
given  me  a  very  enjoyable  day."  Then  he  added  in  a  curious 
tone,  "Will  you  let  me  come  and  pay  my  ])arty  call  before  your 
spring  vacation  ?  Please  don't  say  you  think  that  Ed  should  be 
the  one  to  come,  just  because  you  invited  him  first  and  I  was 
playing  second  fiddle.  Why  not  let  us  both  come?"  As  if 
struck  by  the  desirability  of  that  idea,  he  pursued  it.  "Yes, 
let  us  both  come.     How  about  a  week  from  Saturday  ?  " 

Awful  thought  I  Suppose  Ed  should  arrive  too  and  find  out 
the  deception  that  had  been  practiced  on  them.  No,  she  must 
keep  Ed  away  but  would  '  Steve'  come  without  him  ?  She  did 
want  to  see  'Steve'  again.  After  a  moment's  hesitation  she 
laughed.  "I'm  afraid  Ed's  too  lazy  to  want  to  come  all  the 
way  to  Hamp.  just  to  see  me,  especially  as  he  will  be  at  home 
when  I  am  this  spring,  but  if  you — " 

Jack  seized  her  broken  sentence  eagerly.  "  Then  I  may  come. 
Miss  Frothingham  ?  I'd  like  to  know  you  better.  You  are — 
er — one  of  the  most  unusual  girls  I've  ever  met.  And— er — tell 
me,  do  you  really  think  Ed  is  blase,  lazy,  conceited  and  all  the 
other  things  you  said  about  him  ?  I'll  swear  he's  not  too  lazy 
to  make  that  long  trip  up  from  New  Haven  to  see  you." 

"You  needn't  tell  him  what  I  said,"  remarked  Nell.  "  I  gave 
him  some  very  pretty  bouquets  as  well.  Didn't  I  say  he  was 
good-looking  ?" 

"Au  re  voir.  Miss  Frothingham." 

"Good  night,  Mr.  Stevenson." 

Mary  Sarah  returned  Thursday  night,  brimming  over  witli 
excitement.     "  How  did  it  work,  girls  ?"  was  her  first  question. 

"  Like  a  clock,"  responded  Catharine.  "  No  one  let  the  secret 
out  and  Nell  says  he  never  suspected.  I  think  she's  quite  crazy 
about  him,  too,  though  she  hasn't  said  anything.  She's  in  your 
room  now.  Here,  let  me  carry  your  suit  case  up-stairs  and 
we'll  tell  you  about  it  on  the  way." 

Mary  Sarah  was  triumphant  over  the  success  of  "The  Plot." 
"  Here  we  all  are,  hale  and  hearty  !  "  she  said.  "  Didn't  I  say 
it  would  come  out  all  right  ?    You've  had  a  good  time,  I've  had 


292  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

a  good  time  and  it  was  ver}^  simple  after  all."     Then  she  swore 
eternal  gratitude  to  Nell. 

''There  are  some  letters  on  yonr  desk  that  we  didn't  forward 
to  you/'  said  Frances  during  a  pause. 

"Here's  one  from  Ed,"  nuumnred  Mar  5^  Sarah,  opening  the 
topmost  envelope.  She  read  it,  she  paled  and,  in  a  voice  of 
mingled  hope  and  dread,  she  said,  "Girls,  what  did  you  say 
John  Stevenson  looked  like  ?" 

"  Tall — "  "Dark  aud  handsome — ''  "  Blue  eyes,  Roman  nose/' 
chorused  the  Five. 

Mary  Sarah  sank  in  a  little  heap  on  the  bed.  "  Oh  Nell,  you 
are  sure  he  thought  you  were  me  ?  He  didn't  say  anything 
queer,  he  didn't  look  funny  ?     Ob,  tell  me,  tell  me  quickly." 

*'Why,  we  told  you  all  that  happened,"  said  Nell,  a  little 
frightened.     "  Mary  Sal.  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

"It's  dated  Monday  and  reached  Hamp  the  morning  after 
I'd  gone,"  moaned  Mary  Sarah.  Then  she  re-read  the  letter  : 
"'There's  an  epidemic  of  scarlet  fever  here  at  Thrale,  so  our 
initiation  is  postponed  for  a  week.  I've  told  Steve  he's  got  to 
take  a  back  seat — '  and,  Oh  girls  !"  she  finished  tragically,  "  it 
was  Ed  Winslow  who  came  after  all  I  " 


"O  CHANGING  SWALLOW^ 

DOROTHY    LILIAN   SPENCER 

I'd  love  to  be  a  bird  aud  fly 

Away  np,  up,  so  high,  so  high. 

I'd  sniff  down  at  the  tiny  world 

That  'way  beneath  me  twirled  and  twirled. 

Fd  love  to  light  np  in  the  air. 

And  then  swoop  down  without  a  scare. 

rd  make  my  path  a  wave  of  blue, 

And  I  wouldn't  even  think  of  you  ! 

On  the  verj"  topmost  branch  I'd  swing. 

Aud  sing  a  thrilling,  trilling  thing. 

I'd  peek  in  windows  where  there'd  be 

Things  1  had  no  right  to  see. 

But  after  years  had  passed — well  then, 

Maybe  I'd  come  horns  again. 


PASSERS-BY 

LEONORA   BRANCH 

You  sit  just  at  twlight  in  your  room, 

And  the  firelight  gleams  or  your  burnished  hair, 
And  the  shadowy  fancies  come  and  go 

As  you  dream  and  dream  by  the  fire  there. 

But  down  in  the  cold,  dark  street  below 
Other  shadows  pass  to  and  fro  ! 

You're  dreaming,  perhaps  of  the  years  to  come. 

Of  living  and  loving  that  is  to  be, 
And  the  delicate  gossamer  of  your  thought 

Is  fashioning,  haply,  your  destiny. 

But  what  of  these  others  in  the  street, 
That  pass  and  re-pass  with  weary  feet  f 

Dovs^n  'neath  your  window,  if  you  looked, 

You'd  see  a  beggar,  old  and  blind. 
"  Impostor?"    It's  likely,  yet  you,  perhaps, 

May  be  an  impostor  of  your  kind. 

How  often  yovCve  heard  it,  upon  your  knees. 
Those  words,  "As  ye  do  it  unto  these!" 

And  there  where  the  lights  shine  clear  and  bright 

There's  a  ragged  urchin  at  his  trade, 
Calling  his  papers  right  manfully, 

Cold,  perhaps  hungry,  imt  undismayed. 

You  icho  dream  of  t/our  future  sons, 

What  have  you  thought  of  "  these  little  ones!" 

And  there  is  a  woman  with  painted  cheeks. 
Devoid  of  beauty  and  youth  and  grace. 

You  would  turn  aside  from  her  in  the  street. 
Or  glance,  half-curiously  in  her  face. 

Yet  the  uiinisters  in  the  churches  tell 
The  tale  of  the  tconian  at  the  well! 

293 


294  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

But  you  sit  at  twilight  in  your  room, 

With  the  firelight  gleaming  upon  your  hair, 

And  the  shadowy  fancies  come  and  go, 
As  you  dream  and  dream  by  the  fire  there. 

And  down  in  the  cold,  dark  street  below 
Those  other  shadows  pass  to  and  fro, 
And  little  you  heed  of  their  want  or  woe! 

I  would  that  your  clear  young  eyes  could  see 
The  load  of  your  common  humanity ! 
I  would  that  their  sombre  lives  could  seem 
A  part  of  your  glad,  prophetic  dream, 
Or  that  dream  be  shattered  by  their  cry, 
"Are  we  nothing  to  you.  we  passers-by?  " 


LAST    NIGHT 

JEANNE  WOODS 

Last  night  in  my  dreams  j'-ou  came  to  me, 
Sweet  and  star- eyed  as  of  old  ; 
And  we  walked  together  under  the  trees, 
Down  the  moonlit  pathway  under  the  trees, 
And  you  drew  me  down  to  meet  your  lips, 
And  you  kissed  me  then— as  of  old  ! 

And  then  I  awoke  ;  but  a  question  burned  on 
Till  my  heart  was  aching  and  sad. 
For  why  was  all  of  this  only  a  dream  ? 
What  was  once  sweet  reality  now  but  a  dream  ? 
Oh,  I  was  careless,  and  you  were  careless. 
And  we  let  things  creep  in  between. 

We  let  new  faces  and  interests  creep  in 

Till  we,  both  of  us,  forgot. 

But  now,  at  the  fates  I  hurl  a  challenge  ! 

At  mere  circumstance  I  hurl  a  challenge  ! 

For  dreams  are  fleeting,  though  sweet  they  ba  ; 

And  to-mo.Trow  shall  bring  the  real  you  back  to  me 

In  the  pathway  under  the  trees  ! 


THE  ETERNAL  FEMININE 

ANNIE   PRESTON   BRIDGERS 

She  was  only  eighteen,  fluffy-haired  and  charmingly  frivolous, 
with  dancing  blae  eyes  and  the  most  fascinating  dimples  in 
the  world.  He  was  twenty-two,  just  graduated  from  Yale  ;  he 
thought  his  only  interest  in  life  was  Margaret.  Now  Margaret's 
latest  fad  was  the  novels  of  Scott  and  a  matter-of-fact,  foot-ball 
playing  youth  with  a  recently  shaved  head  did  not  accord  with 
her  idea  of  a  lover.  They  were  sitting  out  a  dance  in  a  secluded 
corner  of  the  hotel  porch. 

"  Oh,  Dick,  this  moonlight  makes  me  think  of  some  of  the 
nights  in  Ivanhoe."  Margaret  clasped  her  hands  and  leaned 
back  in  her  chair  with  a  satisfied  sigh.  '^Wouldn't  it  have 
been  marvelous  to  have  lived  in  those  lovely  times  when  men 
were  so  strong  and  brave  and  warlike  and — '^ 

*'  Look  here,  Margie,  when  are  you  going  to  stop  raving  about 
those  fool  books  of  Scott  ?''  ijiterrupted  Dick. 

*'  Why,  Dick,  aren't  you  ashamed  to  talk  like  that  to  me  ?  " 

"  No,  I'm  not  I  "  Then  repenting,  "  Margie,  dear,  you  are  too 
pretty  and  have  too  much  intelligence  to  lose  your  sense  of  pro- 
portion in  this  way,"  adding  to  himself  proudly,  "Now,  how 
did  I  ever  get  all  that  out  ?     That  ought  to  bring  her  around." 

"  Dick,  you  are  such  a  flatterer  !  Who  could  get  mad  with 
you,  you  dear  boy  ?  " 

"  Boy,"  thought  Dick  indignantly,  "  Til  show  her  !" 

"  But,  Dick,  now  don't  you  think  it  would  be  fun  if  I  had 
lived  in  a  huge  castle  with  dungeons  and  things  and  my  father 
had  threatened  to  make  me  marry  a  fierce  lord  like  Brian  de 
Bois  Guilbert  and  when  I  had  refused  he  would  lock  me  up  in 
a  tower  room  and  you  would  come  some  wonderful  moonlight 
night  like  to-night  and  play  on  a  harp  beneath  my  window 
and-" 

This  was  too  much  for  Dick.  "A  harp  I  For  goodness  sakes, 
Margie,  if  you  are  going  to  put  me  in  your  story,  at  least  let 
me  be  a  man."     And  then  he  laughed. 

"  Well,  that's  my  point,  Dick,"  rather  nettled  this  time. 
"  Men  were  men  in  those  days  —  instead  of  going  to  pink  teas 


296  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

and  rah-raliing  at  baU  games  they  journeyed  abroad  to  prove 
tlieir  valor  and  to  win  their  lady's  love  by  deeds  of  bravery.'^ 

•'  Let's  stop  talking  about  the  Middle  Ages  and  talk  about 
ourselves.  When's  our  wedding  to  be,  dear  ? "  Sentimental 
this  time. 

"  Dick,  I  have  told  you  a  hundred  times  in  the  past  two  years 
that  our  wedding  wasn't  going  to  be."  Then  in  a  dignified 
manner,  "  The  man  I  marry  must  have  proved  his  love  for  me 
by  some  deed  of  bravery  in  which  he  risked  his  live  for  my 
sake.  Since  you  insist  on  being  unpleasant  to-night,  take  me 
back  to  the  ballroom."  Then  in  a  different  tone  as  the  orchestra 
began  another  dance.  ''Um-m  that's  a  peach  of  aonestep!" 
And  down  the  porch  they  whirled  to  the  tune  of  "  Too  Much 
Mustard." 

Two  nights  later  they  were  sitting  in  the  same  place. 

"Dick,  wasn't  that  tennis  match  fun  to-day  ?  You  know  yoii 
played  a  splendid  game  ;  I  was  proud  of  you." 

If  Dick  had  been  a  woman  he  would  have  said,  '*  Why  should 
you  be  proud  of  me  ? "  and  Margie  would  have  asked  herself 
why  and  become  angry;  but  being  a  man  he  said,  "  You  know 
that  was  a  good  game,  Margie,"  and  in  his  enthusiasm  he  stood 
lip  and  swung  his  arm  around  in  the  motion  of  tennis  playing. 
It  was  quiet  at  their  end  of  the  porch  and  Margaret,  to  whose 
nature  quiet  was  offensive,  was  jumping  up  to  join  him  in  a 
mimic  game,  when  a  piercing  howl  came  to  them  from  the  forest.. 

**  Oh,  Dick,"  said  a  frightened  little  voice,  "let's  run,"  and 
Margie  caught  his  hand  and  started  towards  the  ballroom. 

Dick  was  pulled  a  half  dozen  steps,  then  he  stopped  short. 
*'  You  think  I'm  going  to  enter  that  ballroom  running  from  a 
noise  ?  It's  just  that  mountain  lion  that's  been  prowling  around 
here  lately.     He's  not  coming  up  on  a  hotel  porch." 

In  spite  of  Dick's  protestations  Margie  was  pulling  him  along 
the  porch.  "  Oh,  Dick,  come  on  !  He  might  jump  up  here  on 
the  porch  and  you  haven't  anything  to  defend  yourself  with." 

This  concern  on  Margie's  part  pleased  Dick  hugely.  "You 
silly  little  girl.  He's  not  going  to  hurt  me.  But  if  you  really 
are  afraid  we'll  go  in  and  dance."  And  the  affair  ended  that 
night  without  further  disturbance. 

But  that  was  not  the  end  of  the  mountain  lion.  He  prowled 
around  the  hotel  at  night,  howling,  until  the  women  almost  had 
hysterics    and   the   men   looked    secretly   for  their    revolvers. 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  297 

Numerous  tales  were  circulated,  of  how  the  lion  appeared  one 
night  in  a  farmer's  fold  and  killed  two  sheep;  another  night  he 
actually  killed  a  cow.  The  peculiar  part  of  it  all  was  that 
nobody  ever  saw  the  lion,  until  one  night  he  attacked  a  moun- 
taineer I  After  that  the  mountaineer  was  the  hero  of  all  the 
meetings  held  around  the  stove  at  the  Crossways  Store.  He 
even  came  up  to  the  hotel  and  told  his  story  to  the  guests.  He 
was  unarmed  when  the  lion  attacked  him,  he  said,  but  he  was 
carrying  his  big  mountain  stick,  and  when  the  lion  sprang  at 
him  he  swung  his  stick  and  struck  him  a  mighty  blow  across 
the  nose.  This  stunned  the  lion  and  the  mountaineer  made  his 
escape  before  the  animal  recovered.  ''  How  big  was  the  lion  ?  " 
asked  a  round  eyed  little  girl. 

*'  Well,  I  didn't  take  time  to  exactlj^  measure  him,''  answered 
the  mountaineer,  "  but  I  reckon  he  was  quite  some  size.  When 
he  sprung  at  me  he  was  taller  than  I  be  because  when  my  stick 
swung  round  it  cracked  him  on  the  nose  up  above  my  head  ; 
and  he  was  quite  some  bigger  around  than  I  be  because  it  were 
a  moonlight  night  and  he  hid  the  light  from  me  entirely." 

This  was  too  much  for  the  excited  minds  of  the  Hotel  guests, 
especially  when  they  considered  the  size  of  that  giant  of  a 
mountaineer.  Several  of  the  assembled  company  slipped  up- 
stairs and  began  to  pack,  and  the  rest  talked  excitedly  of  the 
carelessness  of  the  Hotel  management  in  allowing  a  man-eating 
lion  to  prowl  freely  around  the  country.  This  reached  the  ears 
of  the  management  and  a  mesesnger  was  dispatched  immedia- 
tely to  the  newspaper  office  of  the  neighboring  village.  Fifty 
dollars  was  offered  to  the  man  bringing  in  the  dead  body  of  the 
lion.  Then  the  famous  hunters  of  all  the  surrounding  region 
began  to  appear.  So  interesting  were  the  stories  which  they 
told  that  the  guests  stayed  from  day  to  day  fascinated.  Each 
day  the  hunters  went  out  and  each  day  came  back  defeated,  but 
with  more  and  more  exciting  tales  about  deeds  of  former  days. 

Margie  and  Dick  listened  to  their  stories.  Margie's  attitude 
toward  Dick  became  more  aloof  than  ever.  Here  were  men  who 
did  brave  deeds,  even  if  they  were  rough  old  mountaineers — 
their  hearts  were  worthy  of  Ivanhoe  himself.  Such  was  the 
credulousness  of  Margie. 

Still  the  tales  came  in  of  slaughtered  sheep  and  disastrous 
midnight  prowls.  After  several  days  of  this  exciting  existence, 
Dick  had  an  idea  :   since  the  lion  could  not  be  found  by  day^ 


^98  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

trap  him  by  night.  The  management  entered  heartily  into  his 
plan  and  all  the  men  cleaned  their  guns. 

The  preparations  were  finished  by  nine  o'clock  that  night. 
The  women  and  children  cowered  together  in  the  hotel  parlors 
with  every  door  and  window  locked  and  bolted  except  one  and 
toward  that  one  they  looked  with  fear  and  apprehension.  Out- 
side the  men,  hunters  and  guests,  stood  with  guns  in  readiness, 
s>  throng  to  fright  the  heart  of  the  boldest  lion.  They  kept 
their  eyes  on  the  forest  beyond,  and  talked  in  whispers.  A 
huge  bonfire  lighted  up  the  picture  and  cast  mysterious  sha- 
dows along  the  edge  of  the  forest.  Before  the  fire  stood  a  spit 
upon  which  roasted  a  piece  of  bacon  sending  out  into  the  air 
an  odor  so  appetizing  that  not  even  a  man-eating  lion  could 
resist  it.  The  stillness  was  broken  only  by  the  crackling  of  the 
fire.  Then  a  noise  was  heard  :  the  hungry-sounding  shriek  of  a 
mountain  lion  off  in  the  distance.  The  men  clutched  their  guns. 
Nearer  and  nearer  came  the  sound  and  the  men,  some  of  them, 
looked  furtively  towards  the  door.  Nearer  and  nearer  the 
lion  approached  and  knees  began  to  look  suspiciously  stiff. 
And  then  with  one  dreadful,  ravenous  howl  the  lion  bounded 
from  the  forest  toward  the  fire.  That  last  howl  was  too  much- 
hunters  and  guests,  clinging  madly  to  their  guns  turned  and 
fled  into  the  parlors,  deadly  serious  in  their  efforts  to  escape 
death  and  live  to  prove  their  manhood. 

As  Dick  came  in  he  stumbled  over  his  gun  and  fell  into  the 
arms  of  Margaret  who  was  waiting  for  him.  '*  Oh  Dick,  Dick  ! " 
said  a  tearful  voice  as  she  clung  to  him  desperately,  "how  could 
you  risk  your  life  against  that  dreadful  lion.  Promise  me  you'll 
never  do  such  a  foolish  thing  again." 

And  outside  a  brave  young  wild  cat  was  walking  innocently 
oil  with  a  luscious  piece  of  roasted  bacon  in  his  mouth. 


ABOUT    COLLEGE 


APPLIED  LOGIC 

BARBARA    CHENEY 

Mary  was  returning  from  Christmas  vacation  in  the  5.02  from 
New  York.  As  usual  the  train  was  crowded  and,  as  usual,  late. 
She  gazed  gloomily  at  the  blank  windows  and  reviewed  regret- 
fully the  past  two  weeks.  One  incident  recurred  unpleasantly 
to  her  mind.     It  was  a  speech  delivered  by  her  father. 

*'The  trouble  with  you,"  he  had  said,  "is  that  you  don't 
apply  what  you  learn.  You  study  your  lessons  for  the  day  and 
then  forget  them.  It  doesn't  seem  to  occur  to  you  that  knowl- 
edge may  be  useful  outside  the  class  room." 

At  the  time  Mary  had  been  rebellious.  She  had  recalled  with 
secret'  amusement  her  father's  disgust  when  a  cousin  of  her 
mother's  had  entertained  the  family  with  such  interesting  ques- 
tions as  :  "  What  is  America's  greatest  effort  ?  "  She  had  even 
imagined  his  recitation  of  the  "  Decline  of  the  Birth  Rate''  if 
introduced  by  herself.  Now,  however,  it  was  different.  The 
train  had  left  Springfield  and  father  seemed  the  personification 
of  all  good  things. 

"  I'll  try  it,"  she  resolved.  "  I'll  apply  everything  I  learn  to 
everything  in  sight." 

In  the  excitement  of  getting  herself  and  her  suit-case  into  Mr. 
Kieley's  hack  before  anj^one  else  and  in  meeting  Lncy,  her 
dear  roommate  from  whom  she  had  been  separated  for  two 
weeks,  she  forgot  her  resolution,  but  next  morning  the  chilly 
breakfast  room  and  the  arrival  of  the  mail  "  stabbed  her  spirit 
broad  awake."  She  went  to  her  room  full  of  determination. 
Ten  minutes  later  her  roommate  bristled  in. 

"  Hurry  up,  Mary  !  I've  been  waiting  downstairs  for  ages. 
We'll  never  make  chapel  if  you  don't  come  this  instant.'* 

Mary  gazed  at  her  helplessly. 

*' Shall  I  wear  rubbers?"  she  asked.  (To  tell  my  readers 
that  it  was  raining  is,  of  course,  unnecessary.  It  is  enough  to 
say  that  this  was  the  day  after  vacation.) 

**  Why,  yes,  if  you  want  to  ;  it  really  doesn't  matter,  only  do 
hurry — " 

2d9 


300  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

Mary  grew  dignified.  ''Such  hasty  decisions  are  worthless. 
You  must  go  at  it  logically.  Now  :  all  prudent  people  wear 
rubbers  in  the  rain.  I  am  a  prudent  person.  Therefore  I  wear 
rubbers  in  the  rain.  That  won't  do,  you  see,  because  I'm  not 
very  prudent.  And  I  can't  say  everyone  wears  rubbers,  because 
they  don't.     What  shall  I  do  ?  " 

Lucy  was  surprised,  but  she  was  a  placid  person  and  adapted 
herself  to  the  situation. 

"You  are  timid. 
All  timid  people  are  cautious. 
All  cautious  people  wear  rubbers. 
Therefore  you  wear  rubbers. 

That's  a  Goclenian  sorites.     Put  on  your  rubbers  and  come!" 

Mary  obeyed  meekly.  She  allowed  herself  to  be  led  down 
the  stairs  while  she  hastily  resolved  the  sorites  into  its  compo- 
nent syllogisms,  but  a  further  test  of  her  new  mode  of  life 
awaited  her  in  the  hall.  The  House  Matron  greeted  her  with  a 
smile. 

''Is  your  cold  better,  Mary  ?"  she  asked. 

Mary  rallied  her  failing  forces  splendidly. 

"  That's  a  complex  question,"  she  returned  icily.  "  1  refuse- 
to  answer." 

The  walk  to  chapel  was  uneventful.  Lucy,  fearing  for  her 
reason,  clung  tightly  to  her  roommate's  arm,  while  that  young 
person  contented  herself  with  wondering  how  one  could  walk 
logically.  Professor  Ganong  and  her  idea  that  a  straight  line 
was  the  shortest  distance  between  two  points  seemed  cruelly 
contradictory.  Once  in  chapel,  she  sank  wearily  into  her  seat 
and  prepared  to  enjoy  the  rest  which  President  Burton  had 
assured  her  could  be  found  here.  But  cruel  Fate  I  The  lesson 
read  was  the  Beatitudes  and  the  task  of  completing  each  enthy- 
meme  before  the  next  was  read  left  her  limp  and  exhausted. 

There  is  a  limit  to  human  woes.  Mary's  release  came  a& 
unexpectedly  as  the  appearance  of  Raffles  from  the  clock, 
through  no  less  a  person  than  Mr.  Creighton  himself.  She  was 
reviewing  Chapter  I  and  came  upon  these  statements  : 

*'  I  do  not  think  that  logic  can  be  regarded  as  an  art,  in  the 
sense  that  it  furnishes  a  definite  set  of  rules  for  thinking  cor- 
rectly. Students  whose  only  interest  in  the  subject  is  the  prac- 
tical one  of  finding  some  rules  that  may  be  directly  applied  tO' 
make  them  infallible  reasoners  are  likely  to  be  disappointed." 


THE   SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY  301 

She  closed  her  book  with  a  joyful  slam  which  caused  a  twenty 
minutes'  discussion  in  the  next  council  meeting. 

And  so  ends  my  story.  Lucy's  peace  of  mind  was  restored. 
The  House  Matron  returned  to  her  theory  that  colh^ge  did  not 
<lestroy  the  good  manners  of  young  girls  and  Father  received  a 
letter  which  convinced  him  that  his  daughter  had  an  active  if 
misofuided  mind. 


EXPERIENCE   AS   TEACHER 

MARION   S.    WALKER 

''And  some  have  greatness  thrust  upon  them."  I  have  always 
heard  with  incredulity  of  this  third  class  of  the  great.  It  has 
been  my  lot  in  walking  up  and  down  upon  the  earth,  and  in 
peeping  into  its  written  records,  to  meet  a  few  of  those  who 
were  born  great.  More  familiar  to  me  are  those  who  by  *'  pain- 
ful steps  and  slow"  have  achieved  greatness — but  this  matter  of 
having  it  thrust  upon  one  is  quite  beyond  the  range  of  my 
experience.  If  however,  I  become  at  any  time  a  famous  play- 
wright, my  doubts  will  be  resolved,  and  I  shall  pack  myself 
without  hesitation  into  the  third  compartment  of  the  great. 

For  be  it  understood  at  the  outset,  I  have  never  had  any  n  - 
tention  of  writing  a  pla3^  Not  even  in  my  optimistic  days, 
when  at  the  age  of  ten  I  wrote  a  Masterpiece  of  tlie  Worhl's 
Literature,  and  thought  how  future  generations  would  thrill  to 
read  its  concluding  sentence  "and  her  footprints  died  away  in 
the  distance."  Perhaps  it  was  due  to  the  influence  of  stern 
Presbyterian  ancestors,  to  whom  the  theatre  was  the  abode  of 
Satan,  and  the  play  his  amusement,  that  my  youthful  ambition 
never  turned  toward  dramatization.  Perhaps,  too,  the  lack  of 
brothers  and  sisters  to  serve  as  audience,  held  me  back  :  I  real- 
ized with  some  bitterness  that  my  cats,  entirely  satisfactory 
though  they  usually  were  as  companions,  could  not  be  relied 
upon  to  be  fully  in  sympathy  with  my  literarj^  asi)irations.  So 
up  to  the  time  when  I  came  to  college,  the  idea  of  writing  a  play 
had  never  entered  my  head. 

When  during  my  freshman  year,  a  prize  play  was  written  by 
a  senior,  and  all  the  world  went  to  the  Academy  of  Music  and 
marvelled,  I  too  was  thrilled,  and  I  remembered  with  a  feeling 
akin  to  awe  that  I  had  walked  home  from  the  Browsing  Room 


302  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

one  night  with  that  very  senior,  never  dreaming  that  she  was  a 
genius.  After  the  production  of  "  Purple  and  Fine  Linen  "  its- 
author  was  the  object  of  my  reverent  admiration,  but  no  pre- 
sumptuous thought  of  emulation  arose  in  my  mind. 

Toward  the  end  of  sophomore  year  a  notice  was  read  in 
English  thirteen  class  of  a  prize  of  ten  thousand  dollars  offered 
for  the  best  play  submitted  by  an  American  playwright  before 
August  fifteenth.  We  were  told  that  there  was  nothing  what- 
ever to  prevent  one  of  us  from  getting  the  prize.  Thus  assured 
and  allured  by  the  promise  of  golden  reward,  I  turned  to  the 
friend  of  my  bosom  and  whispered  ''  Let's  write  a  play.  You 
can  have  five  thousand  and  I'll  have  five  thousand." 

*'  Yes,  let's.     And  111  buy  a  Steinway  Grand." 

*'  And  oh,  do  you  suppose"  I  break  in  excitedly  '''  that  I  can' 
buy  an  island  for  five  thousand — a  little  rocky  island  in  the 
Atlantic,  with  a  house  on  a  bluff,  and  some  books  and  a  fire- 
place ?  " 

Straightway  we  are  lost  in  the  contemplation  of  the  Steinway 
Grand  and  of  the  island,  and  the  play — a  minor  detail,  after  all, 
sinks  into  oblivion. 

It  is  only  this  year  that  the  matter  has  taken  a  serious  turn. 
Let  me  reiterate  here,  before  it  is  too  late,  that  I  am  still  of  the 
same  mind,  now  as  always,  whatever  else  I  may  plan  to  perpe- 
trate, I  have  no  inclination  desire  or  ambition  to  write  a  play. 
I  am  taking  this  opportunity  of  saying  so  in  order  that  if  any- 
thing should  happen,  my  friends  may  know  that  I  am  not  en- 
tirely to  blame — that  I  am  acting  against  my  better  impulses, 
because  circumstances  have  been  too  strong  for  me. 

First,  a  month  or  so  ago,  came  the  offer  of  a  prize  for  a  one- 
act  play.  It  was  brought  to  my  notice  one  evening  at  the 
dinner-table,  and  Isabel  suggested  that  I  write  a  play.  I  ex- 
plained carefully  that  I  couldn't  possibly  do  so,  having  neither 
desire,  time  nor  ability.     But  my  friend  persisted. 

^'  For  the  honor  of  the  house,  you  know,  someone  should  try. 
And  my  dear  !  If  you  should  get  the  prize,  wouldn't  it  be 
wonderful  9  " 

"  What  do  you  want  us  to  give  you,  if  you  get  the  prize  ?  "^ 
This  from  Ethelinda,  our  cheerful  giver. 

"That  gorgeous  Chaucer-book  of  Percy  MacKaye's?"  I  paused, 
enraptured  at  the  vision. 

"  Will  you  lend  it  to  me  ?  "    comes  a  little  voice  from  the  foot 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY       30a 

of  the  table,  where  Ellen,  our  bookworm,  sat.  I  was  deei)ly 
interested  in  this  turn  of  the  conversation,  and  if  left  to  myself 
would  doubtless  have  stopped  with  the  Chaucer-book,  even  as 
the  year  before  I  was  stranded  on  my  island.  But  Isabel,  she 
who  proposed  that  I  write  a  play,  is  of  a  capable  and  practical 
nature,  so  she  insisted  upon  bringing-  me  back  to  what  she  con- 
sidered the  main  issue — I  didn't  think  it  was,  at  all.  When 
Isabel  makes  up  her  mind  that  Tm  to  do  something,  I  usually 
acquiesce  at  once.  It  saves  so  much  useless  effort.  So  almost 
before  I  knew  it,  I  found  that  I  had  purchased  by  proxy  — 
Isabel  was  the  proxy— two  tickets  for  the  model  play.  When 
Ellen  and  I  had  made  use  of  the  tickets^,  I  came  home  of  the 
same  mind  as  before,  with  the  single  difference  that  my  resist- 
ance, previously  a  general  state  of  mind,  was  now  developed 
in  outline  form,  with  a  proposition  and  four  main  heads,  as 
follows  : 

PROPOSITION 

I  cannot  write  a  play. 

for    1.     I   cannot  write   a   romantic   comedy 

because  A.     I  am  unacquainted  with  the 
nature  of  man. 
and  B.     I  am  proof  against  the   ro- 
mantic appeal  of  a  waste- 
basket. 

2.  I   cannot   write    *'A  Study  in  Psychology" 

because  A.     I  don't  know  enough. 

and  B.     We  don't  have  it  until  next 
semester. 

3.  I  cannot  write  a  tragedy  nor  a  melodrama 

for  A.     I   earnestly    desire   to   sleep 

the  sleep  of  the  just, 
and  B.     I  have  a  sense  of  humor. 

4.  I   cannot    write    a   farce   comedy    for    the 

thought  is  unthinkable. 

**And  the  moral  of  that "  would  seem  to  be  that  I  cannot 
write  a  pla}^  at  all.  Not  so  convincing  was  my  reasoning  t(> 
Isabel  the  Practical.  I  rise  at  the  sound  of  the  breakfast-bell  to 
be  greeted  over  the  coffee  with  "  How's  the  play  getting  along  ?  '^ 
and  of  late  ''You  really  must  get  down  to  work  on  that  play." 


304  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

I  could  have  survived  this,  for  one  can  avoid  Isabel.  Be 
prompt,  and  you  will  never  meet  her  at  the  break  fast- table — 
her  motto  is  "  It  is  vain  to  rise  up  early  in  the  morning,"  and 
she  abides  by  it  religiousl5^  But  a  new  peril  drew  near,  when 
there  was  posted  on  the  bulletin  board  a  request  from  the  Lend- 
a-Hand  Dramatic  Societj^,  for  a  three-act  play.  The  girls  in 
the  house  knew  better  than  to  approach  me  on  the  subject, 
early  rising  had  not  improved  my  temper.  But  there  are  others. 
I  will  not  dwell  upon  this  second  danger,  however,  except  to 
hint  darkly  that  deliverance  is  in  sight. 

A  graver  menace  is  impending,  and  from  a  most  unexpected 
quarter.  In  the  few  frantic  pre-Thanksgiving  days,  a  series  of 
accidents  happened  in  our  house.  Among  other  things,  Eth- 
elind's  window  lost  two  panes,  Ellen's  radiator  ceased  to  radiate, 
and  my  bed  suffered  what  my  roommate  (who  is  majoring  in 
biology)  describes  as  a  compound  fracture  of  the  anterior 
appendage.  So  the  campus  surgeon  of  broken  beds  and  of 
incapacitated  radiators  was  much  about  our  house  in  those 
days.  He  came  among  us  glowing  with  a  great  enthusiasm, 
and  as  he  labored  to  restore  Ellen's  radiator  to  its  radiation,  he 
demanded,  "  Can  you  write  a  play  ?" 

^'  No,  indeed,"  said  Ellen  the  unassuming. 

*'  Well,  do  you  know  anyone  who  can  ?  I  have  a  corking 
story  for  a  play — entirely  original,  too." 

*'  One  act  ?"   inquired  Ellen,  mindful  of  the  house  ambition. 

*^0h  no,  no.  Complete  four-act  play.  Business  the  main 
interest — scene  in  the  stock  exchange— thatll  take  with  the 
men — a  love-interest  woven  in — got  to  have  that ;  a  humorous 
scene  somewhere — that's  always  good — "  and  the  enthusiast 
held  forth  at  length  over  the  still-suffering  radiator,  concerning 
his  marvelous  plot.  I  will  not  tell  the  story,  that  is  his  secret, 
but  sufiB.ce  it  to  say  that  Ellen— wretch  that  she  is — nominated 
me  to  write  the  play. 

''Well,  who  is  this  girl?"  demanded  the  Enthusiast.  "Is 
she  qualified  to  write  it  up  ?    What  does  she  write  ?" 

"Well,"  drawled  a  voice  from  the  hall,  where  the  carpet- 
sweeper  was  being  trundled  vigorously,  "she  writes  for  the 
Springfield  Union  reg'lar." 

Down  came  the  fist  of  the  Enthusiast  on  the  radiator  with  a 
thump.  "She's  the  girl  I  want!  If  she  can  write  for  the 
Springfield  Union  she's  the  one  to  write  my  play.      It  needs  to 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY  305 

l)e  worded  up  good  y'know — I  can't  do  that.  She  can.  I'll  be 
the  silent  partner.  She  gets  all  the  credit  and  half  of  the 
money,  five  hundred  dollars  down,  and  four  hundred  a  month 
in  royalties  for  six  or  seven  years  if  it  makes  a  hit — and  it's 
bound  to.  But  if  it  don't  take  on  the  stage,  we're  sure  of  a 
hundred  and  fifty  at  least  from  the  movies,  though  there,  of 
course,  the  wordin'  don't  stand.  Where  is  that  girl  ?  When 
can  I  see  her  ?  " 

My  faithless  friends  searched  high  and  low,  but  "the  ladie 
isna  seen."  The  Enthusiast  was  nothing  daunted.  "  I'll  keej) 
coming  till  I  see  her.  But  I  know  she'll  do  it.  There's  no 
doubt  about  it." 

"  She's  pretty  busy,"  suggested  the  voice  from  the  hall. 

"Oh,  that  may  be.  But  Christmas  vacation  is  coming — 
there's  her  cliance.  She  won't  be  busy  then.  I  must  see  that 
girl." 

Since  then  my  life  has  been  spent  in  dodging  the  Enthusiast 
by  day  (he  has  called  six  times)  and  in  writing  plays  by  night. 
I  always  awake  with  a  start  just  before  the  end — and  with  a 
terrible  fear  that  the  end  is  going  to  be  in  the  movies — where, 
thank  goodness,  "  the  wordin'  don't  count." 

From  my  earliest  menace,  the  one-act  play,  and  its  less  men- 
acing successor  in  three  acts,  as  I  have  already  hinted,  deliver- 
ance is  at  hand.  The  time-limit  for  both  of  these  is  December 
first,  and  even  as  I  write  in  the  radiance  of  my  light-cut,  the 
last  day  of  November  is  drawing  to  a  close.  But  I  could  almost 
wish  that  I  had  yielded,  and  had  written  one  of  these,  if  by  so 
doing  I  might  have  averted  the  greater  calamity  which  impends. 
Christmas  vacation  !  Alas  !  For  me  no  youthful  merry-mak- 
ing, no  hope  of  calm  repose.  But  double,  double,  toil  and 
trouble,  with  the  movies  at  the  end  of  it  all.  I  feel  a  numbness 
coming  over  my  spirit,  and  it  bodes  no  good.  Circumstances 
have  been  too  strong  for  me  ;  I  know  that  I  am  going  to  yield. 
But  when  in  ages  yet  to  come,  further  generations  shall  spell 
out  from  a  tomb-stone  my  movie-immortalized  name,  may  they 
never  know  the  depths  of  tragedy  concealed  within  its  epitaph — 
^'And  some  have  greatness  thrust  upon  them." 


HEARD    ON    THE    TAR    WALK 


Bread  may  be  the  staff  of  life  but  I  am  sure 
Excitement  excitement  is  the  arm  chair — nothing  else  re- 
vives our  weary  minds  as  does  a  few  momenta 
spent  in  this  delicious  state.  I  don't  mean  hectic,  wild  excite- 
ment, but  just  the  nice,  respectable  kind.  If  President  Burton 
knew  what  pleasure  he  gave  by  whispering  to  Professor  Ganong 
in  chapel,  if  he  realized  how  many  delighted  eyes  were  follow- 
ing his  every  move  during  the  mysterious  proceeding,  he  would 
do  something  of  the  sort  every  week.  Perhaps  the  faculty 
would  join  in  the  good  work,  too.  A  wheeze  from  the  organ  at 
the  wrong  time  is  very  nice,  but  suppose  several  members  were 
to  sit  with  their  backs  to  the  students,  or  Miss  Jordan  were  to 
sit  on  the  other  side  of  the  platform  I  really  think  an  improve- 
ment would  be  noticed  in  our  work  that  day  (and  probably  in 
the  attendance  of  chapel  on  the  next  day).  Fve  often  thought 
of  screaming  out  loud  during  one  of  the  pauses,  but  I  haven't 
arrived  at  a  degree  of  enthusiasm  quite  high  enough  yet  to 
offer  myself  as  a  martyr  to  the  cause.  The  consequences  of 
such  an  act  seem  enchanting,  it  must  be  admitted. 

And  now  they  say  we  must  not  be  excited  over  exams. 
Really  this  is  too  much.  What  would  be  the  use  of  that  trying 
period  without  excitement  ?  Sometimes  I  am  not  worried  at  all; 
I  feel  sure  that  I  shall  pass  and  life  seems  very  dull.  Then  I  go 
down  to  breakfast  ;  some  one  appears  and  says  ''Oh  I'm  just 
petrified.  I  don't  know  a  thing  ! ''  I  begin  to  have  a  little 
creepy  feeling.  Someone  else  assures  me  that  "  It's  sure  to 
be  a  fright.  They  always  are."  By  the  time  breakfast  is  over 
**  Life  is  real  and  Life  is  earnest."  A  shivering  group  of 
ignorant  friends  who  haven't  "  a  single  thought,  my  dear  "' 
await  me  on  the  steps  of  Graham  Hall  at  nine  o'clock,  and  so 
the  work  goes  on. 


306 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  307 

Now  I  insist  that  without  this  prelude  those  two  hours  spent 
in  writing  my  views  in  a  horrid  little  yellow  book  would  be  un- 
bearable. But  to  be  raised  from  the  depths  of  despair  to  bliss- 
ful relief  in  the  same  period  is  an  experience. 

Then  if  you  are  scared,  the  element  of  chance  is  so  much 
more  interesting.  You  have  time  to  look  over  one  more  chap- 
ter, shall  it  be  six  or  nine  ?  and  the  inevitable  remark  "  Such 
luck!"  is  uttered  as  you  drink  chocolate  after  the  fray.  The 
remark  is  always  the  same  whether  or  not  he  asks  about  your 
chapter,  but  the  tone  is  different. 

I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  be  outwardly  calm  and  not  scare 
others,  but  I  hope,  yes  I  reaJl}^  do.  that  Fll  be  scared  to  death 
inside  during  all  my  exams. 


Barbara  Cheney  1915. 


Bedtime 


Come  heah  yo'  h'l'  darky  chile,  an'  res' 

Yo'  tired  head  upon  yo'  mammy's  breas'. 

She  gwine  to  hole  j'eh  'til  you'se  fas'  asleep, 

An'  then  she'll  hole  yeh  longer  jes'  to  keep 

Away  the  ghostses,  an'  the  boogey-boos. 

An'  the  great  big.  awful  debbil  in  his  long-toed,  squeaky  shoes. 

An'  if  yo'  is  a  bad  chile  when  it's  dark  you'll  lie  awake. 

An'  mos'  prob'ly  you'll  heah  him  comin*  fo'  to  take 

Yeh,  whar'  it's  always  col'  and  gloomin'. 

An'  quare,  white  things  come  a-loomin', 

An'  all  the  time  yeh  don't  git  nothin'  fer  teh  eat — 

But  the  great  big,  awful  debbil  call  fo'  darky  meat. 

An'  li'l'  hump-back  men  with  beards  and  piercin'  eyes 

Comes  a-snoopin'  ronn",  until  they  spies 

Yeh  hidin'  in  the  corner,  shiverin'  an'  scared. 

An'  they  laughs  an'  sez  they  wonders  if  yo'  is  white  when  yo'  is  pared  : 

Or  if  yo'  mammy'd  know  yeh,  if  she  seed  yeh  in  a  dream, 

As  you  wus  bein'  served  up  on  a  platter  all  a-steam. 

An'  then  liT  sonny  you'll  sho  wish  yo'  wus  hyar 

A-rockin'  with  yo'  mammy  in  this  good  ole  rockin'  cheer : 

An'  you'd  vow  yeh  wouldn't  play  no  mo'  when  yo"  mammy's  tuckered  out, 

An'  don't  feel  like  chasin'  naughty  chiles  about. 

So  leave  off  a-foolln',  honey,  now  it's  time  to  go  to  bed, 

An'  yo'  mammy's  gwine  to  hole  yeh  til'  yo'  li'l'  sleepy  head 

Jes'  naturally  go  a-noddin'  agin  her  breas '. 

An'  then  she  gwine  teh  pray  the  Lord  teh  bless 

Yeh,  and  to  let  yo'  stay  right  hyar, 

A-rockin  with  yo'  mammy  in  this  good  ole  rockin'  cheer. 

Ruth  Hawley  Rodgers  1916. 


308       THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

Sometimes  I  wish  I  had  what  old.  Hiram 
The  Gift  of  Gab  Baldwia  used  to  call  "the  gift  of  gab/' 
With  Hiram  it  was  a  term  of  contempt, 
to  be  applied  to  a  man  addicted  to  too  many  "fish  stories,"  or 
to  too  highly  colored  religious  experiences,  and  to  women  con- 
tinually scolding  or  constantly  using  the  neighborhood  tele- 
phone line.  Since  then  I've  heard  it  applied  to  sewing  machine 
agents,  promoters  of  mining  stock  that  was  rank  fiction,  and  to 
anyone  who  monopolizsd  conversation. 

The  gift  which  I  desire  is  a  smaller  edition,  one  that  would 
enable  me  to  speak  well,  to  gtdd  my  contribution  to  whatever 
was  being  discussed.  Yet  there  are  many  times  when  I  am 
glad  I  have  not  even  this.  In  a  company  of  girls,  all  of  whom 
are  well  able  to  express  themselves  and  take  the  same  time  in 
which  to  do  it,  it  would  only  be  one  more  wave  which  I  could 
contribute  to  the  ocean  of  sound.  When  I  hear  a  person  unfa- 
vorably spoken  of,  although  I  may  think  volumes  on  the  sub- 
ject, yet  what  I  think  does  not  harm  the  person  and  what  is 
said  may,  unless  it  is  said  to  a  stone  wall.  If  a  person  is  hold- 
ing forth  at  length  on  a  subject  about  which  I  know  very  little, 
instead  of  side-tracking  that  person  by  trying  to  show  what  I 
do  know,  I  can  either  ask  questions  or  go  to  sleep,  according  to 
the  time,  place,  and  circumstances. 

But  sometimes,  as  I  have  already  said,  I  want  this  gift  very 
much.  Once  in  a  great  while  I  long  to  overwhelm  with  a  fl.ow 
of  words,  a  torrent  of  phrases,  and  a  cataract  of  well-related 
sentences  anj^  person  who  dares  to  suppose  that  my  silence 
betokens  a  lack  of  gray  matter.  Also  in  entertaining  some 
callers,  I  need  the  "gift  of  gab."  If  a  young  man  is  bashful 
(which  happens  about  once  in  a  blue  moon,  but  I  always  seem 
to  have  a  partnership  with  that  blue  moon),  m}^  tongue  never 
stimulates  conversation  to  a  bright  and  ruddy  glow,  but  barely 
keeps  it  from  going  out  entirely.  Only  the  calls  of  the  minister 
do  not  bother  me.  It's  a  minister's  life  work  to  talk  and  I  am 
a  good  subject  to  practice  upon.  In  some  classes  I  desire  this 
gift.  If  I  know"  the  answer  to  a  question  I  usually  put  it  into  a 
dozen  words  when  there  is  need  of  a  paragraph.  And  if  I  don't 
know  it,  I  say  so,  when  by  starting  in  at  random  I  would  in 
time  arrive  at  the  proper  answer  and  give  much  information  on 
the  way.  Others  do  it,  but  I  can  not.  People  are  not  equally 
gifted  in  this  world. 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      309 

Although  practice  will  do  much  along  lines  in  which  we  are 
deficient,  my  series  of  lectures  to  myself  seem  ineffectual.  But 
if  by  practice  I  should  obtain  the  "gift  of  gab,"  I  intend  to 
keep  it  in  proper  training  so  that  it  will  be  a  benefit  to  me  and 
a  source  of  enjoyment  even  among  those  who  have  such  gifts  of 
their  own.  And  as  a  last  resort,  if  it  becomes  uncontrollable 
(and  only  when  it  does),  I  shall  endure  it  as  gracefully  as  possi- 
ble and  make  my  living  by  it  like  the  college  students  who 
work  their  way  by  selling  "Paths  to  Heaven"  or  patent  pan- 
cake turners  through  the  summer.  Elsie  Green  1916. 

The  Gardener 

He  stood  one  morning  at  the  garden  gate, 

His  trowel  in  his  hand,  for  he  had  come 

To  tend  the  garden's  pride,  a  wondrous  rose — 

That  graced  the  distant  wall,  with  promise  rare 

Of  lovely  blossoms.     At  his  feet  he  saw 

A  tiny  floweret  drooping  its  limp  head, 

So  choked  with  weeds  it  was.     He  bent  at  once 

And  nursed  and  cared  for  it  until  it  smiled — 

And  then  beyond  he  saw  a  daisy  pale 

That  cried  for  water,  and  behind  it  stood 

A  bed  of  pansies,  that  had  grown  too  thick — 

A  vine  had  fallen  and  was  creeping  now 

Upon  the  tender  sprays  of  mignonette  ; 

He  cared  for  all — and  all  in  turn  revived, 

But  when  at  last  he  reached  the  garden  wall 

The  suu  was  set,  the  wondrous  rose  was  dead. 

Ellen  Veronica  McLoughlin  1915. 


EDITORIAL 


Of  late  we  have  heard  much  about  the  relationship  of  the 
student  to  the  outside  world.  We  are  told  that  we  are  being 
fitted  for  the  outside  world.  But  exactly  what  is  this  outside 
world  towards  which  we  are  being  ]ed  ?  How  may  we  know  if 
ever  we  reach  it  ?  '  May  we  not  be  in  it  now  ? 

To  most  of  us  the  term  outside  ivorld  signifies  the  place  where 
people  do  things,  the  world  of  business  and  politics.  It  is  a 
place  in  which  life  shows  all  its  varied  and  complicated  aspects ; 
a  place  of  broader  view  where  events  and  circumstances  show 
their  relative  importance  or  unimportance. 

We  are  more  or  less  intimately  in  touch  with  this  so-called 
outside  world  during  vacation.  And  most  of  us  doubtless  felt 
its  effect  in  the  readjusting  of  our  standards  and  the  shifting 
of  our  emphasis.  Certain  college  honors,  the  attainment  of 
which  had  seemed  to  us  essential  to  our  happiness,  were  seen, 
when  away  from  the  glare  of  college  light,  to  be  trivial  enough. 
We  were  unexpectedly  exuberent  when  the  children  clamored 
^'Tell  us  one  of  your  stories,"  and  ''  tell  it  again."  The  honor 
of  writing  the  Ivy  Song  seemed  far  away. 

But  we  also  saw  that  merely  to  live  in  this  so-called  outside 
world  does  not  mean  necessarily  the  acquisition  of  "  outside 
world  ''  qualities.  For  side  by  side  with  men  and  women  who 
are  occupied  in  seeing  problems  and  in  coping  with  difficulties 
in  a  large  way  are  those  whose  lives  are  shallow  and  narrow, 
those  who  seem  asleep  to  the  activities  around  them.  So  we 
may  infer  that  the  outside  world  is  not  a  matter  of  geography 
or  dwelling  therein  depends  upon  our  own  attitude  towards  life 
and  our  point  of  view. 

In  one  sense  there  always  must  be  an  outside  world.  For  we 
cannot  live  everywhere  at  once.  We  can  only  strive  to  know 
more  phases  of  human  interest.      To  the  business  man  or  the 

SIO 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  311 

politician,  the  world  of  art  and  letters  may  be  an  outside  world, 
although  if  he  would,  he  could  find  it  in  the  heart  of  his  next- 
door  neighbor.  And  to  the  city-bred  man  the  farmer's  probably 
is  an  outside  world,  —  the  world  farthest  from  his  familiar 
knowledge  and  comprehension. 

In  another  sense  we  create  outside  worlds  for  ourselves.  Our 
chief  interest  should  center  not  so  much  in  what  is  done  as  in 
the  attitude  of  mind  and  in  the  qualities  of  character  that 
made  achievements  possible.  We  begin  to  see  that  college 
activities  in  and  for  themselves  are  not  all  important.  But 
their  value  lies  in  the  training  in  loyalty,  earnestness,  persever- 
ence,  tolerance  and  thoughtfulness  for  others,  which  they  afford. 
These  are  the  elements  important  in  any  world — the  world  out- 
side of  pettiness  and  selfishness  and  shallowness.  And  these 
are  the  qualities  that  we  can  have  with  us  now  and  always, 
wherever  we  are  and  whether  our  occupations  are  important  or 
trivial. 

We  are  told  that  we  are  being  prepared  for  the  outside  world. 
But  is  not  the  best  preparation  our  effort  to  develop  now  and 
here  those  qualities  that  are  found  in  the  ideal  outside  world  ? 
In  coming  into  closer  touch  with  the  community  in  which  we 
are  college  residents  for  four  years  we  are  given  the  opportunity 
to  enlarge  our  horizon,  if  we  will.  If  the  college  students 
would  be  alert  to  the  interests  that  surround  them  it  could 
no  longer  be  said  that  the  college  atmosphere  is  narrowing  and 
leads  to  self-centered  interests  and  misplaced  emphasis.  It  is 
possible  for  us  to  make  the  college  interests  coincident  with 
those  of  an  outside  world. 


EDITOR^S    TABLE 


All  the  signs  of  the  times  show  us  that  Smith  College  is- 
steadily  pushing  ahead  to  the  realization  of  her  careful  plans. 
The  Million  Dollar  Fund  was  completed  last  June  and  when  we- 
returned  in  the  fall  the  ground  was  already  broken  for  the  new 
biological  building.  The  speakers  this  j^ear  have  been  except- 
ionally fine  and  we  have  profited  by  a  series  of  well  chosen  ai  t 
exhibits.  And  last  month  a  committee  of  Smith  College  Alum- 
nae met  here  to  consider  how  their  association  could  best  further 
the  interests  of  the  student  body.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  it  all, 
we  feel  that  we  have  a  certain  kind  of  need  that  is  being  over- 
looked. It  is  like  the  need  for  a  direct  route  between  the  Penn- 
sylvania and  Grand  Central  Stations  in  New  York.  There  we 
duly  enjoy  the  little  twinkling  stars  that  shine  down  from  their 
azure  setting,  and  the  marble  columns,  and  the  broad  stairs, 
but  we  cannot  help  feeling  that  we  would  prefer  humbler 
stations  if  it  meant  a  more  convenient  transit.  We  waste  so 
much  time  and  energy—all  for  the  need  of  a  perfectly  obvious 
convenience.  We  wish  to  express  a  feeling  somewhat  akin  to 
this  about  the  college  house. 

Hygiene  is  always  tjie  first  consideration  and  we  met  our 
screens  this  fall  with  joyous  gratitude.  Now  the  thing  that  we 
need  most  is  a  downstairs  cloak  room  for  the  house.  It  shouLl 
have  plenty  of  hooks,  set  basins  and  a  well  lighted,  full  length 
mirror.  It  has  been  said  that  the  Smith  girl  is  known  by  a 
peculiar  misjudgment  concerning  the  bottom  of  her  skirt.  But 
we  feel  confident  that  there  would  be  no  further  ground  for  such 
criticism  if  she  were  only  given  a  chance  to  inspect  it  for  herself. 
Perhaps  the  record  of  promptness  for  lunch  would  also  be  im- 
proved by  such  an  addition.  Among  the  smaller  accessories  it 
goes  without  saying  that  every  tub  should  be  supplied  with  an 
appropriate  bath  mat.    A  dumb  waiter  and  a  clothes  shoot  from 

31S 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  313 

the  fourth  floor  down  are  thrown  in  as  suggestive  possibilities. 
It  would  be  pleasant,  too,  if  the  parlors  held  seating  capacity  for 
the  whole  house.  On  formal  occasions  it  is  not  from  choice  that 
we  sit  on  the  tables  and  the  floor.  Corner  seats  and  window 
seats  built  in  might  prove  an  economical  solution  for  this  diffi- 
culty. 

Perhaps  the  boon  that  we  most  often  wish  for  is  what  maybe 
broadly  termed  a  tool  room.  In  this  room  must  be  a  sewing 
machine,  a  guillotine  paper  cutter,  letter  scales,  a  simple  car- 
penter's kit  and  a  large  table — or  even  wooden  horses  and  a 
smooth  board  to  be  set  up  at  will.  One  end  of  the  room  might 
be  kept  for  electric  appliances.  Many  a  time  we  would  gladly 
save  half  a  dollar  by  pressing  our  own  skirt.  And  some  of  us 
would  be  grateful  for  the  chance  to  do  for  ourselves  what  the 
college  laundry  list  must  needs  leave  undone.  An  electric 
cooker,  used  with  discretion,  would  be  invaluable  for  those 
whose  infirmity  will  not  allow  them  to  partake  of  the  usual 
fare.  We  do  not  by  any  means  expect  to  have  all  these  desires 
satisfied  at  once,  but  we  feel  more  and  more  the  need  for  a  few 
domestic  conveniences.  R.  C. 

It  is  possible  to  compare  college  magazines  with  standard 
y)ublications  of  the  larger  world,  and  this  method  of  criticism 
may  be  of  advantage,  in  that  it  shows  clearly  the  limitations 
and  defects  of  the  college  magazines.  But  the  limitations  are 
as  a  rule  unavoidable,  and  the  defects  are  apt  to  receive  undue 
emphasis  by  this  method  of  criticism,  so  that  the  real  worth  of 
the  college  magazines  is  lost  sight  of.  And  we  must  be  opti- 
mistic as  well  as  just.  A  more  constructive  method  of  criticism 
is  to  be  found  in  the  comparison  of  college  magazines  with  each 
other,  for  in  this  way  the  real  merits  of  the  magazine  may  be 
discerned. 

We  were  greatl}-  pleased  with  the  college  magazines  of  late 
December  and  Januai-y  ;  very  few  of  our  exchanges  contained 
mach  poor  work,  and  many  of  them  contained  literature  excep- 
tionally good.  And  the  best  literature  of  our  exchanges  is  for 
the  most  part  that  in  which  the  subject  or  theme  is  a  little 
unusual  ;  it  is  for  this  reason  more  interesting  to  the  average 
reader.     This  is  particularly  true  of  the  short  stories. 

In  the  Normal  College  Echo  ''The  Four  Brides  of  Aunedal- 
shoren  "   is  exceedingly  good.      The   title   itself  arouses  one's 


3U  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

interest.  The  quaint  atmosphere  of  the  place  is  enjoyable,  and 
the  undertone  of  pathos  throughout  the  story  appeals  to  the 
sympathy  of  the  reader.  "  In  the  Dato's  Harem  "  in  the  Har- 
vard Advocate  is  a  well-written  and  interesting  story  ;  it  seems 
to  us  a  trifle  improbable,  however.  "Cayotte  Falls"  in  the 
same  magazine  is  exceedingly  good  ;  the  story  is  cleverly  told 
and  the  incidents  well  chosen.  There  is  a  story  in  the  Sepiad, 
*'  The  Making  Over  of  Dante  Ventione,"  the  scene  of  which  is 
familiar  to  almost  everyone.  The  theme  of  the  story  is  not 
unusual ;  indeed,  the  adoption  of  a  little  boy  by  two  maiden 
ladies  may  be  termed  a  commonplace  theme.  But  the  inci- 
dents are  a  little  out  of  the  ordinary,  and  the  characters  are 
very  well  drawn. 

The  "  Two  Gipsy  Songs"  in  the  RadcUffe  Magazine  are  excel- 
lent, particularly  the  first  one  of  the  two.  An  ambitious  poem 
in  the  Minnesota  Magazine  is  entitled  ''Warum";  seldom  do 
we  find  poems  in  the  college  magazines  written  in  any  language 
other  than  English,  and  the  attempt  is  praiseworthy.  In  the 
Williams  Literary  Monthly  for  January,  there  is  a  long  poem, 
"The  Battle  of  the  Reuss,"  which  is  much  longer  than  the 
usual  poems  in  the  college  magazines,  and  well  sustained. 
These  poems  in  particular  are  a  little  above  the  average. 

The  editorials  this  month  are  for  the  most  part  personal  and 
of  no  great  interest  to  outsiders.  The  essays  are,  as  usual, 
good.  We  have  space  only  to  mention  "The  Pyschology  of 
Book  Binding"  in  the  Williams  Literary  Monthly  for  Decem- 
ber, **The  Isle  of  Solitude"  in  the  University  of  Texas  Monthly, 
and  ''Georgian  Poetry"  in  The  Eidge ;  these  essays  are  espe- 
cially good.  This  month  there  is  not  quite  such  a  wide  variety 
in  the  subject-matter  of  the  essays  as  one  usually  finds,  while 
the  contrary  is  true  of  the  stories.  D.  O. 


AFTER    COLLEGE 


LETTER  FROM  MISS  de  LONG 
Pine  Mountain  Settlement  School,  Harhin  County,  Kentucky, 

January  2,  1914. 

My  dear  Friends:— Just  before  Christmas  *  *  we  decked  our  windows 
-with  holly  wreaths  and  tied  the  posts  of  our  narrow  little  porch  with  spruce, 
pine  and  ivy  and  one  of  our  little  school  boys  referred  to  our  house  as  "  The 
■Christmas  House.""  Crowded  as  that  little  five-room  cottage  was  through  all 
the  holiday  season,  it  was  overflowing  with  Christmas  cheer  and  had  the 
happiness  to  be  a  center  for  such  a  Christmas  time  as  never  had  been  in  all 
our  country.  For  our  neighbors,  December  twenty-five  has  in  other  year.s 
been  a  day  of  drinking  and  shooting,  uncelebrated  by  any  tree,  any  Santa 
Claus,  or  any  telling  of  the  story  of  the  Babe  at  Bethlehem.  So  when  we 
planned  to  invite  every  one  to  the  first  Christmas  tree  on  the  "fur  side  of 
Pine  Mountain,"  we  tried  to  --norate"  it  about  that  we  did  not  want  any 
drinking  or  shooting.  When  I  went  to  the  last  day  of  school  exercises  at 
the  Big  Laurel  Schoolhouse  the  week  before  Christmas,  I  asked  one  of  our 
local  advisory  board  to  let  it  be  known  that  we  wanted  folks  to  "be  nice,' 
which  with  us  always  means  to  be  sober.  To  my  surprise,  after  I  had  made 
a  little  speech  inviting  everyone  to  come,  he  rose  up  for  what  proved  to  be  a 
speech  on  Proper  Manners  for  Christmas  Time.  He  said.  "  Hit's  been  put 
upon  me  to  tell  you  folks  you  that  the  school  women  don't  want  no  whiskey 
on  Christmas  day.  Now.  know  Christmas  is  a  great  time  for  drams  for  us, 
but  we  want  to  try  to  do  what  they  say.  Let  us  drink  none  on  ChristmaH 
day,  but  we  take  our  drams  the  day  before  or  the  day  after,  and  then  we  wiU 
make  Christmas  twice  as  long."  So  almost  total  abstinence  was  the  rule  of 
the  day  out  of  courtesy  to  us,  and  all  the  Christmas  drams  w^ere  consumed  at 
home. 

We  began  to  practice  Christmas  Carols  early  in  December,  and  bince  our 
new  organ  had  not  come  then,  we  learned  the  melodies  by  the  aid  of  the  old 
English  dulcimer  which  suited  well  the  ancient  song  of  "The  First  Noel." 
Every  night  we  played  on  our  Victrola,  Madam  Schumann  Heinck"s  "Stille 
Nacht,"  and  the  children  sat  around  the  supper  table  as  quiet  as  mice,  learning 
to  love  the  beautiful  song.  The  post  rider  came  in  three  times  a  week  loaded 
with  parcels  post  bundles  and  had  to  take  an  extra  nag  everj'  time  he  went 
across  the  rough  mountain  road  to  the  railroad.     We  hardly  see  how  Pine 

?,  1  6 


316  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

Mountain  or  Hell-fer-Sartan"could  have  had  any  Christmas  at  all  without  the 
parcels  post,  which  brought  ns  safely  ''play  pretties"  of  all  sorts,  poppets, 
gum  balls,  horns,  the  "  prettiest  tricks  you  ever  did  see." 

On  Christmas  Eve  just  at  dusk  our  entire  household  made  a  pilgrimage  a 
mile  one  way  to  Uncle  John  Shell's  and  then  a  mile  the  other  way  to  Uncle 
William  Creech's.  To  each  household  we  carried  a  tiny  tree  gay  with  tinsel 
and  shining  things,  and  stockings  full  of  presents  for  Uncle  John  and  Aunt 
Sis,  Uncle  William  and  Aunt  Sal.  Silently  we  crept  up  to  Uncle  John's 
house,  lighted  the  tree,  and  then  sang.  "  O  little  town  of  Bethlehem," 
*'  Noel,"  and  "  It  came  upon  the  midnight  clear."  At  the  first  note  Aunt  Sis 
opened  her  door  and  stood,  a  quaint,  stoop- shouldered  old  figure  in  old-time 
linsey-woolsej'.  listening  in  absolute  silence.  When  our  songs  were  done  we 
tamed  and  went  away,  while  she  stood  there  looking  at  a  sight  such  as  she 
had  never  seen  before.  While  the  others  went  on  to  make  ready  the  tree  for 
Uncle  William  and  Aunt  Sal.  Miss  Petitt  and  I  stood  by  the  road  to  watch. 
Not  knowing  what  to  do  with  so  bright  a  wonder,  the  old  woman  went  in 
and  closed  her  door.  Some  neighbor  men,  just  finishing  their  day's  work  on 
our  farm,  came  by,  and  we  told  them  to  tell  her  to  take  the  tree  in  before  the 
candles  burned  it  up.  We  still  stood  watching  while  they  walked  around 
the  tree  and  said,  "Ain't  that  the  prettiest  sight  you  ever  did  see?"  and  "I'd 
love  to  see  that  by  daylight."  We  heard  Aunt  Sis  tell  them  she  just  didn't 
know  how  to  behave  when  we  ail  come,  how  our  doin's  was  quare  to  her,  and 
slie  didn't  know  to  take  the  tree  in.  We  heard  the  men  advise  her,  "No, 
don't  set  it  on  the  bed,  you  will  have  to  sit  it  on  the  floor"  ;  but  she  told  us- 
afterwards  that  she  had  ••  sot  it  on  the  bed"  and  locked  her  door  (a  most  rare- 
proceeding  in  our  country),  so  as  nothin'  shouldn't  bother  it,  and  how  every- 
body had  come  from  all  over  to  see  her  tree,  folks  she  had  never  known, 
folks  that  had  never  been  in  her  house  before,  and  she  had  unlocked  the  door 
to  show  it  to  them.  We  had  to  make  our  way  to  Aunt  Sal's  by  the  aid  of 
fatty  pine  torches,  and  after  our  carols  there,  we  were  asked  in.  The  house 
was  full  of  Aunt  Sal's  grandchildren  come  to  "take  the  night"  with  her  sa 
as  to  be  ready  for  our  big  Christmas  tree  on  the  next  day.  You  could  not 
imagine  a  more  interesting  sight  than  Aunt  Sal.  her  bandanna  over  her  head,, 
her  pipe  in  her  mouth,  sitting  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  pulling  little  packages 
out  of  her  stocking  with  her  grandchildren  all  around  her.  and  she  like  a 
queen  in  the  midst. 

That  night  thirteen  stockings  were  hung  by  our  chimney,  but  the  unlucky 
number  did  not  scare  our  Santa  Claus,  who  put  a  doll  in  the  toe  of  every  one. 
He  must  have  heard  our  eighteen-year-old  Will  saying  that  he  would  like  a 
doll  to  play  with  on  Sunday  afternoons. 

In  the  morning  our  little  boys.  Charley  and  John,  promptly  sat  on  the  floor 
to  pull  out  their  presents.  Each  had  five  little  toy  cavalrymen  down  toward 
the  toe.  When  Charley  had  pulled  out  three  he  exclaimed,  "Gee!  Oh.  if 
there  ain't  a  terrible  sight  of  mules  !  "  John,  absorbed  in  his  own  stocking, 
was  setting  his  up  one  behind  the  other,  and  suddenly  he  called  on  us,  say- 
ing, "Lookie  here,  the  three  wise  men  a  follerin*  the  star."  He  had  been 
learning  in  school,  "  We  Three  Kings  of  Orient  Are,"  and  had  sung  it  with 
the  greatest  delight  coming  home  in  the  starlight  from  Aunt  Sal's  Christmas. 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      317 

tree.     Each  little  boy  interpreted  the  cavalrymen  after  his  own  fashion  and 
imafjination. 

We  had  to  pnt  away  our  play  pretties  long  before  we  wanted  to,  to  get 
ready  for  our  Christmas  tree.  Because  we  had  no  room  large  enough  for  it, 
it  had  been  set  up  out-doors  the  day  before  at  the  foot  of  a  little  hill  near  the 
cross  roads  and  not  far  from  a  big  cliff  so  that  people  could  find  shelter 
under  it  if  it  rained.  The  young  folks  for  miles  around  got  a  "  soon  start  " 
that  morning,  and  ••  gathered  in  and  holp"  make  ready  the  tree.  I  suppose 
it  was  a  beautiful  tree  to  us  all  because  we  all  had  a  share  in  trimming  it 
with  baubles  that  looked  as  if  they  had  come  from  fairyland.  All  the  while 
neighbors  were  coming  from  far  and  near,  men  with  their  wives  behind 
them  holding  wee  little  babies,  and  some  mules  carrying  little  folks  plumb 
down  to  the  nag's  tail.  We  had  a  busy  time  writing  the  names  for  Christ- 
mas piesents  that  people  had  brought  to  put  on  the  tree.  It  hardly  seemed 
possible  that  our  neighbors  could  have  been  as  pleased  with  their  sacks  of 
candy  and  the  gifts  the  school  put  on  for  them,  as  we  were  with  the  pokes 
full  of  chestnuts,  the  fresh  eggs,  the  tig  sweet  potatoes,  the  "Sasifras"'  root, 
and  the  old-time  hunter's  pouch  that  were  put  on  for  us. 

Nobody  had  any  idea  how  Santa  Claus  would  come,  but  when  we  heard 
the  sounds  of  horns  and  bells  way  off  behind  the  laurel  thickets  people  rushed 
to  the  cliff,  the  hillside,  the  fence  post  so  as  to  get  a  first  glimpse  of  him. 
All  we  could  see  at  first  was  a  jolly  red  figure  that  seemed  to  be  riding 
a  mighty  slow  mule,  but  as  it  disappeared  and  reappeared  from  the  ivy 
thickets,  we  discovered  to  our  intense  joy  that  he  was  astride  an  ox.  Never 
did  Santa  ride  a  more  deliberate  steed,  and  he  himself  seemed  the  most  leis- 
urely creature  in  the  world  till  you  discovered  that  the  proverbially  swift 
old  saint  was  impatiently  prodding  the  ox's  side  with  his  heel.  I  am  sure 
that  the  people  who  live  on  Greasy  Creek  will  always  believe  Santa  Clans 
had  all  the  time  in  the  world.  Never  was  such  laughter  as  greeted  him  or 
such  mirth  over  his  unavailing  efforts  to  hurry  up  the  ox.  When  he  got  up 
to  the  tree  everybody  called  out  with  one  accord,  "  Christmas  Gift,  Santa 
Glaus,  Christmas  Gift  I "  Fortunately  his  pack  was  so  full  that  he  had  a  gift 
for  everybody,  but  before  he  could  get  everything  distributed  the  rain  that 
had  been  threatening  for  days  came  down.  Some  people  took  shelter  under 
the  cliff,  some  people  hastily  rode  home,  thinking  they  might  as  well  get  wet 
early  as  late,  others  came  to  see  us.  We  learned  that  day  how  to  make  three 
chickens  do  for  more  than  thirty  people  by  the  aid  of  dumplings,  gravy, 
and  rice. 

The  young  people  spent  the  afternoon  in  their  favorite  way,  running  sets 
whose  very  names  suggest  hilarity  and  merriment  of  the  figure.  Boxing  the 
Gnats,  Caging  the  Bird,  The  Wild  Goose  Chase,  and  Killie  Crankie  is  My 
Song.  Of  course  we  could  not  send  them  home  in  the  rain,  for  some  of  them 
came  from  eight  or  ten  miles  away.  So  our  little  house  with  only  one  extra 
single  bed,  let  out  a  reef  and  kept  eleven  guests  that  night.  They  said  on 
leaving  the  next  day,  ''We've  had  the  best  time.  We  did  not  know  you 
folks  were  so  clever." 

On  Saturday  Mr.  McSwain  and  I  started  for  our  fifty-mile  trip  to  Hell-fer- 
Sartan.     We  felt  like  knights  of  Malory's  time  going  forth^for  adventure,  for 


3)8  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

people  predicted  that  Cutshin  and  Middle  Fork  would  be  tip  past  fording-. 
hnt  we  said  if  we  could  not  have  a  tree  in  one  place  we  would  in  another. 
We  filled  our  pockets  with  tiny  gifts  in  case  we  found  children  on  the  way. 
and  down  the  length  of  Cutshin  we  found  them  a  plenty.  Children  with 
bright,  eager  faces,  not  shy,  but  with  the  prettiest  ways  of  saying,  "Thank 
yon."  I  wish  those  of  you  who  sent  us  things  to  distribute  could  have  seen 
the  pleased  surprise  of  the  many  little  boys  and  girls  who  had  a  Christma* 
trick  dropped  into  their  hands  by  us  unknown  strangers,  and  the  way  they 
hf^ld  the  "  play  pretty"  like  a  little  bird  in  their  hands  as  if  they  were  afraid 
it  would  get  away,  and  then  ran  with  it  to  show  Maw  and  the  Younguns  in 
the  little  gray  house  back  up  from  the  road.  Cutshin  is  very  remote  and  the- 
homes  on  it  are  most  of  them  very  old-fashioned  little  log  cabins.  No  one 
would  take  any  money  from  us  for  meals  or  lodging,  but  said,  when  we  asked 
what  we  owed,  "Nothin'  but  to  come  again."  I  am  sure  no  home  could  look 
more  inviting  than  the  one  we  reached  on  Sunday  night,  a  great  old  log 
house  with  glowing  firelight  shining  on  the  snow  through  its  open  door  and 
its  two  windows.  As  we  stopped  our  mules,  the  widow  Begley  came  out  to 
the  gate  and  bade  us  "  light  and  staysail  night." 

Next  morning  when  a  great  party  of  us  rode  over  to  the  little  house 
near  Devil's- Jump-Branch  that  is  near  to  Hell-fer-Sartan,  we  found  the  tree 
set  up  and  the  room  garnished  with  spruce  pine.  We  turned  everybody  out 
while  a  dozen  or  more  of  us  decked  the  tree,  and  asked  everybody  please  not 
to  look  in  the  windows.  You  would  be  amazed  to  see  how  even  the  curiosity 
did  not  overcome  their  wish  to  do  as  we  asked.  The  tree  was  the  prettiest 
one  we  have  ever  seen,  just  the  sort  children  dream  about,  with  dolls  and 
drums  and  horns  and  ribbons  hanging  from  every  limb.  Yet  in  spite  of  the 
joyous  laughter  with  which  everyone  hailed  it,  there  was  the  utmost  quiet 
in  the  close-packed  crowd  while  we  told  the  Christmas  story,  and  while  the 
school  teacher  made  a  speech  of  welcome.  ''These  folks  have  come  a  long 
way  to  show  their  love  and  friendship  for  us,  and  we  want  them  to  know 
they  are  welcome.  They  are  welcome,  we  are  welcome,  and  everybody  is 
welcome." 

Mr.  McSwain  as  Santa  Claus  had  to  shake  hands  with  grown  women  as 
well  as  little  boys  and  girls,  and  enjoyed  immense  popularity.  People 
wanted  to  know,  when  the  presents  were  off  the  tree,  if  they  might  have  the 
ornaments,  and  in  no  time  the  tinsel  and  the  red  balls  were  stripped  off,  to 
go  into  a  dozen  or  more  homes,  so  that  the  younguns  who  didn't  know  there 
was  going  to  be  such  a  "  tree  or  they'd  a  come,"  might  draw  up  some  notion 
of  it,  the  prettiest  sight  that  was  ever  in  these  parts.  People  wanted  to  take 
us  home  with  them  as  much  as  the  tree  trimmings,  and  could  not  imagine 
why  we  would  not  spend  a  week  with  them  ;  but  we  started  on  our  two 
days'  journey  back  up  Cutshin  as  soon  as  the  tree  was  over. 

Yet  with  us  the  festival  season  extends  over  to  Twelfth  Night  as  it  did  in 
the  days  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  our  last  Christmas  tree,  to  be  held  over  on 
the  head  waters  of  Line  Fork,  will  come  on  old  Christmas  Day,  January  the 
6th.  It  is  the  common  belief  in  our  country  that  on  midnight  the  night 
before,  the  cattle  mourn  and  low,  and  kneel  down  to  worship  our  Lord. 
Perhaps  nobody  knows  for  sure,  because  they  are  scared  of  the  solemn  feel- 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  :M9 

ings  they  would  have — as  one  eighteen-year-old  boy  put  it,  ''hit  would  make 
yon  mighty  solemn  to  see  them  kneel. — you  wouldn't  feel  like  beatin'  on  them 
no  more."  It  seemed  to  us  fitting  that  the  holiday  season  should  close  with  a 
tree  in  this  remote  neighborhood  on  old  Christmas  Day. 

The  girls  and  boys  are  mending  toys  that  have  come  to  us  broken,  fixing 
eyes  in  dolls  that  have  been  badly  shaken,  gluing  on  arms  and  legs  so  that 
the  children  over  on  Line  Fork  will  have  as  fine  a  Christmas  as  anybody. 

We  are  sure  that  our  little  house  can  never  forget  the  happiness  it  has  held 
during  our  first  Christmas  season  on  Pine  Mountain. 

Sincerely  yours, 

Ethel  de  Long  1901. 

PERSONALS 

Contributions  to  this  department  are  desired  before  the  end  of  the  month, 
in  order  to  appear  in  the  next  month's  issue,  and  should  be  addressed  to 
Eloise  Schmidt,  Gillett  House.  Northampton.  Massachusetts. 

The  Committee  of  Five  of  the  Alumnae  Council  met  at  Northampton,  Jan- 
uary 15  to  16.  to  confer  with  the  president,  faculty  and  undergraduates  in 
regard  to  efficient  lines  of  service  open  to  the  Alumnae  Association.  The 
Committee  for  this  year  consists  of  Mrs.  Alice  Lord  Parsons  1897.  president 
of  the  Alumnae  Association  :  Miss  Ethel  Gower  1898.  secretary  pro  tem.  of 
the  Alumnae  Association;  Mrs.  Lucia  Clapp  Noyes  1881,  Alumnae  trustee; 
Mrs.  Charlotte  Stone  McDougall  1893  and  Miss  Helen  Forbes  1912. 
'11.  Ruth  Barnes  has  announced  her  engagement  to  James  Carvel  Gorman 
of  Baltimore.  Maryland. 
Irene  Bishop  is  Reference  Librarian  in  the  State  Library  at  Springfield. 

Illinois. 
Lesley  Church.     Address  :  8334  Holmes  Street,  Kansas  City.  Missouri. 
Virginia  Coyle  is  teaching  Gymnastics  at  the  Bennett  School,  Millbrook. 

New  York. 
Mary  Dickinson.     Address  :  -IS  Claremont  Avenue.  New  York  Cit}'. 
Genevieve  Fox  is  Assistant  in  the  Editorial  Department  of  the  Silver^ 

Burdett  and  Company  Publishing  House.  Boston,  Massachusetts. 
Mary  Gottfried  is  teaching  in  the   Misses   Hebbs'  School.   Wilmington, 

Delaware. 
Miriam  Gould  is  teaching  in  the  University  of  Pittsburgh.     She  is  also 

working  for  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Philosophy. 
Paula  Haire  has  announced  her  engagement  to  Robert  Ray  Van  Valken- 
burgh.     She  is  now  acting  as  accompanist  for  Madame  Jane  Osborn- 
Hanuah  of  the  Chicago-Philadelphia  Grand  Opera  Company  and  will 
go  abroad  with  Madame  Hannah  in  May. 
Agnes  Heiutz  has  announced  her  engagement  to  William  H.  Kennedy. 
Marguerite  Lazard  is  acting  as  Recorder  at  the  Psychological  Clinic  of 
the  University  of  Pennsylvania. 


3-20 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 


Arlyle  Noble  is  doing  Bacteriological  Research  for  Parke  Davis  and 
Company  of  Detroit,  Michigan. 

Gladys  Owen  is  doing  Graduate  Work  in  Political  Economy  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  Wisconsin. 

Maude  Pfaffman  is  acting  as  Secretary  in  the  Yale  Forest  School.    Ad- 
dress :  331  Temple  Street,  New  Haven,  Connecticut. 

Ruth  Segur  has  announced  her  engagement  to  Clinton  Burke  of  Plain- 
field,  New  Jersey. 

Rebecca  Smith  has  announced  her  engagement  to  Buckingham  Chandler 
of  Chicago,  Illinois. 

Winifred  Wentworth  is  acting  as  bookkeeper  for  her  father, 
eaj-'ll.    Isabel  Howell  has  announced  her  engagement  to  William  Jay  Brown 

of  Cedar  Rapids,  Iowa. 
'12.    Helen  Houghton  has  announced  her  engagement  to  R.  J.  Shortledge  of 
Wallingford,  Connecticut.      The  wedding  will  take  place  in  Septem- 
ber, 1914. 

Ruth  Watts  has  announced  her  engagement  to  John  Newman. 


CALENDAR 


February- 

16. 

18. 

23. 

25. 

26. 

28. 

March 

4. 

a 

7. 

(I 

IL 

6< 

14. 

Concert  by  the  New  York  Philharmonic 

Orchestra. 
French  Club  Play. 
Rally  Day. 

Open  Meeting  of  Greek  Club. 
Lecture  by  Miss  Ethel  de  Long. 
Alumnae-Student  Rally. 
Group  Dance. 

Dickinson  House  Reception. 
Orchestra  Concert. 

Meetings  of  Alpha  and  Phi  Kappa  Psi  Societies, 
Big  Game  Daj^ 
Glee  Club  Concert. 
Division  A  Dramatics. 


^be 


Smitb    College 
niontblp 


flDarcb*»  1914 
®wne&  an&  pubUebeb  b?  tbe  Sentor  Claae 


CONTENTS 


"The  Other  Man"  According  to  Kant  and  to  Mill 

Marguerite  Daniell 
Dreams  .....  Grace  Angela  Richmond 
Laddie,  Ye  Little  Thought  Marion  Delar.iater  Freeman 

After  All  .... 

America's  Ideal  .  . 

How  New  Americans  Are  Being  Made 
A  Modern  Fable 

Night       ..... 
Love  in  a  Hurry 


19U  321 

1916  326 

19U  326 

1915  327 


Katherine  Biiell  Nye 

Marion  Sinclair  Walker  1915  329 

Marion  Sinclair  Walker  1915  331 

Kathleen  Isabel  Byam  1915  337 

Helen  Whitman  1916  341 

Hester  Gunning  1915  342 


SKETCHES 

Little  Things 

Self  Recognition 

Barriers 

Tea  for  Two 

The  Girl  Who  Didn't  Care 

Echoes 

A  Pair  of  Gloves 

Fritzie's  "Faux  Pas" 

Inspiration 


Anna  Elizabeth  Spicer  1014  347 

Madeleine  McDoivell  1917  349 

Mira  Bigeloio  Wilson  1914  350 

Marion  Delamater  Freeman  1914  350 

Barbara  Cheney  1915  351 

Leonora  Branch  1914  352 

Constance  Caroline  Woodbury  1917  354 

Anne  Eleanor  Von  Harten  1914  359 

Grace  Angela  Richmond  1916  362 


ABOUT  COLLEGE 

A  Fallen  Star 

Cold  Comfort  for  Freshmen 

"Simplex  Munditiis" 

A  Mid-year  Resolution 

Will-o'-the-Wisp 

The  Course  of  True  Lov;-: 


Dorothy  Thayer  1915  363 

Rosamond  Holmes  1914  364 

Phyllis  Eaton  1917  365 

Barbara  Cheney  1915  367 

Mary  Neiiibury  Dixon  1917  368 

Margaret  Far  rand  1914  369 


HEARD  ON  THE  TAR  WALK 

EDITORIAL 

EDITOR'S  TABLE 

AFTER  COLLEGE       . 

CALENDAR 


371 

375 
377 
380 
384 


Entered  at  the  Post  Office  at  Northampton,  Massachusetts,  as  second  class  matter 
Gazette  Printing  Covipany,  Northampton,  Mass. 


THE 

Smith  College  Monthly 

Vol.  XXI  MARCH,  1914  No.  6 


EDITORS: 

Lois  Cleveland  Gould 
Leonora  Branch  Anna  Elizabeth  Spicer 

Margaret  Louise  Farrand         Marion  Delamater  Freeman 
Rosamond  Drexel  Holmes  Frances  Milliken  Hooper 

Margaret  Bloom  Dorothy  Lilian  Spencer 

Ruth  Cobb  Dorothy  Ochtman 

Eloise  Schmidt 

business  manager  and  treasurer 
Ruth  Hellekson 

assistant  business  managers 
Esther  Loyola  Harney 
Bertha  Viola  Conn 


^^THE   OTHER    MAN*^   ACCORDING    TO   KANT    AND 

TO  MILL 

MARGUERITE   DANIELL 

The  other  man  is  a  delightfully  comprehensive  term,  for  it 
embraces  a  three-fold  signification,  namely,  a  special  person  as 
one's  mother,  any  person  as  a  college  student,  and  an  aggregate 
of  persons  as  one's  townsmen.  The  other  man  in  Philosophy 
differs  from  the  plain,  every-day  other  man  only  in  that  he  is 
an  object  of  philosophical  study,  therefore  by  using  this  term 
as  a  title  for  my  paper  I  can  correctly  bring  in  several  phases 
of  the  Kantian  and  Milliaii  doctrines.  These  phases  of  the 
Kantian  and  Millian  doctrines  are  to  be  treated  in  the  way  that 
I  treat  many  subjects,  for  instance  sociology  and  mathematics. 


322  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

If  in  matliematics  I  am  endeavoring  to  find  by  calculus  the 
dimensions  of  a  cylinder  that  will  hold  a  certain  volume  of 
liquid,  instead  of  working  with  meaningless  figures  I  mentally 
construct  a  percolator  that  will  contain  the  required  volume  of 
coffee.  If  in  sociology  I  leai-n  the  various  effects  of  certain 
influences  on  mankind  I  find  living  examples  if  such  a  thing  i& 
possible.  Living  examples  are  possible  in  the  ethical  subject 
which  I  shall  now  begin  with  the  Kantian  significance  of  society. 

Kant  emphasizes  the  significance  of  a  society  in  which  every 
member  is  at  once  sovereign  and  subject;  sovereign  because 
he  helps  make  the  laws  and  subject  because  he  obeys  them. 
Thus  the  college  girl  whose  council  member  helps  make  the 
college  rules  and  who  herself  obeys  them  is  both  sovereign 
and  subject.  We  cannot  understand  this  significance  until  we- 
know  the  basis  upon  which  the  treatment  of  society  rests. 

The  true  basis  of  all  phases  of  the  Kantian  doctrine  is,  "  Duty 
for  duty's  sake."  Wordsworth  expresses  this  idea  in  his  "  Ode- 
to  Duty,"  the  first  and  last  verses  of  which  I  quote. 

"  Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God  ! 

0  Duty  1  if  that  name  thou  love, 
Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 
To  check  the  erring  and  reprove  ; 
Thou,  who  art  victory  and  law 
When  empty  terrors  overawe  ; 
From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free  ; 

And  calm'st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  humanity. 
*  *  -jr  *  *  *  * 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power  ! 

1  call  thee  :  1  myself  commend 
Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour  ; 
O,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end  ! 
Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise, 
The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  ; 

The  confidence  of  reason  give  ; 

And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  bondman  let  me  live ! " 

This  principle  is  the  motive  of  all  social  actions.  An  illustra- 
tion of  this  is  the  girl  who  despises  receptions  but  goes  for 
duty's  sake  alone.  Having  given  the  motive  of  social  action  let 
us  see  if  there  are  a.nj  rules  that  guide  the  Kantian  individual 
in  his  social  actions. 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  o23 

Kant  has  two  famous  maxims  which  should  alwaj^s  guide 
man's  social  self.  The  first  is  "Act  as  if  the  maxims  of  thy 
action  were  to  become  by  thy  will  a  universal  law  of  nature." 
The  girl  who  will  not  take  two  note  books  in  a  written  lesson 
where  there  are  only  enough  to  go  once  and  a  quarter  around  is 
illustrative  of  this  maxim.  Kant's  second  maxim  is,  "  So  act  as 
to  treat  humanity,  whether  in  thine  own  person  or  in  that  of 
any  other,  in  every  case  as  an  end  witbal  and  never  as  a  means 
only."  The  girl  who  refuses  to  call  on  another  merely  because 
the  latter  has  an  automobile,  is  following  this  principle  in  her 
relations  with  societ}^  Now  turning  from  the  other  man  as 
society  let  us  study  him  as  an  individual. 

Kant  maintains  that  the  good  for  any  man  as  a  social  element 
is  that  in  which  the  welfare  of  others  counts  just  exactly  as 
much  as  his  own.  The  girl  who  refrains  from  opening  a  win- 
dow lest  someone  feel  a  draught  is  a  Kantian,  if  she  does  it  for 
the  above  reason.  When  Kant  is  thinking  of  the  welfare  of  an 
individual  he  also  lays  stress  on  the  moral  code  of  an  action. 

The  Kantian  emphasis  of  action  is  laid  on  the  "how"  a  thing 
is  done.  A  girl  passes  in  a  written  lesson  which  has  many  mis- 
takes. It  is  the  best  that  she  could  do  under  the  circumstances. 
She  unintentionally  had  seen  the  answer  to  one  question  on 
another  girl's  paper  and  could  have  changed  hers  to  agree  with 
it,  but  she  did  not.  She  passed  in  her  own  work  done  in  a  fair 
and  honest  way.  This  example  may  help  us  in  the  question  of 
consequences.  Kant  never  appeals  to  consequences.  Had  an 
appeal  been  made  by  the  above  Kantian  girl  she  might  have 
copied  from  her  neighbor  and  saved  herself  from  a  low  mark. 

Having  briefly  but  satisfactorilj^  dealt  with  consequences,  let 
us  consider  a  moment  the  real  ends  to  which  men's  special  acts 
are  directed.  Virtue  is  the  means  to  which  all  special  actions 
are  directed.  Miss  Kant  never  casts  a  vote  for  any  girl  unless 
the  latter  seems  in  every  way  worthy  of  the  office  for  which  slie 
is  a  candidate.  Let  us  now  turn  to  Mill's  treatment  of  the 
other  man. 

In  the  case  of  an  individual  as  the  other  man  Mill  says,  "Man 
never  conceives  himself  otherwise  than  as  a  member  of  a  body  "  ; 
"He  identifies  his  feelings  more  and  more  with  the  good  of 
others"  ;  "The  good  of  others  becomes  to  him  a  thing  naturally 
and  necessarily  to  be  attended  to  like  any  of  the  physical  condi- 
tions of  our  existence."     "  The  social  state  is  at  once  so  natural. 


324  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

so  necessary,  and  so  habitual  to  man  that  except  in  some  un- 
usual circumstances  or  by  an  effort  of  vohintary  abstraction  he 
never  conceives  himself  otherwise  than  as  a  member  of  a  body, 
and  this  association  is  outlined  more  and  more  as  mankind  are 
farther  removed  from  the  state  of  savage  independence.''  We 
find  similar  ideas  in  this  quotation  from  Charles  F.  Dole,  "Be 
a  good  comrade.  Learn  the  secret  of  good  comradeship.  Many 
men  do  not  know  it  at  all.  Be  just,  strong,  frank,  fearless, 
independent,  but  add  your  strength  to  the  strength  of  your 
fellow.  Do  not  stand  aloof,  or  sulk,  or  be  unsocial.  Do  not 
jeer  at  other  men  and  find  fault  with  them.  Learn  to  do  '  team 
work.'  Learn  to  cooperate.  Give  and  take  in  friendly  conver- 
sation. Be  generous."  This  sympathy  and  desire  for  the 
happiness  of  others  cause  the  Millian  girl  to  neglect  her  own 
lessons,  personal  health,  and  comfort.  She  is  always  ready  to 
do  any  errand  for  others,  to  help  them,  and  give  them  a  good 
time.  In  her  zeal  for  this  happiness  of  others  upon  what  moral 
code  does  she  lay  her  emphasis  ? 

Mill  says  that  the  "  what"  in  an  action  is  the  moral  code.  If 
a  girl  offers  a  member  of  the  faculty  a  chair  just  to  create  a 
good  impression.  Mill  maintains  that  the  deed  is  all  right,  Here 
again  we  are  brought  to  the  question  of  consequences.  The 
appeal  to  consequences  is  an  important  factor  in  the  Millian 
doctrine.  The  Millian  girl  who  is  proctor  refrains  from  quiet- 
ing noisy  pupils  in  the  halls  lest  they  dislike  her.  Thus  we  can 
see  to  what  end  her  special  acts  are  turned. 

Mill  thinks  that  the  special  acts  of  men  are  a  means  to  happi- 
ness. Miss  Mill  votes  for  a  certain  girl  because  she  thinks  her 
action  will  bring  happiness  to  others.  Speaking  of  others  let 
us  change  our  meaning  of  "the  other  man"  from  an  individual 
to  society. 

In  Mill's  society  the  interests  of  all  are  equally  regarded. 
The  Millian  girl  who  is  taking  on  a  bat  sandwiches  enough  for 
ten  others  will  consult  each  one  of  the  party  as  to  the  kind 
which  she  prefers  before  she  makes  them.  This  principle 
reverts  to  the  basis  of  social  actions. 

The  true  basis  of  all  phases  of  the  Millian  doctrine  is  "  Happi- 
ness for  happiness'  sake,"  where  happiness  means  the  happiness 
of  the  greatest  number.  This  is  plainly  seen  when  a  girl  is  told 
that  she  may  bring  home  one  girl  for  two  weeks  or  ten  girls  for 


THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  325 

several  days  and  she  chooses  the  latter.      This  girl  believes  in 
the  little  verse  by  an  anonymous  author. 

"  If  any  little  word  of  mine 

May  make  a  life  the  brighter. 
If  any  little  song  of  mine 

May  make  a  heart  the  lighter, 
God  help  me  speak  the  little  word, 

And  take  my  bit  of  singing, 
And  drop  it  in  some  lonely  vale 

To  set  the  echoes  ringing.  " 

This  happiness   principle  serves  as  one  of   the  motives  for  all 
social  actions. 

The  other  motives  of  social  actions  are  sympathy  and  the  idea 
of  a  good  end.  Taking  an  example  of  these  motives  we  have 
a  girl  inviting  several  freshmen  to  a  party  in  her  room  not  only 
to  make  them  happy  but  also  because  she  thinks  they  are  lone- 
some and  because  she  wants  ''to  get  in  right"  with  them. 
Does  the  Millian  person  have  any  definite  rule  to  guide  her  in 
her  social  relations  ? 

The  Millian  rule  for  social  guidance  is  not  punctilious.  It 
may  be  stated  thus:  "Be  in  unity  with  your  fellow  beings." 
The  girl  who  goes  with  an  unchay)eroned  evening  moving- 
picture  party  rather  than  be  odd  is  following  out  this  rule. 
Now  I  have  reached  ray  last  Millian  example.  Let  us  reca- 
pitulate. 

We  have  taken  up  "the  other  man"  from  the  standpoints  of 
Kant  and  of  Mill  and  in  each  case  have  studied  him  as  an  indi- 
vidual and  as  society  in  general.  Under  the  meaning  of  society 
we  have  discussed  his  siofnificance,  also  the  motives  for  social 
actions  and  rules  for  the  guidance  of  man  in  his  social  relations. 
Under  the  meaning  of  the  individual  our  topics  have  been  the 
good  of  man  as  a  social  element,  the  moral  code  of  actions,  the 
appeal  to  consequences,  and  the  final  end  to  which  man's  special 
acts  are  directed.     In  brief  wliat  do  all  these  t0]:)ics  reveal  ? 

We  find  in  the  Kantian  and  Millian  treatment  of  the  other 
man  a  marked  difference  in  the  basis  for  social  action,  in  mo- 
tives for  social  action,  in  moral  codes,  and  in  the  appeal  to 
consequences.  On  the  other  hand  a  certain  similarity  of  tieat- 
ment  is  found.  Mill  maintains  that  in  societj^  the  interests  of 
all  should  be  equally  regarded.  This  is  similar  to  the  principle 
which  Kant  upholds  when  he  says  that  the  good  for  any  man 


326      THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

as  a  social  element  is  that  in  which  the  welfare  of  others  counts 
as  much  as  his  own.  Both  of  these  principles  involve  the  same 
general  thought  found  in  Kant's  maxims.  Two  neighboring 
prisoners  see  the  same  wall  and  some  of  its  same  characteristics 
or  qualities,  but  they  can  never  see  the  same  side  of  the  wall. 
Thus  while  Kant  and  Mill  see  the  same  '^  other  man,"  they  can 
never  see  him  from  the  same  point  of  view. 


DREAMS 

GRACE   ANGELA   RICHMOND 

The  slim,  sweet  maiden,  Sleep, 

Has  dreams  for  thee  ;  wilt  buy  her  wares  ? 

Here's  one  that  cost  a  faded  rose  ;  here's  one 

That  cost  a  tear  :  that  dream  is  calm  and  deep. 

And  here  is  one  that  cost  a  weary  day 

Of  toil  and  strife  and  half-forgotten  love. 

This  rainbow  dream  a  pearl  will  buy ;  and  this 

A  mem'ry  laid  in  lavender  away. 

The  slim,  sweet  maiden,  Sleep, 

Has  dreams  for  thee  ;  wilt  buy  her  wares? 


LADDIE.  YE  LITTLE  THOUGHT 

MARION  DELAMATER  FREEMAN 

Laddie,  ye  little  thought  on  yesternight 

That  when  ye  took  me  in  your  big,  Strang  arms 

An'  kissed  me  wi'  your  hot  young  lips 

That  ye  could  bring  me  sorrow  wi'  that  joy  ! 

But  all  at  once  I  heard,  somewhere  'way  down 

Within  my  throbbin'  heart,  somethin'  that  said, 

*'  Ye've  lost  your  girlhood,  lassie,  for  a  kiss  I 

An'  womanhood  is  full  o'  grief  an'  pain." 

An'  laddie,  I  was  sorry  for  a  while. 

For  girlhood  days  are  sweeter  than  ye  know. 

But  laddie,  then  I  looked  into  your  eyes, 

So  true,  so  blue,  so  full  o'  love  for  me. 

An'  somethin'  there  said,  "  This  is  sweeter  yet !  " 

An'  with  my  lips  on  yours,  I  knew  t'was  true  ! 


AFTER    ALL 

KATHERINE   BUELL   NYE 

Have  you  ever  prepared  a  surprise  for  yourself  ?  This  may 
sound  paradoxical  but  it  is  nevertheless  possible,  and  one  of  the 
easiest  ways  of  doing  it  is  this  :  allow  yourself  a  definite  allotted 
time  for  which  you  plan  nothing.  Refuse  all  alluring  invita- 
tions for  that  time  and  at  the  appointed  hour  place  yourself 
among  congenial  surroundings  and  take  a  vow  that  you  will 
follow  the  first  opportunity  for  adventure.  If  you  wish  to  be 
successful  in  this  form  of  self-amusement  you  must  be  in  that 
frame  of  mind  in  which  you  choose  a  book  with  your  eyes  shut, 
open  it  at  random,  and  above  all  you  must  stick  by  your  first 
choice.  If  you  give  in  once  and  promise  yourself  three  out  of 
five  chances  it  will  grow  to  thirteen  out  of  fifteen  and  even 
seventy-seven  out  of  one  hundred  and  twenty-three — then  you 
never  can  stop  and  doubtless  you  will  waste  all  your  time  cast- 
ing about  for  an  opportunity.  So,  I  say  if  you  wish  to  be  suc- 
cessful abide  unswervingly  by  your  first  choice. 

John  Dillingham  closed  his  desk  promptly  at  twelve-thirty. 
It  was  Monday  and  business  was  slack. 

'*  Nothing  ever  happened  on  Monday,"  he  told  himself  and 
rather  admired  his  own  courage  in  choosing  this  day  to  court 
^'Adventure.'' 

It  was  raining  and  there  were  few  people  on  the  street.  He 
hurried  to  his  club  and  found  the  lounging  room  full  of  blue 
smoke  perforated  by  long  white  bored  faces. 

"  Serves  them  right,"  thought  Dillingham,  "they  never  give 
themselves  a  chance.  Work  all  day  and  sit  around  in  a  room 
like  this.     Heavens  I  " 

He  ran  his  finger  over  the  list  of  members,  which  hung  by 
the  elevator.  He  described  a  circle  on  the  glass  and  then 
stopped  with  hi>?  finger  on  the  name — John  Dillingham  I 

"Of  all  the — I"  he  muttered  and  started  again,  but  realizing 
that  it  was  a  breach  of  rule,  he  lunched  alone. 

Lunching  alone  is  not  unusual  but  it  was  unusual  for  Dilling- 
ham, and  he  avoided  several  animated  groups,  enjoying  the 
solitude  of  a  little  table  by  the  window  from  which  he  looked 
out  on  the  busy  street. 

32T 


328  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

He  found  himself  in  a  mood  to  enjoy  the  noise  and  hurry  of 
it.  He  watched  one  man  until  he  went  out  of  sight  around  the 
corner  ;  then  another  and  another.  A  stranger  or  at  least  an 
unfamiliar  figure  stopped  at  the  entrance  of  the  club,  and  then 
passed  under  the  huge  projecting  door- way.  Dillingham  won- 
dered idly  who  it  was  and  then  returned  to  his  reverie. 

Automobiles  whirred  by,  street  cars  clanged,  feet  shuffled  and 
scuffed.  There  below  him  were  hosts  of  unknown  faces  hidden 
beneath  black  shiny  hats  and  bobbing  umbrellas.  He  became 
lost  in  the  tangle  of  weaving  figures — each  going  heaven  knows 
where  and  each  an  adventurer.  Countless  numbers  of — "  Good 
morning,  Dillingham  !  They  told  me  I'd  find  you  here.  I — a — 
wanted  to  talk  over  that  advertising  scheme  with  you.  You  sea 
it  means  a  lot  to  me  to  fix  it  up  today.  Now  if  you  could  just — '* 

^'  Sorry  Bingham,  I  was  just  going  out.  Appointment  at  the 
dentist's  at  two,"  said  Dillingham,  whose  mind  was  so  thoroughly 
made  up  for  adventure  that  he  left  his  favorite  dessert  untouched 
and  hurried  out  with  Bingham's  words  still  in  his  ears — "  means 
a  lot  to  me  to  finish  this  deal  up  to-day." 

'*  Business,  business,  business,"  muttered  Dillingham  as  he 
shrugged  himself  into  his  coat  and  lighted  a  cigarette.  ".Why,. 
they  can't  think  past  their  waste-paper  baskets  !  I'd  rather  be 
an  office-boy  with  a  lot  to  do  outside  the  office,  and  one  after- 
noon a  week  to  do  it  in  than  any  old  advertising  man  who 
works  like  a  mill  six  days  a  week  and  gets  a  big  commission 
once  in  a  blue  moon.  I  say,  take  a  day  off  once  in  a  while. 
Forget  yourself.  Get  in  with  the  crowd— let  yourself  go  and — 
see  what  happens." 

He  stepped  into  the  street  and  was  carried  on  by  the  passing 
crowd;  he  loitered  on  the  edge  of  the  stream  and  watched  the 
people.  To  trace  something,  to  follow  someone  !  That  is  what 
he  would  do.  He  added  to  his  sleuth-like  mood  by  turning  his 
hat  down,  and  his  collar  up,  and  once  more  stepped  into  the 
throng. 

An  arm  was  thrust  through  his.  He  found  himself  led  to  the 
curb  and  pushed  into  a  taxicab.  His  companion's  face  was  as 
invisible  as  his  own,  and  he  admitted  that  he  was  thoroughly 
dumbfounded. 

"  He's  got  the  wrong  man,"  he  mused,  "but  I'll  work 'him  for 
the  plot  and  then  spring  the  surprise." 

Dillingham  kept  his  head  turned  from  his  companion,  wishing 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  329 

to  disclose  himself  at  a  dramatic  moment,  and  after  the  purpose 
of  the  abduction  had  been  discovered. 

'*  Never  saw  anything  so  quick  and  effective  in  my  life  !  Al- 
ways wondered  how  they  could  make  a  fellow  do  something  that 
he  had  absolutely  no  notion  of  doing.  Easy  as  punch — it  is. 
Hook  him,  lead  him  to  it,  stick  him  in,  and  there  you  are  ! 
Pretty  neat.  Quickest  connection  I  ever  made.  Pretty  cocky 
and  confident,  this  fellow.  This  kind  certainly  has  more  ability 
and  enterprise  and  nerve  than  those  boys  who  plug  away  at  a 
desk  all  day.  Hundreds  and  hundreds  of  them  with  their  noses 
in  books,  counting  up  the  money  they  have  or  want  to  get. 
What  do  they  know  about  anything  like  this  ?  And  me  riding, 
Lord  knows  where,  with — " 

**  It's  about  that  advertising  scheme,  Dillingham.  You  see, 
it  means  a  big  commission  to  me  if  I  fix  it  up  to-day.  Now  if 
you'll  just  come  up  to  the  office  we  can  go  through  those  plans 
again  and — " 


AMERICA'S  IDEAL 

MARION   SINCLAIR   WALKER 

When  Washington,  preserver  of  our  land, 
Through  gloom  of  dark  oppression's  brooding  night, 
Uplifting  Freedom's  torch  with  dauntless  hand. 
Set  it  on  high  to  be  the  beacon  light 
Of  all  the  world  ;  that  liberty's  fair  goal 
Was  not  in  freedom  loosened  bondsmen  know, 
But  perfect  liberty  of  mind  and  soul, 
And  room  to  grow. 

'Tis  said  that  though  the  fast-revolving  years 

Have  brought  our  nation  growth  from  sea  to  sea, 

Mere  mind  a  vainly  glorious  kingdom  rears 

While  soul  is  prisoned  in  prosperity. 

Never  to  worship  God  were  men  more  free. 

Nor  have  we  sold  our  birthright.  Liberty, 

Nor  reared  unto  ourselves  a  golden  god, 

Nor  kneel  to  worship  him  on  Freedom's  desecrated  sod. 


330  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

All  no  !     Still  Freedom's  never-failing  light 
Illumes  afar  this  consecrated  strand. 
For  hark !     What  glad  shout  breaks  the  gloom  of  night 
As  eager  pilgrims  hail  the  "Promised  Land"  ? 
Their  tongues  are  many,  but  they  speak  one  mind. 
"America  !     Thy  torch  shines  o'er  the  sea  ! 
The  old  world,  spent  and  weary,  left  behind. 
We  come  to  share  thy  perfect  liberty — 
And  thou  canst  give.     Shining  from  pole  to  pole 
Thy  gleaming  torch  bids  struggling  nations  know 
That  thou  hast  Freedom — yea,  of  mind  and  soul, 
And  room  to  grow  ! " 

The  liberty  they  seek  in  faith  and  love 
They  find  ;  there  passes  unregarded  by 
A  long  procession,  bearing  gifts  above 
To  where  God's  altars  rise  to  meet  the  sky. 
It  matters  not.    The  "  alien  on  our  shore" 
Turns  from  the  pomp  ;  he  seeks,  nor  fails  to  find 
Freedom's  broad  road  :  beyond,  an  open  door 
Reveals  to  him  the  "  city  of  the  mind." 

Because  from  distant  lands  the  pilgrim  throng 
Has  borne  the  dream  of  Freedom  in  its  soul. 
The  vision  real,  most  radiant  and  strong. 
Springs  forth  to  meet  them  as  they  reach  the  goal. 
Because  they  loved,  with  love  that  can  endure, 
The  beautiful  of  body,  soul  and  mind  ; 
Because  they  loved  things  noble,  high  and  pure, 
'Tis  these  they  seek  for.  and  'tis  these  they  find. 

Freely  receive,  ye  who  so  freeh^  give  ! 
We  turn  from  yonder  gilded  idol's  hill. 
And  may  the  common  life  we  learn  to  live 
This  nation's  wondrous  destiny  fulfil. 
Ye  bring  us  treasures  from  the  storied  past, 
High  deed  of  valor,  noble  thought  of  truth, — 
Ye  bring  us  dreams  ;  our  treasure — guard  it  fast ! — 
Is  Freedom  and  a  Nation's  glorious  youth. 
We  owe  no  barriers  of  tongue  or  race. 
Our  common  country's  dee^tiny  we  trace, 
And.  brothers  in  her  service,  we  shall  find 
Guided  far-seeing  by  the  beacon's  glow 
Freedom  complete,  of  body,  soul  and  mind. 
And  room  to  grow  ! 


HOW  NEW  AMERICANS  ARE  BEING  MADE 

MARION   SINCLAIR   WALKER 

We  hear  a  great  deal  about  the  immigrants  who  are  pouring 
into  this  country  at  the  rate  of  twenty  thousand  a  day,  aijd 
iibout  the  problem  of  how  they  are  to  be  Americanized.  Our 
ministers  preach  about  this  problem,  our  learned  men  discuss  it 
learnedly  in  books,  our  college  students  settle  this,  along  with 
the  rest  of  the  world's  questions,  in  sociology  classes,  and  the 
good  ladies  of  our  churches  hold  missionary  meetings  to  con- 
sider, with  prayerful  attention,  "the  alien  on  our  shores.'' 
But  just  what  is  it  that  we  think  we  can  give  these  foreigners 
when  we  Americanize  them,  and  what  are  we  giving  them  ? 
Are  we  quite  sure  that  our  civilization  is  something  that  is  well 
worth  handing  on,  and  if  so,  what  are  the  American  ideals  on 
which  our  faith  rests  ? 

There  are  some  of  us  who  have  never  gotten  over  the  belief  of 
our  childhood — the  belief  in  America  as  "'the  land  of  the  free." 
Freedom,  which  means  not  only  the  negative  absence  of  thral- 
•dom,  but  positively,  the  time,  the  room  and  the  opportunity  to 
grow,  in  bodj%  in  mind  and  in  spirit — this  is  to  us  the  great 
American  ideal. 

There  are,  however,  pessimists  in  our  midst,  who  say  that  the 
only  American  ideal  which  exists  at  the  present  day  is  the 
money-making  one,  that  all  interests  of  body,  of  mind  and  of 
soul  are  passion  for  the  "  almighty  dollar."  "And,"  these  low- 
spirited  individuals  continue,  "since  the  sum  and  substance  of 
our  so-called  civilization  is  this  passion  for  money,  why  are  we 
so  sure  that  we  have  something  worth  giving— why  our  tirm 
conviction  of  the  advantage  of  being  Americanized  ? "' 

A  great  many  of  the  immigrants  are  claimed  by  the  industry 
concerned  with  providing  our  food.  One  branch  of  this  indus- 
ti-y  is  to  be  found  in  the  kitchen  of  a  summer  hotel.  Here, 
though  the  third  of  the  trio  may  be  absent,  you  are  sure  to  find 
his  associates,  the  butcher  and  the  baker,  with  tlieir  numerous 
assistants  ;  then  there  are  cooks  who  roast  and  cooks  who  broil 
and  cooks  who  fry  in  deep  fat,  with  the  mighty  chef  presiding 
over  all.  The  store-room  has  its  force  who,  like  slot-machines, 
respond    to  "  two-on-the-orange-marm'lade "   or    "five   on    the 

331 


33-^  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

demi-tasse,"  and  shove  out  the  desired  articles  with  clock-like 
precision.  There  are  the  dish-washers,  too,  but  they  are  in  a 
class  apart,  and  somehow  don't  count — perhaps  because  their 
industry  is  not  a  creative  one,  like  that  of  cooks. 

The  hotel  of  my  experience  had  almost  as  many  nations  as 
occupations  represented.  A  huge  square  kitchen  was  presided 
over  by  the  prince  of  chefs,  a  Frenchman,  big,  capable,  calm, 
*and  the  possessor  of  patience,  that  virtue  rumored  never  to  be 
found  in  a  man,  and  let  me  whisper,  more  seldom  still  in  a  chef. 
To  the  left  was  the  door  of  the  bake  shop,  where  Joe,  the  baker,, 
was  never  too  busy  to  discuss  Home  Rule  for  Ireland,  as  he 
rolled  out  his  piecrust,  and  Alec,  the  Greek  boy,  his  handsome 
young  assistant,  sent  melting  glances  in  your  direction  as  you 
came  in  to  demand  'Hhree-on-the-baked-Indian-puddiug-with- 
brandy-sauce."  It  was  remarkable,  too,  how  quickly  Alec 
found  out  just  where  those  glances  were  and  were  not  effective. 
If  he  saw  that  you  were  interested  in  certain  other  things,  and 
not  at  all  in  flirtation,  he  could  talk  very  entertainingly  about 
his  travels,  for  Alec  in  his  four  years  in  America  had  seen  a 
great  deal  more  of  j^our  United  States  than  you  had  yourself. 

Next  to  the  bake-shop  door  you  could  usually  find  Prudence 
(French,  and  accented  on  the  last  syllable),  ver}^  hot  and  irrita- 
ble, as  you  would  be  yourself  if  you  had  to  make  toast  and  fry 
griddle  cakes  for  a  living.  At  the  range  was  Chester,  true  son 
of  Italy,  with  more  melting  glances,  and  a  tendency  to  try  to 
hold  your  hand  as  he  placed  in  it  "  one-on-the-baked-potatoes.^' 
This,  too,  before  he  knew  jou,  for  Chester,  like  all  the  others,, 
changed  his  tactics  very  soon.  Then  there  was  the  deep-fat- 
man  (bewildering  term!)  and  presently  the  broiler  man,  with 
whom  you  had  to  contend  periodically  for  "  two-on-the-sirloin- 
sfceak-very-rare."  Just  about  here  you  were  sure  to  find  Hannah, 
the  vegetable  woman,  watching  over  her  "  p'taters,  boiled  'n' 
mashed,"  which  she  cherished  tenderly,  and  could  with  diffi- 
culty be  induced  to  part  from. 

In  the  butcher  shop  was  Peter,  the  Greek,  of  whom  more 
anon.  Alphonse,  too,  must  not  be  forgotten — little  Alphonse 
who  scoured  the  kettles  and  pans  till  they  shone  like  his  own 
dark  skin.  He  was  just  seventeen  years  old,  and  newly  arrived 
from  Italy,  not  knowing  a  word  of  Eaglish. 

This  then  is  some  of  the  material  out  of  which  new  Ameri- 
cans are  being  made.      A  place  and  occupation  less  favorable 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  333 

for  their  development  could  not  perhaps  be  found.  The  heat  of 
the  kitchen,  especially  for  those  who  work  at  the  ranges,  is 
almost  unbearable,  and  is  likely  to  work  havoc  with  health  and 
temper.  The  constant  nearness  to  and  emphasis  placed  upon 
food  is  by  no  means  uplitting,  and  moreover,  the  spirit  prevail- 
ing in  a  hotel  kitchen  is  a  distinctly  commercial  one.  The  out- 
side world  (represented  by  the  guests)  is  judged  by  its  varying 
degrees  of  "  fussiness,"  and  even  more  sure  criterion,  its  tipping 
propensities,  as  reported  with  more  or  less  accuracy  by  the 
waitresses.  Here  "the  almighty  dollar"  is  being  held  up  to 
*'  the  alien  on  our  shores'^  as  an  American  ideal.  His  ideal  of 
American  womanhood  is  not  likely  to  be  a  high  one,  with  the 
average  waitress  as  material  for  its  formation.  There  is  nothing 
in  the  religious  side  of  life  to  hold  his  attention.  A  clatter  of 
I'ising  at  five  and  trooping  to  early  mass  betokens  the  arrival  of 
Sunday  morning,  but  that  is  all.  The  holy  names  are  used 
as  carelessly  after  mass  as  before  ;  with  not  even  a  shock  of 
transition,  the  early  church-goers  have  slipped  back  into  their 
habitual  sordid  and  slipshod  lives. 

And  yet,  strangely  enough,  "  the  alien  on  our  shores  "  is  not 

taking  America  at  this,  its  face  value.      He  is  not  taking  the 

average,    the   prevailing,  the  predominant,  but  is  far-seeingly 

and   persistently  choosing   the  best.      The  explanation  of  this 

surprising  fact  may  be  found  in  large  measure  in  the  answer  to 

a  question,  one  which  it  would  seem  we  consider  too  little  when 

we  deal   with   the   immigrant   problem;    namely,  "When  the 

immigrant  comes  to  us,  what  does  he  bring  with  bim  from  his 

native  land  ?    What  are  his  antecedents,  what  his  background  ?  " 

Every  one  of  the  hotel  "  help  "  presented  a  different  aspect  of 

the  problem.      Alec,  though  just  nineteen  years  old,  had,  like 

his  countryman  of  long  ago,  "seen  men  and  cities."     He  had 

not  been  in  school  very  much  at  the  time  when  he  left  Greece, 

but  he  had  a  keen,  alert  mind,  of  the  kind   that   makes  over 

experiences  into  knowledge.     The  wanderlust,  perhaps,  had  led 

him  to  travel  far  west  in  these  four  3^ears,  until,  having  tried 

many  cities  he  chose  Boston  and  decided  to  call  it  home.     "It 

is  to  me  almost  like  Greece,"  he  said  with  shining  eyes.     Alec 

cannot  go  to  evening  school,  for  his  work,  that  of  baker,  lasts 

until   eight  o'clock  at  night.      His  education,  however,  is  not 

suffering.     He  reads  the  newspapers,  both  Greek  and  American, 

and  knows   very  well    what  is  going  on  in  the  world.      More 


334  THE   SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

significant  still,  lie  realizes  the  value  of  education,  and  there  he- 
iris  advanced  a  step  beyond  many  young  Americans,  who, 
living  in  the  shadow  of  the  school,  look  lightly  upon  its  oppor- 
tunities. 

Alec's  companion,  Peter,  who  had  been  in  America  just  four 
months,  was  a  high  school  student  in  Greece,  and  had  studied 
French  there.  Without  Alec's  eagerness  of  mind,  Peter  had  a 
certain  quiet  interest  in  things,  a  persistent  studiousness,  which 
will  accomplish  like  results.  "  I  am  going  to  look  for  work 
that  stops  at  five  o'clock,"  said  Peter,  in  slow,  careful  English. 
''  Then  I  can  go  to  evening  school." 

Both  Greek  boys  had  a  keen  interest  in  the  events  taking- 
place  in  Greece.  When  Alec  found  out  that  I  could  read 
Greek,  he  ran  to  Peter,  and  after  a  five  minutes'  excited  conver- 
sation they  came  to  me  with  the  day's  Greek  newspaper,  and 
listened  with  beaming  faces  while  I  read  to  them  in  my  careful 
college-Greek.  They  pointed  out  to  me  very  courteously  that 
I  read  the  same  things  as  they,  but  produced  a  slightly  different 
result,  and  although  amused,  still  they  rather  liked  the  preci- 
sion with  which  I  pronounced  words  that  they  slurred  together^ 
They  came  to  me  often  after  that,  to  tell  me  the  news  from 
Greece.  It  made  them  feel  at  home  to  find  an  American  who 
knew  their  native  tongue,  even  in  the  rude  way  that  I  did. 
But  my  privilege  was  the  greater  one  ;  it  was  stirring  indeed  to- 
talk  with  a  person  no  older  than  myself  who  had  lived  within 
sight  of  the  Parthenon,  and  with  another  whose  cousin  was 
even  now  rocovering  from  a  wound  which  he  had  received 
while  fighting  for  the  liberty  of  Greece. 

With  Alphonse,  the  little  Italian,  it  seemed  harder  to  make 
ccnnections.  He  knew  no  English  whatever,  his  work  brought 
him  little  into  contact  with  others,  and  moreover,  his  was  the 
hardest  work  in  the  hotel.  He  was  very  young,  yet  he  had  to 
get  up  before  four  o'clock  every  morning,  to  start  the  fires  in 
the  range.  From  that  time  on  till  afternoon  his  work  was  con- 
stant— scouring  pots  and  kettles,  running  hither  and  thither 
with  his  noiseless,  hoop-rolling  motion,  to  do  the  bidding  of  the 
chef.  He  had  no  easier  lot  to  look  forward  to,  for  he  had 
engaged  to  do  the  same  kind  of  work  in  Boston  during  the 
winter.  Chester,  the  other  Italian,  was  the  only  person  Al- 
phonse had  to  talk  to,  and  he  had  none  of  the  native  refinement 
that  was  easily  discernible  in  Alphonse.     There  was  something. 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      33& 

very  sweet  and  wholesome  about  the  boy  ;  it  was  marvelous  to 
see  how  quick  he  was  to  respond  to  real  interest  in  him,  while 
all  the  coarseness  of  the  hotel  passed  quite  over  his  head — he 
was  not  looking  for  anything-  of  the  sort,  so  he  did  not  under- 
stand it. 

I  used  to  wonder  about  Alphonse,  and  what  was  to  become  of 
him,  with  his  singularly  bright  and  attractive  nature,  and  so 
little  opportunity  for  development.  Very  earlj^  in  the  season, 
however,  Alphonse  was  ably  taken  in  baud.  Two  teachers  of 
wide  experience  were  at  the  liotel  as  waitresses  that  summer. 
They  noticed  little  Alphonse,  his  possibilities  and  his  limitations, 
and  for  the  rest  of  the  summer  they  devoted  most  of  their  after- 
noons to  teaching  him  English.  Sometimes  his  mind  worked 
slowly ;  small  wonder  for  he  had  already  had  an  eleven-hour 
day  of  work  when  the  lesson  began — but  he  struggled  on  man- 
fully, and  at  the  end  of  the  summer  could  talk  with  us  quite  a 
bit.  Of  course  he  cannot  go  to  the  evening  school— his  work 
does  not  permit  that— but  the  teachers  have  his  address,  and  are 
going  to  send  him  books.  In  short,  we  all  felt  that  there  was  a 
ray  of  hope  for  Alphonse,  that  he  had  taken  the  first  steps 
toward  making  the  connections  with  his  "  Promised  Land." 

With  the  girls  who  represent  "the  alien  on  our  shore  "  the 
situation  is  a  little  different.  I  did  not  find  one  of  them  who 
was  interested  in  education.  They  apparently  did  not  feel  the 
need  of  it.  Prudence,  the  French  girl,  was  not  at  all  disturbed 
because  she  could  not  write  in  English.  She  came  occasionally 
to  one  of  our  teacher  friends  and  asked  her  to  write  a  letter  for 
her,  but  showed  no  inclination  to  learn  to  write.  With  her  the 
matter  of  personal  appearance,  in  its  bearing  upon  a  certain  in- 
nocent coquetry,  was  the  main  issue.  With  little  Bessie  who 
had  just  came  from  Ireland,  the  situation  was  practically  the 
same.  Yet  these  girls  were  open  to  influence,  and  America  was 
doing  something  for  them.  Although  much  in  the  hotel  life 
was  unwholesome,  with  them,  too — and  all  this  tends  to  contra- 
dict the  people  who  believe  in  the  original  depravity  of  man — 
the  influence  of  things  better  and  higher  in  the  end  prevailed. 
The  majority  of  the  waitresses  were  addicted  to  cheap  flirtation, 
one  form  of  which  was  calling  out  from  their  windows  to 
loungers  who  sat  on  the  fence,  and  little  Bessie  began  to  do  like- 
wise. The  teacher  who  had  helped  Alphonse  went  into  Bessie's 
room  one  evening  and  said,  "Bessie,  I  wouldn't  call  from  the 
window.    It  isn't  nice.    The  men  out  there  aren't  the  right  sort.'* 


336  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

"All  right,"  said  little  Bessie.  '*I  don't  care.  But  I  heard 
the  others,  so  I  thought  I'd  just  *  jine  in.'^^ 

The  French  girl,  at  the  opening  of  the  season,  brought  art  to 
the  assistance  of  nature,  often  and  obviously,  in  matters  con- 
cerning the  rosiness  of  cheeks  and  the  brightness  of  eyes.  She 
was  quick  to  see  that  this  type  of  adorment  was  not  practised 
bj'  the  best  of  her  associates,  and  before  end  of  the  summer,  her 
natural  really  beautiful  coloring  and  her  soft  brown  eyes  were 
allowed  to  show  themselves. 

Though  perhaps  as  in  these  instances,  we  contributed  some- 
thing to  the  here  and  there,  to  the  development  of  "  the  alien  on 
our  shores,"  yet  here,  as  always,  the  benefit  was  mutual,  and  I 
think  we  received  much  more  than  we  gave.  To  hear  little 
Bessie  talk,  and  to  see  her  dance  the  strange,  intricate  dances  of 
her  country,  was  more  illuminating  to  us  than  many  volumes 
of  folk-lore.  Prudence,  too,  represented  a  type  different  from 
anything  we  had  known,  and  not  at  all  negligible.  Her  femin- 
inity, her  gentle  coquetry,  spoke  of  maidens  as  we  had  read  of 
them  in  romances  concerning  the  France  of  long  ago. 

This  it  is  that  strikes  the  keynote  of  the  relation  to  us  and  to 
our  America,  of  "the  alien  on  our  shores."  He  receives  much 
from  us,  because  he  has  much  to  give.  To  those  only  who  have 
an  ideal  in  their  hearts  is  the  ideal  made  manifest.  Because 
these  pilgrims  who  are  coming  to  us  from  many  lands  have  a 
background  of  the  high  and  glorious,  thej^  are  drawn  to  that 
which  is  high  and  glorious  in  our  civilization  ;  because  they 
have  something  beautiful  in  their  souls,  they  can  see  the  beauti- 
ful in  ours ;  because  as  patriots  they  love  the  lands  of  their 
birth,  they  can  join  with  us  as  loyally  in  loving  our  America. 
When  we  recognize  our  common  humanity  ;  when  we  realize 
that  these  are  other  human  beings,  with  lives,  with  interests 
like  our  own  and  where  different,  of  like  significance  ;  that  we 
are  not  benefactors,  but  that  those  whom  we  would  Americanize 
have  a  definite  contribution  of  their  own  to  bring,  and  are  ready 
to  be  co-workers  with  us  in  building  up  a  more  glorious  America; 
when  we  have  grasped  this,  the  true  situation,  then  and  then 
only  will  our  activities  be  turned  in  the  right  direction,  for  as 
soon  as  we  stop  thinking  about  differences,  and,  emphasizing 
the  one  great  similaritj-,  work  together  as  brothers  for  the  glory 
of  our  common  country,  then  there  will  cease  to  be  a  problem 
of  "  the  alien  on  our  shores." 


A   MODERN  FABLE 

KATHLEEN    ISABEL   BYAM 

Veau8  was  feeding  the  Turtle  Doves  when  Cupid  came  flut- 
tering into  the  Home  Bower  with  a  broken  wing. 

"  What  is  the  trouble,  Cupid,  dear?"  Venus  cried  in  alarm 
as  the  little  fellow  sank  to  the  earth,  quiver  and  bows  forgotten. 
She  dropped  her  pan  of  dove-feed  and  ran  to  take  the  sad  little 
son  in  her  arms. 

"  Tell  mother,  dear,"  she  said.  "  Who  has  hurt  you  now  ?  It 
wasn't  the  suffragettes  again,  was  it  ?" 

She  watched  him  anxiouslj^  as  he  wriggled  his  head  deeper  in- 
to the  hollow  of  her  arm.  Her  face  was  troubled  ;  life  had  been 
discouraging  of  late.  All  her  slender  income  went  into  Cupid's 
arrows  :  but  almost  every  day  the  erstwhile  happy  little  fellow 
came  home,  bruised  and  tearful,  with  arrows  broken  or  lost. 

His  sobs  quieted  after  a  few  moments  and  he  straightened  up, 
digging  his  fists  into  his  eyes. 

''There's  no  use  in  trying  to  do  anything  for  people  nowa- 
days," he  stormed.  And  then  he  told  how  for  days  he  had  been 
shooting  arrows  at  a  Girl,  all  to  no  purpose. 

"And  she  wasn't  a  suffragette,  either,"  he  said,  "I  don't 
bother  with  them  any  more.'' 

He  said  he  wouldn't  have  used  so  many  arrows  on  the  Girl  if 
it  hadn't  been  for  the  Man.  You  see,  he  had  hit  the  Man  only 
once,  real  hard,  when  the  Man  had  noticed  the  Girl.  Then  when 
the  Man  noticed  her,  he  wanted  to  talk  to  her.  And  when  the 
Man  talked  to  her,  although  she  made  him  talk  about  her  career 
he  loved  her.  But  Cupid  said  it  wasn't  the  Man's  fault.  He 
really  was  a  nice,  sensible  Man,  as  men  go  ;  but,  you  see, 
he  still  had  a  primitive  susceptibility  to  Cupid's  arrows.  Of 
course,  Cupid  didn't  say  exactly  that — but  that's  really  what  it 
amounted  to. 

Cupid  continued  in  his  story.  The  Girl,  he  said,  talked  about 
her  great,  big,  beautiful  career.     And  the  Man  said  : 

"  What  is  a  Career  ?     Is  it  work  ?  '' 

The  Girl  simply  looked  at  the  Man.     She  said  : 

"  My  Career  ?     It  is  the  Inspiration  of  my  Life  ! " 


338  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

WheD  Cupid  told  his  mother  what  the  girl  said  about  her 
Career,  Venus  looked  puzzled.     Then  she  smiled. 

Cupid  said  that  he  didn't  see  how  the  Girl's  Career  couhi  be 
the  inspiration  of  her  life.  He  had  seen  the  big  ugly  thing.  He 
wasn't  sure  whether  it  was  a  great  watch  dog  or  a  sort  of  clumsy 
hobby-horse.  Anyway  she  always  had  it  with  her.  Whenever 
anyone  came  to  see  her,  she  unchained  the  awful  thing  and  let 
it  walk  all  around  and  step  on  everybody's  toes.  And  finally ^ 
that  very  day,  while  Cupid  was  hiding  in  a  corner,  the  Career 
had  walked  over  one  of  his  wings  and  now  he  was  hurt  and 
unhappy. 

But  Venus  said  to  "  never  mind."  She  had  a  plan.  She  told 
Cupid  not  to  waste  any  more  arrows  nor  time  ;  she  had  had  ex- 
perience with  Careers  before.  So  she  bound  up  Cupid's  sore 
wing  and  while  he  slept  she  mended  his  broken  arrows  and 
polished  them  and  made  some  new  ones  barbed  with  a  brand 
new  bard. 

And  meanwhile  the  Girl  was  happy  and  the  Career  grew  and 
made  itself  heard  and  everybody  came  to  stroke  its  head  until  it 
grew  glossy  under  the  many  caresses.  And  the  Girl  built  a 
splendid  place  for  it  to  live  in  ;  rather,  she  cleared  a  broad  ex- 
panse in  the  place  that  she  cherished  most,  swept  out  all  the 
old-fashioned  things  that  cluttered  it.  And  she  loved  the  Career 
more  each  day. 

And  the  Man  was  the  only  one  who  did  not  come  and  purr 
over  the  Career.  When  he  did  come,  which  wasn't  very  often, 
he  tried  to  be  agreeable  but  that  Career-thing  got  on  his  nerves. 
It  kept  on  growing  and  taking  up  more  room  all  the  time  ;  in 
fact,  the  Girl  was  the  only  person  whom  it  did  not  crowd. 
Everyone  else  had  to  move  when  the  Career  began  to  walk 
about.  And  whenever  the  Man  tried  to  look  at  the  Girl  (he 
never  tried  to  talk  any  more  ! )  its  big  blundering  hulk  got  dir- 
ectly in  front  of  him.  And  even  then  he  tried  to  be  agreeable. 
But  once  he  was  just  getting  a  good  look  and  thought  perhaps 
he  would  have  a  chance  to  tell  the  Girl  again  how  miserable  he 
was,  when  that  Career's  great  big  hulk  walked  straight  between 
them.  And  the  Girl  smiled  at  it  and  forgot  about  the  Man.  He 
did  not  say  anything — but  he  was  not  trying  to  be  agreeable. 
He  just  went  out  and  on  the  way  across  the  broad  expanse  that 
the  Girl  had  cleared  for  the  Career,  he  met  the  beast  again  and 
this  time  he  forgot  to  be  afraid,  he  forgot  to  be  agreeable  for 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  :330 

the  Girl's  sake  ;  lie  kicked  it.  And  the  Career  snarled  and 
chased  him  over   the  hedge.     And  the  Girl  watched  him  do  it. 

Now,  don't  think  that  the  Girl  was  cruel  or  unusually  selfish. 
She  was  not.  She  was  naturally  a  nice  girl  but  she  loved  her 
Career  so  much  that  she  expected  everyone  else  to  do  likewise. 
And  that  was  because  she  did  not  know  any  better. 

When  the  Man  did  not  come  back  the  Girl  was  relieved.  And 
she  gave  still  more  attention  to  the  Career.  And  everyone  said, 
"  What  a  Remarkable  Woman  !  " 

All  this  time  Cupid  had  not  been  very  far  away  although  he 
often  became  cold  and  longed  for  his  cosy  home  and  his  mother. 
She  had  told  him  not  to  use  any  of  the  shiny  new  arrows  she 
had  made  for  him  until  she  told  him  it  was  time. 

When  the  Man  was  chased  away  by  the  Career,  Cupid  wanted 
to  try  a  shot  at  the  Girl  and  ran  to  his  mother,  begging  her  to 
let  him. 

But  "Not  yet,"  she  said,  smiling. 

And  when  the  Girl  became  relieved  and  happy  because  the 
Man  had  gone  he  ran  to  Venus  again. 

But  '*  Not  yet,''  she  said  firmly. 

And  when  people  called  the  Girl  a  Remarkable  Woman  and 
the  Career  grew  larger  and  glossier,  Cupid  curled  up  in  his  cold 
little  corner  and  cried.  Venus  comforted  him  but  still  warned 
him,  "Not  yet!" 

Then  one  day  a  Friend  came  to  see  the  Girl.  And  she  talked 
and  talked  about  the  Career,  because  everyone  knew  that  was 
the  thing  to  do.  And  when  the  Remarkable  Woman  had  told 
her  all  about  it,  how  she  loved  it,  the  Friend  said  : 

''  Oh,  my  dear,  how  I  admire  you.  You  are  wonderful  I  If  I 
could  only  raise  a  Career — but  that  wouldn't  do  for  me,  I'm 
afraid.  You  know,  I— well,  can't  you  imagine  me  handling  a 
Career."  And  then  she  kissed  the  Remarkable  Woman  on  the 
tip  of  her  nose  (which  had  no  powder  on  it  I)  and  hurried  away. 

Now  Cupid  was  surprised  for  Venus  said,  *'  Now's  the  time, 
dear."  She  had  come  to  him  and  selected  an  arrow  from  his 
quiver. 

"  Use  this  one  first,"  she  said. 

So  Cupid,  happy  to  shoot  at  last,  let  it  fly  whirring,  swishing 
straight  at  the  Remarkable  Woman  as  she  stood  patting  the 
Career  absent-mindedly.  And  that  arrow  was  barbed,  not  with 
Love  like  the  old-fashioned  ones,  but  with   Reflection.     Cupid 


340  THE   SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

had  never  heard  of  such  an  arrow  before  ;  he  waited  to  see  what 
would  happen.  The  Remarkable  Woman  stood  still  a  long 
while,  as  if  looking  at  something  a  long  way  off  ;  but  she  did 
not  forget  to  give  the  Career  his  supper.  And  Cupid  was  dis- 
appointed. But  Venus  smiled  and  selected  another  arrow  from 
the  quiver  telling  him  to  use  it  next  but  not  until  she  bade  him. 

'•  Wait  and  see,"  she  advised. 

Many  times  the  Remarkable  Woman  seemed  to  be  looking 
across  the  hedge  that  enclosed  the  place  set  aside  for  the  Career, 
at  something  far  off.  But  she  always  turned  back  to  the  Career 
with  an  extra  pat. 

One  day  the  Friend  came  again  :  this  time  with  a  sample  copy 
of  herself  toddling  beside  her,  clinging  to  her  hand.  The  Re- 
markable Woman  was  delighted  with  the  toddling  little  one;  she 
picked  her  up  and  loved  her  and  quite  forgot  about  the  Career 
even  when  it  nosed  about  her  to  be  petted.  Then  the  Friend 
went  away  with  the  little  Girl  holding  fast  to  her  hand.  And 
the  Remarkable  Woman  watched  them  till  they  disappeared  be- 
hind the  hedge— and  looked  a  long,  long  time  at  something  far 
awa}^.     And  Cupid  was  bored. 

But  that  night  the  Remarkable  Woman  forgot  to  give  the 
Career  his  supper  I  And  Cupid  let  fly  his  brand  new  arrow 
tipped  with  "  Might  Have  Been  ;"  and  hugged  himself  while  he 
waited  to  see  what  would  happen.  But  nothing  more  happened 
— except  that  the  Remarkable  Woman  finally  heard  the  pleading 
of  the  Career  and  gave  him  his  supper  without  seeming  to 
see  him. 

Then  the  next  day  mother  Venus  came  to  Cupid  and  said  : 

''You  can  shoot  your  third  arrow  to-day,  it  will  be  the  last. 
You  won't  need  any  more."  So  when  the  Remarkable  Woman 
came  out  and  gazed  across  the  garden  where  her  Career  was 
sleeping  in  the  sun  and  over  the  hedge  around  it,  Cupid  slyly 
let  fly  the  last  arrow.  It  was  barbed  with  Loneliness.  And 
.when  it  went  home,  straight  to  the  Woman's  heart,  she  only 
shivered  a  little  and  went  inside.  And  Cupid  threw  down  his 
bow  in  disgust.  "This  world  is  too  much  for  me.  If  they're 
going  to  have  Suffragettes  and  Careers  and  things,  I'm  going  to 
give  notice."    Just  then  Venus  arrived. 

"Just  wait,  dear,"  she  said.  "The  Man  will  come  back  now 
and  you'll  see  what  this  modern  method  of  slow  doses  of  mine 
has  done." 


THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY  341 

But  the  Man  did  not  come  back.  Venus  forgot  that  he  was 
not  still  waiting  beyond  the  hedge.  And  she  forgot  that  even 
one  of  Cupid's  strongest  arrows  could  not  be  expected  to  retain 
its  original  effect  when  a  man  had  a  Career  to  contend  with.  So 
they  waited  and  he  did  not  come.  And  the  Remarkable  Woman 
seemed  to  be  waiting,  too.  She  made  a  note  of  the  Career^s 
mealtimes,  so  she  never  forgot.  But  the  Career  started  to  get 
thin  and  moth-eaten  and  peevish  because  people  did  not  pet  him 
as  they  had.  But  the  Remarkable  Woman  kept  him  alive  and 
working.  And  Venus  was  so  ashamed  that  she  hurried  back  to 
ber  Home  Bower  and  resolved  to  have  nothing  more  to  do  with 
her  son's  business — unless  it  were  to  do  modest  mending.  But 
her  son  went  out  of  business,  too  ;  he  left  his  bow  and  arrows 
right  where  he  dropped  them.  He  vowed  he  would  not  touch, 
them  again — but  I'm  afraid  he  did. 

And  the  Remarkable  Woman  went  on  caring  for  her  Career. 
Her  friends  went  on  saying  "  My  dear,  how  wonderful  you  are  !  " 
And  the  Remarkable  Woman  knew  in  her  heart,  where  Cupid's 
barbs  of  Reflection,  Might-Have-Beens  and  Loneliness  were 
lodged,  that  she  was  not  wonderful.  And  all  this  came  about 
because  she  had  allowed  her  Career  to  wander  around  until  he 
bruised  poor  Cupid's  wing. 

Moral: — Be  careful  about  pet  animals,  particularly  Careers  ; 
don't  let  them  step  on  other  people's  toes. 


NIGHT 

HELEN   WHITMAN 

Far  oer  the  eastern  wave  doth  queenly  Night 

Sweep  forth  from  Pluto's  ebon  battlement 

In  shimm'ring.  shadowy  robes  of  purple  dight. 

From  whose  soft  folds  there  falls  a  fairy  scent 

Of  dewy  flowers  and  Orient  perfumes  blent : 

Clusters  of  pearls  above  her  temples  gleam, 

And  quiv'ring  at  her  breast  the  pale  crescent 

Of  the  new  moon  casts  its  silvery  beam 

O'er  starlit  summer  seas  that  silent  lie  and  dream. 


LOVE  IN  A  HURRY 

HESTER   GUNNING 

Frances  Bray  ton  powdered  her  nose  with  more  than  usual 
care,  secure  in  the  knowledge  that  a  caller  who  had  waited 
twenty  minutes  would  wait  the  extra  two  necessary  to  produce 
the  proper  shade  on  her  most  prominent  feature.  It  would  be 
good  for  him  to  wait,  she  reflected. 

^'  Good  evening, ''  she  greeted  him  cordially  as  they  shook 
hands.     "  Have  I  kept  you  waiting  ?  " 

''Why — er— yes — I  mean  I'm  always  impatient  to  see  you," 
he  adapted  himself  clumsily  to  the  situation.  Why  did  girls 
ask  such  questions  ?    No  man  would.     He  was  used  to  men. 

"You  men  are  always  impatient  and  in  a  hurry,"  said  the 
girl  mockingly.  "It's  your  business,  or  your  lunch,  or  your 
train,  something  you've  got  to  catch  in  the  wink  of  an  eye. 
Some  day  you'll  miss  everything  you're  hurrying  for.  I'm  sure 
I'll  outlive  you  all ;  I  never  hurry." 

"Yes,  and  some  day  you'll  find  yourself  in  a  position  where 
you  have  to  hurry,"  replied  the  man  with  a  quick  appreciation 
of  her  last  statement.  He  had  not  waited  twenty-two  minutes 
without  discovering  that  Frances  Brayton  did  not  hurry. 

"But  hurry  is  the  great  American  evil  and  I'm  sure  you'd 
never  countenance  evil,"  Frances  teased.  "You're  not  that 
kind  of  man." 

"Nothing  but  a  necessary  evil,  there  are  enough  of  those  to 
sink  the  rest  of  the  tribe  into  insignificance." 

"  I  suppose  I'm  an  evil,"  said  the  girl  with  sudden  malicious- 
ness. "  I  keep  you  waiting  and  you  hate  to  wait ;  I  disagree 
with  you  and  you  hate  to  be  disagreed  with.  Why  do  you 
come  here  at  all  ?"  She  fingered  the  books  on  the  table  nerv- 
ously, almost  wishing  her  question  back. 

"You  are  a  necessary  evil,  then,  Frances,"  he  said  slowly. 
"Very,  very  necessary  to  rae.  Do  you  realize  that  ?  I  want 
you  to  marry  me,  to  help  me  do  the  things  I  hope  to  do.  Will 
you?" 

The  color  mounted  into  the  girl's  face.  The  suddenness  of  it 
all  took  her  breath  away.  She  wasn't  ready  to  answer  that 
question  yet.  ^*2 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  343 

"  Do  all  you  Westerners  do  things  that  way  ?  "  she  asked. 

"What  way?"  said  Burleigh,  stung  by  the  lightness  of  her 
answer.  "Honest  and  straight  and  true?  Yes.  Can't  you 
play  the  game  that  way  ?  Can't  you  get  away  from  the  artifi- 
cial forcing  of  your  hot-house  culture  and  come  down  to  real 
facts  and  live  issues  ?    Won't  j^ou  answer  me  directly  ?" 

The  girl  shook  her  head.  " 'Twouldn't  be  natural.  You 
can't  expect  a  hot-house  plant  to  enjoy  a  snow-storm,  can  you  ? 
Besides,  you  get  too  much  that  you  want.  If  you  want  some- 
thing else  to-morrow  you'll  forget  what  you  wanted  to-day." 

"But  I'll  always  want  you."  Burleigh  asserted  earnestly. 

"Supposing  I  wanted  you  to  give  up  all  j^our  political  ambi- 
tions, would  you  ?"  She  looked  at  him  directly  for  the  first 
time.  "Aren't  those  ambitions  about  the  dearest  things  to 
you  ?     It's  your  turn  to  be  honest  now." 

"What  would  you  make  of  me — a  household  ornament  ?  The 
only  thing  I  have  to  offer  you  is  myself  and  my  desire  to  make 
good  at  whatever  I  undertake.  I'm  not  rich, — no  man  who 
mixes  in  politics  has  a  chance  to  get  i-ich  on  the  road  to  success, 
— and  I  haven't  any  of  those  social  graces  I  notice  the  young 
men  of  this  town  cultivating  so  carefully.  Wouldn't  I  make  a 
fine  figure  at  a  pink  tea  juggling  a  plate  of  cake  in  one  hand 
and  spilling  tea  over  tne  surrounding  company  with  the  other  ? 
Would  you  have  a  man  or  a  puppet  ?  " 

"You  haven't  answered  my  question— why  should  I  answer 
yours?"  retorted  the  girl  wickedly.  "You  boast  of  your 
Western  frankness,  your  innate  fairness.  Is  it  any  fairer  to 
ask  me  to  transplant  myself  to  your  atmosphere,  to  merge 
myself  in  your  interests,  while  you  do  just  as  you  please  ? 
Come  now,  Tom,  do  you  call  that  playing  the  game  ?" 

"You'll  play,  no  matter  what  the  game  is,  or  how  serious 
it  is,  won't  you  ?  Can't  I  make  you  believe  my  sincerity  ? 
It's  only  by  playing  together  we'll  ever  get  anywhere,  don't 
you  see  ?  " 

"Tom,  we're  not  getting  anywhere — just  wasting  perfectly 
good  energy — and  you're  getting  all  excited.  Too  much  hurry, 
Tom,  always.  I  told  j^ou  that  was  your  trouble.  Now  you're 
trying  to  huiry  things  again  and  this  time  maybe  you  won't 
get  your  train."  Her  eyes  sparkled.  "  Tom,  we  can  be  awfully 
good  friends — why  do  you  want  to  tumble  things  topsy-turvy 
like  that?" 


34*  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

She  wandered  across  the  room  to  the  French  window  and 
gazed  out.  *'  Come  look  at  the  moon/^  she  invited  him.  "  It's 
a  glorious  night  and  I  really  think  you  need  cooling  off.  I 
don't  wonder  Jessica  eloped  with  a  moon  like  that  encouraging 
her.  You  know,  I  think  that's  the  nicest  part  of  elopements — 
the  setting  is  so  much  more  romantic  than  ordinary  wed  dings.  "^ 

*^  I  wonder  you  ever  thought  of  elopements  at  all,"  Burleigh 
said  slowly.  *'Is  there  any  opportunity  for  such  things  in  a 
hot-house  ?  " 

"You're  awfully  fond  of  that  figure,  aren't  you,  Tom  ?"^ 
replied  the  girl,  somewhat  nettled.  '*It  seems  to  me  you  over- 
work it." 

'*  But  I  want  you  to  feel  the  real  air,  the  sunshine,  not  to  wilt 
away  in  a  hot-house.  I  want  you  to  stand  under  the  stars  with 
me  and  know  the  real  meaning  of  life.  Haven't  you  any  desire 
to  get  out  and  breathe  again  ?  " 

"I'm  afraid  I'd  gasp  like  a  fish  out  of  water,"  she  laughed. 
"  Tom,  whj^  will  you  be  so  serious  to-night  ?  How  do  you  sup- 
pose I  could  ever  stand  such  persistency  all  the  time  r  Why, 
I'd  never  have  a  moment's  peace.  I  believe  you'd  even  try  to 
convert  me  to  your  absurd  idea  of  hurry — now  wouldn't  you  ?" 

"  No,  I'm  afraid  that  would  be  hopeless.  Converting  you  to 
anything  is  hopeless,"  he  replied  dully. 

A  knock  on  the  door  interrupted  them. 

"Telephone  call  for  Mr.  Burleigh,"  announced  the  butler. 

The  girl  looked  at  Burleigh  and  laughed.  "You  see  you 
can't  get  away  from  business  even  when  you're  with  me," 
she  said. 

"You  do  like  to  rub  it  in,  don't  you  ?"  Burleigh  said  as  he 
turned  toward  the  door.  "  Have  I  your  highness'  permission 
to  answer  mj''  call  ?" 

"Yes,  my  full  permission,  since  I  know  you'll  answer  it, 
anyway." 

"Thank  you,  Frances,"  and  he  was  gone. 

Left  alone,  Frances  sank  into  an  armchair,  relieved  that  she 
could  have  a  moment  to  collect  her  thoughts.  He  was  so  per- 
sistent and  took  things  so  seriously.  Yet,  in  spite  of  that,  or 
perhaps  because  of  it,  he  interested  her.  Certainly  he  was 
different  from  the  other  men  of  her  acquaintance.  He  knew 
his  own  mind  and  he  never  flattered.  There  was  much  about 
him  to  be  admired.  Francers  found  herself  wondering  if  living 
with  a  very  admirable  person  would  become  monotonous. 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      345 

The  opening  of  the  door  aroused  the  girl  from  her  reverie. 
In  response  to  an  ungovernable  impulse  she  turned  sharply. 
'*Well?"  she  queried.  Something  must  have  happened,  she 
felt  sure.  A  strange  nervousness,  a  sudden  tenseness  took 
possession  of  her.     ^'Anything  wrong  ?  "  she  managed  to  say. 

Burleigh  came  and  stood  in  front  of  her  without  speaking 
and  looked  down  at  her  steadily. 

"  For  pity's  sake,  Tom,  what's  the  matter  ?  You  stand  there 
like  a  wooden  Indian  and  glare  at  me." 

''Frances,"  said  the  man,  *'you  must  promise  me  that  you'll 
marry  me.     Tell  me  now,  right  now,  that  you  will." 

The  girl  recovered  her  poise.  "  Is  that  what  your  telephone 
message  was  about,  Tom  ?"  she  asked. 

Burleigh  kept  his  temper  with  difficulty.  "Be  serious  for  a 
moment,  please.  I  mean  it.  Fve  got  to  have  yoiir  promise 
to-night." 

'* Always  in  a  hurry,  Tom.  Why  this — let  us  say— precipi- 
tancy ?" 

"At  10.06  I  leave  for  the  West  on  business.  Something's 
gone  wrong  with  the  mine  ;  they  need  me.  It  may  be  six 
months  before  I'm  back.  Won't  you  send  me  back  with  some- 
thing to  work  for  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  think  what's  worth  working  for  is  worth  waiting 
for  ?  You  go  out  there  and  get  absorbed  in  your  precious  basi- 
ness.     How  about  me  in  the  meantime  ?  " 

"  There  isn't  time  to  quibble.  My  train  goes  in  twenty  min- 
utes. I  must  get  it.  One  word  from  j^ou  will  make  me  the 
happiest  man  in  the  world.'' 

"You're  too  sure  of  your  success,  Mr.  Burleigh." 

"  But  I  can't  go  till  I'm  sure  some  day  you'll  come  with  me. 
I  don't  ask  you  to  come  now  ;  I  only  ask  you  to  send  me  out 
knowing  you  care  for  me  and  will  wait  till  I  come  back." 

"  If  you  cared  more  for  me  than  for  your  business,  for  mate- 
rial success,  you  wouldn't  go.  I  must  have  time  to  make  up 
my  mind.  You're  asking  too  much.  How  do  you  know  J  love 
you  9     Or  hadn't  you  thought  of  that  ?  " 

Burleigh  was  silent.  After  all,  how  did  he  know  she  loved 
him  ?  Conscious  only  of  his  love  for  her.  he  had  never  doubted 
tliat  it  would  be  reciprocated.  She  was  worth  winning,  he 
thought,  worth  more  than  his  business  success,  future  wealth, 
political  preferment.     He  decided  quickly. 


3i6  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

''  Frances,"  he  said  quietly,  '^  I'm  not  going.  You're  more  to 
me  than  tbe  mine.  I  am  going  to  settle  this  before  I  undertake 
anything  else.     Are  you  satisfied  ?'^ 

"No,"  replied  the  girl  with  suddenly  flashing  eyes.  "I'm 
not.  What  kind  of  a  man  would  you  be  to  leave  your  duties 
and  play  Jack-in-the-box  with  a  girl  ?  You  said  you  were  a 
man  ;  would  you  become  a  puppet  ?" 

"Why,  Frances — "  began  Burleigh,  astonished  at  this  change 
in  her  attitude. 

••  Stay  here,  leave  your  men  in  difiQculties,  neglect  your  affairs, 
to  dance  attendance  on  a  girl  ?  How  much  respect  could  she 
have  for  a  man  like  that  ?  She  might  fare  no  better  when  a 
new  fancy  turned  his  way." 

"  But  it's  only  because — "  Burleigh  tried  to  explain,  utterly 
baffled. 

"  Do  you  think  I  would  ever  marrj^  a  man  I  couldn't  respect 
thoroughly  ?"  she  rushed  on. 

"  You're  unfair,  Frances."  Burleigh  reddened  as  he  spoke. 
"'  You  don't  understand — " 

"Yes.  I  do  understand,"  she  retorted  hotly.  "You're  willing 
to  sacrifice  your  duty  to  your  desire.  You  can't  see  yourself 
balked.  You  must  always  win.  Do  you  think  I'm  going  to 
see  you  do  that  ? "  She  looked  him  straight  in  the  face,  her 
cheeks  flushed,  her  eyes  sparkling. 

"  Frances  ! "  cried  the  man,  a  light  breaking  on  him,  "  I  am 
going  West  to-night  with  your  promise.  Only  ten  minutes  for 
that  train.  Tell  me  quick — you  will,  won't  you?"  He  took 
her  in  his  arms. 

"  Do  hurried  people  always  take  a  lot  of  things  for  granted  ?" 
came  a  choking  voice.     "  I  haven't  said  anything  about  it  yet." 

"  But  you  will,  you  know  you  will.  Now  I  can  get  that  busi- 
ness straightened  out  in  half  the  time  ;  then  I'll  be  back  to  get 
you  and  we'll  be  married  right  off.     Now  for  that  train." 

Together  they  hastened  to  the  motor  waiting  at  the  door. 
When  they  reached  the  station,  he  silently  helped  her  out  of 
the  motor  to  the  platform  and  they  almost  ran  to  the  train. 
At  the  foot  of  the  steps  he  turned.  She  looked  up  at  him  and 
smiled.     "  Good-bye,"  she  murmured,  "  and  hurry  back  I" 


SKETCHES 


LITTLE    THINGS 


ANNA    ELIZABETH    SPICER 


Madly  rushing  torrents  and  precip)itate  mountain  streams 
oarry  force  which  the  clear  depths  of  the  inland  lake  can  never 
hope  to  know.  After  reading  the  startling,  crashing  articles  in 
which  the  modern  magazine  abounds,  one  turns  in  search  of 
quiet  peeps  at  life  to  the  gentle  backwater  of  the  Contributor's 
Club.  And  here,  as  never  in  the  eternal  unrest  of  the  more 
powerful  waters,  one  maj^  see  reflected  the  blue  sky,  the  white 
clouds,  all  the  most  characteristic  paraphernalia  of  a  summer 
day. 

In  the  Contributor's  Club  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly  for  Decem- 
ber, 1913,  is  to  be  found  an  article  on  "Little  Things."  The 
writer  show  us  how  important  are  the  little  things  in  life.  '*We 
love  little  things,  we  hate  little  things,  we  fear  little  things  ;  our 
lives  are  knit  up  with  little  things  from  the  time  we  are  born  to 
the  day  we  die."  ''  It  is  the  little  things  that  count."  (Here  one 
thinks  instinctively  of  a  dinner-table,  around  which  sit  mother, 
father  and  three  ''little  ones''  and  on  which  is,  amongst  other 
things,  a  plate  with  eight  ])ieces  of  cake).  And  the  writer's 
conclusion  of  the  whole  matter  is  a  summary  of  the  supreme 
importance  of  "these  same  insidious  little  things  which  so  often 
pretend  to  hide  themselves  away  in  the  background,  when  in 
reality  they  are  the  most  important  part  of  the  whole  picture.'' 

Here  then,  in  the  quiet  lake,  we  would  seem  to  have  a  reflec- 
tion of  that  which  is  a  very  important  pai-t  of  the  aspect  of  life 
to-day.  In  other  places  we  hear  the  same  thing.  Edward 
Fitzgerald  says  that  he  wishes  we  had  more  biographies  of 
obscure  person  ;  quo  obscirrum,  quid  divinum  is  become,  for 
sooth,  a  motto  for  many  brave  hearts.     The  flower  in  the  cran- 


348  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

nied  wall  is  yet,  and  ever  more,  an  epitome  of  the  mystery  of 
God  and  man.  And  down  through  the  years  come  dancing 
forms  of  the  Little  People,  whose  part  in  the  history  of  the 
world  has  assuredly  been  no  small  one. 

Edward  Fitzgerald  is  right,  I  think  ;  and  the  flower  surely  is 
an  epitome  of  that  sacred  mystery.  But  the  danger  lies  in 
thinking  that  obscure  men  are  enough  ;  that  the  flower  needs 
not  God  and  man  to  complete  it,  to  make  it  of  any  meaning  at 
all.  As  Alfred  Noyes  recently  reminded  us,  this  is  a  day  of 
specialists.  The  mechanic  proudly  leads  us  through  his  shop 
and  to  many  of  us,  according  to  our  new-found  philosophy,  the 
most  notable  thing  is  the  tiny  screw  that  enables  a  massive  steel 
machine  to  do  its  work.  The  chemist  assures  us  that  the  most 
trivial  mistake  in  composition  will  enable  a  hitherto  apparently 
harmless  mixture  to  make  of  our  surroundings  little  things 
indeed  !  In  our  psychology  laboratories  we  learn  that  the  droop 
of  an  eyelash,  the  patter  of  an  autumn  leaf  on  the  ground  may 
mean  destruction  to  a  nation,  the  course  of  the  world  has  been 
changed  by  the  beauty  of  one  woman;  the  rulership  of  the 
world  lost  because  one  road  was  not  where  an  emperor  supposed 
it  to  be. 

But  each  of  these  statements  is  a  perfect  poem  ;  if  only  we 
will  read  it  aright.  What  makes  the  tiny  screw  so  wonderful, 
if  not  the  results  which,  on  account  of  it,  the  machine  can  pro- 
duce ?  The  possible  mistake  of  the  chemist  is  important  for  its 
consequences,  not  in  itself.  There  is  a  true  relationship  which 
must  not  be  lost  sight  of. 

Biographies  of  obscure  person  let  us  have,  by  all  means. 
They  may  clear  up  many  points  for  us.  But  for  them  would 
we  give  up  our  knowledge  of  Julius  Csesar,  of  Alexander,  of 
Charlemagne,  of  Napoleon  I,  of  Washington,  of  all  other  truly 
great  men  whose  influence  has  changed  the  very  courses  of  the 
stars  and  added  new  melody  to  the  music  of  the  spheres? 

We  may  ^'turn  but  a  stone  and  start  a  wing,"  but  to  us  the 
matter  of  greater  importance  is,  not  that  we  have  moved  a 
stone,  but  that  we  have  come  upon  an  angel.  If  we  ^*  cannot 
pluck  a  flower  without  troubling  of  a  star,"  the  flower  is  the 
agent  by  which  we  perform  a  miracle,  and  we  love  the  flower 
fur  the  star's  sake  more  than  the  star  for  the  flower's  sake. 

I  had  thought  to  have  found  a  clear  reflection  in  the  lake  ; 
but  overhanging  thickets  with  their  tiny,  interlaced  twigs  often- 
times make  of  the  sky  in  the  lake  a  queer  confusion  of  lines. 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  349 

May  we  not  hope  that  the  final  purpose  is  to  discover  the 
exact  relationship  between  flower  and  star  ?  Perchance  some 
things  which  we  call  little,  we  shall  find  ourselves  obliged  to  re- 
classify; perchance  when  we  have  searched  long  and  diligently 
we  may  find  the  flower  as  important  as  the  star.  But  we  shall 
not  pride  ourselves  on  loving  things,  fearing  things,  hating 
things  for  their  mere  littleness.  And  perchance  we  shall  find 
that  the  picture  is  not  important  because  it  is  made  up  of  little 
things  ;  but  that  the  little  things  are  important  because  they 
make  up  the  picture. 


SELF-RECOGNITION 

MADELEINE  MCDOWELL 

One  day,  with  sudden  sight,  I  saw  at  last 
The  part  I  play,  the  garb  I  really  wear, 
The  lowly  role  to  which  I  have  been  cast, 
The  cap  and  bells,  the  dress  at  which  men  stare, 
The  motley  of  a  fool ! 

I  want  to  sing  of  life  and  death  and  love, 
Of  dreams  and  visions,  glorious,  half -glimpsed  truth, 
Of  shy,  half-formed  beliefs  in  Him  above. 
Of  truths  to  Age  so  old,  so  new  to  Youth. 
Not  prattle  of  a  fool ! 

But  when  to  voice  my  thoughts  I  do  my  best, 
My  blundering  crudeness  makes  men  hiss  me  still, 
"Nay,  nay,"  they  cry,  "  thy  part  is  but  to  jest, 
And  make  us  laugh  until  we've  had  our  fill  t  *' 
The  duty  of  a  fool  I 

And  so  I  crack  my  jokes  and  tell  my  tales, 
And  make  each  trivial  doing  yield  a  jest, 
I  play  my  part,  for  wailing  naught  avails. 
And,  secretly  rebellious,  do  my  best, 
In  this  dull  role  of  fool. 


BARRIERS 

MIRA  BIGELOW   WILSON 

If  I  were  a  soul  and  you  were  a  soul, 

And  we  met  in  some  lost  land, 
And  you  had  left  off  your  scarlet  cloak, 
And  I,  my  hat  with  the  golden  band  ; 

If  I  met  you  there  alone. 
Would  you  love  my  soul  as  you  love  me, 
Would  I  love  your  soul  as  I  love  you 

In  your  garb  of  flesh  and  bone  ? 
Crimson  is  crimson  and  gold  is  gold, 
Without  them  our  love  might  be  cold. 

And  you  whom  I  may  not  call  my  friend, 
You  have  lived  by  me  and  I  by  you 

For  summers  not  a  few; 
But  the  backyard  fence  is  a  picket  fence, 

A  fence  without  a  gate. 
You  sing  the  songs  that  I  do  not  love, 

1  plant  the  flowers  you  hate  ; 
And  behind  the  songs  and  the  crimson  cloak 
And  the  flowers,  all  barriers  great. 
Two  souls  are  lost,  will  they  yet  be  found 
Under  or  over  the  ground  ? 


TEA   FOR   TWO 

MARION  DELAMATER  FREEMAN 

Snug  and  warm  in  a  twilight  room 
After  a  tramp  through  the  falling  snow,- 

What  could  be  cozier,  Polly  dear. 
Than  tea  for  two  in  the  fire's  glow? 

While  the  dancing  firelight's  a-gleam 
On  the  shining  silver  and  cloth  of  snow. 

Over  the  teacups  you  smile  at  me, 
Polly,  my  heart,  in  the  fire's  glow  ! 

Over  the  teacups  you  smile  at  me, 
Smile,  as  you  make  the  tea — iust  so  ! 

And  I  laugh  back,  I'm  so  happy,  dear. 
Just  alone  with  you  in  the  fire's  glow. 

Snug  and  warm  in  a  twilight  room 
After  a  tramp  through  the  falling  snow. 

What  could  be  cozier,  Polly  dear, 
Than  tea  for  two  in  the  fire's  glow  ? 

360 


THE  GIRL  WHO  DIDN'T  CARE 

BARBARA   CHENEY 

It  was  after  ten  but  we  had  taken  a  light  cut  to  talk.  Some- 
how I  like  to  talk  to  Mary.  I  don't  know  her  well,  in  fact  I 
almost  never  see  her,  but  once  in  a  while  on  Sundays  or  at  night 
we  have  a  chat  and  she  always  leaves  me  something  to  think 
about.  To-night  she  was  more  serious  than  usual.  She  sat 
huddled  on  my  cot  almost  lost  in  the  folds  of  her  big  gray  bath 
robe,  her  queer  little  face  pillowed  on  her  hand. 

*'  You're  tired,"  I  said. 

"No,  just  pensive.  I!ve  had  a  good  day.  Did  you  ever  won- 
der why  you  were  here  ?  " 

This  was  abrupt  but  I  waited.  I  knew  she  would  go  on  and 
she  did. 

''  It's  a  privilege  to  live  in  this  world  and  it's  a  special  privi- 
lege to  live  as  we  do  here  with  all  the  advantages.  We  worry 
about  unpaid  bills  but  we  have  one  most  of  us  will  never  pay 
and  it's  so  big  we  forget  about  it.  What  do  I  do  to  justify  my 
living  at  all  ?"  She  smiled  her  queer,  sunnj^,  wondering  smile. 
She  was  not  in  the  least  gloomy  or  morbid,  just  thoughtful. 
"I  always  feel,"  she  went  on,  *^that  I'd  like  to  do  something 
big  but  there  really  isn't  an  opportunity  for  a  person  with  no 
ability." 

I  murmured  something  platitudinal  about  little  things  count- 
ing but  she  only  smiled  again. 

"  I've  never  seen  a  little  thing  that  was  worthy  of  the  name 
'  thing,"^  she  said. 

Next  day  she  came  into  my  room  uninvited,  a  thing  that  had 
never  happened  before.  Her  eyes  were  shining  and  I  could  see 
from  the  expression  of  her  usually  plain  face  that  something 
unusual  had  occurred. 

"Do  you  want  to  know  something  nice?"  she  said.  "I'm 
going  to  Springfield  to  see  the  '  Russian  Dancers.'  Oh  you  just 
can't  know  how  much  I  want  to  see  them!"  She  chatted  on 
about  dinner  at  the  Kimball,  her  own  in  spending  the  money, 
etc.  I  knew  what  the  treat  meant  to  her.  She  had  been  unable 
to  go  home  for  Thanksgiving  and  her  Christmas  had  been  spent 
in  caring  for  an  invalid  aunt  in  the  country.      Moreover,  she 

3  81 


352  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

was  not  bright  and  had  had  to  work  hard  and  steadily  through, 
the  year. 

''  I  didn't  know  you  liked  dancing,"  I  said. 

Mary  blushed.  "  I  don't  dance  myself,"  she  said,  ''  but  I  love 
to  watch  other  people."  Then  after  a  pause,  "I — I  watch 
esthetic  almost  every  time." 

•'  When  do  you  go  ?  " 

*'  Next  Wednesday.     Oh  I  can  hardly  wait  !" 

On  Tuesday  I  dropped  into  Alice's  room.  She  is  a  gloomy 
soul,  chiefly  because  her  main  object  in  life  is  to  take  care  of 
Alice,  but  I  was  feeling  cheerful  and  had  hopes  of  dispelling 
her  gloom.  Mary  was  sitting  on  the  window  ledge  and  as  usual 
no  one  seemed  to  notice  her.     Alice  held  the  center  of  the  stage. 

''  It's  the  monotony  of  this  life  that  kills  me  !"  she  was  say- 
ing. (She  really  looked  very  healthy.)  "Nothing  but  bells 
from  morning  to  night ;  eating  and  classes,  eating  and  study. 
Each  day  just  like  the  day  before.  If  only  something  new 
would  happen." 

She  seemed  to  ignore  the  fact  that  others  led  the  same  life, 
but  that  was  characteristic  of  Alice.  Suddenly  I  noticed  Mary's 
face.  It  was  cheerful  and  thoughtful  as  usual  but  something 
in  her  expression  told  me  what  was  coming.  I  wanted  to  run 
from  the  room,  to  hear  her  do  it  would  be  unbearable  and  it 
was  bad  enough.  She  was  so  nice  about  it.  She  was  tired, 
ought  to  studj^,  needed  the  money.  Of  course  Alice  accepted 
the  ticket.     I  knew  she  would  before  Mary  began. 

The  worst  came  after  Mary  left  the  room.  Alice  smiled 
placidly. 

'*  I  wouldn't  take  it,"  she  explained,  "if  I  didn't  realize  that 
she  doesn't  want  it.  I  can't  imagine  her  caring  for  such  things  ; 
I  really  think  I'm  doing  her  a  favor." 


ECHOES 

LEONORA   BRANCH 

I  wonder  whence  they  could  have  come, 
These  flitting,  faery  thoughts  of  mine, 
That  hang  my  heart's  dim.  empty  rooms 
Like  cobweb  curtains,  frail  and  fine, 
Wrought,  maybe,  on  some  magic  loom. 
Of  rainbow  lights  and  sunshine  gleams, 
A  tapestry  of  fancies  fair, 
The  fragments  of  my  dreams. 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      353 

For  often  through  my  thoughts  there  st«al 
The  clear,  soft  love-notes  of  a  bird 
That  sang,  long  since  in  Arcady, 
Whose  liquid  tones  Pan,  haply,  heard 
And  caught  upon  his  magic  pipes, 
And  then  breathed  forth  a  m^^stic  strain 
Sweet  as  the  laughter  of  the  breeze, 
Soft  as  the  drip  of  summer  rain. 

Or  else  there  pours  a  sudden  shower 

Of  perfumed  splendor  o'er  my  sense, 

Like  dim  rose-gardens,  warm,  wine-sweet. 

Throbbing  with  odor,  rich,  intense 

As  all  the  spice  of  Araby, 

Or  keen  and  cool  as  woodland  pine 

On  forest  hill-tops  carpeted 

With  leaf  and  moss  and  trailing  vine. 

And  sometimes  in  the  firelight's  glow 
A  host  of  proud  white  cities  seem 
To  rise,  dim,  stately  palace  halls 
Where  burnished  gold  and  ivory  gleam, 
And  there  at  eve  sit  ladies  fair. 
And  noble  knights,  a  merry  throng, 
To  hear  brave  tales  of  loves  and  wars 
That  live  anew  in  minstrels  song. 

And  sometimes,  too.  I  feel  the  strange, 
Exquisite  thrills  presaging  birth 
Of  love  in  hearts  of  man  and  maid. 
And  sometimes  honest,  carefree  mirth 
Sweeps  through  me  or  my  eyes  are  wet 
With  tears  for  some  forgotten  woe. 
Or  else  my  heart  throbs  with  a  joy 
That  died  a  century  ago. 

And^so  IjWonder  when  they  come, 

These  flitting,  faery  thoughts  of  mine. 

That  fill^my  heart's  dim,  empty  rooms 

Withvisions  mystic,  half  divine. 

I  wonder  shall  I  ever  know 

The  real  from  this  that  only  seems. 

And^must  my  soul  be  satisfied 

With  these_dim  fragments  of  my  dreama  ? 


A    PAIR    OF   GLOVES 

CONSTANCE   CAROLINE    WOODBURY 

The  soft  spring  twilight  was  slowly  descending  over  Versailles 
one  April  evening  in  the  twenty-fifth  year  of  Louis  the  Great's 
reign.  In  that  part  of  the  vast  gardens — known  as  the  Salle  des 
Marronniers  a  young  girl  was  walking  up  and  down  accom- 
panied by  an  officer  clad  in  the  blue  coat  of  the  king's  body 
guard.  Deep  silence  reigned  among  the  trees,  broken  only  by 
the  occasional  chirping  of  a  late  bird. 

"  But,  cherie,"  the  officer  was  saying,  "  why  should  I  not  ? 
Not  only  are  the  gloves  thy  gift  but  thou  hast  'broidered  name 
and  crest  thereon  with  thine  own  fingers."  He  looked  down  at 
the  white  gauntlets  on  his  hands. 

The  girl  answered  him  in  perfect  French  but  with  a  faint, 
lisping  accent.  "  I  could  not  tell  whether  thou  wouldst  care  for 
such  a  gift  but  I  had  naught  beside."  She  paused  and  for  a 
moment  they  walked  on  in  silence. 

'^Thou  knowest  that  a  gift  from  thee  is  thrice  welcome,"  said 
the  officer.  "  Be  not  so  sad,  I  marked  that  thou  sat  mournful 
through  the  play.  Thou  shouldst  be  merry,  now  that  we  are 
all  come  home  safe  from  the  wars — though,  indeed,  the  cam- 
paign in  Flanders  could  scarce  be  called  a  war."  His  laugh 
echoed  through  the  darkness. 

^' But  thou,"  the  girl  complained,  "  thou  wert  wounded  and 
did  not  tell  me.  I  must  needs  learn  it  from  another.  O,  Ldon," 
she  burst  out,  ''  they  told  me  that  thou, — that  thou—" 

"  That  in  the  skirtnish  at  Lille  a  horseman  rid  me  of  hand 
and  sword  at  the  same  time  ?  There,  cherie,  do  not  weep. 
Thou  seest  I  came  to  no  real  harm." 

''  But,  L^on,  thou  hast  both  thy  hands." 

He  laughed  again,  "Nay,  then,  give  me  thine."  She  placed 
her  fingers  in  his  right  hand  but  it  was  hard  and  motionless. 
**'Tis  of  iron,"  he  said;  then  seeing  her  look  of  amazement, 
"  I  do  not  jest,  sweetheart.  A  one-handed  man  would  not  be 
a  welcome  sight  at  court.  Thus— I  wear  gloves  and  soon  'twill 
be  forgotten.  When  thou  gavest  me  these  I  thought  that  thou 
hadst  heard— or  else  the  fates  guided  thee." 

364 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  355 

He  felt  her  hand  tremble  on  his  arm.  ''  Come,"  he  went  on, 
'*  let  us  sit  here."  She  sank  onto  the  bench  and  Dubois}^  seated 
himself  beside  her. 

"  How  didst  thou  come  to  the  fete,  little  Puritan  ?  " 

''Ah,  Leon,  my  uncle  would  have  it  so." 

''  Four  years  in  thine  uncle's  house  have  not  taken  away  that 
Puritanism  of  thine.  Thou'rt  still  as  demure  as  the  quaint  child 
that  came  overseas  from  England.  France  has  not  changed 
thee,  nor  the  life  at  court,  save  that  thou  canst  dance  the 
'  branle  '  and  the  '  courante '  with  the  best.  Thy  father  must 
have  been  a  stern  old  puritan.  But,  tell  me,  has  the  fetepleaf-ed 
thee  not  all  ?" 

"  'Tis  indeed  a  brilliant  assemblage  and  a  magnificent  sight, 
but  yet—" 

"  Thy  tastes  lean  not  to  such  things  ?  When  thine  uncle  con- 
sents that  we  two  wed,  thou'lt  be  better  pleased  with  my 
chateau  at  Beam  than  with  all  the  splendor  of  Versailles." 

"Would  that  he  might  consent  soon.  I — that  is — "  She 
stopped  suddenly. 

''What  is  it,  cherie  ? "  asked  Duboisy,  taking  her  hand. 
"  Thou'rt  trembling  I     Has  anyone  annoyed  thee  ?  " 

"  I — I  think  mine  uncle  would  fain  give  me  to  the  Due  de — ^' 
She  could  not  bring  herself  to  speak  his  name  but  added,- 
almost  in  a  whisper,  "to  the  king's  favorite." 

"No  need  to  name  him.  I  know.  Before  that  man  should 
have  thee  I — .  How  can  his  majesty  endure  the  fellow  ?  He  is 
a  scoundrel,  a  turncoat,  a " 

"  To  me,"  said  a  cool  voice  behind  him,  "  It  seems  that  you 
speak  treason  against  his  majesty — you  and  this-er-person." 

Duboisy  turned  sharply.  "  You  lie  in  your  teeth,"  he  cried 
and,  springing  to  his  feet,  struck  the  duke  a  sharp  blow  across 
the  face.  The  favorite  staggered,  tried  to  recover  himself  and 
then,  with  a  strange,  choked  cry,  fell  forward. 

"  Now  you  have  provocation,"  the  captain  went  on.  "You 
would  not  fight  before  but  surely  no  one  who  even  pretends  to 
be  a  man  of  honor  could  now  refuse.  'Tis  quiet  here.  No 
other  will  come  by.  Rise,  man,  and  draw  your  sword."  The 
duke  lay  motionless  on  the  grass,  huddled  together  as  he  had 
fallen. 

"Do  you  fear  the  king's  wrath?"  cried  Duboisy,  angrily. 
There  was  no  response  from  the  man  on  the  ground,  not  even  a 
movement. 


356  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

"  Leou,"  cried  the  girl,  •'What  hast  thou  done  ?  Now  he  will 
be  doubly  thine  enemy." 

The  captain  stood  still  for  a  moment,  then  bent  slowly  down. 
"  Come,"  he  said,  in  slightly  altered  tones.     "  Let  me  help 
you  to  rise."     There  was  no  answer. 

^'  Perhaps  he  has  fainted,"  said  Duboisy,  although  the  hor- 
rible truth  was  forcing  itself  on  him.  "  Go,  walk  up  the  all^e 
until  I  come  to  thee." 

She  had  gone  but  a  few  steps  from  the  bank  when  she  heard 
him  stumbling  after  her.  She  turned,  a  question  sprang  to  her 
lips  but  it  died  there  for,  at  a  little  distance,  the  captain  threw 
himself  on  his  knees  before  her.  The  moonlight,  shining- 
through  the  chestnut  branches,  flickered  on  his  upturned  face 
like  the  wraith  of  a  fire  long  since  dead.  The  silver  lace  on  his 
coat  gleamed  frostily.  In  the  silence  around  them  she  heard 
his  labored  breathing  and,  very  faint  and  far  away,  an  echo  of 
laughter.     He  bowed  his  head. 

"  Thou  must  know,"  he  murmured,  "  He  is  dead." 
"Dead!  Dead!"  It  seemed  to  her  that  the  sunshine  had 
gone  out  of  life  and  that  she  had  been  standing  forever  in  the 
ghastly  light  of  the  moon.  She  looked  at  him  again  while  the 
shadows  leaped  and  danced  about  them.  She  found  herself 
trying  to  say  something,  anything,  but  the  only  words  her  stiff 
lips  could  form  were,  "  The  blow  was  but  light.  " 

His  voice  was  low  but  the  words  penetrated  even  her  numbed 
senses,  '"Twas  my  right  hand."  She  stood  motionless,  her 
thoughts  in  a  whirl ;  then  she  took  a  step  forward  and  laid  her 
hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Thou  canst  not  stay  here." 

"  But  if  I  flee  all  the  world  will  judge  me  guilty."  She  struck 
her  hands  together. 

"What  wilt  thou  do  ?  If  only  he  were  not  the  king's  favorite  ! 
I  cannot  tell—  is  there  none  to  advise  thee  ?    Not  Jacques  ?  " 

"The  very  man  !"  cried  Duboisy,  springing  to  his  feet  with 
almost  a  return  of  his  old-time  vivacity.  "  Not  only  is  he  my 
staunch  friend  but  he  can  tell  me  what  it  is  best  to  do.  Come." 
She  hung  back  a  moment.  "  I  pray  that  Duval  may  not 
come  hither.  He  is  ever  spying  about  for  somewhat  to  raise 
him  in  favor.     If  he  should  discover — " 

"  He  is  with  all  the  world  at  supper.     Come  I  " 

He  hastened  on  and  soon  they  gained  the  All^e  de  I'Hiver 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  357 

and  passed  down  the  Allee  du  Printemps  until  at  last  they 
reached  the  branching  of  the  way  where,  in  the  bosquet,  was 
the  ballroom  constructed  by  Levan. 

The  girl  spoke  for  the  first  time.  "I  must  leave  tliee  here, 
Ldon.  His  majesty  will  soon  come  hither  from  sup])er."  Steps 
were  heard  in  the  allee  and  moved  by  a  common  impulse  they 
stepped  inside  the  room.  It  was  open  to  the  sky  and  was  lined 
with  orange  trees  in  silver  tubs.  Lights  were  everywhere. 
The  steps  died  away.     The  girl  exclaimed  "  Thy  gloves  !  " 

He  looked  down  in  horror.  The  white  gauntlets  were  smeared 
and  spotted  with  blood.  They  were  both  silent  while  he  stripped 
off  the  gloves.     Then  he  said  slowly,  "Art  thou  lost  to  me  ? '' 

She  burst  into  tears.  ''I  know  it  is  not  right,"  she  sobbed, 
"but,  whatever  thou  hast  done  or  may  do,  I  love  thee  still." 
He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  on  the  lips. 

"  I  am  not  worthy,''  he  said,  for  even  at  this  moment  the  life- 
long habit  of  the  courtier  did  not  forsake  him,  "but  it  may  be 
adieu  rather  than  au  revoir."  In  another  moment  he  had  gone 
and  she  was  left  alone  among  the  myriads  of  twinkling  lights. 

Carefully  avoiding  the  salon  of  verdure  where  the  court  was 
at  supper,  Duboisy  had  reached  the  Allee  des  Trois  Fontaines 
when  the  sight  of  a  guardsman  a  short  distance  before  him 
caused  him  involuntarily  to  grasp  his  sword  hilt.  As  he  did  so 
a  sudden  thought  forced  an  exclamation  from  him.  "Jesu 
Maria  !  My  gloves  !  "  They  were  gone.  For  a  moment  he 
stood  motionless  but  the  new  misfortune  had  cleared  his  mind. 
Of  course  he  must  have  dropped  the  gauntlets  as  he  bade  her 
good-bye  in  the  ballroom.  Name  and  crest  broidered  in  gold 
thread  marked  them  for  his.  He  turned  and  ran  through  the 
gardens  but  when  he  reached  the  bosquet  it  was  too  late.  The 
court  had  arrived  and  to  him  it  seemed  as  if  the  whole  assembly 
rang  with  his  name. 

"Ah,  my  friend,"  said  a  voice  at  his  elbow,  "I  have  been 
seeking  you."     Duboisy  turned,  hand  on  sword. 

'*Let  us  go  in  to  the  dance  together,"  and  the  young  noble 
caught  him  by  the  arm.  The  captain  suffered  himself  to  be 
drawn  along  in  silence  but,  once  inside,  he  hastened  to  rid  him- 
self of  his  unwelcome  companion  and  set  out  to  find  the  girl. 
It  was  better  to  know  the  worst  at  once.  At  last  he  found  her 
and,  pushing  through  the  surrounding  circle,  "Mademoiselle," 
he  said,  "  you  promised  me  the  next  '  branle'  did  you  not  ?" 


358  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

She  was  pale  but  her  voice  did  not  falter  as  she  said,  "  I  had 
begun  to  think  you  were  not  coming  to  claim  it,  captain." 

"Hast  thou  the  gloves?"  asked  the  captain,  in  a  strained 
whisper. 

"Yes,  I  have  them,"  she  returned,  smiling  as  if  he  paid  her 
a  compliment.  Then,  with  a  quick  movement,  she  lowered 
her  fan  and  passed  him  the  gauntlets  which  he  thrust  into  his 
doublet. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  we  can  still  have  our  '  branle.' " 

"No,  no,"  she  replied  in  a  vehement  whisper.  "For  God's 
sake,  L^on,  do  not  wait.     I  fear  evil  will  come  of  it." 

"  But  I  have  promised,"  he  answered,  laughing  and  leading 
her  to  her  place,  "  and  I  could  not  miss  a  dance  with  thee." 

So  occupied  was  Duboisy  with  the  stately  steps  that  one  of 
the  gauntlets  slipped  unnoticed  to  the  floor  and  few  saw  a  little 
man  pick  up  a  dusty  glove,  glance  at  it  and  then,  concealing  it 
with  a  furtive  air,  seek  the  king  where  he  stood  among  his 
courtiers. 

Some  time  later  the  dance  ended  and,  under  cover  of  the  loud 
applause,  the  girl  whispered  to  Duboisj^.  "It  is  indeed  time 
thou  wert  gone." 

"  Farewell  cherie,"  he  said,  "  be  brave.     I  will  surely  return." 

"Adieu,  Leon,"  she  answered,  "and  may  God  guard  thee." 

She  watched  him  as  he  crossed  the  ballroom,  pausing  here 
and  there  to  accost  a  friend.  At  the  door  he  turned,  a  hand- 
some figure  in  all  the  bravery  of  his  blue  coat,  and  looked  back 
at  her,  smiling.  Then  he  passed  out.  The  cool  breeze  fanned 
his  heated  forehead  refreshingly.  The  door  closed  behind  him. 
As  if  it  had  been  a  signal  a  hand  was  laid  on  his  shoulder. 

"I  must  trouble  you  to  come  with  me,  monsieur,"  said  a 
voice.  The  light  glittered  on  the  muskets  of  four  soldiers.  He 
followed  the  officer  and  in  another  moment  they  had  reached  a 
closed  carriage.     At  last  Duboisy  found  his  voice. 

"  What  is  it  ?''  he  cried.  "  Where  are  you  taking  me  ?  By 
whose  authority  ?" 

"By  the  king's  order,"  returned  the  soldier,  enteriug  the 
carriage  after  him,  "and  we  are  going" — the  carriage  door 
slammed  and  the  horses  dashed  forward — "to  the  Bastille."- 


FRITZIE'S  ^^FAUX  PAS'' 

ANNE  ELEANOR  YON  HARTEN 

With  a  sense  of  importance,  tempered  with  an  air  of  well-bred 
reserve,  which  became  liis  nineteen  years,  Fritzie  settled  himself 
in  his  chair.  He  felt  happy.  Behind  him  lay  a  year  of  satis- 
factory' acliievement,  and  the  many  friends  whose  abundant 
good  wishes  had  folUjwed  him  to  college  in  the  fall,  had  not 
been  disappointed.  For  Fritzie,  as  the  common  expression  goes 
had  "  made  good."  Not  that  he  had  deliberately  set  about  such 
a  thing,  his  disposition  was  too  sweet  to  harbour  that  uncom- 
fortable guest,  personal  ambition,  but  Fritzie  had  always  been 
gifted  with  that  unconscious  art  of  doing  what  was  required  of 
him  without  making  a  "  fuss''  about  it  ;  he  smiled  at  the  world 
a.nd  the  world  smiled  at  him,  that  was  all.  Before  him,  at  the 
present  moment,  lay  one  of  the  pleasantest  events  of  the  whole 
year.  He  was  on  his  way  to  his  first  '^Junior  Prom,"  at  Wood- 
land College.  "  Sister  Marie  was  a  brick  to  ask  me,"  he  thought 
to  himself,  ''for  she  might  have  had  any  one  of  six  or  eight 
fellows  from  home,  who  would  have  been  pleased  enough  with 
the  invitation,  I  can  w^ager." 

This  soliloquy  was  interrupted  by  the  Conductor  who  asked 
for  his  ticket.  Fritzie  drew  from  his  vest  pocket  the  new  suade 
case,  wherein  the  ticket  lay  beside  the  perfumed  hankerchief. 
(Do  not  laugh  at  Fritzies's  perfumed  handkerchief.  He  is  a 
dear  boy  and  that  is  one  of  his  little  failings.  Time  was,  when 
he  used  alarming  quantities  of  Florida  Water  on  his  hair.  For- 
tunately we  broke  him  of  that  habit.)  With  the  business  of  the 
ticket  over,  Fritzie  again  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  sighed 
contentedly.  The  even  rythm  of  the  wheels  had  a  lulling  effect 
upon  his  nerves  that  had  been  somewhat  over-wrought  by  the 
excitement  of  going  away  for  three  days.  There  was  the  pack- 
ing of  the  suit  case,  and  the  choosing  of  the  flowers  for  his 
lady's  bouquet  and  all  those  millions  of  little  trepidations  that 
only  "  Prom  Men''  know. 

As  I  said  before,  Fritzie  was  happy.  The  pleasant  country 
landscape,  clothed  in  the  dainty  garb  of  its  first  spring  color, 
partly  hidden  b}^  mystic  veils  of  haze,  appealed  to  him.  For  the 
first  time  he  felt  the  beauty  of  Nature.     Ordinarily  the  Italian 

3  5  0 


360  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

Lakes  at  sunset,  would  have  had  no  more  effect  upon  him  than 
the  clam-flats  in  Maine,  with  the  tide  out.  But  our  highest 
flights  in  the  aesthetic  world  are  not  protracted  and  Fritzie  soon 
tiring  of  the  landscape,  began  to  cast  about  for  more  enlivening 
occupation.  Suddenly  he  caught  sight  of  his  own  reflection  in 
the  narrow  strip  of  mirror,  between  his  window  and  the  next. 
The  little  smile  died  from  his  face  and  he  regarded  himself  with 
solemn  and  earnest,  though  approving  criticism. 

It  was  a  well-groomed  person  that  he  saw  in  the  mirror, 
though  perhaps  with  too  much  of  that  youthful  rosy  freshness, 
that  makes  one  look  as  if  he  had  not  been  more  than  half  an 
hour  out  of  the  bath  tub.  The  dark  hair  was  combed  with 
glossy  precision  back  from  the  forehead.  The  conspicuously 
inconspicuous  lavender  necktie  with  its  pearl  scarf  pin  was  be- 
ing re-adjusted,  when — dear  me  I — it  is  very  disconcerting  when 
communing  with  one's  image  in  this  fashion,  to  catch  the  laugh- 
ing eyes  of  the  stranger  across  the  aisle,  looking  straight  into 
one's  own  eyes,  over  one's  own  shoulder.  Fritzie  was  abashed, 
but  finally  annoyance  gave  place  to  curiosity  and  he  ventured 
to  glance  furtively  at  his  opposite  traveling  companion. 

''Nice  looking  chap,"  he  mused.  "Guess  he  must,  have 
thought  he  knew  me." 

During  the  next  two  hours,  Fritzie  had  ample  time  to  specu- 
late upon  the  nature  of  this  stranger,  who  for  some  unaccount- 
able reason  seemed  to  captivate  his  attention. 

"Wonder  if  he  could  be  the  full-back  on  Yale,"  said  Fritzie 
to  himself.  "Looks  somethin'  like  him.  Seems  to  me  I  re- 
member those  light  eyelashes.  Light  eyelashes  do  give  people 
a  funny  look.  He's  a  big  one,  though — guess  he's  the  full-back 
all  right." 

Several  elderly  and  learned  looking  gentlemen,  passing  through 
the  car  on  their  wsly  to  the  "  Diner,"  stopped  to  talk  to  the  in- 
teresting stranger.  In  the  bits  of  conversation  that  floated  in 
Fritzie's  direction,  he  frequently  heard  the  name  "  Woodland/' 

"Wonder  if  he's  a  Prom  Man,"  continued  Fritzie.  "No 
doubt  he's  going  to  Woodland  and  what  would  he  be  going 
there  for,  if  not  to  the  Prom  ?  " 

A  few  minutes  later  the  Magazine  boy  passed  through  the  car 
and  the  auburn  haired  stranger  as  well  as  Fritzie  bought  an 
Atlantic  Monthly. 

"  Our  tastes  are  alike,"  thought  Fritzie.     "  We  read  the  same 


THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY  361 

magazines.  He  looks  like  my  sort  anyway.  I'd  like  to  know 
him—" 

''Woodland,  Woo-o-o-dland  ! "  cried  the  conductor  at  this 
point,  and  immediately  ensued  a  stir  and  rustling  of  people  col- 
lecting their  bags,  and  making  their  way  out  of  the  car.  In  the 
general  tumult  Fritzie  lost  sight  of  his  stranger— and  I  fear 
would  have  completely  forgotten  him  in  the  excitement  of  his 
new  experiences,  had  he  not  found  himself  seated  opposite  the 
auburn-haired  gentleman  in  the  cab  that  was  to  convey  him 
from  the  station  to  the  boarding  house.  After  the  cab  had 
jogged  slowly  along  for  perhaps  a  hundred  yards,  Fritzie  who 
found  the  silence  unbearable,  took  fate  in  his  hands,  and  said: 

*'I  noticed  you  coming  up  from  New  York  on  the  same  train 
I  did.     Going  to  Prom  ?  " 

''Yes,  indeed,"  answered  the  stranger,  smiling. 

"  This  your  first  Prom  ?  "  pursued  Fritzie. 

"No.  indeed."    The  stranger  smiled  again,  delightfully. 

"  It  will  be  a  jolly  affair.  Hope  I'll  see  you  there,"  continued 
Fritzie,  warming  to  the  conversation,  for  the  stranger's  smile 
was  more  delightful  than  ever.  At  just  this  point,  the  carriage 
gave  a  lurch  and  stopped  before  a  white  New  England  house, 
the  house  where  Fritzie's  sister  had  engaged  a  room  for  him. 

"  So  long,  old  chap  I"  he  called  as  he  bounded  to  the  pave- 
ment. "'Awfully  glad  to  have  made  your  acquaintance — you 
and  I  seem  to  be  the  same  sort.  Oh — by  the  way,  you  haven't 
told  me  your  name.     Mine's  Dobson." 

"Ellis,"  called  the  stranger,  as  the  cab  drove  away. 

"So  long,  Ellis,"  cried  Fritzie  cheerfully,  flourishing  his  suit- 
case at  the  retreating  cab. 

That  night,  after  a  gala  afternoon  spent  at  a  garden  party, 
which  was  followed  by  a  dinner  ^iven  at  the  chief  restaurant  in 
the  little  town,  Fritzie  found  himself  mounting  the  steps  of  one 
of  the  college  buildings,  where  the  long  talked-of  Ball  had  al- 
ready begun.  The  night  was  very  black  indeed,  but  the  air  was 
soft,  and  laden  with  the  woodsy  odor  of  growing  plants.  The 
campus  was  dotted  with  the  soft  orange  glow  of  many  Japanese 
lanterns.  Within,  all  was  a  blaze  of  light.  Through  the  ball- 
room doors,  Fritzie  caught  sight  of  the  whirling  maze  of 
dancers.  In  spite  of  himself  his  feet  began  to  tap  the  floor  in 
time  to  the  music.  His  eyes  sparkled  as  he  looked  down  at  his 
pretty  sister,  a  graceful  little  peison  in  a  pink  gown  and  with 
a  wreath  of  pink  roses  about  her  golden  hair. 


362       THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

In  the  midst  of  tlieir  journey  down  the  receiving  line, 
Fritzie's  usually  deferential  manner  of  attention  suddenly 
changed  and  he  seemed  to  be  suffering  from  distractions  to 
such  an  extent,  that  his  sister  found  it  necessary  to  reprove 
him.  The  explanation  of  this  strange  conduct  v\^as  that  Fritzie 
had  caught  sight  of  his  auburn-haired  friend  at  the  end  of  the 
Receiving  Line  and  was  very  impatient  for  the  opportunity  to 
speak  to  him.  But  finally  he  was  near  enough  to  rush  at  him 
in  the  rather  unceremonious  fashion  that  boys  often  use  with 
each  other. 

*'H©llo,  old  chap,"  he  said,  grasping  his  friend's  hand.  "Guess 
we're  some  big  bug,  aren't  we,  standing  in  the  Receiving  Line!  " 

'*  Oh  !  "  came  an  inarticulate  exclamation  at  his  elbow  and  he 
turned  to  see  his  sister  quite  pale  with  consternation. 

*'  Oh  Fritzie,"  she  said.  "  What  are  you  saying  ?  This  is  our 
President — President  Ellis  of  Woodland  College  !  " 


INSPIRATION 

GRACE   ANGELA  RICHMOND 

What  I  write — it  was  written  for  you. 

Dear  Heart. 
My  words  took  wings  like  the  birds  and  flew 
Over  the  land  and  the  sea  to  you, 

Dear  Heart. 
And  your  message  came  flying  to  me 
On  the  western  wind's  bright  wings, 
Over  the  land  and  sea, 
And  your  message  within  me  sings. 

Your  courage  have  I,  and  truth, 
Power  that  never  tires, 
And  the  eager  hope  of  youth 
Kindled  at  your  hope's  fires. 
I  weave  them  into  a  song; 
They  fly  to  j'ou,  happy  things  ! 
And  my  heart  leaps  all  day  long 
Because  it  is  you  that  sings. 


ABOUT    COLLEGE 
A  FALLEN  STAR 

DOROTHY    THAYER 

It  all  begau  with  my  being  taken  into  Phi  Kappa.  Undoubt- 
■edly  I  was  a  deserving  girl,  but  what  did  I  have  to  recommend 
me  ?  I  was  not  a  literary  light  nor  a  dramatic  star  but  merely 
one  of  those  girls  who  was  awfully  willing  and  did  good  work 
ou  committees.  Little  did  I  know  what  a  career  this  entailed, 
but  I  was  not  long  in  finding  out. 

I  did  not  realize  what  a  serious  moment  it  was  for  me  when 
before  the  second  meeting  I  was  asked  to  be  on  "  costumes  "  with 
a  Junior.  Later  I  traced  back  to  this  the  beginning  of  the  re- 
putation which  has  been  thrust  upon  me  and  clings  persistently 
in  spite  of  my  efforts  to  escape  it.  At  the  time  it  sounded  fas- 
cinating but  in  reality  it  proved  prosaic  and  laborious.  It  in- 
volved frequent  trips  to  Armstrongs  and  interviews  with  a  youth 
-of  sub-normal  intelligence,  with  a  few  seedy  suits  as  the  result. 
It  involved  getting  wigs  large  and  wngs  small,  wigs  light  and 
wigs  dark,  none  of  which  suited  the  varied  and  particular  tastes 
of  the  cast.  It  involved  going  early  and  staying  late,  keeping 
perfectly  cool  and  collected  when  everyone  else  was  demanding 
something  which  could  not  be  found  or  had  not  been  furnished. 
Worst  of  all  it  meant  arising  early  Sunday  and  returning  arti- 
cles which  I  had  borrowed  right  and  left  and  which  were  so  apt 
to  disappear  over  night. 

When  I  had  recovered  from  this  first  experience,  I  took  great 
satisfaction  in  the  thought  that  my  duty  was  done  for  a  while. 
But  oh,  vain  delusion!  Within  three  slioit  weeks  the  Senior 
manager  approached  me  and  said  that  since  I  had  had  experience 
working  with  a  Junior  on  ''  Costumes"  last  time,  I  was  now  to 
break  in  a  Sophomore.  This  time  the  costumes  were  eighteenth 
century,  which  necessitated  a  trip  to  Springfield  and  much  fumi- 
gation. I  gained  so  much  new  experience  that  it  seemed  to 
make   me   perfectly   invaluable  to  the  costumes  committee  the 

363 


364  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

rest  of  the  year.  Then  too,  many  of  the  Sophomores  who  were 
tried  out  in  plays  proved  to  have  such  histrionic  powers  that 
they  were  taken  forever  from  the  field  of  costumes,  bringing  me 
into  more  constant  demand. 

My  reputation  thus  established  spread  beyond  the  confines  of 
Phi  Kappa.  One  daj^,  strolling  late  into  a  Division  meeting,  I 
was  greeted  with  the  news  that  I  had  been  elected  Chairman  of 
Costumes.  My  one  consolation  after  a  week  of  toil  was  that  I 
could  not  possibly  be  called  upon  to  serve  in  more  than  one 
Division. 

The  real  tragedy  of  the  situation  I  have  not  touched  upon. 
The  fact  is  that  deep  in  my  heart  lies  the  conviction  that  I  have 
dormant  dramatic  ability  which  has  never  been  given  a  chance 
to  prove  itself.  Never  once  have  I  been  called  upon  to  take  even 
the  most  minor  part,  and  no  one  now  expects  anything  of  me 
but  costumes.  There  is  but  one  more  height  to  which  I  may 
yet  attain  in  my  career.  On  the  strength  of  my  reputation  I 
feel  sure  that  I  shall  be  costuming  the  Senior  Dramatics  cast 
while  my  inmost  soul  cries  out  in  rebellion  and  whispers  to  me 
that  in  the  leading  part  I  would  really  have  been  ''  at  my  best."" 


COLD  COMFORT  FOR  FRESHMEN 

ROSAMOND   HOLMES 

I  stood  in  line  two  hours 

For  a  ticket  to  hear  Taft 
And  then  I  only  drew  a  blank 

And  everybody  laughed. 
I  forgot  to  hand  my  ticket 

To  the  old  G.  and  F.  A., 
So  I  can't  sing  in  the  contest 

In  the  morning  Rally  Day. 
I  gave  up  hope  two  years  ago 

Of  getting  to  a  game, 
And  I  don't  see  why  so  many 

People  do  try  just  the  same. 
If  Milton's  right  in  what  he  says, 

Some  day  I'll  have  good  fate, 
I  mean  his  words,  "  They  also  serve 

Who  only  stand  and  wait." 
When  I  get  to  Heaven  (if  I  do) 

And  see  the  gate  so  pearly, 
Will  Peter  hand  me  out  a  blank 

Or — perhaps — a  let-in-early  ? 


'♦SIMPLEX  MUNDITIIS'' 

PHYLLIS   EATON 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  handsome  young  prince  who 
lived  in  a  far-away  country  on  the  very  edge  of  the  world. 
Now  this  prince,  whose  name  was  Fearless,  besides  being  very 
tall  and  straight  and  good  to  look  upon,  was  very,  very  rich, 
and  so  he  might  have  had  for  his  bride  any  of  the  noble  ladies 
in  the  land.  But  the  king,  his  father,  who  was  as  wise  as  an 
owl,  issued  a  decree  that  his  son  should  marry  the  lady  who 
should  prove  to  be  more  beautiful  than  all  the  others. 

Mounted  heralds  rode  about  far  and  wide  to  carry  the  news, 
and  they  even  penetrated  to  the  heart  of  the  great  forest,  where 
lived  a  little  peasant  girl  named  Modesta  with  her  aged  father. 
And,  as  the  people  heard  of  the  king's  decree,  there  was  great 
excitement  all  over  the  land,  and  all  the  ladies  began  to  make 
themselves  as  lovely  as  possible  in  order  to  win  the  hand  of  the 
prince.  Princesses  gave  orders  to  their  maids,  but  the  maids 
were  too  busy  making  themselves  beautiful  to  obey  them,  for 
the  poor  as  well  as  the  rich  had  entered  the  competition.  Fat 
girls  began  to  diet  to  grow  thin,  and  thin,  scrawny  girls  ate 
five  or  six  meals  a  day  to  grow  fat.  Hair-dressers  all  over  the 
land  were  kept  so  busy  that  they  could  sleep  neither  by  day  nor 
night,  and  as  for  the  dressmakers,  well,  they  all  made  their 
fortunes,  but  they  were  so  cross  and  nervous  that  after  all  the 
excitement  was  passed  they  had  to  take  to  their  beds  for  a 
whole  year. 

And  in  all  this  flurry  and  bustle  only  one  girl  remained  calm 
and  sweet,  and  she  was  the  little  maiden,  Modesta.  For  she 
only  laughed  and  said  to  her  father,  "A  humble  person  like  me 
could  never  hope  to  marry  the  prince."  At  last  the  great  day 
arrived  when  all  were  to  gather  in  the  great  field  near  the  city. 
Modesta  put  on  her  little  woolen  frock  and  went  with  her 
father  to  stand  with  a  few  of  the  oldest  women  who  knew  they 
could  never  compete  with  the  rest  in  beauty  ;  for  she  thought 
it  would  indeed  be  a  wonderful  sight  to  see.  After  all  had 
assembled  the  king  stood  up  and  said,  "  I  have  decreed  that  my 
son  should  marry  the  most  beautiful  lady  in  all  the  land,  and 
indeed  I  see  before  me  more  loveliness  and  grace  than  I  had 

365 


366  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

ever  before  imagined.  But  before  I  can  choose  my  son's  bride 
I  want  yon  all  to  come  with  me  for  a  walk  to  the  heart  of  the 
forest."  ~ 

Now  the  old  king  smiled  to  himself  as  he  said  these  words, 
and  the  ladies  looked  at  each  other  in  surprise.  However,  they 
gathered  up  their  silken  trains  and  started  off,  but  before  they 
had  gone  half  a  mile  many  were  limping  and  tottering  on  their 
high  heels,  and  many  more  had  stepped  on  their  long  gowns 
and  torn  them,  and  by  the  time  the  first  milestone  was  reached 
fully  half  had  given  up  and  sat  sobbing  by  the  roadside.  Now 
all  the  way  Modesta  had  skipped  merrily  along  in  her  bare  feet^ 
for  a  mile  was  nothing  to  this  little  maiden,  who  had  so  often 
walked  into  the  great  city  to  buy  food  for  herself  and  her  father. 

Meantime  the  black  clouds  had  been  gathering  and  soon  the- 
rain  came  pouring  down  in  torrents,  and  then  I  grieve  to  say 
that  the  pretty  color  went  running  down  the  cheeks  of  many  of 
the  ladies  in  little  red  streams,  and  the  curl  began  to  come  out 
of  their  hair  so  that  it  hung  about  their  faces  in  wet  strings. 
They  shivered  and  shook  in  their  wet  silk  and  gauze  and  their 
pinched  faces  were  far  from  lovely.  Now  Modesta's  dress  had 
known  many  rains,  and  her  hair,  which  had  never  known  a 
liairdresser's  art,  had  only  twisted  itself  into  myriads  of  ring- 
lets, which  danced  about  her  face  and  peeped  from  behind  her 
ears.     And  so  they  passed  the  second  milestone. 

Soon  the  burning  sun  came  out  from  behind  the  clouds  and  a 
great  wind  began  to  blow.  Then  away  flew  puffs  and  curls  and 
every  bit  of  false  hair,  and  so  many  more  were  left  behind 
defeated.  Soon  they  came  to  a  spot  where  a  tiny  brook  crossed 
the  path  and  the  king  said  they  must  ford  it.  And  here  again 
they  left  many  behind,  for  they  cried  out  that  not  for  all  the 
kingdoms  in  the  world  would  they  put  foot  in  the  icy  water.. 
As  the  few  who  struggled  onward  crossed  the  stream  a  little 
field  mouse  ran  out  of  the  long  grass  on  the  other  side.  And  at 
that  seven  of  the  contestants  shrieked  and  lifting  up  their  drag- 
gled skirts,  rushed  away  and  never  stopped  their  mad  flight 
until  they  had  reached  their  own  homes.  And  how  merrily 
Modesta  laughed  at  the  sight. 

And  so  it  happened  that  when  they  reached  the  little  hut  in 
the  heart  of  the  woods  there  followed  the  king  only  three  ladies, 
and  pretty  Modesta,  who  had  come  to  look  on.  Out  from  the 
hut  a  half-grown  puppy  came  bounding  to  welcome  the  new- 
comers, but  as  he  frolicked  about  they  cried,  "Go  away,  you 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  367 

bad  dog!"  "Get  down  I "  and  frowned  and  looked  so  ill- 
tempered  that  they  were  verj^  ugly  indeed.  Then  Modesta 
came  forward  to  call  her  pet,  and  as  she  stood  caressing  him  the 
sun  lit  up  her  golden  curls,  and  her  blue  eyes  shone  with  com- 
passion for  the  poor  women,  while  there  was  such  a  lovely  pink 
in  her  cheeks  and  her  lips  were  so  red  that  they  were  all  struck 
by  her  beauty. 

Then  the  king  took  her  hand,  and  leading  her  to  his  son,  said, 
"She  shall  be  your  bride,  for  she  has  a  beautj^  which  the  rain 
and  wind  cannot  wash  awaj^  ]ior  the  sun  fade."  And  the  prince 
smiled  at  the  blushing  girl  for  he  already  loved  her,  and  so  they 
were  married  and  lived  happily  ever  after. 

For  Moral  see  Students'  Hand  Book,  "Freshman  Don't,"^ 
Number  14,  and  do  thou  likewise. 


A  ME)- YEAR  RESOLUTION 

BARBARA  CHENEY 

Miss  Jordan  is  reading  my  English  thirteen 

But  I  fear  she  does  not  like  it  much, 
She  has  just  frowned  hard  at  a  little  detail 

Which  I  thought  quite  a  delicate  touch. 
She  can't  seem  to  read  what  I  say  very  well, 

Tho'  really  I  can  not  see  why. 
My  t's  are  not  crossed  but  they're  thinner  than  I's, 

You  can  see  that  they're  T's  if  you  try. 

Oh  dear  !     Why  is  everyone  looking  ? 

I  know  they  are  tho'  1  can't  see, 
I'm  staring  as  hard  as  I  can  at  the  floor 

And  my  face  is  as  blank  as  can  be. 
I  always  can  tell  who  has  w^ritt-in  what's  read, 

For  they're  sure  to  look  conscious  and  scared. 
So  I'm  going  to  look  calm  and  as  bold  as  I  can 

Tho'  I'd  run  from  the  room  if  I  dared. 

She  has  finished,  and  now  with  a  puzzling  smile 
Is  putting  my  paper  away — 

No  comments  are  made.     She  goes  on  to  the  next- 
One  lesson  I  have  learned  to-day  : 

Hereafter,  my  papers  I'll  write  when  I  can, 
But  I'll  keep  them  at  home  in  my  drawer. 

And  I'll  hand  them  all  in  just  before  the  exam 
On  the  very  last  day— not  before. 


WILL-^O-THE-WISP 

MARY   NEWBURY   DIXON 

I  have  stroked  the  golden  fur  of  the  will-o'-the-wisp.  It  was 
on  a  perfectly  ordinary  day,  a  narrow,  slate-colored  Monday. 
I  had  on  ordinary  clothes  and  I  hadn't  even  curled  my  hair.  I 
had  missed  out  on  breakfast,  I  hadn't  had  my  dickey  on  in  gym, 
in  Math  "  She''  had  asked  me  to  do  an  original  and  passed  on. 
The  only  note  I'd  had  on  the  note-board  was  a  notice  of  a 
Church  Club  meeting.  For  luncheon  we  had  mince  on  wet 
toast,  and  later  I  went  down-town  alone  to  pick  out  a  copy 
of  Frangois'  "Advanced  Prose  Composition"  because  mine  had 
all  the  words  written  in  and  I  didn't  think  it  would  be  right  to 
use  it.  Besides,  it  had  belonged  to  a  girl  who  had  gotten  a 
condition  in  French  the  year  before. 

I  was  walking  along  Main  Street  when  suddenly  in  the 
Woman's  Shop  I  saw  it.  I  knew  it  that  very  minute;  you 
must  have  seen  it  yourself.  I  felt  that  I  must  stroke  it.  I 
rushed  boldly  in  and  asked  the  man  to  take  it  out  of  the  window. 
Could  I  get  in  a  chance  stroke  ?  The  man  was  kind,  even 
deferential.  I  suppose  he  thought  I  would  buy  it.  It  wasn't 
really  golden,  only  a  sort  of  brilliant  yellow.  It  looked  thick 
and  soft.  I  found  myself  wondering  if  they  bite  when  they  are 
caught.  I  guess  they  have  little  faces  like  rabbits  and  nose 
around  in  your  hand.  I  wanted  to  know  the  price  but  I  didn't 
dare  ask.  It  must  be  very  expensive  !  Just  think  of  the  risks 
taken  to  catch  the  little  animals  in  the  swamps.  I  took  two 
long,  deep  strokes.  It  was  very  soft,  yet  it  prickled.  A 
tingling  sensation  swept  over  me.  Two  strokes,  that  was  all. 
Very  much  shaken,  I  went  out  of  the  shop. 

I  felt  that  I  must  tell  someone.  I  wanted  to  tell  my  room- 
mate the  way  they  always  do  in  "  Heard  on  the  Tar  Walk,"  but 
I  haven't  any  roommate.  I  had  to  go  'way  out  on  Henshaw 
Avenue  to  tell  my  only  friend  in  college.  I  only  know  her 
because  her  surname  and  mine  have  the  same  initial. 

" That  yellow  fur,"  she  said  coldly,  "is  fitch.  They're  wear- 
ing it  a  great  deal  this  winter." 

"  But  I  know  it  was  will-o'-the-wisp,"  I  said.  '*  I  had  a  thrill 
when  I  stroked  it.     That  proves  it  was  will-o'-the-wisp." 

36  8 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  369 

I  went  home  for  the  Christmas  vacation  and  Uncle  Brewster 
took  me  to  "The  Biltmore''  for  tea  just  before  the  Smith  Col- 
lege Special  left  for  Northampton.  In  my  purse  I  had  a  twenty- 
dollar  gold-piece.  I  was  going  to  buy  the  will-o'-the-wisp  set 
as  soon  as  I  got  back.  I  would  have  so  many  thrills  that  I 
wouldn't  have  to  take  gym  any  more. 

"Now,''  he  said,  "you  can  order  anything  you  want." 

"Mince,"  I  said.     That  was  the  only  article  of  food  I  knew. 

As  he  was  giving   the   order   to   the   waiter  I  looked   around. 

There,  across  the  room,  drinking  tea  and  eating  a  brioche,  was 

a  member  of  the  faculty,  dressed  in  will-o'-the-wisp  and  velvet. 


THE  COURSE   OF  TRUE   LOVE 

(A  rehearsal  of  any  college  play) 

DRAMATIC  PERSONAE 

He. — Trying  to  pretend  that  a  red  mackinaw  and  a  blue  serge 

shirt  are  a  dress  suit. 
She.— In  her  room-mate's  prom,  dress  with  a  train,  for  practice. 

Scene— A  stage.  Chair  right ;  a  sofa  (i.  e.,  two  chairs  side  by 
side)  left. 

Time— Seven  P.  M.  The  two  leading  characters  have  hurried 
through  their  dinner  in  order  to  have  a  private  rehear- 
sal before  the  others  arrive. 

Curtain  rises  (with  a  great  deal  of  assistance  from  both  char- 
acters. ) 

He— (striding  up  and  down  impatiently)  (the  dimensions  of 
the  stage  require  that  striding  be  done  standing  still— a  difficult 
art) — Well,  why  don't  you  enter  ?     What  are  you  waiting  for  ? 

She  (off  stage)— My  cue,  of  course. 

He — Oh  yes  (melodramatically)  — Here  she  conies  I 

She  (entering,  also  nielodramaticly) — I  must  be  alone. 

He— Drop  your  fan  !     Drop  your  fan. 

She  (looks  about  wildly  for  a  fan,  he  hands  her  a  pencil  which 
she  drops) — I  must  be  alone  and  think  it  out.  (sinks  into  chair 
right) — Three  years  ago  he  left  me  and  he  has  just  returned. 
Will  he  speak  to-night  ?  (over  her  shoulder  to  him)  Will  he 
speak  ? 


370  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

He— He  will.  Give  him  time.  (Picks  up  pencil)  Pardon  me 
Miss  Gordon,  I  think  this  is  your  fan. 

She  (coldly)— Oh,  thank  you. 

He  (passionately) — Mabel,  I  must  speak.  I  can  wait  no  longer. 
For  three  long  years  I  have  thought  of  nothing  else.  I — Oh  hang 
it  all  !  How  can  I  sit  down  beside  you  when  you  are  on  a  chair 
instead  of  the  sofa.  Get  over  on  the  other  side  of  the  stage. 
(They  cross  and  she  sits  on  sofa.) 

He— Now  where  were  we  ? 

She— Go  back  to  "  Mabel,  I  must  speak." 

He — You  like  that  speech  don't  you  ?  They're  the  most  idiotic 
lines  in  the  whole  play.    I  think  I'll  cut  them. 

She  (severely) — Please  don't  be  silly  and  do  go  on  or  we'll 
never  get  through. 

He  (mournfully) — Mabel,  I  must — 

She  (gives  him  a  disgusted  glance.) 

He  (resignedly) — Oh  well !  (passionately  as  before)  Mabel,  I 
must  speak.  I  can  wait  no  longer.  For  three  long  years  I  have 
thought  of  nothing  else.  I  love  you  (tries  to  sit  down  beside 
her)    Move  over  !     (she  moves.    He  sits  down.) 

He— I  love  you,  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  I  love  you 
— How  many  times  do  I  say  that,  anyway  ? 

She— Three's  enough.     Goon. 

He  (counting  on  his  fingers)  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  I  love 
you.     Mabel,  won't  you  speak  to  me  ? 

SHE-Oh,  Jack,  I— Oh,  what  do  I  ? 

He— /don't  know.  You  certainly  don't  expect  me  to  remem- 
ber your  part  as  well  as  my  own,  do  you  ? 

She— Well,  I  don't  see  why  not.  I  know  yours  a  great  deal 
better  than  you  do — Oh,  I  remember  what  it  is  now.  Oh,  Jack, 
I  am  so  happy  I  can't  speak.     I — I — Oh,  Jack — 

He — Well,  are  you  going  to  let  me  embrace  you  ? 

She— Oh  yes,  but  don't  walk  all  over  my  train. 

He  (kicking  it  out  of  the  way  and  embracing  her  fervently) 
Darling  ! 

She — Don't  knock  my  hair  down.    Dearest. 

Both— Curtain  !    Quick  ! 


HEARD    ON    THE    TAR    WALK 


Local  Color  inTRhyme 

Everybody's  writing  verse, 

It  really  has  become  a  curse  ! 

Julia  toils  o'er  lines  that  limp, 

Janet  seeks  a  rhyme  for  "  skimp." 

Every  subject,  grave  or  gay, 

Every  doing  of  the  day, 

"  Bats"  or  "  writtens,"  math  or  gym, 

In  ode.  in  sonnet  or  in  hymn, 

Alike  are  forced  to  do  their  part 

To  give  our  Freshman  poets  a  start. 

"  Local  color  is  the  way," 

So  our  elders  often  say, 

'•  By  which  you  will  win  your  spurs." 

But  to  them  it  ne'er  occurs 

That  the  task  that  they  do  set 

Is  one  that's  very  hard  to  get ! 

''  First  find  the  spirit  of  the  place, 

Then  put  it  into  lines  that  race 

And  flutter  gaily  on  their  way, 

Thus  w^ill  you  Freshman  win  the  day !" 

I,  too,  fain  a  poet  would  be. 

And  so  I've  tried  and  tried  to  see 

What  local  color  I  could  find 

That  should  be  of  the  very  kind 

In  English  Thirt.  to  win  me  praise 

And  me  to  lofty  heights  to  raise. 

I  see  the  blueness  of  exams. 

The  scarlet  of  my  friends'  bright  "  tarns," 

The  greenness  of  my  own  mistakes.  . 

The  yellow  ••  writtens"  for  whose  sakes 

We  spend  so  many  hours  a  day. 

When  we  would  much  prefer  to  play. 

But  all  these  tints  t  cannot  blend 

To  make  them  give  me  at  the  end 

A  picture  vivid,  new  and  true. 

That  brings  me  fame  in  each  bright  hue. 

It's  hard  to  write  prose  all  the  time, 

When  I  would  fain  burst  forth  in  rhyme. 

Madeleine  McDowell  1917. 

311 


372  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

Moralizing  is  tedious  ;  besides,  it's  unbe- 
The  Country  :       coming  for  a  college  girl  to  usurp  such  a 
A  Closed  Order    ])rerogative.     We  instinctively  close  our 
ears  to  it  when  we  hear  it,    and   hurry 
away  from  it  when  we  see  it  coming  ;  but  sometimes  it  takes  us 
unawares,  and  we  are  unable  to  recognize  it  as  such,  till  we  find 
ourselves  conning  over  the  episode  and,  in  spite  of  our  unmoral- 
loving  selves,  drawing  a  lesson  from  it  and  attempting  to  apply 
it  to  our  own  lives  and  tlie  lives  of  those  about  us. 

The  bell  rang  at  95  Rivington  Street.  It  was  not  unusual  for 
the  bell  to  ring,  for  it  was  the  afternoon  on  which  the  little  girls 
were  allowed  to  come  and  "scup  "  in  the  concrete  make-believe 
of  a  back-yard.  But  the  little  group  that  came  in  did  not  ask  if 
it  was  ''girls  to-day  ?"  Three  youngsters,  a  boy  and  two  girls, 
ranging  between  five  and  eight  years  of  age,  looked  up  into  my 
face  with  a  stolid,  yet  pleading  look. 

''  What  can  I  do  for  you  to-day  ?"  I  asked.  "  Did  you  come 
to  play?" 

''We  want  to  belong  to  the  country,"  said  the  eldest,  wriggling 
his  grim  thumb  around  in  his  left  fist. 

"We  want  to  belong  to  the  country,"  echoed  the  other  two. 
The  children  had  come  to  us  as  to  a  fairy  godmother  who 
holds  the  key  to  the  land  of  dreams.  They  had  come  to  be 
admitted  to  a  closed  order,  an  order  that  possessed  a  privilege 
that  could  be  enjo3^ed  only  by  members  of  its  favored  fraternit3\ 
That  sentence  has  meant  more  to  me  than  all  the  pleas  for 
contributions  to  Fresh  Air  Funds  that  I  have  ever  read ;  it 
means  more  to  me  than  anything  I  will  ever  read  about  housing 
conditions  and  congested  neighborhoods  ;  it  was  the  greatest 
plea  I  have  ever  heard, — "We  want  to  belong  to  the  country." 

Janet  Weil  1914. 

Few  people  realize  just  how  impor- 

Waste  Baskets        tant  a  waste  basket  really  is.     One  item 

AND  Their  Owners    of  its  importance  is  the  completion  of 

the  furnishings  of  a  room.  A  waste 
basket  of  a  striking  color  can  be  a  very  jarring  note  in  an  other- 
wise harmonious  color  scheme  of  a  room.  A  waste  basket 
ought  to  fit  its  surroundings  as  to  its  size  and  shape.  Accord- 
ingly, one  of  the  Dutch  wind-mill  type  does  not  belong  in  an 
office,  nor  does  one  of  the  sturdy,  small  wash-tub  variety  be- 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      373 

long  at  the  side  of  a  desk  which  measures  eighteen  by  twenty- 
four  inches.  Truly  it  lies  in  the  power  of  a  waste  basket  to 
make  or  mar  a  room. 

The  uses  of  a  waste  basket  are  much  more  extensive  than  is 
commonly  supposed.  It  will  receive  and  cherish  all  the  unkind 
words  ever  written  to  you  ;  it  will  furnish  you  stationery  for  a 
note  to  your  roommate  ;  it  is  a  fine  place  to  dry  gloves  ;  it  will 
conceal  from  public  gaze  the  contents  of  a  box  from  home  until 
you  wish  to  display  them  ;  it  will  hide  the  mouse-trap,  thus 
aiding  and  abetting  murder  (if  the  mouse  happens  to  be  an 
imprudent  one)  ;  for  the  substantial  part  of  a  ghost,  a  waste 
basket  is  entirely  satisfactory. 

As  an  index  to  the  characters  of  their  owners  waste  baskets 
are  interesting.  In  the  selection  and  placing  of  them  is  shown 
artistic  temperament  or  the  lack  of  it.  A  fondness  for  mathe- 
matics finds  expression  in  the  possession  of  a  severely  cylin- 
drical or  prismatical  waste  basket.  My  own  waste  basket  shows 
my  liking  for  English  History— it  is  the  image  of  a  Norman 
castle  with  windows  near  the  top.  A  fastidious  person  never 
has  a  waste  basket  which  is  running  over  full ;  a  methodical 
person  does  not  use  a  waste  basket  for  anything  except  waste 
paper;  an  ingenious  person  uses  one  on  all  possible  occasions. 
Therefore,  look  well  to  your  waste  basket ! 

Elsie  Green  1916. 


I  love  to  sing, 

I  love  to  sing, 

I  love  to  sing ! 
And  when  I'm  perched  up  on  a  cloud, 
A-puflBn'  and  a-feelin'  proud. 
When  then  I  won't  do  anything 

Excepting  just 

To  sing  and  sing  I 

Dorothy  Lilian  Spencer  1914. 


374  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 


The  Little  Bird— and  I 

Little  bird  upon  a  tree. 

Looking  in  my  house  at  me, 
Dost  thou  wish  that  thou  were  I? 

If  thou  wert,  thou  could'st  not  fly  ; 
Though  the  windows  open  be, 

Though  thou  feel'st  so  blithe  and  free 
Though  the  spring  sky  calleth  thee, 
Little  bird  upon  a  tree, 
Though  the  spring  sky  calleth  thee, 
Thou  could'st  not  fly,  if  thou  wert  I. 

Frances  Milliken  Hooper  1914. 


The  Treasure  House 

My  mind  is  full  of  the  loveliest  things ! 

If  anyone  could  see, 
I'm  sure  he'd  say  'twas  a  treasure  house 

And  want  to  explore  it  with  me. 


My  heart  has  its  store  of  treasures,  too. 

And  anyone  who  knew, 
I'm  certain  would  like  to  steal  from  it 

A  precious  jewel  or  two. 

But  my  tongue  is  the  blackest  ogre, 

That  guards  the  door  to  my  mind. 
And  has  hidden  the  key  to  my  heart  in  a  place 

That  no  one  could  ever  find  I 

Mary  L.  Wellington  1916. 


EDITORIAL 


It  is  not  striving  to  make  a  universal  appeal, — this  editorial ; 
nor  does  it  expect  even  to  arouse  keen  local  interest.  Yet  it 
seems  so  eager  to  be  written — yes,  wistfully  eager — that  perhaps 
we  may  pretend  its  subject  is  of  vital  importance.  For  there 
are  some  editorials  that  are  like  the  squirrel  on  our  street.  He 
is  really  a  very  mediocre  squirrel  of  the  commonplace  red  vari- 
ety, quite  undersized,  with  a  tail  much  too  large  for  the  rest 
of  him  and  eyes  so  boldly  inquisitive  that  they  mark  him  at 
once  as  one  of  the  Commoners— not  a  gentleman  at  all.  Yet 
the  airs  that  squirrel  assumes  are  quite  unbearable.  To  see 
him  scurrying  along  the  wire,  stopping  at  everj^  telephone 
pole  to  sit  up  on  his  haunches  and  survey  the  country  and 
then  hurry  on  his  way  from  St.  John's  Church — that  is  where 
his  place  of  business  seems  to  be — to  Haven  House — his  resi- 
dence is  in  a  tree  in  their  yard — one  would  think  him  the 
most  important  person  on  Elm  Street.  It  is  plain  that  he 
thinks  his  daily  supervision  of  Haven  House  and  St.  John's 
Church  are  necessary  for  their  welfare,  but  we  know  if  his 
route  were  changed  he  would  be  missed  only  by  the  few  of  us, 
who  become  foolishly  attached  to  unimportant  things  and  who 
take  a  sort  of  happiness  in  our  self-deception. 

He  is  not  clever,  seldom  is  he  even  interesting.  Yet  he  is  our 
neighbor  and  evidently  he  thinks  he  has  an  aim  in  life.  And 
judging  b}^  the  regular  intervals  at  which  he  scuddles  along 
those  telephone  wires  to  the  next  block,  he  even  thinks  he  has 
obligations  to  fulfill.     Conceited  little  squirrel  I 

But  to  return  to  our  editorial,  — this  editorial  that  would  write 
itself  and  from  "The  Land  of  Unborn  Children,"  clamors  to 
set  sail.  We  were  in  the  "Browsery,"  tiptoeing  around  the 
room,  reading  the  books  ''through  their  backs,"  and  feeling 
calmly  happy  and  free, — yes,  and  wishfully  expectant.  Why  is 
it, — none  of  us  can  be  boisterous  or  self-assertive  or  heedless 
even  in  our  thoughts  ''in  the  room  where  the  books  live." 

Quite  suddenly  we  came  to  "The  Lost  Art  of  Reading."  It 
is  an  intimate  friend  of  ours,  but  now  we  could  not  get  beyond 

ST5 


376  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

the  title,  which  had  become  a  sort  of  challecge.  Its  very  abode 
was  a  denial  of  the  implied  assertion.  For  the  Browsing  Room 
is  the  retreat  of  girls  who  feel  that  they  must,  for  a  few  minutes 
at  least,  escape  from  prescribed  reading  and  in  books  of  their 
own  choosing  rediscover  the  world  for  themselves.  They  have 
been  tunnelling  deep  through  the  earth,  following  a  route  that 
is  only  too  precisely  mapped  out  for  them.  They  must  come  to 
the  surface  to  breathe  and  to  get  another  glimpse  of  mountains 
and  flowers  and  babies  and  blue  sky. 

The  art  of  reading  is  not  lost  were  there  onlj'  a  handful  of 
such  readers,  but  they  are  many.  They  have  the  "eager  atti- 
tude" towards  reading.  We  know  them, — these  quiet  girls 
who  delight  in  wandering  among  the  stacks,  discovering  for 
themselves  treasures  folded  between  the  covers  of  slender  books. 
We  come  upon  them  in  unexpected  corners  curled  up  on  the 
tiny,  low  stools  of  the  library,  a  shy  book  of  poems  on  their 
knees.  And  very  often,  especially  if  we  have  an  understanding 
heart,  we  tiptoe  away  as  quietly  as  we  came.  But  if  we  disturb 
them  these  travellers  look  up  at  us  from  their  pages  with  unsee- 
ing eyes,  their  thoughts  but  half  arrested  and  reluctant,  eager 
to  return  to  their  dreams, 

'•  To  sit  upon  the  shore  of  some  warm  sea, 

Or  in  green  gardens  where  sweet  fountains  be."' 

Or  when  we  see  in  the  rooms  of  various  girls  among  the  books 
at  the  right  hand  well-worn  copies  of  Dante  and  Swinburne  and 
Thompson,  slender  Mosher  editions  of  Fiona  Macleod  or  William 
Morris,  we  cannot  think  the  art  of  reading  is  completely  lost. 

In  under  classman  days  we  went  to  make  our  first  call  on  a 
certain  senior.  There  were  in  her  room  not  many  books,  but 
carefully  chosen,  books  that  she  had  near  her  because  she  had 
made  them  her  friends.  She  spoke  quietly  and  naturally  of  her 
favorites  and  read  to  us  passages  from  them, — books  in  French, 
Spanish  and  Italian.  They  were  her  companions  whom  she 
would  have  us  know  and  love  as  she  did.  We  went  away 
almost  in  awe,  impressed  not  so  much  by  the  bi-eadth  of  her 
reading  as  by  her  quiet  air  of  considering  such  reading  but 
natural  and  normal. 

We  know  that  this  girl  is  the  exception.  But  there  are  others 
who  read  as  intimately  and  richly  as  she.  And  while  there 
even  a  few  with  such  appreciation  the  art  of  reading  is  not 
wholly  extinct. 


EDITOR'S    TABLE 


Plato  believed  that  reason  must  be  directed 
Plato  and  and  can  not  be  created.  And  so  he  calls  nurture 
Education  the  essence  of  education.  With  the  modern 
scientific  tendency  to  emphasize  the  evolution  of 
all  things  organic,  we  are  able  to  appreciate  the  value  of  this 
view.  We  study  our  arboreal  ancestors  and  understand  why 
we  have  such  a  highly  developed  prehensile  appendage  as  the 
hand.  We  consider  the  mind  in  its  original  capacity  as  an 
organ  for  material  gain  in  a  world  of  concrete  fact,  and  we  no 
longer  wonder  that  it  is  such  a  poor  tool  for  the  investigation 
of  the  abstract  and  the  unknown.  We  no  longer  wonder  at  its 
impotence  in  subjective  realms,  at  its  illogical  confusion  of  time 
sequence  with  causal  sequence,  at  its  defensive  self -justification 
and  self-magnification  and  at  its  keen  delight  in  the  improbable 
wonders  that  gratify  its  vanity.  We  know  now  that  the  mind 
is  not  an  empty  vessel  into  which  we  may  pour  a  quantity  of 
facts,  but  a  poor,  struggling,  evolving  thing  with  splendid 
possibilities  ahead  of  it  for  the  individual  and  the  race. 

The  aim  of  Plato's  education  is  to  nourish  citizenship  and 
character  in  the  individual.  Education  must  begin  with  the 
mind  in  its  youthful  stage  and  exert  upon  it  the  best  influences 
of  an  ideal  environment.  The  stories  of  the  nursery  must  be 
true  in  idea  though  there  be  no  historical  basis  for  the  facts. 
All  the  heroes  must  act  as  heroes  should,  for  imitation  is  one  of 
the  mind's  inherent  characteristics.  The  songs  that  the  children 
hear  shall  be  such  as  inspire  courage  and  gentleness,  the  art 
that  surrounds  them  shall  be  noble  in  proportion  and  of  worthy 
subject.  So  the  best  principles  of  life  will  be  assimilated 
through  the  senses  and  the  emotions  from  childhood  to  youth, 
and  the  way  laid  for  their  permanent  appeal  to  the  reason  at 
a  later  stage.      This  is  a  piece  of  sound   psychology,  and  one 

37T 


378  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

to  which  we  pay  altogether  too  little  heed.  When  sensuous 
dancing,  slit  skirts  and  gossamer  gowns  become  the  rule  rather 
than  the. exception  in  an  institution  of  higher  learning  there  is 
something  wrong  somewhere.  There  must  be  influences  abroad 
that  Plato  would  never  countenance. 

One  of  the  hardest  influences  to  get  away  from  is  the  cheap 
magazine.  It  enters  boldly  into  public  meeting  places  and 
private  homes.  It  flaunts  its  red  cover,  its  blue  cover  and  its 
hectic  page  on  every  news  stand.  It  even  sneaks  into  the 
college  room.  The  Saturday  Evening  Post  sows  a  weekly  crop 
of  exaggerated  feeling,  uncontrolled  emotions  and  false  stand- 
ards over  our  land.  The  cheap  magazines  create  an  atmosphere 
of  unnatural  excitement  for  the  mind,  they  exert  a  degenerating 
influence  upon  the  taste  of  their  readers  and  they  waste  time 
that  might  otherwise  be  spent  in  more  profitable  reading.  Thej' 
have  a  strong  confederate  in  the  moving-picture  rolls  that  are 
shown  in  many  of  the  cheap  centers  of  amusement.  Imitation 
may  be  unconscious  but  it  is  steady  and  resistless,  and  the  habit 
of  frequenting  these  places  is  bound  to  t^ll  in  the  long  run. 

R.  C. 

It  is  with  some  hesitation  that  we  announce  as  our  topic  this 
month  ^'' Plays  and  Dramatic  Criticism,'''  for  the  average  reader 
may  be  surprised  at  the  idea  of  pla5\s  appearing  in  the  college 
magazines.  But  in  our  exchanges  this  month  we  found  three 
one-act  plays.  We  were  pleased,  because  the  play  is  a  form  of 
literature  that  seldom  appears  in  the  college  magazines,  proba- 
bly because  college  students  as  a  rule  seldom  care  to  spend  the 
time  and  thought  necessary  ,to  the  construction  of  a  play, 
and  because  plays  are  too  long  for  publication  in  the  college 
magazines. 

''The  God  Mars,"  \ni\\Q  Harvard  Advocate  for  February  6, 
is  one  of  the  three  plays  this  month.  The  chief  characters  are 
a  King,  a  Financier,  and  a  General.  The  latter  two  persuade 
the  King  that  for  one  reason  or  another  it  is  necessary  to  have 
war.  The  King  does  not  really  want  war  ;  he  does  not  appear 
to  care  very  much  what  happens  as  long  as  the  General  and 
the  Financier  are  suited.  The  two  other  characters  in  the  cast 
are  a  Sentr}^  and  a  Woman  ;  the  Woman  shows  the  attitude 
of  women  toward  war,  and  the  Sentry  the  attitude  of  soldiers 
toward   the   orov^ernment.      The  characters   are   all.  @f  course. 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      379 

^symbolic,  as  is  clearly  shown  at  the  end  of  the  play  where  the 
stage  is  fully  lighted  and  the  King  is  seen  to  be  really  a  scare- 
crow stuffed  with  straw.  The  end  is  very  effective,  and  the 
play  is  well  constructed. 

A  one-act  play  of  quite  another  type  is  ''Beyond,"  in  the 
•Occident.  The  Oriental  setting  is  attractive  ;  the  lure  of  the 
unknown  and  the  supernatural  are  usually  of  interest.  The 
story  centers  about  an  Arab  who  is  a  healer  and  magician,  and 
his  influence  over  a  girl.  The  characters  are  well  drawn,  those 
of  the  girl's  liusband  and  his  friend,  the  doctor,  who  are  sane, 
well-balanced  men.  standing  out  in  Ixdd  relief  against  those  of 
the  girl  and  the  Arab.  That  the  story  is  fantastic  and  improba- 
ble cannot  be  denied,  but  the  play  itself  is  good  as  far  as  action, 
plot,  atmosphere  and  character  drawing  are  concerned. 

"The  Oath,"  in  the  Yale  Literary  Magazine,  is  a  play  which 
contains  little  action,  being  dramatic  chiefly  in  the  conflict 
between  the  man  and  woman,  shown  by  means  of  dialogue 
except  in  the  places  where  the  child  enters  in.  The  essential 
differences  in  the  characters  are  well  brought  out.  There  is  a 
certain  degree  of  dramatic  irony  throughout  the  play,  particu- 
larly at  tlie  end,  which  serves  to  relieve  the  monotony  that  is 
apt  to  attach  itself  to  dialogue. 

These  three  plays  are  very  different  from  one  another  and 
ver}^  interesting.  In  some  of  the  college  magazines  there  are 
good  criticisms  of  modern  plays,  which  are  of  some  value  in 
showing  popular  opinion  concerning  the  drama  of  to-day,  as 
far  as  the  college  world  is  concerned.  Besides  these,  there  is  in 
the  Minnesota  Magazine  of  this  month  an  essay  on  "The 
Technique  of  Modern  Dramatic  Dialogue."  which  is  excellent, 
and  an  article  on  "The  Drama  in  the  Schoolroom '"  in  Gaucher 
Kalends.  This  last  may  not  of  course  be  termed  dramatic 
criticism,  but  we  mention  it  inasmuch  as  it  lias  a  bearing  on 
dramatization. 

D.   O. 


AFTER    COLLEGE 


SENIOR  DRAMATICS   J9J4 


1914  presents  '•  The  Tempest." 

Applications  for  Senior  Dramatics  for  June  11  and  12,  1914,  should  be  sent 
to  the  G-eneral  Secretary  at  184  Elm  Street,  Northampton.  Alumnae  are 
urged  to  apply  for  the  Thursday  evening  performance  if  possible,  as  Satur- 
day evening  is  not  open  to  alumnae,  and  there  will  probably  not  be  more  than 
one  hundred  tickets  for  Friday  evening.  Each  alumna  may  apply  for  not 
more  than  one  ticket  for  Friday  evening  ;  extra  tickets  may  be  requested  for 
Thursday.  No  deposit  is  required  to  secure  the  tickets,  which  may  be 
claimed  on  arrival  in  Northampton  from  the  business  manager  in  Seelye 
Hall.  In  May  all  those  who  have  applied  for  tickets  will  receive  a  request 
to  confirm  the  applications.  Tickets  will  then  be  assigned  only  to  those  who 
respond  to  this  request.  The'  prices  of  the  seats  will  range  on  Thursday 
evening  from  $1.50  to  |.75  and  on  Friday  from  $2.00  to  $.75.  The  desired 
price  of  seats  should  be  indicated  in  the  application.  A  fee  of  ten  cents  is 
charged  to  all  non-members  of  the  Alumnae  Association  for  the  filing  of  the 
application  and  should  be  sent  to  the  General  Secretary  at  the  time  of  appli- 
cation. 

COMMENCEMENT  ART  EXHIBITION  BY  ALUMNAE 

It  is  proposed  to  hold  an  exhibition  of  the  work  of  alumnae,  in  painting, 
sculpture  and  decorative  art,  at  the  college  during  Commencement.  Presi- 
dent Burton,  on  behalf  of  the  college,  has  offered  to  meet  the  expense  of  such 
an  exhibition.  Mr.  Tryon.  Mr.  Churchill  and  Miss  Strong  of  the  Art  Depart- 
ment have  offered  their  assistance  and  the  exhibition  rooms  in  the  Hilly er 
Art  Gallery.  A  jury  of  professional  artists  will  pass  upon  the  exhibits,  and 
it  is  planned  to  have  the  standard  of  the  exhibition  as  high  as  that  required 
of  Smith  alumnae  in  other  fields  of  professional  work. 

A  cordial  invitation  is  therefore  extended  to  alumnae  and  former  students 
to  exhibit  their  work  in  the  plastic  and  decorative  arts.  Exhibits  must  be  in 
Northampton  before  May  first.     The  expense  of  transportation  will  be  paid. 

It  is  hoped  that  many  will  accept  this  invitation  to  exhibit  their  work  at 
Smith  College.  Those  who  are  willing  to  do  so  are  asked  to  communicate 
with  the  alumnae  committee  immediately,  that  they  may  receive  exhibitors' 
blanks.  The  names  of  any  former  students  who  are  doing  professional  work 
in  art  would  be  greatly  appreciated  by  the  committee. 

Committee:  Elizabeth  McGrew  Kimball  1901,  Chairman;  Julia  S.  L. 
Dwight  1893.  Elizabeth  Olcott  1913.  Florence  H.  Snow  1904.  Address  :  184 
Elm  Street,  Northampton. 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  381 

PERSONALS 

Contributions  to  this  department  are  desired  before  the  end  of  the  month, 
in  order  to  appear  in  the  next  month's  issue,  and  should  be  addressed  to 
Eloise  Schmidt,  Gillett  House.  Northampton,  Massachusetts. 

'87.     Mrs.  W.  J.  Moulton  (Helen  Shute).      Address :  331  Hammond  Street, 

Bangor,  Maine. 
'02.     Mrs.  C.  K.  Benton  (Ednah  Burton).     Address:  R.  R.  1,  No.  55,  Hood 

River,  Oregon. 
'04.     Carrie  A.  Gauthier  is  now  in  charge  of  the  Hampshire  Branch  of  the 
S.  P.  C.  C.     Address  :  18  Franklin  Street,  Northampton,  Massachusetts. 
'05.     Lillian  M.  Trafton.     Address  :  124  Huntington  Avenue.  Boston,  Massa- 
chusetts. 
*11.     Marian  Ditman  has  announced  her  engagement  to  Frederic  Baylis  Clark. 
Clara  Franklin  has  announced  her  engagement  to  Enos  S.  Stockbridge  of 

Baltimore,  Maryland. 
Mrs.  William  W.  Hay  (Helen  McManigal).     Address:  1608 Second  Street, 

Northwest,  Calgary,  Alberta,  Canada. 
Mrs.  Roger  Hinds  (Nancy  Bates).     Address  :  31  Washington  Street,  East 

Orange,  New  Jersey. 
Mary  Mattis  is  making  a  tour  around   the  world,  and  is  at  present  in 

India. 
Marj^  McCarthy  is  teaching  in  Derby,  Connecticut.     Address  :  36  Fourth 

Street,  Derby,  Connecticut. 
Jane  Swenarton   is  teaching  English  and  Psychology  in   Erie,   Penn- 
sylvania. 
Gertrude  and  Marguerite  Sexton  sailed  February  24  for  Europe.     They 
expect  to  motor  until  July  through  Italy.  France,  Switzerland,  Ger- 
many and  England. 
Marian  Yeaw  is  acting  as  chairman  for  the  Day  Nursery  at  her  home  in 
East  Orange,  New  Jersey. 
'12.     Edith  Gray  has  started  on  a  trip  around  the  world,  going  by  way  of 
Russia  and  Siberia.     She  expects  to  visit  for  several  months  in  China 
and  Japan  and  return  by  way  of  the  Canadian  Rockies. 
Marguerite  Hickey  is  Principal  of  the  Meadow  Grammar  School,  East 

Hartford,  Connecticut. 
Helen  Marcy  has  announced  her  engagement  to  Oliver  C.  Lombard. 
Cyrena  Martin  is  assistant  in  the  Social  Service  Department  of  the 

Psychological  Clinic  of  the  University  of  Pennsylvania. 
Marion  Tanner   has  been   appearing  lately  in   Baltimore,   Springfield, 

Brooklyn  and  Providence  in  a  one-act  play  of  Paul  Armstrong's. 
Mildred  Wagenhals  and  Mary  Hanitch  are  taking  courses  in  Agriculture 
in  the  University  of  Wisconsin. 
6a?-'12.     Emilie  Auten  has  announced  her  engagement  to  Raymond  Zabriski 
Clarendon. 


363  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

'13,     Marian  Adams  is  teaching  Latin  and  Drawing  m  the  High  School  at 

Morris,  New  York. 
Helen  Bidwell  is  acting  as  teaching  governess  in  the  home  of  Mr.  W.  G. 

Langford,  Fort  Myers,  Florida. 
Hazel  Gray  is  acting  as  Preceptress  in  Crown  Point  High  School,  New 

York. 
Vodisa  Greenwood  is  at  home.     Address  :  Farmington,  Maine. 
Dollie  Hepburn  is  attending  the  New  York  Library  School. 
Marguerite  Knox  is  studying  for  the  degree  of  Master  of  Arts  at  Columbia 

University. 
Mally  Lord  is  studjdng  Domestic  Science  at  Teachers'  College,  Columbia 

University. 
Ella  Mathewson  is  at  home.     Address :    81  Cliff  Street,  Norwich,  Con- 
necticut. 
Helen  McLaughlin  is  teaching  Mathematics  and  Biology  in  the  Fort 

Edward  High  School,  Fort  Edward,  New  York. 
Annie  Mather  is  teaching  History  and  Mathematics  in  the  High  School 

at  Skaneateles,  New  York. 
Elsie  Robbins  is  working  in  the  Bacteriological  Laboratory  of  the  Bureau 

of  Health  of  Philadelphia,  Pennsylvania. 
Elsa  Schuh  is  teaching  German  in  the  High  School  at  Atlantic  High- 
lands, New  Jersey. 
Madeleine  Thompson  is  teaching  English  and  History  in  the  High  School 

at  Stonington,  Connecticut. 
Mildred  Tyler  is  doing  Graduate  Work  in  Latin  and  Greek  at  Wesleyan 

University,  Middletown.  Connecticut. 
Gertrude  Walch  is  at  home.     Address  :    14  Hillside  Avenue,  Amesbury. 

Massachusetts. 
Margaret  Woodbridge  is   soprano   soloist  in   the  Park  Congregational 

Church  of  Grand  Rapids,  Michigan. 

MARRIAGES 

'97.     Anna  Casler  to   Thomas   Upson  Chesebrough.     Address :    Bumsville? 

North  Carolina. 
'04.     Fannie  Stearns  Davis  to  Augustus  McKinstry  Gifford,  January  24,  1914. 
Anna  Frances  Rogers  to  Charles  F.  Callahan.     Address  :   30  jMay  Street. 
Worcester,  Massachusetts. 
"05.     Mabel  Chick  to  James  Owen  Foss,  January  1,  1914.     Address:   326  Bay 
State  Road,  Boston,  Massachusetts. 
Lucy  E.  Macdonald  to  Herman  C.  Pitts.      Address:    48   South  Angell 
Street.  Providence,  Rhode  Island. 
'07.     Margareth  A.  Pitman  to  Henry  Gale  Chamberlain,  December  18,  1913. 
Address  :  339  Charles  Street,  Boston,  Massachusetts. 
Anna  Reynolds  to  Bradish  P.  Morse,  January  26,  1914. 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      383 

'08.     Ruth  Dunbar  to  Edward  May   Tolman,  January  17,  1914.      Address  : 
1028  Cathedral  Street,  Baltimore,  Maryland. 

Florence  Adelaide  Howe  to  William  Strobridge,  February  7,  1914. 

Edith   M.   James   to  Samuel   Frederick  Monroe.      Address :    75  School 
Street,  Manchester,  Massachusetts. 

Margaret  Kingsley  to  Omera  Floyd  Long.  February  3,  1914.      Address  : 
1229  Judson  Avenue,  Evanston,  Illinois. 

Luciie  Parker  to  Eugene  Leavens  Mersereau,  November  12,  1913.     Ad- 
dress :  Doty,  Washington. 

Alvara  Proctor  to  Richard  R.  Williams,  August  29,  1913.      Address : 
Grant,  Washington. 
"09.     Mildred  Hill  to  John  Lowry,  January  29,  1914. 

Mary  Leonard  Palmer  to  R.  T.  Fuller. 
'11.     Katharine  Ames  to  Robert  George,  January  29,  1914.      Address:    170 
Brookline  Avenue,  Brookline,  Massachusetts. 

Blanche  Buttfield  to  Harlan  Pratt,  January  28,  1914. 

Marjorie  Gilmore  to  Carleton  E.  Power,  November  27,  1913.     Address  : 
201  East  Jay  Street,  Ithaca.  New  York. 

Dorothy  Hickok  to  McClain  Reinhart,  February  11,  1914. 

Rebecca  Smith  to  Buckingham  Chandler,  February  21,  1914. 

Alice  Thompson  to  James  Swasey  Currier,  February  21,  1914. 

Florence  Watters  to  Clyde  Bronson   Stuntz,  November  25.  1913.      Ad- 
dress :  Farley.  Iowa.  ' 
ea;-'12.     Rose  Colcord  to  Richard  Nicks  Weibel,  January  21,  1914.     Address  ; 

Claviton,  Pennsylvania. 
'13.     Helen  Laughlin  to  Emory  Miller  Marshall.  January  1 .  1914.     Address  : 

Yerington,  Nevada. 
ex-'ld.     Carolyn  de  Windt  to  Harlan  B.  Hays,  November  27,  1913. 

Mary  Yardley  to  Frederick  Garfield  MacLeod,  December  20.  1913.     Ad- 
dress :  956  Park  Avenue,  Auburn,  Rhode  Island. 

BIRTHS 

'05.     Mrs.  Chester  L.  Whitaker  (Louise  Dodge),  a  son.  Spottord,  born  Feb- 
ruary 5,  1914. 

'09.     Mrs.  Harold  Gilmore  Calhoun  (Dorothy  Donnell),  a  son,  Donald  Gil- 
more,  born  February  8,  1914. 

'11.     Mrs.  Amos  Rogers  Little  (Ednah  Hilburn).  a  daughter,  Mason,  born 
November  30,  1918. 
Mrs.  Murray  Seasongood  (Agnes  Senior),  a  daughter,  Janet,  born  Sep- 
tember 25,  1913. 
Mrs.  Alexander  B.  Timm  (Rene  Hubinger),  a  son,  Alexander,  born  De- 
cember 26,  1913. 

ea;-'12.     Mrs.  Winfield  Potter  (Ruth   Riley),  a  daughter,    Dorothy  Frances, 
born  January  30,  1914. 


384  THE   SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

DEATHS 

ea;-'79.     Mrs.  Frederick  N.  Kneeland  (Adelaide  Edwards),  February  9,  1914, 

at  Northampton,  Massachusetts. 
'82.    Theodate  L.  Smith,  February  16,  1914,  at  Worcester,  Massachusetts. 
'87.     Rose  M.  Bodman,  January  13,  1914,  at  Rutland,  Massachusetts. 


CALENDAR 

March  18.     Concert  by  Mme.  Teresa  Carreno. 

'^        20.     Lecture   by  Professor  Giroud   under  the  auspices 

of  the  French  and  Music  Departments. 
"        21.     Gymnasium  Drill. 

Group  Dance. 
''        25- April  9.     Spring  Recess. 
April     10.     Lecture  by  Professor  LeFranc. 

Subject :    The  Legend  of  the  Giant  in  Rabelais 
and  Later  Literature. 
"        11.     Group  Dance. 

15.     Lend-a-Hand  Play. 


Zbc 


Smitb    Colleae 
flRontbl^ 


aprU-1914 
®wnc^  anb  publlsbel*  bp  tbc  Senior  Class 


CONTENTS 


Gerhart  Hauptmann 

Butterflies 

Drifting 

The  Hermit  Thrush 

The  Return 

Pan  Plays 

Jackson's  Bull 

Love's  Ritual    . 

The  Long  Barque 

The  Girl  Who  Didn't  Count 

April       .  .  .  . 


Anna  Elizabeth  Spicer  IOI4  385 

Hyla  Stoioell  Waiters  1915  390 

Adelaide  Heilhron  1915  391 

Dorothy  Ochtman  1914  391 

Marion  Sinclair  Walker  1915  392 

Dorothy  Ho  mans  1917  395 

.     Ellen  Bodley  Jones  1916  396 

Mira  Bigeloio  Wilson  1914  403 

Margaret  Louise  Farrand  19U  403 

Eleanor  Haller  Gibbons  1915  404 

Grace  Angela  Richmond  1916  407 


SKETCHES 


The  Tenor  and  the  White  Feather  Eloise  Schmidt  1914  408 

By  the  Sea  ...     Rosamond  Drexel  Holmes  19 14  411 

Margaret  Stone  Gary  1915  413 

Grace  Angela  Richmond  1916  413 

Anne  Eleanor  Von  Harten  1914  414 

Marion  Delamater  Freeman  1914  416 

Margaret  Bloom  1914  417 

Mira  Bigelow  Wilson  1914  420 

Anna  Elizabeth  Spicer  19 14  420 


Dawn 

Dusk  and  Dreams 

Madame  Vigoreaux 

April  Night 

Romance 

At  Music 

A  Dream 


ABOUT  COLLEGE 


An  Oration  of  Marcus  Tullius  Cicero     Elsie  Terry  Blanc  1914  422 

An  Improvement  on  History     .  .  H.  C.  Cowgill  1917  425 

Adelaide  Heriot  Ai-ms  1915  428 

Dorothy  Keeley  1917  430 


Gaps 

While  There's  Life 


HEARD  ON  THE  TAR  WALK 
EDITORIAL 
EDITORS  TABLE 
AFTER  COLLEGE       . 
CALENDAR       . 


432 
437 
439 
442 

448 


Entered  at  the  Post  Office  at  ISTortliampton,  Massachusetts,  as  second  class  matter 
Gazette  Printing  Compayiy,  Northampton,  Mass. 


THE 

Smith  College  Mointhly 

Vol.  XXI  APRIL,  1914  No.  7 


EDITORS.: 

Lois  Cleveland  Gould 
Leonora  Branch  Anna  Elizabeth  Spicer 

Margaret  Louise  Farrand         Marion  Delamater  Freeman 
Rosamond  Drexel  Holmes  Frances  Milliken  Hooper 

Margaret  Bloom  Dorothy  Lilian  Spencer 

Ruth  Cobb  Dorothy  Ochtman 

Eloise  Schmidt 

business  manager  and  treasurer 
Ruth  Hellekson 

assistant  business  managers 
Esther  Loyola  Harney 
Bertha  Viola  Conn 


GERHART    HAUPTMANN 

ANNA   ELIZABETH   SPICEIl 

111  November  of  the  year  1912,  on  his  fiftieth  birthday,  Ger- 
hart  Hauptmann  was  awarded  the  Nobel  prize  in  literature  for 
the  year,  this  being  evidence  that  Hauptmann,  by  some  of  the 
most  able  judges  in  Europe,  was  considered  the  author  of  work 
of  the  most  "idealistic  tendency"  in  literature;  and  by  this 
award  he  took  rank  with  Carducci,  Sienkiewicz,  Kipling, 
Eucken,  Selma  Lagerlof,  Heyse  and  Maeterlinck. 

Since  then  I  have  heard  Hauptmann  called  the  greatest  living 
exponent  of  realism  on  the  contemporary  stage.  When  one 
comes  to  read  his  work  thoroughly,  he  is  surprised  by  the  great 
versatility  of  the  man  ;  Hauptmann  is  by  no  means  a  "poet  of 


386  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

one  mood/'  Die  Versunkene  Glocke  ?  Yes,  but  also  Vor  Son- 
nenaufgang.  Hanneles  Himmelfahrt,  and  Die  Roiten.  And 
Der  Arme  Heinrich  must  travel  far  indeed  before  he  come  to  sea 
the  Festspiel  at  Breslau. 

Of  all  the  Scandinavian  dramatists,  some  half-dozen,  such  as 
Ibsen,  Strindberg,  Bjornson  are  known  to  American  audiences  ; 
so  it  is  with  Russian  dramatists,  with  Irish,  English,  and  those 
of  every  foreign  nation.  And  of  those  names  of  German  drama- 
tists with  which  we  are  most  familiar,  that  of  Hauptmann  prob- 
ably ranks  first — for  Hauptmann  is  known  above  all  for  his 
dramatic  work.  Not  only  is  he  known  in  America,  moreover, 
but  his  reputation  is  international  ;  this  last  goes  far  to  prove 
that  there  is,  in  some  of  his  works  at  least,  a  certain  universal 
element.  Although  his  writings  are,  above  all,  German  (the 
setting  is  Germany,  usually  his  native  Silesia)  yet  New  York 
audiences  have  applauded  heartily  several  of  his  plays,  a& 
Hanneles  Himmelfahrt.  It  has  been  said  that  Die  Weber  is  too 
exclusively  representative  of  one  locality  to  interest  an  Amer- 
ican ;  but  with  this  statement  I  quarrel.  Besides  its  dramatic 
power  and  technical  skill,  there  is  in  Die  Weber  such  a  deep 
human  sympathy  that  it  cannot  fail  to  arouse  a  responsive  sym- 
pathy, even  in  a  callous  American  !  And  the  truly  heroic  death 
of  the  old  weaver  at  his  loom  is  not  an  event  which  has  signi- 
ficance for  Germans  alone.  ^'  The  poor  always  ye  have  with 
you"  does  not  apply  to  the  members  of  one  race  only  ;  and  it  is, 
in  many  cases,  of  the  poor  that  Hauptmann  writes. 

One  of  his  favorite  subjects,  in  fact,  is  what  Maeterlinck  calls 
''  The  tragic  in  every  day  life."  This  is  indicative  of  a  com- 
paratively modern  spirit  ;  fancy  Milton  writing  the  tragedy  of 
a  mill-hand,  or  Skakspeare  that  of  a  poor  waitress  !  But  Haupt- 
mann does  both.  Hassenreuter,  of  Die  Batten,  says,  "Tragedy 
is  not  confined  to  any  class  of  society.  I  always  told  you  that  I  " 
Hauptmann  himself  was  in  some  ways  at  least  a  prototype  of 
Loth,  the  social  reformer  in  Vor  Sonnenaufgang  ;  he  is  deeply 
interested  in  "the  under  dog."  Hannele  of  the  idealistic  dream- 
poem,  is  a  poor  waif,  whose  utmost  misery  is  in  telling  contrast 
to  the  beautiful  dream  portion  of  the  play.  Hauptmann  is  one 
of  those  who  have  brought  to  the  old  verse  a  wide  meaning  of 
mortalia  :  "  sunt  lacrimae  rerum,  et  mentem  mortalia  tangunt." 

The  differences  in  thought  are  marked  by  differences  in  form  ; 
from   the  beautiful,  irregular  verse  of  Die  Versunkene  Glocke 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  387 

and  Der  Arrtie  Heinrich,  to  the  every-day  speech  of  the  German 
people  in  Einsame  Menschen,  and  the  Silesian  dialect, — most 
difficult  to  read,  at  least  for  one  who  is  not  a  native  German, — 
of  Die  Weber,  Der  Biherpelz,  etc. 

It  is,  of  course,  utterly  impossible  for  one  not  thoroughly  con- 
versant with  the  German  language  to  speak  with  authority  of 
Hauptmann's  diction.  So  far  as  I  can  tell,  his  verse  is  very 
beautiful. 

The  plays  are  written  in  three,  four,  and  five  acts,  with  no 
scene  divisions.  In  some  of  them,  more  especially  the  earlier 
of  social  dramas,  naturalism  holds  sway  to  the  almost  utter  exclu- 
sion of  '^  form."  Die  Biherpelz  and  Der  Rote  Halin  have  no  well 
worked  up  plot;  Die  Weber  has  no  dramatic  structure  in  the 
ordinary  sense  of  the  word  :  it  reminds  one  of  Wallensteins 
Lager  ;  but,  as  a  drama,  is  far  superior  to  that  piece.  Many  of 
the  plays,  Einsame  Menschen,  Die  Batten,  and  Gabriel  ScJiil- 
lings  Fluclit,  are  very  well  worked-up  ;  interest  is  well  sus- 
tained ;  and  there  is  a  masterj'  of  material  in  some  acts  which 
Hauptmann  would  seem  to  have  caught  from  Ibsen.  The  stage 
directions  of  all  the  plays  are  much  fuller  than  is  necessary  or 
desirable.  The  novels  are  not  so  well-constructed  as  the  plays  ; 
Der  Narr  in  Christo  is  about  twice  as  long  as  it  needs  to  be  ;  it 
would  gain  by  condensation. 

One  of  the  things  that  we  demand,  when  it  is  claimed  that  a 
certain  man  is  a  great  artist  in  any  way,  is  :  Is  he  sincere  ?  Is 
he  really  trying  to  say  something  ?  Or  is  he  merely  toying  with 
great  things  ?  This  is  most  important :  for,  as  Chesterton,  very 
strongly,  puts  it,  "'  Now,  the  message  of  Rudyard  Kipling  [of 
whom  he  chances  to  be  speaking]  ''  that  upon  which  he  has 
really  concentrated,  is  the  only  thing  worth  worrying  about  in 
him  or  in  any  other  man.  The  only  serious  question  is,  what  is 
that  which  he  has  tried  to  say  ?'' 

One  might  think  that,  because  Hauptmann  is  so  ''  versatile"' 
in  a  literary  way,  he  might  not  be  sincere  ;  he  might  be  trying 
to  "  show  off  "  merel5^  But  on  this  score,  it  seems  to  me,  we 
need  have  little  doubt ;  whether  in  his  realistic  or  in  his  ideal- 
istic works,  he  is  trying  to  say  what  he  honestly  thinks  ;  he 
may  change  his  mind  ;  or  he  may  see  more  than  one  side  of  life, 
but  as  to  his  sincerity  we  are  assured.  He  himself  tells  us,  on 
the  fly-leaf  of  my  edition  of  Vor  Sonnenaufgang  that  this  play 
is  "a  work  that  had  its  origin  in  pure  motives."     Life  is  as  real 


388  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

for  Loth  as  it  is  for  "der  arme  Heinrich";  for  Heinrich  of  Die 
Versunkene  Glocke  as  it  is  for  Wilbelm  in  Das  Friedensfest. 
And  as^ain  he  tells  us,  speaking  this  time  of  his  latest  work,  the 
Festspiel  of  Breslau,  "  I  had  to  give  expression,  as  a  fifty  year 
old  man  and  as  a  German,  to  my  smcere  conception  of  the  spirit 
of  the  great  period.  I  shall  continue  loyal  to  my  motto  :  '  Go 
your  own  way  straight  and  mercy  will  come  to  you/  By  that, 
however,  I  do  not  mean  mercy  from  anybody,  but  from  God, 
who  alone  has  it  to  dispense."  Der  Narr  in  Chrisio  is  one  of 
his  works  that  leaves  the  reader  with  an  impression  of  the 
utmost  sincerity  of  the  author;  Der  Biherpelz  and  Der  Rote 
Halin,  and  perhaps  Atlantis  are  the  only  things  about  which 
one  is  not  perfectly  sure. 

Men  have  not  yet  forgotten  what  Aristotle,  more  than  two 
thousand  years  ago,  said  about  a  play  :  tliat  it  must  have  a 
beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  eiid.  But  Hauptmann,  in  many 
of  his  works,  seems  to  forget  or  ignore  the  last  requisite.  In 
place  of  an  end  we  are  put  face  to  face  with  a  huge,  inscrutable 
-question-mark.  It  is  not  only  that  we  are  so  inescapably 
■equipped  with  the  story-loving  natures  of  our  Elizabethan  fore- 
bears ;  but  one  does,  from  both  a  logical  and  a  philosophical 
point  of  view,  demand  an  end  that  shall  not  be  that  of  a  house 
■deserted  in  the  building  because  the  owner  has  suddenly  left,  or 
■died.  Fiihrmann  Henscbel,  Johannes  Vockeraut,  Helene  Krause 
■and  others,  suicide,  shutting  "  the  door-ways  of  their  heads"  to 
the  sorrows  of  the  world.  But  are  we  to  believe  that,  because 
we  have  closed  the  window  and  lain  down  to  sleep,  the  storm 
outside  has  ceased,  and,  as  pessimistic  Samuel  Daniel  would  say, 
■all  that  for  which  we  were  but  now  contending,  is  nothing  ?  Is 
suicide  really  an  end,  or  a  solution  ?  No,  we  will  never  believe 
that  the  rest  is  silence  ;  that  suicide  is  not  a  cowardly  assertion 
of  failure  ;  that  life  is  not  worth  the  living.  With  Rantendelein 
^nd  the  dying  Heinrich  we  say  :  "  the  sun  rises  " — "  High  over- 
head the  bells  of  the  sun  are  ringing  !  " — and  know  that  in  the 
dim  east  is  visible  a  sure,  if  now  faint,  Morgenrote. 

As  to  what  Chesterton  is  most  insistent  upon,  the  message  of 
a  man,  we  find  it  hard  in  Hauptmann's  case  to  be  very  positive. 
Hauptmann  has  read  Darwin,  Marx,  Zola,  Tolstoi,  Ibsen  ;  but 
he  has  also  read  and  loved,  we  know,  Shakespeare  and  Goethe, 
Schiller,  and  beautiful  old  German  legends  ;  and,  yes,  even  the 
Bible. 


( 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  381^ 

One  is  tempted  to  expose  a  "  progressive  development," — that 
is  what  authors  are  supposed  to  have, — to  trace,  as  in  Shake- 
speare's works,  "periods"  which  are  beautifully  and  logically 
separate  and  progressive.  But  Hauptmann  catches  one  up 
short  in  such  a  process.  In  1885  his  first  work  Promethidenlos, 
a  romantic  poem,  was  produced,  to  be  followed  in  1889  by  one 
of  his  most  decisively  naturalistic  plays,  Vo7'  Sonnenavfgang ^ 
but  yet,  naturalism  was  not  to  be  Hauptmann's  only  resort ;  for 
Die  Vers,iinlcene  Glocke  was  produced  in  1893,  and  that  is  one 
of  his  most  idealistic  plays — and  after  that  Filhrmann  Henscliel 
and  Die  Ratten.  And  so  it  goes  throughout  the  list  of  his  works. 
He  is  at  once  the  idealist  of  Nobel  prize  fame,  and  the  realist 
than  whom  is  none  greater  living. 

And  what  shall  we  say  of  Hauptmann  now  ?  Is  he  one  who 
believes  that  life  is  a  walking  shadow,  a  poor  player  ?  Or  does 
he  believe  in  the  ultimate  reality  of  beauty  and  truth  and 
goodness  ?  Rantendelein  says  :  "  The  blue-bells  are  ringing. 
For  happiness  ?  For  sorrow  ?  Both  at  once,  methinks."  In 
another  way,  perhaps,  he  is  doing  that  by  which  Shakespeare 
so  often  surprised  us  :  in  Romeo  and  Juliet,  after  the  tense 
scene  in  which  Juliet  has  drunk  the  fearful  potion  we  are  imme- 
diately transferred  to  the  strange  low-comedy  scene  of  the  hired 
minstrels.  Does  Rose  Bernd  follow  Der  arme  Heinrich^  and 
Die  Ratten,  Griselda  in  order  that  we  may  understand  the 
strange  mystery  of  life?  As  Stevenson  has  said,  in  Pan's  Pipes, 
■'What  experience  supplies  is  of  a  mingled  tissue,  and  the 
choosing  mind  has  much  to  reject  before  it  can  get  together  the 
materials  of  a  theory."  Hauptmann,  however,  is  not  "the 
choosing  mind  " — he  leaves  that  role  to  the  rest  of  the  world. 

It  is  William  Blake  who  has  said  that  you  only  learn  enough 
by  too  much.  When  we  consider  such  plays  as  ''Vor  Sonnenauf- 
gang  and  Rose  Berne  and  Eirisame  Menschen,  we  may  well  be 
disheartened  at  the  thought  that  their  author  has  gained  the 
prize  of  idealism  I  But  when  we  remember  Der  Arme  Heinrich 
and  Hanneles  Hiinrnelfalirt  and  Die  Versunkene  Glocke,  we 
forget  our  fears.  We  remember  that  even  in  Der  Rote  Halm 
old  Rauchhaupt  said,  "  Everything  is  sad  in  this  world.  It's  all 
a  question  of  how  you  look  at  it  I  The  same  thing  that's  sad  can 
be  mighty  cheering."  And,  although  it  is  dangerous  to  assert 
of  the  words  of  any  creation  of  an  artist  tliat  they  embody  the 
sentiment  of  the  artist  himself,  nevertheless  we  may  often  find. 


390      THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

a  similar  attitude  in  creator  and  created  ;  Loth,  in  Vor  Sonnen- 
aufgang,  said,  of  Ibsen  and  Zola  :  ''In  the  sense  of  being  artists, 
they  are  not  authors  at  all  :  they  are  necessary  evils.  I  have  a 
genuine  thirst  for  the  beautiful  and  I  demand  of  art  a  clear,  re- 
freshing draught— I  am  not  ill ;  and  what  Ibsen  and  Zola  offer 
me  is  medicine." 

If  Hauptmann  passes  from  naturalism  to  idealism  and  back 
again — why,  the  world  itself  advances  in  a  somewhat  similar 
fashion  !  And  the  chief  thing  is  that  it  advances  I  In  Haupt- 
mann's  work,  no  one  will  deny  that  Fuhrmann  Henschel  and 
Die  Batten  and  Gabriel  Schilling's  Flucht  are  better  than  the 
ghastly  first  play. 

As  is  the  case  with  many  of  us,  Hauptmann  does  not  know 
exactly  "where  we  are  going."  But  he  dares  to  hope,  some- 
times ;  although  one  could  wish  he  were  more  confident  and  a 
bit  less  wistful. 

And  perhaps  in  Der  Narr  in  Christo,  the  bit  of  paper  found 
afterward  in  the  FooPs  clothes  speaks  for  more  persons  than 
the  Fool — we  can  hear  Hauptmann,  too,  saying  softly,  "  The 
mystery  of  the  Kingdom  ?  "  But  it  is  much  to  know  that  there 
is  a  Kingdom  ! 

What  will  be,  we  cannot  fully  know.  But  if  a  prophecy  may 
be  made,  it  will  be  a  very  long  time  before  Hannele  and  Der 
Arme  Heinrich  and  Die  Versunkene  Olocke  pass  entirely  from 
men's  minds.    - 


BUTTERFLIES 

HYLA  STOWELL   WATTE  RS 

The  fairy  people's  toy-balloons 

Are  flowers,  each  anchored  by  its  stem 
And  fairies  sometimes  cut  the  ropes 

And  make  bright  butterflies  of  them. 
I  often  try  to  make  mine  float, 

But  then  the  flower  always  dies — 
I  wonder  what  the  fairies  do 

To  make  them  turn  to  butterflies  ! 


DRIFTING 

ADELAIDE   HEILBRON 

Far  and  free,  far  and  free,  a  world  to  roam  at  will, 
-Call  of  the  frozen  north  to  me,  of  rivers  white  and  still ; 
Vast  pale  stretches  of  moonlit  snow,  and  over  a  wintry  sea 
G-aunt,  green  icebergs  drifting  slow,  yet  steadily — far  and  free. 

Far  and  free,  far  and  free — only  to  choose  have  I, 

And  I  hear  the  call  of  the  south  to  me,  of  a  star-set  tropic  sky 

Where  a  full,  low  moon  sheds  a  golden  glow  over  palm  and  rippling  sea, 

And  flower-scented  breezes  go — wandering  far  and  free. 

Far  and  free,  far  and  free,  the  world  before  me  lies 

And  a  voice  from  over  the  Western  Sea  whispers  of  almond  eyes. 

Of  gardens  where  golden  lanterns  glow,  and  the  warm  wind  stirs  each  tree 

Until  clouds  of  rosy  blossoms  go  fluttering  far  and  free. 

Far  and  free,  far  and  free,  the  ways  of  the  world  are  mine  ; 
And  a  breath  of  the  East  brings  the  scent  to  me  of  incense  before  a  shrine, 
Of  dim  green  woods  where  monkeys  swing  from  tree  to  moss-grown  tree, 
And  the  cry  of  some  strange,  bright-feathered  thing  goes  echoing  far  and 

[free." 


THE    HERMIT    THRUSH 

DOROTHY   OCHTMAN 

Over  the  woods  steals  the  soft  morning  light, 

And  the  merry  birds  there  all  chatter  and  sing 
While  the  red  sun  slowly  comes  up  into  sight ; 

And  above  all  the  rest  sing  the  heralds  of  Spring, - 
Clear  in  the  morning,  the  wild  thrushes  sing. 
Clear  in  the  morning 
The  deep  woodlands  ring. 

The  forest  grows  dark  and  appallingly  still  ; 

Immense  and  unbounded  for  miles  does  it  lie. 
Mysteriously  hiding  valley  and  hill ; 

And  dark  are  the  trees  against  the  calm  sky. 
Clear  in  the  evening  comes  the  sweet  piercing  strain. 
Clear  in  the  evening 
The  thrush  sings  again. 

39  1 


THE    RETURN 

MARION    SINCLAIR   WALKER 

Imagine  being  whisked  away  suddenly  out  of  the  world  of 
hurrying  activities — of  tasks  that  had  grown  unaccountably 
heavy  of  late,  of  duties  that  try  as  you  would  to  keep  with  them» 
were  always  disappearing  round  the  next  corner — just  imagine 
being  picked  up  bodily  from  the  midst  of  such  a  situation,  and 
being  deposited  in  a  bare,  quiet  room,  on  abed  beside  a  window,, 
which  looked  out  upon  a  bit  of  water,  some  trees  and  field  and 
sky. 

Yon  couldn't  get  back  to  the  world,  so  you  just  let  it  slip 
quietly  away  from  you,  and  you  slept— slept  with  the  sound  of 
gently  flowing  water  in  your  ears  ;  and  in  your  mind,  where  the 
hurried,  troubled  thoughts  had  been,  were  cool,  clear  spaces  of 
the  greenness  of  field  and  theblueness  of  sky.  The  waking,  too, 
was  not  as  it  had  been  of  late — no  rush  of  returning  responsi- 
bilities,  no  frenzied  hurry,  no  haunting  sense  of  things  forgot- 
ten—just the  pleasant  continuation  of  a  dream,  with  a  comfort- 
able sense  of  reality,  for  the  trees  and  fields  and  sky  were  still 
there.  There  was  a  book,  too.  one  of  those  rare  books  that 
bring  to  you  your  heritage  of  all  the  ages,  that  rest  your  weary 
little  life  in  the  vastness  of  the  Infinite.  And  when  you  turned 
from  the  book  to  the  window,  there  was  the  Universe  to  speak 
for  itself,  to  hush  the  noisy  troubled  Now  in  the  stillnes  of  the 
Eternal. 

It  was  after  a  space  of  this  experience,  perhaps  two  days,  per- 
haps a  thousand  years,  that  as  you  lay  with  closed  eyelids,. 
'twixt  waking  and  sleeping,  you  were  aware  of  a  Presence — of 
something  looking  at  you.  At  first  it  was  looking  shyly,  peek- 
ing at  you  round  the  corner  of  the  door,  then,  gaining  courage, 
it  softly  came  nearer,  and  you  knew  that  the  mysterious  Presence 
was  bending  over  you,  looking  long  and  earnesth^  into  your  face. 
Then  you  stirred,  and  it  was  gone.  Gone  before  3'ou  could  open 
your  eyes,  and  you  felt,  you  did  not  hear  it  tiptoeing  away  down 
the  hall.  Presently  it  came  again,  but  not  so  near  :  you  felt  its 
slow  searching  gaze  from  across  the  room.  But  always  at  your 
slightest  motion,  it  was  gone.  Then  you  grew  cunning  and 
made  ready  for  the  mysterious   Presence.     You   lay   perfectly 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY  393 

still  facing  the  door  but  with  eyelids  opened,  oh  the  merest  im- 
perceptible fraction  of  an  inch.  Bye  and  bye  it  came.  You 
looked,  a  long,  slow  look,  even  as  did  the  mysterious  Presence 
itself,  and  you  saw,  standing  shy  and  eager  in  the  doorway — 
the  Spirit  of  the  Girl  you  Used  to  be. 

You  had  not  realized  how  you  had  missed  her,  until  she  stood 
before  you — but  now  you  knew  suddenly  where  the  gleam  and 
the  glow  of  your  life  had  gone— you  knew  why  the  Girl  that 
you  longed  to  be  stayed  so  far  away,  losing  herself  among  the 
shadows. 

"Why  did  you  go.  Girl  that  I  Used  to  be  ?"  So  softly  the 
question  flowed  from  the  silence,  that  even  the  shy  spirit  in  the 
doorway  was  not  startled. 

*'The  Mask,"  she  said,  shuddering.  "The  hideous  Mask.  It 
was  stifling  me." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  while  you  realized  the  Mask.  Your 
first  impulse  had  been  not  to  understand — to  say  "What  Mask  ? 
What  do  j^ou  mean,  Girl  that  I  Used  to  be?"  But  before  her 
direct  look  your  eyes  fell.  You  instinctively  knew  about  the 
Mask — you  needed  only  time  to  fill  in  the  picture.  Yes,  there 
was  a  Mask  that  went  about  doing  the  things  that  were  expected 
of  you — saying  the  little  parrot- words  that  you  heard  the  other 
parrots  say,  seeming  to  know  the  variety  of  little  things  that 
"one  is  supposed  to  know,"  things  which  suddenly  before  the 
gaze  of  the  Girl  you  used  to  be,  seemed  not  very  important  after 
all.  Then,  however,  you  had  been  overwhelmed  by  their  im- 
portance, you  became  self-conscious  and  uncomfortable,  till  at 
last  you  shrank  behind  the  Mask  in  very  self-defense.  The  Mask 
took  charge  in  good  earnest,  and  was  quite  equal  to  the  occasion, 
even  ready  to  utter  appreciative  exclamations  about  the  stars. 
Small  wonder  that  the  Girl  you  Used  to  be  felt  stifled.  Why, 
as  you  remembered,  she  was  a  friend  of  the  stars— and  while  she 
was  loving  them,  the  Mask  was  exclaiming  about  them  I  She 
used  to  know  just  where  beside  the  gray  rock  under  the  dead 
brown  leaves,  the  first  white  violet  could  be  found,  but  she 
could  not  betray  the  violet  by  taking  the  Mask  there. 

"So  one  day  I  just  slipped  out  from  behind  the  Mask,  and 
away.  You  didn't  know  when  I  went — I  did  it  so  softly — and 
bye  and  bye  you  were  so  well  satisfied  with  the  Mask  that  it 
didn't  matter." 

"Why  did   you   come   back.  Girl  That  I  Used  to  be?"  you 


394  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

whispered.  '^  It  surely  wasn't  for  me,  and  it  couldn't  have  been 
for  the  Mask." 

*'  No,  it  wasn't  for  the  Mask,  and  it  wasn't  for  you.  It  was 
the  Girl  you  Long  to  be.  I  was  looking  for  her  as  I  bent  over 
you  just  now." 

^'  Oh,  but  don't  you  know  ?  She  is  not  with  me.  She  is  very 
far  away — much  farther  than  in  the  old  days." 

"Yes,  of  course.  I  feared  so.  The  Mask  is  keeping  her 
away." 

"  But  now  it  will  be  all  right.     You'll  stay  with  me." 

"No,"  said  the  Girl  you  Used  to  be,  sorrowfully  she  said  it. 
^'  I  am  afraid— of  the  Mask." 

"  The  Mask  ! "  you  exclaimed.  "  Do  you  think  I  could  endure 
it  for  a  minute,  after  seeing  it  through  your  eyes  ?" 

"  You  think  that — here,  now,"  replied  the  Girl  you  Used  to 
be.  "But  remember  the  world  of  which  you  will  soon  be  a 
part,  in  your  old  place.  They  say  that  Masks  are  necessary 
there." 

Still  you  pleaded,  and  still  she  stood  in  the  doorway,  sorrow- 
ful and  resolute. 

Then  suddenly  you  gave  over  arguing.  You  turned  to  the 
window  and  watched  the  world  go  to  sleep.  You  saw  the  purple 
of  the  distant  hills  deepen  into  darkness  ;  saw  the  last  faint  tinge 
of  gold  fade  from  the  clouds  that  hung  above  and  glimmered  in 
the  water  beneath.  You  heard  the  little  drowsy  voices  of  the 
night,  the  croon  of  a  brooding  mother-bird,  the  high,  shrill  note 
of  the  tree- toad  ;  the  chirrup  of  the  little  lady  frog  with  the 
second-soprano  voice,  and  the  sleepy  baritone  rejoinder  of  her 
mate — heard  the  murmured  lullaby  of  the  wind  to  the  newlj^- 
budded  tree-tops.  You  saw  here  and  there  a  light  twinkle  on 
the  far-away  hillside,  and  bye  and  bye  you  watched  the  stars 
come  out  one  by  one.     Then  you  fell  asleep. 

When  you  awoke  it  was  not  yet  daylight.  The  birds  were 
waking  in  the  nearby  thicket.  As  your  spirit  joined  with  their 
little  notes  of  thanksgiving  for  another  day,  all  at  once  you  knew 
that  the  Girl  you  Used  to  be  had  come  back  to  you.  Without 
urging,  without  persuasion,  as  quietly  as  she  had  gone  away, 
in  some  strange  way  she  had  trusted  you,  and  had  come  back. 

As  the  first  faint  rosiness  of  dawn  came  over  the  hills  you  had 
a  vision,  just  for  a  moment,  of  the  Girl  you  Long  to  be.  Far 
away  ?  but  not  so  far  ;  unattainable  ?  perhaps  ideals  always  are 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY  395 

that,  but  not  unapproachable,  for  you  felt  a  subtle  comradeship 
between  the  Vision  and  the  Girl  you  Used  to  be. 

In  their  hands,  the  eager,  reaching  hands  of  the  Girl  you  Used 
to  be,  and  the  capable  hands  of  the  Girl  you  Long  to  be,  you 
have  left  your  life,  to  make  of  it  what  they  will.  Such  a  safe 
and  happy  feeling — to  know  that  it  is  in  their  hands  ;  while  as 
for  you, — i:^  is  very  comfortable  just  resting,  and  looking  out  of 
the  window  at  the  stars. 


PAN   PLAYS 

DOROTHY   ROMANS 

Austere  white  hills. 

A  black  carven  pine  stands  against  the  glowing  west. 

Asleep  are  the  flowers, 

Asleep  are  the  trees. 

Asleep  and  dreaming  of  the  April  breeze. 

Pan  comes  a-leaping  down  the  hillside  bare 

And  strikes  the  frozen  earth  with  his  cloven  hoof — 

'•Awake,  awake  !    Ye  flowers  fair  ! " 

There's  naught  of  color  here,  save  the  sky's  bright  roof. 

Then  he  sat  upon  a  rock 
And  played  upon  his  reed. 

Spring  ! 

Blue-birds  wing  ! 

Wild  flower, 

Bright  hour, 

Solomon's  seal, 

Do  you  feel 

The  call  of  Spring  ? 

And  the  sombre  sad  sedges 

Flamed  green. 
And  on  the  hawthorne  hedges 

A  sheen 
Of  blossoms  pale 
Flame-tipped  with  pink. 

Then  in  the  spring  night 

Pan  stopped  his  playing, 
And  chin  in  his  hand 

Watched  the  world  a-maving. 


JAGKSON^S  BULL 

ELLEN  BODLEY  JONES 

I  find  myself  smiling  even  now  as  I  pick  up  my  pen.  Last 
night,  when  I  was  sleeping  in  my  chair  after  dinner,  with  a 
newspaper  over  my  face  to  keep  away  the  light,  I  suddenly 
awoke  with  a  start  and  found  that  I  was  laughing  loudly. 
Wife  says  I  am  going  into  second  childhood  as  the  result  of 
overwork.  Bob,  my  partner,  who  happened  to  be  taking  dinner 
with  us,  said  that  it  was  only  because  the  golf  season  had 
started  in.  But  how  should  they  know  ?  I  was  only  dreaming 
about  Jackson's  bull.  All  afternoon  on  the  links  the  fresh,, 
damp  smell  of  things  sprouting  under  the  snow  gave  me  an 
awfully  funny  feeling.  I  couldn't  quite  make  out  what  it  was, 
but  in  the  evening,  with  the  comfortable  lassitude  after  a  good 
dinner,  and  with  the  knowledge  that  Bob  didn't  have  to  be  en-^ 
tertained,  I  fell  asleep  and  dreamed  I  w^as  back  on  the  Missouri 
prairies  in  the  spring. 

It  all  happened  in  the  summer  of  seventy-six.  After  school 
closed,  I  went  directly  down  to  herd  cattle  on  "  Uncle  Pete's" 
ranch,  a  much  more  sensible  occupation,  so  my  family  thought, 
than  ''  loafing,"  as  they  expressed  it,  in  town.  I  had  always 
lived  in  Missouri,  and  had  spent  my  summers  on  the  ranch  ever 
since  I  had  been  old  enough  to  sit  a  horse.  My  oldest  sister  had 
married  Uncle  Pete's  son.  They  lived  in  the  north,  but  she  was 
to  spend  the  summer  on  the  ranch,  and  see  that  I  acted  in  a 
seemly  manner.     Then  too,  there  was  Jim. 

Jim  met  me  at  the  station — good  old  Jim  !  He  was  four 
years  older  than  I  was,  and  as  son  of  a  native  ranchman,  pos- 
sessed a  store  of  superior  information  much  to  be  coveted. 
Ever  since  his  big  brother  had  married  my  sister,  we  had  been 
thrown  together  in  the  closest  kind  of  intimacy.  The  train 
pulled  up  at  the  little  weather-beaten  station  with  a  jerk.  My 
home-sick  eyes  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  stretch  of  sandy  road, 
and  the  prairies  beyond,  and  then  I  saw  Jim  grinning  as  only 
Jim  knew  how,  leading  two  horses  to  the  edge  of  the  platform. 

''Say,"  Jim  said,  smiling  all  over  his  face  as  he  gave  me  one 
of  the  bridles,  "  have  you  forgotten  how  to  straddle  a  horse,  I 


\ 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      397 

wonder?"  Yes,  there  was  my  same  pony,  ''Quicksand,''  so 
named  from  his  propensity  to  balk.  He  nuzzled  my  hand 
softly,  then  gave  the  characteristic  nip  that  I  had  learned  to 
look  out  for. 

"  Forgotten  !  "  I  said  scornfully.  "  I'd  like  to  see  myself  ! '' 
I  swung  into  my  saddle,  and  we  were  off. 

''  Gee,  but  it's  great  to  be   on  a  horse  again  !     Why,  up   at 

S I  used  to  get  out  my  old  corduroy  pants  and  just  smell 

'em,  Pd  get  so  homesick  for  a  horse.  And -as  for  cattle,  why, 
boy,  you  have  to  walk  a  mile  even  to  see  a  common  cow  ! 
I  guess  those  people  would  faint  if  they  saw  a  bull  walking 
aroand  loose.  And  as  for  riding  !  Why,  most  of  those  follows 
could'nt  even  sit  on  a  horse  standing  still." 

We  rode  on  ;  the  bare  landscape,  dotted  with  its  occasional 
barns  and  trees,  was  pleasantly  familiar  to  me.  When  we  got 
to  the  house,  there  was  my  sister  waiting  for  us,  holding  in  her 
arms  a  bunch  of  wriggling  arms  and  legs  that  could  "really 
talk,  though,"  she  said.  And  there,  with  a  grin  to  which  only 
Jim's  could  be  compared,  stood  Uncle  Pete. 

A  fussy  person  would  have  been  apt  to  describe  him  as  a 
rough  specimen.  At  least,  he  chewed  tobacco  and  swore,  hated 
to  go  to  church  and  showed  a  marked  dislike  for  good  clothes 
and  all  that  went  with  them.  But  on  the  prairie,  he  was,  as 
every  one  said,  "a  wonder."  He  possessed  all  the  real  cowboy 
accomplishments,  and,  what  was  much  more,  a  sturdy  endur- 
ance that  could  stand  days  of  wind,  weather  and  hardship 
without  having  it  phase  him  at  all.  He  always  got  up  at  four 
in  the  morning,  even  when  there  was  nothing  whatever  to  do, 
and  would  go  stamping  around  the  house,  calling  his  dogs, 
until  not  even  the  most  persistent  could  sleep.  His  weather- 
stained  countenance  continually  wore  an  expression  of  respon- 
sibility and  care,  which  was  completely  dispelled  when  his  face 
relaxed  into  its  grin  of  cheerful  good  humor.  Opposed  to  his 
active  nature.  Uncle  Pete  was  not  at  all  averse  to  being  waited 
on,  and  he  had  an  easy,  pleasant  waj'  of  suggesting  it.  For 
instance,  if  we  were  driving  along,  and  came  to  a  fence,  he 
would  always  say  quietly,  "Could  you  get  out,  boy,  and  kind 
o'  open  that  gate  ?  " 

But  you  just  ought  to  have  seen  the  way  that  baby  could  boss 
him  around.  He  was  meek  as  a  lamb  before  her,  and  would 
stamp  around  all  over  the  house  to  hunt  for  a  lost  doll,  or  any- 


398  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

thing  the  baby  wanted.  Any  one  at  all  observing  would  have- 
seen  that  Uncle  Pete  was  a  general  benefactor  to  the  com- 
munity. He  was  always  getting  people  out  of  scrapes,  patch- 
ing up  quarrels,  lending  his  horses,  appearing  in  court  for 
people,  and,  as  for  money,  why,  if  the  family  hadn't  persuaded 
him  differently  he  would  have  given  away  all  he  owned.  Uncle 
Pete  was  the  kindest  and  most  generous  man  I  have  ever  seen. 
He'd  go  to  heaven  and  back  again  to  do  anyone  a  good  turn.. 
Anyway,  if  anybody's  got  anything  to  say  against  him,  he's  got 
to  fight  me  first,  that's  all  ! 

That  summer  it  fell  to  the  lot  of  Jim  and  me  to  take  charge 
of  about  four  hundred  cattle.  We  were  in  the  saddle  from 
morning  until  night.  Jim  laughed  when  he  read  the  letter  from 
my  old  Greek  Professor  at  school. 

'*  I  trust,"  he  wrote,  "  that  you  are  reviewing  daily  the  work 
of  the  past  year,  and  are  reading  further  and  are  learning  to- 
enjoy  and  appreciate  the  gems  of  the  classics." 

"Guess  if  he  knew  the  bunch  of  work  you  had  to  do  every 
day  he  wouldn't  think  you'd  have  just  all  the  time  in  the  world 
for  his  '  gems  of  the  classics  !'  said  Jim  scornfully.  "  I'd  like 
to  see  some  of  those  learned  guys  just  once,  with  a  bunch  of 
cattle  before  'em,  scattering  every  which  way,  and  them  know- 
ing theyM  have  to  round  'em  all  in,  or  no  dinner.  I'd  like  to- 
see  'em  up  against  Jackson's  bull ! " 

Yes,  it  was  Jackson's  bull  that  caused  us  all  our  trouble  that 
summer.  "  He  worried  and  worked  us  by  day  and  the  thought 
of  him  goaded  and  tortured  our  minds  even  in  sleep."  That's 
the  way  my  Greek  professor  would  have  interpreted  it,  but  it 
wasn't  true.  When  our  heads  once  struck  the  pillow,  we  never 
dreamed  a  thing  until  we  heard  Uncle  Pete  yelling  at  us  to  get 
up.  But  to  return  to  Jackson's  bull.  He  was  a  magnificent 
creature,  a  cross  breed,  half  short-horn  and  half  native,  a 
powerful  brute,  inclined  to  have  his  own  way,  and  to  give  more 
trouble  in  doing  it  than  any  other  animal  on  the  range.  Stand- 
ing a  full  fourteen  hands  high,  he  displayed  a  thickness  of  neck 
and  a  strength  of  loin  that  became  only  too  familiar  to  us 
during  the  summer.  He  was  of  a  deep  unspotted  black,  with 
strong  stubby  horns,  and  a  thin  tail  forever  swaying,  either 
from  nervousness  or  anger.  I  could  never  quite  decide  which  ! 
His  eye,  large  and  red,  gleamed  with  a  fierce  malignity  not  to 
be  misinterpreted,  and  the  bellows  issuing  from  his  wrinkled 
throat  would  start  all  the  dogs  barking  for  miles  around. 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY       399 

Never  was  there  man  or  beast  of  such  a  mean,  contriving, 
ugly  nature  as  this  bull.  He  loved  to  break  down  fences 
as  a  puppy  loves  to  worry  an  old  shoe.  He  was  in  his  ele- 
ment, when  tramping  down  fields  of  new  sown  oats  or  corn 
In  short,  he  was  the  terror  of  the  neighborhood.  Allowed  to 
roam  at  large,  he  would  charge  the  length  of  the  valley,  head 
down  and  tail  flying,  bawling  and  pawing  up  the  dirt.  All 
fence  posts  in  his  course  he  would  bowl  over  like  so  many  nine 
pins,  charge  through,  and  go  ba — awling  along  the  line,  leaving 
behind  him  a  path  of  devastation  and  destruction. 

More  than  a  hundred  of  our  steers  had  been  bought  from  a 
ranch  down  the  river  bottom.  These  occasionally  got  away  from 
the  herd,  and  returned  to  the  valley,  where  they  used  to  get 
into  the  brush,  and  it  sometimes  took  us  many  days  of  hard 
riding  to  hunt  them  out  and  get  them  back  onto  the  prairie 
land.  In  order  to  avoid  the  danger  of  losing  these  wilder 
steers,  we  were  accustomed  to  drive  them  up  to  the  farm  at  sun- 
down, and  put  them  into  a  fenced-in  pasture,  which  prevented 
them  from  straying  away  in  the  night.  Jackson's  bull  fre- 
quently made  a  raid  through  our  fences,  and  then  all  our  cattle, 
excited  by  the  noise,  would  go  stampeding  after  him  through  the 
lines  of  flattened  out  fence  rails,  following  him  miles  and  miles 
down  the  river  bottom.  Next  day,  we  would  have  to  put  in  our 
time  hunting  them  out  and  driving  them  back,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  fences  that  needed  repair.  Then,  when  every  rail  was  in 
place,  and  the  round  up  was  made,  and  Jim  and  I  were  en- 
joying a  blissful  period  of  exhaustion,  old  Jackson's  bull  would 
once  more  visit  our  neighborhood,  and  all  our  work  had  to  be 
done  over. 

So  things  went  on,  until  herding  cattle  rather  lost  its  glamor 
of  romance  to  us.  Life  on  a  horse  is  all  right,  but  I  guess 
you  can  overdo  even  the  best  things  there  are,  and  we  were 
working  overtime  in  the  saddle  that  summer.  I  began  to  look 
with  a  little  more  pleasure  to  the  approach  of  the  fall  term  at 

S ,  and  I  saw  Jim  was  becoming  cynical,  and  his  customary 

grin  had  sort  of  flickered  out. 

One  morning  a  warm  drizzle  set  in,  and  as  Jim  and  I  had  the 
day  before  set  everything  to  rights  around  the  ranch,  and  there 
was  no  work  particularly  pressing,  we  got  out  our  shot  guns  and 
started  out  to  see  if  we  could  scare  up  some  partridges.  As  I 
remember,  we  got  only  a  few  that  morning.     The  summer  had 


400  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

been  unusually  dry,  and  most  of  the  game  had  gone  north.  The 
rain  had  blown  past,  and  a  fresh  wind  had  sprung  up  with  the 
promise  of  a  good  afternoon.  We  were  standing  in  a  corn  field 
a  little  behind  the  farm,  and  were  just  picking  up  our  things 
to  start  along  home,  when  a  low  exclamation  from  Jim  made 
me  look  up,  thinking  that  perhaps  he  might  have  his  eye  on  a 
flock.  But  only  the  gray  prairie  scene  was  before  me,  with  not 
a  bird  in  sight. 

"  Say,  are  you  crazy  ?  What  are  you  swearing  at  ?  "  At  this 
question,  Jim  held  out  his  hand  impressively. 

"Look  what's  coming  and  then  ask  me  if  I'm  crazy!'' 
I  looked  again,  and  scanned  the  even  gray  landscape.  Sure 
enough,  there  was  a  black  spot  that  seemed  to  get  larger  and 
larger  each  second.  Jim  fingered  his  gun  nervously,  and  the 
crease  in  his  forehead  deepened,  as  the  black  spot,  approaching, 
developed  into  the  figure  of  Jackson's  bull,  head  down  and  tail 
flying,  displaying  it  seemed  a  great  many  horns  and  hoofs. 
And  even  that  far  away,  we  heard  his  "  bawl  "  steadily  increas- 
ing in  volume.  We  knew  then  there  was  trouble  ahead.  I 
could  see  that  Jim  was  getting  excited,  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
ahead  of  us  stretched  a  neat  line  of  stake-and-rider  fence.  Jim 
eyed  it  lovingly. 

"By  Gee  !  if  he  so  much  as  touches  a  horn  to  that  there 
fence,  I'll  shoot  him  full  of  holes/''  I  gave  one  nod  of  silent 
assent.     We  waited. 

Straight  on  came  Jackson's  bull,  his  thick  neck  wrinkling 
and  unwrinkling  with  every  motion  of  his  body.  He  snorted 
and  began  pawing  the  ground.  I  raised  my  gun,  and  knew  by 
intuition  that  Jim  had  raised  his.  My  finger  was  on  the  trigger. 
Without  even  looking  to  see  where  he  was  putting  down  his 
horns,  that  heartless  beast  just  naturally  ran  into  that  fence 
like  a  ton  of  brick  sliding  onto  a  pile  of  eggs.  There  was  a 
splintering  of  riders,  and  the  whole  line  of  fence  rails  toppled 
over  like  a  house  of  cards.  I  never  have  seen  anything  neater. 
This  was  our  cue.  As  he  came  "  shasaying  "  into  our  fields,  Jim 
and  I  let  loose  at  him  with  both  barrels.  Our  first  shots  hit  him 
squarely.  He  snorted  just  once  and  came  on.  Bang  !  Bang  ! 
Two  more  barrels  full  of  bird  shot  disappeared  into  his  system, 
and  with  an  awful  bellow  just  chuck  full  of  rage,  he  wheeled 
and  tore  off  down  the  prairie  like  a  guilty  man  with  the  police 
after  him.  You  couldn't  even  see  him  for  dust,  and  his  hoofs 
marks  in  the  sod  made  a  path-way  down  the  river  bottom. 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      401 

All  the  way  home  we  laughed  fit  to  kill,  and  that  afternoon  we 
really  enjoyed  putting  up  all  those  fences.     It  was  a  pleasure. 

July  passed,  and  August  came  along,  a  month  to  be  dreaded 
in  the  prairie  cou^tr5^  The  thin  grass  withers  and  dries  away, 
streams  seep  down  under  the  sands,  leaves  wither  on  the  trees, 
and  the  scorching  sun  beating  down  upon  a  flat  country  seems 
merciless  in  its  intensity  of  heat.  The  cattle  suffered  terribly 
from  the  flies  that  summer.  This  last  season,  we  heard,  was 
the  cause  for  the  quick  demise  of  Jackson's  bull. 

It  was  Sunday  morning,  and  we  were  on  our  way  to  church, 
my  sister  from  a  devout  love  of  the  religious  services,  Uncle 
Pete  with  the  fortitude  of  one  long  accustomed  to  suffer;  and 
Jim  and  I  went  because  we  couldn't  get  out  of  it. 

My  sister  and  her  father-in-law  were  in  the  runabout,  while 
Jim  and  I  rode  alongside. 

'"Boys,"  Uncle  Pete  began  in  his  easy  drawl,  "  I  was  over  to 
Abe  Jackson's  last  night,  and  he  said  his  bull  was  found  down 
on  the  river  bottom  yesterday,  dead,  shot  full  of  holes  with  bird 
shot.     You  boys  don't  know  who  did  it,  do  jou  ? 

"Jackson's  bull  dead  !"  I  hastily  exclaimed,  "  Why  he  was 
the  stockiest  beast  on  the  prairie  I     Whatever  made  him  die  ?'* 

"  Got  fly-blown  in  his  sores,  I  guess.  But  that  surely  is  queer 
about  the  shooting.  Whoever  did  it  ought  to  look  out  what  he's 
doing  around  these  parts,  and  not  get  too  easy  with  his  gun." 

Jim  and  I  had  lagged  behind.  Jim  gave  a  wink  with  the  eye 
nearest  me,  and  I  noticed  that  the  old  grin  had  come  back  again. 
Then  Uncle  Pete  turned  around  to  ask  a  question,  and  Jim's  face 
was  typical  of  the  youth  on  his  way  to  compulsory  Sabbath 
service. 

August  and  September  was  a  golden  time  for  us  in  spite  of 
the  heat  and  flies.  Our  cattle  fed  quietly  in  their  own  pastures 
without  their  former  disturbing  trips  to  the  river  bottom.  The 
''  Diamond  "  ranch  began  to  be  noted  for  its  trim  fences.  And 
as  for  spare  time,  why  Jim  even  said  to  me  one  day, 

'•  Say,  you'd  better  start  in  that  perusing  of  the  classics  that 
guy  recommended.  You  certainly  aren't  doing  any  work  around 
here.'' 

"  I  guess  we'd  better  start  up  a  society  for  the  '  prevention  of 
the  ruthless  destruction  of  property  I '  "  I  replied,  ''Anyway, 
we've  a  o:ood  start  in  that  direction.'' 


402  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

About  twenty  years  later,  I  went  back  one  summer  to  the  old 
place.  There  were  a  lot  of  new  barns,  and  they  had  the  kind 
of  gates  that  open  automatically  when  you  turn  a  switch,  in- 
stead of  the  old  way  of  getting  out  of  the  buggy  and  ''  kind  o' 
opening"  them.  Everything  seemed  to  have  shrunk  a  lot  since 
I  was  a  boy  ;  the  bridge  over  the  river  was  a  toy  in  comparison 
with  what  it  used  to  be,  and  the  trees  in  the  hickory  grove  that 
you  passed  going  home  from  the  station,  the  pride  of  the  neigh- 
borhood, seemed  to  have  gotten  a  lot  smaller.  But  the  prairies 
were  just  the  same,  God  bless  them,  and  the  great  sweet  wind 
that  blew  up  at  night  across  the  river  bottom. 

One  evening,  I  was  sitting  with  Uncle  Pete  on  the  front  porch, 
which  was  greatly  altered  since  the  old  days.  T  looked  at 
Uncle  Pete,  sitting  in  his  old  wooden  rocker.  He  had  changed 
but  little.  His  brown,  weather  tanned  face  held  all  the  sun  of 
the  years  of  sunny  outdoor  days  he  had  lived  on  the  prairie. 
He  had  lost  a  few  teeth,  but  otherwise  was  as  whole  and  hearty 
as  ever.  Why,  sister  told  me,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  that  "  he 
would  pry  his  teeth  out  with  rusty  nails  when  they  ached,  in- 
stead of  going  to  the  dentist.^' 

We  talked  about  all  kinds  of  things,  and  finally  Uncle  Pete 
told  me  that  Abe  Jackson  had  died  that  winter.  And  then  we 
drifted  from  Abe  to  Abe's  bull,  and  this  is  how  the  story  came 
out. 

"Uncle  Pete,''  I  said,  ''did  you  ever  find  out  who  shot  Jack- 
son's bull  ?    And  then  I  told  him  the  story. 

Uncle  Pete  leaned  his  head  back,  against  the  rocker  and 
laughed  until  the  old  hound  came  out  from  under  the  porch  and 
began  to  howl  in  sympathy. 

"  Now  I  always  did  wonder  who  shot  Jackson's  bull,  but  I 
never  should  ha'  supposed  you  boys  v^ould  ha'  done  it."  Then 
his  wrinkled  face  sobered  into  its  most  cherub-like  expression. 
"  O'  course  I  know  you  boys  didn't  mean  no  harm,"  he  said, 
''  but  say,  weren't  you  glad  you  had  a  doubled  barreled  gun  ?  " 


I 


LOVERS    RITUAL 

MIRA   BIGELOW   WILSON 

Suppose  you  had  no  need  to  care 
To  have  me  lay  the  faggots  on  your  hearth  ; 
Suppose  you  had  no  pride  to  wear 
The  frock,  the  frill  I  fashioned  you  ; 
Suppose  you  found  that  others  could  distil 
A  costlier,  subtler  brew  of  mulberry  wine  ; 
Suppose  your  garden  were  so  large  I  ne'er 
Could  bring  you  gilly-flowers  from  mine  ; 
Suppose  you  lost  the  shy  habitual 
Fervor  about  your  unexpected  ioys 
Surely  our  love  would  still  be  our  religion 
But  where  the  altar  and  the  ritual  ? 


THE    LONG    BARQUE 

MARGARET  LOUISE  FARRAND 

When  the  tall  trees  toss 
Bare  limbs  in  torment 
And  'neath  the  grey  sky 
Strive  with  the  storm  wind 
When  the  wild  sea  rolls 
Long  wave  on  long  wave, 
Roaring  and  foaming 
And  tearing  the  sea-beach  ; 
Oftimes  a  long  barque. 
Lashed  by  the  north  wind, 
Splits  on  a  sharp  reef, 
Hid  by  the  sly  sea  : 
Gold  from  the  south  lands. 
Pearls  from  the  east  lands, 
Sandal  and  osprey 
The  greedy  sea  drinks  ; 
Fair-haired  and  noble, 
In  corslet  and  buckler, 
Many  a  viking 
Goes  to  Valhala. 


THE  GIRL  WHO  DIDN'T  COUNT 

ELEANOR   HALLER   GIBBONS 

'^I  know  we  can't  afford  it,  for  your  father  said  that  we  must 
economize  to  the  very  limit  this  summer.  You  know  he  had  to 
put  all  that  legacy  of  Uncle  Henry's  into  the  company  to  keep 
it  from  going  to  pieces  instead  of  dividing  it  up  among  you  girls 
as  he  had  planned.''  Mrs.  Merriwether  looked  worried,  and 
when  she  allowed  herself  that  luxury  her  double  chin  always 
showed,  and  of  all  signs  of  approaching  age  and  avoirdupois 
she  hated  worst  that  aforesaid  extra  chin. 

The  whole  family  were  sprawled  around  their  little  room 
which,  in  the  ugly  yellow  light  at  noon,  was  the  parlor,  but 
which,  at  night  with  its  flowers  and  shaded  lights,  was  the 
music  room. 

The  Merriwethers  were  not  having  a  pleasant  conference,  th.e 
Merriwether  conferences  were  never  pleasant,  for  Edith  always 
knew  that  her  mother  managed  things  so  that  Louise  got  every- 
thing she  wanted,  while  Louise,  perfectly  certain  that  Alice  was 
her  mother's  favorite,  had  jealously  to  guard  her  rights  as  old- 
-est,  and  as  for  Elizabeth — but  then  Elizabeth  didn't  count  any- 
way. 

This  particular  conference  would  not  have  been  so  unusually 
unpleasant  if  it  had  not  been  all  threshed  out  before.  They  had 
discussed  with  great  minuteness  the  exact  income,  or  lack  of  in- 
come, of  the  family,  and  it  was  found  to  be  exceedingly  small. 
So  they  had  decided  to  tell  their  friends  of  the  anaemic  tenden- 
cies of  Alice,  which  required  rest  and  fresh  air,  as  an  excuse  to 
slip  off  to  some  inexpensive  country  place  for  the  summer  to 
spare  the  family  exchequer. 

And  now  everything  was  spoiled,  for  Frederick  Maurice  Will- 
mington  had  come  back  to  town  after  a  five  year  trip  abroad 
and  Frederich  Maurice  Willmington  had  money.  He  had  other 
things  too,  good  looks,  beautiful  manners,  a  brilliant  mind,  a 
keen  sense  of  humor  ;  oh,  everything  that  the  ideal  man  needs 
-except  one,  and  that  one  thing  was  the  reason  for  the  changed 
plans  of  the  Merriwether  family.  Frederick  Maurice  Will- 
mington had  no  wife. 

4u4 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      405 

So  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  do  what  all  "'  our  best  peo- 
ple" in  Muntersville  did,  for  that  first  summer  was  of  para- 
mount importance.  Father  frowned  and  said  "Ridiculous/^ 
when  they  told  him  about  it,  just  as  mother  had  looked  worried, 
showed  her  second  chin  and  gasped,  "  Impossible,"  when  first 
Louise,  then  Alice,  and  finally  Edith  had  come  to  her  to  prove 
how  necessary  it  was. 

For  instead  of  running  off  to  a  deserted  farm  house  and  living 
on  the  apples  in  their  own  orchard  and  the  vegetables  from 
neighboring  gardens  they  were  now  planning  to  spend  a  month 
on  Jupiter.  "  Mrs.  Willmington  told  me  herself  that  they  were 
having  their  house  up  there  done  over  for  the  summer,  Mother,'^ 
Alice  insisted,  and,  "  you  know  the  Van  Stones  have  gone  up 
there  ever  since  it  has  been  'the'  thing  to  do  it  and  that  Evelyn 
Van  Stone  with  those  eyes  of  hers  thinks  all  the  men  just  belong* 
to  her.  Why  he's  been  to  the  theatre  with  her  twice  already, '^ 
was  Edith's  quota. 

So  it  was  decided,  and  Father  with  a  sigh,  partly  from  the 
relief  of  getting  away  from  the  stormy  session  and  mostly  from 
wonder  as  to  where  on  earth  the  money  was  coming  from,  went 
back  to  town  after  the  sumptuous  repast  of  part  of  a  can  of 
baked  beans.  Who  had  time  to  worry  about  meals  now?  Why 
two  weeks  from  to-morrow  they  would  get  there  ! 

Those  two  weeks  were  crammed  full  of  hard,  unremitting 
work  :  making  artistic  things  for  the  little  rented  cottage,  sew- 
ing madly  but  steadily, — for  when  a  woman  has  three  daugh- 
ters.— oh  yes  there  was  Elizabeth  too,  but  she  didn't  really 
count, — and  herself  to  clothe  for  a  month  on  exhibition,  she  has 
her  hands  pretty  full. 

It  had  to  be  that,  one  long  exhibition  and  an  expensive  one 
too.  For  Louise  was  twenty-seven  and  if  some  strenuous  efforts 
weren't  made  in  her  behalf  that  summer  she  might  pei'hapsbe — 
but  then  there  was  this  summer  and,  more,  there  was  Frederick 
Maurice  Willmington. 

But  Louise  had  made  a  bargain  at  that  heated  family  confer- 
ence,— that  if  at  the  end  of  one  week  she  hadn't  made  the  slight- 
est impression  on  Frederick  Maurice  she  was  to  withdraw  in 
favor  of  Alice,  who  in  her  turn  had  made  the  same  bargain  with 
Edith.  So  they  too  were  fitting  and  being  fitted  during  the  few 
short  days  that  remained.  Elizabeth  had  no  clothes  but  she 
never  wore  anything  but  simple  white  and  then  she  didn't  really 


406  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

count.  But  her  artistic  fingers  counted  when  it  came  to  making 
curtains,  pillows,  rugs,  all  the  things  needed  for  the  house  and 
pergola. 

At  last  they  were  ready  and  by  dint  of  much  hard  work  the 
little  house  with  its  garden  and  pergola  was  really  a  work  of 
art.  Elizabeth  said — but  then  Elizabeth  didn't  really  count. 
Not  that  she  was  a  child — she  was  twenty-one— nor  yet  an  im- 
becile ;  she  was  just  what  the  family  called  '^  unfortunate."  She 
was  not  an  albino,  but  was  as  white-haired  and  eye-lashed  as 
any  real  one  ever  could  be,  so  of  course  she  couldn't  count  as  far 
as  Frederick  Maurice  Willmington  was  concerned. 

The  Merriwethers  arrived  early  one  morning  and  Mr.  Frederick 
Maurice  Willmington  had  accepted  an  invitation  for  the  next 
night,  "just  to  run  down  after  dinner  to  re-meet  his •  childhood 
friends,"  Louise  had  cooed  over  the  'phone. 

Every  night  of  the  first  week  he  had  re-met,  not  his  childhood 
friends  but  Louise,  while  the  other  girls  had  sweltered  in  the 
low-roofed  bedrooms  of  the  little  house. 

Now  Jupiter  has  eight  mooms  and  this  particular  week  the  one 
which  sheds  a  soft,  violet  light  was  full.  But  Louise  had  red 
hair  and  as  night  after  night  of  that  week,  her  week,  as  she  ex- 
hibited one  gown  after  another  of  shades  varying  from  yellow 
through  brown,  green  and  blue  she  wondered  why,  with  her 
carefully  arranged  scenery,  her  dainty  dresses,  and  her  quaint, 
old-fashioned  lyre,  she  somehow  did  not  seem  to  make  much  im- 
pression on  Frederick  Maurice  Willmington.  She  even  won- 
dered what  was  the  matter  with  her  color-scheme,  which  some- 
how was  not  as  pretty  as  she  had  expected  it  to  be. 

She  had  done  her  best,  and  failed,  and  with  a  bitter  and  un- 
happy heart  she  watched  Alice,  a  vision  in  cerise  with  her  dark 
hair  and  eyes,  ready  to  receive  Frederick  Maurice  Willmington. 
The  mioon  this  week  was  red  and  all  that  week  her  vivid 
coloring  and  striking,  dark  gowns  looked,  somehow,  pale  and 
colorless  as  she  lounged  across  the  marble  seat  in  the  little 
pergola. 

Elizabeth  didn't  count,  so  each  night  she  appeared,  in  the 
ridiculous  white  she  always  insisted  on  wearing,  to  preside  over 
the  chafing  dish,  carry  in  and  out  the  thin-stemmed  glasses,  and 
somehow,  under  the  violet  and  then  the  crimson  lights,  her 
colorless  hair  and  clothes  did  not  seem  quite  as  "unfortunate" 
as  they  usually  did  to   her   preoccupied   sisters.     Thej'  did  not 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  407 

look  iinfortuiiate  at  all  to  poor,  color-harassed  Frederick  Maurice 
Willmington  whose  eyes  followed  delightedly  and  with  sheer 
relief  the  charming  simplicity  of  her. 

It  was  the  last  week  of  their  stay  and  Edith,  with  her  "real 
goldy"hair  and  fondness  for  red  looked  even  worse  than  her 
sister  had  under  the  deep  green  light.  Have  you  ever  seen  a 
girl  with  a  green  silk  parasol  on  a  brilliant  day  ?  Then  you  can 
imagine  the  sigh  of  relief  with  which  Frederick  Maurice  Wil- 
mington's tortured  eyes  sought  Elizabeth  as  she  wheeled  the 
little  tea  wagon,  with  its  bowl  of  soft  green  and  white  magnolia 
blossoms,  along  the  path  to  the  garden  that  last  night,  and  turn- 
ing, smiled  impersonally  back  at  him  as  she  disappeared  within 
the  door  of  the  house. 

It  was  all  over  and  they  had  failed,  each  in  her  turn,  to  make 
any  impression  on  him,  and  that  night  he  was  leaving.  They 
were  going  themselves  the  next  morning,  disgusted,  disheartened 
and  grouchy,  all  except  Elizabeth,  and  Elizabeth  didn't  really 
count,  you  know. 


APRIL 

GRACE   ANGELA   RICHMOND 

Cherry  blossoms  and  fragile  dreams. 

Dewy  grass  and  a  violet, 
Wandering  breeze,  and  a  song  that  seems 

All  too  happy  to  know  regret. 

So  have  I  seen  her  come  in  beauty  clad  ; 

Not  tall,  majestic,  or  in  royal  hues, 
But  slender,  child-like,  full  of  mirth,  and  glad, 

Dancing  with  bnowy  feet  across  the  morning  dews. 
So  have  I  seen  her  wand'ring  on  the  hills 

Among  white  birches  or  beside  the  little  streams. 
Yea,  I  have  found  her  sleeping  all  alone. 

Her  dimpled  cheeks  flushed  rosily  with  dreams. 
And  I  have  seen  her  weep  her  childish  tears 

For  some  sweet  flower  that  was  crushed  and  dead. 
And  when  I  longed  to  comfort  all  her  grief, 

She  laughed — and  turned— and  fled. 

Cherry  blossoms  and  fragile  dreams. 

Dewy  grass  and  a  violet. 
Wandering  baeeze,  and  a  song  that  seems 

All  too  happy  to  know  regret. 


SKETCHES 
THE  TENOR  AND  THE  WHITE  FEATHER 

ELOISE   SCHMIDT 

Walter  Brun  picked  up  the  hymnal  and  seated  himself  next  to 
the  soprano,  gathering  the  tails  of  his  black  coat  carefully  away 
from  her  silken  skirts.  He  glanced  ahead  and  to  the  left  at  the 
floral  decorations  in  front  of  the  pulpit  and  then  casually  ahead 
and  to  the  right.  He  then  settled  his  thin  knees  finally  and 
turned  to  the  first  page  of  the  morning  anthem.  He  had  felt, 
rather  than  seen,  that  the  corner  seat  in  the  sixth  row  was  occu- 
pied. 

Walter  Brun  was  a  modest  looking  man.  Everything  about 
him  was  unassuming.  His  clothes  drooped  from  his  shoulders, 
his  necktie  was  palely  unobtrusive  and  his  hair  hung  just  a  little 
too  long.  His  eyes  alone  were  different.  Their  color  was  a  deep 
rich  blue  and  though  they  were  unobtrusive  they  were  more  de- 
finite than  the  rest  of  Walter  Brun. 

As  Walter  Brun  turned  to  the  first  page  of  the  morning  an- 
them his  hand  shook  slightly  but  his  heart  sang. 

"She's  come  again,"  he  thought.  "  She's  there  again.  For 
seven  weeks  she's  come  and  she  always  sits  in  the  seat  where  I 
saw  her  first."  He  grasped  his  sheet  of  music  so  violently  that 
the  soprano  started  and  glanced  sideways  at  him. 

"  I  must  be  careful,"  he  thought  with  dismay.  "  Miss  Wil- 
lets  sees  Tm  excited  and  I  must  not  let  her  know  what  it's 
about."  So  the  tenor  refrained  from  glancing  at  the  corner  seat 
in  the  sixth  row  until  after  the  scripture  lesson.  Then  again  he 
looked  to  the  left  at  the  floral  decorations  and  then  casually  to 
the  right  at  the  occupant  of  the  corner  seat  of  the  sixth  row. 
She  was  placing  the  hymnal  in  the  rack  as  he  glanced  her  way. 
She  wore  the  same  hat  with  the  one  white  feather  and  the  blue 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  409 

rose.  He  noticed  a  blue  ribbon  rose  stuck  in  her  button-hole 
and  thought,  "A  Christmas  present — from  a  lady  Fm  sure.  A 
gentleman  would  never  buy  a  blue  rose."  Just  then  she  looked 
up  and,  as  she  turned  her  blue  eyes  thoughtfully  toward  him, 
his  heart  leapt  and  then  sank  heavily. 

"  Maybe  it  was  from  a  gentlemen.''  he  thought,  '^  blue  to  match 
her  eyes."  Disconsolately  he  turned  back  to  the  first  page  of  the 
anthem. 

For  seven  Sundays  Walter  Brun  had  come  to  church  and  sung 
solely  for  the  lady  of  the  white  feather  and  the  blue  rose.  He 
had  thought  of  her  as  he  entered  his  boarding  house  after  church 
and  then  often  in  the  week.  He  lived  ever  for  Saturday  night 
for  on  the  following  daj^  he  would  see  her.  On  Saturday  even- 
ing he  removed  his  black  suit  and  sent  it  out  to  be  pressed.  His 
black  Sunday  suit  was  his  business  suit.  It  had  been  hard  to 
wear  black  broadcloth  in  the  office  when  the  other  clerks  were 
in  rough  grays.  But  two  suits  were  out  of  the  question  and 
black  broadcloth  was  a  necessity  for  the  tenor  of  St.  Dominic's. 
At  first  he  felt  that  the  other  clerks  would  smile.  But  they  had 
not  noticed.  People  didn't  notice  Brun.  He  was  the  sort  of 
man  one  would  expect  to  go  into  black  for  a  relation  anyway. 

Seven  Sundays  ago  had  been  a  happy  day  for  Walter  Brun. 
He  had  had  a  short  solo  part  and  after  he  finished  he  was  grati- 
fied and  thrilled  to  see  two  tear-filled  blue  eyes  fixed  upon  him. 
Brun  felt  that  it  was  a  beautiful  tribute  paid  to  his  solo  and  his 
heart  rejoiced.  Each  following  Sunday  he  watched  for  the  girl 
with  the  blue  eyes  and  she  always  came.  She  was  always  alone 
and  she  always  looked  lonely.  In  the  following  seven  weeks 
Brun  had  two  solo  parts.  Both  times  he  looked  quickly  to  see 
if  she  were  there,  fearful  that  he  was  to  be  disappointed.  But 
she  was  always  in  her  seat,  her  gray-gloved  hands  crossed  in  her 
lap.  She  gazed  a  great  deal  at  the  stained  glass  window  on  the 
east  ambulatory.  She  often  stood  and  watched  it,  instead  of 
joining  in  the  hymn.  It  was  a  beautiful  window,  rich  in  deep 
cloudy  blues. 

One  Saturday  night  Walter  stopped  in  at  the  big  corner  store 
and  stood  long,  before  the  necktie  counter.  He  selected  a  tie  of 
the  same  dusky  blue  as  the  window  of  Dominic's.  That  Sunday 
he  had  the  solo  in  the  anthem.  She  was  in  her  place  as  usual. 
After  the  anthem  Walter  Brun  felt  her  devoted  gaze  upon  him. 
He  hardly  dared  look  her  way  but  he  felt  that  she  approved  of 


410  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

the  blue  tie  and  that  she  knew  he  had  been  singing  for  her. 
That  day  he  took  a  Sunday  school  class  at  Dominic's.  As  he  sat 
with  his  knot  of  boys  around  him  he  looked  nervously  about. 
There  were  all  sorts  of  Sunday  School  teachers — some  heavy- 
looking  matrons,  a  few  pretty  young  ladies  and  many  little  wiry 
women  with  stiff  hats  but  there  was  none  with  a  white  feather 
and  a  blue  rose.  Sunda^^  dinner  was  at  twelve-thirty  in  his 
boarding  house.  That  day  Walter  Brun  walked  the  fifteen 
blocks  to  his  room,  carrying  with  him  a  bottle  of  milk  and  some 
graham  crackers.  Taking  the  Sunday  school  class  had  meant 
giving  up  Sunday  dinner. 

The  next  week  was  Easter.  The  tenor  of  Domonic's  lived  from 
day  to  day,  in  happy  expectation,  for  Easter  at  Domonic's  was 
marvelous.  He  was  to  have  a  solo  and  a  duet  with  the  soprano. 
The  notes  of  the  duet  ran  constantly  through  his  mind. 

'*'  She's  never  seen  Easter  at  Dominic's  before.  How  she  will 
enjoy  the  flowers — and  the  music,''  he  thought. 

Easter  morning  tlie  quartette  took  their  places  before  a  be- 
wilderment of  flowers.  The  warmth  and  the  soft  fragrance 
surged  over  them  as  they  entered  .  The  church  was  very  quiet 
although  every  seat  was  taken.  Walter  Brun  settled  the  knees 
of  his  new  broadcloth  suit  and  grasped  his  sheet  of  music.  He 
surveyed  the  flowers  ahead  and  to  the  left  noticing  that  they 
were  more  beautiful  than  ever  before.  Then  he  glanced  casually 
ahead  and  to  the  right — looking  for  the  white  feather  and  the 
blue  rose.  But  a  big,  burly  man  was  in  the  corner  seat  of  the 
sixth  row.  Brun  recognized  him  at  once  from  numerous  pictures 
in  the  Sunday  supplements.  It  was  undoubtedly  "  Big  Barney," 
the  prize  fighter.  And  beside  "  Big  Barney" — just  then  Walter 
Brun's  anthem  slipped  unheeded  to  the  floor,  for  beside  ''  Big- 
Barney  "  nodded  the  white  feather  and  the  blue  rose  but  they 
looked  strangely  different.  The  blue  rose  that  had  before 
seemed  so  demure,  was  now  tucked  coquettishly  beneath  the  rim 
of  a  fluffy  white  hat  and  now  the  gaunt  little  white  feather  stuck 
jauntily  upright.  Just  then  the  filmy  white  hat  tipped  up  quick- 
ly and  Walter  Brun  saw  two  blue  eyes  gaze  adoringly  up  in- 
to the  face  of  "  Big  Barney.'* 


BY    THE   SEA 

ROSAMOND   DREXEL   HOLMES 

The  3'ouDg  minister  idly  kicked  the  pebbles  with  the  neat  toe 
of  his  span-clean  buckskin  pump  ;  the  other  foot  was  bracing 
him  to  balance  on  the  log  where  he  sat.  It  was  a  perfect  sea- 
shore day  and  the  young  minister  was  pondering  as  to  why  the 
insides  of  things  weren't  as  beautiful  as  the  outsides.  It's  a 
question  that  has  puzzled  many  of  us — when  we  are  not  busy. 
He  knew  he  was  good  to  look  at,  the  passers-by  implied  as 
much,  and  men  at  summer  resorts  usually  know  those  things. 
But  he  knew  that  the  "  worth  while  "  members  of  the  little 
colony  considered  him.  the  elegant  ones,  ''  a  bit  young,"  the 
plain  ones,  "not  onto  his  job."  He  was  well  aware  that  even 
as  he  sat  there  some  of  the  giggles  that  curled  out  of  the  hotel 
window  behind  him  were  at  his  expense.  Well,  it  was  funny 
that  the  one  day  when  he  had  "called  off"  the  five  o'clock 
service  at  the  little  church  on  the  point  to  goon  a  sailing-party- 
because  The  Prettiest  Girl  was  going,  should  have  been  the 
same  one  day  of  his  life  that  he  should  succumb  to  the  roll  of 
the  sea  he  had  always  loved. 

"It  makes  me  sick,"  he  muttered  and  then  laughed  at  the 
truth  of  his  reflection.  "Just  what  it  did,"  he  added,  as  he 
realized  that  those  who  had  been  the  ones  disappointed  to  read, 
"There  will  be  no  service  this  afternoon,"  had  coincided  with 
those  who  had  laughed  last  to  hear  that  the  sailors  "  had  to  come 
home  early  because  the  Reverend  Mr.  Maynard  was  sea-sick.' 
It's  always  like  that,''  he  was  deciding  ;  the  part  that  seemed 
loveliest  always  had  the  homely  lining.  Here  he  had  come  to 
convert  these  Hedonists  and  had  remained  to  follow  epicures. 
Not  one  convert  had  he  effected,  and  such  a  field.  The  people 
did  go  to  church,  though— and  as  the  little  incoming  wave  he 
was  watching  turned  a  somersault  and  scrambled  up  the  beach 
rippling  to  itself,  he  decided  that  events  might  be  lots  worse. 
Sunshine  and  little  gay  waves  help  us  in  a  crisis. 

As  he  looked  down  the  beach  his  eye  caught  the  twinkle  of  a 
scarlet  parasol,  the  danger  signal  of  The  Prettiest  Girl,  and  he 
kept  on  looking.  Here  was  a  cloud  more  silver  than  its  lining. 
How  could  any  one,  even  the  best  looking,  most  serious  young 


412  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

minister  that  ever  hoped,  expect  to  talk  to  a  girl  like  that  ? 
Why  should  a  girl  be  the  prettiest  one,  and  not  ever  think  of 
her  soul.  She  was  near  him  now  and  the  young  minister 
sighed.  He  would  try  once  more  ;  it  was  humiliating  but  such 
beauty  couldn't  disguise  a  really  bad  heart. 

^'Good  afternoon,"  The  Prettiest  Girl  was  smiling  and  her 
dimples  frightened  the  young  minister  more  than  her  parasol, 
"Are  you  going  sailing  ?  " 

The  young  minister  surrendered  for  the  second,  confused  by 
the  direct  attack,  and  wondering  why  her  smile  could  at  the 
same  time  be  kind  and  yet  recall  that  awful  episode. 

"  Miss  Carroll  ton,"  said  he,  noble  in  his  aim,  "  do  you  ever  go- 
to church  ?  " 

She  started  by  a  reference  to  "  might  have  gone  yesterday 
but  then  there  wasn't  any,''  when  the  hurt  look  made  her  change' 
and  she  said,  "Why  should  I  ?  "  and  answering  for  him,  "  Yes, 
I  *do  go  sometimes.  In  fact,"  looking  over  the  dancing  waves? 
far  out  to  sea,  "  I  love  to  go  to  church  at  least  once  a  year — at 
Easter  time.  There's  something  about  Easter  Sunday  that 
doesn't  come  at  any  other  time.  I  love  the  big  white  lilies  and 
the  sort  of  hope  in  the  air  ;  everyone  seems  to  feel  happier. 
But  there's  one  thing  that's  made  me  never  miss  Easter  Sunday 
at  church  since  I  was  eight  years  old.  Guess  what  it  is,  Mr. 
Maynard,"  coming  back  to  shore  all  at  once  and  looking  straight 
into  his  eyes. 

"  Is  it  the  feeling  that  all  the  world  is  new,  that  there's  some-^ 
thing  worth  beginning  over  again  no  matter  how  many  mistakes 
we've  made  or — ." 

"  No,"  she  interrupted,  "  none  of  those.  It's— it's — the  hats  !  " 
and  with  a  gesture  of  dismissal  and  a  sort  of  ashamed  little 
laugh  she  left  him  to  join  those  in  lighter  vein  in  the  hotel 
parlors. 

The  tide  was  going  out  and  left  even  by  the  waves  on  the 
shore  the  young  minister  felt  alone  indeed.  He  felt  much  more 
alone  than  the  solitary  fish-hawk  above  his  head,  for  the  fish — 
hawk,  he  was  sure,  knew  where  it  wanted  to  go,  while  the 
young  minister  had  nearly  decided  there  was  no  such  place. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  one  fleeting  smile,  part  of  its  glow  due 
perhaps  to  a  scarlet  parasol,  as  he  went  slowly  to  his  room  ;  a 
smile  not  quite  so  mocking  as  the  last,  not  quite  so  near  the  top, 
perhaps  the  young  minister  might  never  have  gone  to  the  dance- 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY  413 

h  at  night.  And  then,  perhaps,  as  the  clock  was  striking  twelve 
he  might  not  have  been  looking  up  at  the  brightest  star  and 
muttering  something  about  "  God's  being  in  his  heaven." 


DAWN 

MARGARET  STONE   CARY 

Rise.  Spirit  I    Up  !    Shake  off  the  dews  of  sleep. 
And  leap 
To  greet  the  dawning  day  ! 

Fling  wide  the  shutters  and  unbar  the  door  ! 
Once  more 
Let  in  the  fleet  sun  ray. 

Let  thoughts  come  whirling  down  as  doves  in  flight 
Alight, 
When  weary  ;  seek  recourse 

Upon  some  pinnacled  cathedral  spire. 
Then  higher 
Pursue  their  onward  course. 

Rise,  Spirit !   Up  !    Shake  off  the  dews  of  sleep. 
And  leap 
To  greet  the  dawning  day  I 


DUSK  AND  DREAMS 

GRACE  ANGELA  RICHMOND 

When  dusk  and  dreams  are  near, 
And  flick'ring  firelight  calls  up  memories, 
The  book-lined  walls  fade  out,  and  here 
Are  sunny  meadows  and  the  shade  of  trees; 
And  clover-scented  breeze  and  blue  June  sky 
Where  swallows,  darting,  skimming,  turn  and  fly 
And  you  are  there  amidst  the  daisies  too. 
And  I  am  worshipping  the  world— and  you. 


MADAME   VIGOREAUX 

ANNE  ELEANOR  VON  HARTEN 

Across  the  street  from  our  house  in  the  city  stood  a  large  red 
brick  mansion  with  man}^  slate  turrets.  About  it  stretched  a 
lawn  always  trim  and  enclosing  the  lawn  was  a  tall  iron  fence 
which,  though  of  beautiful  German  workmanship,  was  forbid- 
ding. It  was  by  far  the  most  imposing  house  in  the  neighbor- 
hood and  the  business  men  who  passed  it  going  to  and  from 
their  offices  always  looked  at  it  with  careful  scrutiny,  while 
their  wives  spent  much  time  telling  each  other  what  a  shame  it 
was  that  a  house  so  well  fitted  for  balls  and  receptions  should 
be  wasted  upon  Madame  Vigoreaux,  who  never  gave  balls  and 
receptions  and  who  was,  well — eccentric. 

In  spite  of  this  scrutiny  and  gossip,  however,  the  old  house 
stood  there  in  unchanged  solemnity,  with  its  window  curtains 
closely  drawn.  Every  day  at  just  half  after  three  a  little  old 
lady  emerged  by  a  side  entrance  and  took  her  afternoon  drive 
in  the  park.  Like  Emmanuel  Kant,  she  was  very  regular  in 
her  habits-;  so  the  neighbors  observed  from  a  distance,  though 
they  never  dared  approach  her  openly. 

But  Madame  Vigoreaux  and  I  were  great  friends.  I  never 
felt  toward  her  the  natural  antipathy  that  youth  has  for  old 
age.  On  the  contrary  some  of  my  happiest  hours  were  spent  in 
her  company.  I  remember  her  best  as  she  used  to  sit  in  her  arm 
chair  near  the  sunny  bay  window.  Her  gown  was  one  of  the 
brightest  spots  in  the  room,  unless  it  were  the  look  on  her  in- 
telligent face  as  it  smiled  at  me  from  beneath  the  starchy  frills 
of  her  cap.  The  same  spirit  of  undaunted  energy  that  flashed 
from  her  black  eyes  was  probably  responsible  for  the  restless 
motion  of  her  hands,  unless  they  were  occupied  with  some 
definite  work  of  which  she  always  took  care  to  have  a  goodlj^ 
supply  ;  jn  fact,  she  said  she  was  happiest  when  working.  This, 
to  my  childlike  mind  was  very  curious  intelligence,  for  I  knew 
that  I  was  far  from  happy  when  Madame  Vigoreaux  set  me  to 
work  over  the  mysteries  of  the  French  language.  How  my 
poor  tongue  tied  itself  into  knots  over  the  strange  words  and 
how  merrily  she  laughed  at  my  accent  ! 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      415 

Madame  Vigoreaux  was  herself  wonderfully  versatile.  With 
a  mind  richly  endowed  by  nature  she  had  also  a  will  or  disposition 
to  study  and  achieve.  On  a  table  close  at  hand  were  spread 
sheets  of  closely  written  manuscript,  which  for  months  I  had 
seen  growing  from  beneath  her  busy  pen.  To  rest  and  divert 
herself  during  the  hours  of  composition,  she  often  went  to  the 
piano.  Long  afterwards  I  learned  that  the  sound  of  her  music 
drifted  past  the  tall  cedar  hedge  at  the  back  of  the  garden  which 
hid  the  prosaic  street  from  our  view,  into  the  windows  of  a  hos- 
pital ward,  where  the  poor  victims  of  disease  listened  to  it  with 
greedy  ears. 

Madame  Vigoreaux  was  as  at  home  with  the  brush  as  she  was 
with  the  pen.  I  used  to  stand  spellbound  before  her  pictures 
which  were  nearly  all  still  life  studies  of  flowers.  ''You  like 
them,  mon  enfant,  but  the  world  would  not,''  she  would  say  to 
me.  "  However,  each  picture  has  its  moral.  Here  is  little 
Mrs.  Pansy  for  instance  ;  she  represents  the  genial  person  who 
puts  us  at  our  ease  directly  ;  she  does  not  sit  in  company  like  a 
stone  wall  or  a  wet  blanket  but  is  willing  to  devote  her  best 
wits  to  the  ordinary  small  talk  of  life.  Here  is  the  red  Lautana 
who  is  often  despised  for  his  lack  of  reserve  ;  and  here  is  the 
honest  Bachelor's  Button  representing  perseverance  ;  there  is 
the  yellow  primrose  of  Intellect.  Over  the  bookcase  is  the 
Calla  Lily  which  represents  a  true  lady,  cool,  serene  and  white  ; 
while  near  the  piano  is  the  lilac  representing  Prayer." 

One  surprising  day  I  found  the  door  of  Madame  Vigoreaux's 
room  barricaded  by  a  severe  person  in  a  blue  dress  with  white 
apron,  cap  and  cuffs.  For  three  weeks  I  did  not  see  her  but  at 
last  I  received  a  message  from  her  that  she  wanted  me  to  come. 
However,  I  did  not  find  her  in  her  usual  place  near  the  bay  win- 
dow. This  time  she  was  propped  up  in  bed  with  many  pillows 
behind  her.  For  once  the  restless  hands  were  quiet,  lieing  help- 
lessly upon  the  counterpain  before  her,  but  the  same  old  look  of 
intelligence  flashed  from  the  black  eyes  beneath  the  frills  of  her 
nightcap  and  seemed  even  more  intenselj^  brilliant  than  usual. 
It  was  not  long  before  we  were  floating  off  to  fairyland  together. 
We  could  see  the  Sleeping  Beauty's  Castle  in  the  shadows  cast 
by  the  afternoon  sun  in  the  garden  ;  the  golden  forges  of  Mimi 
were  perfectly  evident  to  us  in  the  glowing  embers  ;  while  the 
curling  smoke  rings  shaped  themselves  into  fantastic  geni,  in 
the  open  fireplace. 


416  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

At  last  Madame  Yigoreaux  drew  from  beneath  her  pillow  a  lit- 
tle necklace  with  moonstones  hanging  pendant-like  from  the 
links  of  the  chain  like  so  many  drops  of  dew.  ^'  Here,  mon  en- 
fant, "she  said  clasping  it  around  my  neck,  '^  is  a  little  thing  that 
you  have  often  admired.  Keep  it  to  remember  me  by.  You  are  a 
good  child, ''^  she  added  rather  irrelevantly,  as  she  kissed  me 
upon  the  forehead.  Before  I  knew  what  was  happening  the 
blue-and-white  person  had  led  me  away,  and  so  I  went  home 
blinded  with  tears  and  with  a  great  lump  in  my  throat,  though 
I  hardly  knew  why,  as  I  did  not  realize  that  I  had  seen  Madame 
Yigoreaux  for  the  last  time. 

Several  years  have  passed  since  then.  The  old  house  across 
the  street  still  stands  as  majestic  as  ever,  with  its  window 
curtains  drawn.  But  the  lawn  has  grown  tall  with  grass  and 
weeds,  which  elbow  themselves  at  intervals  past  the  rails  of  the 
iron  grill  fence,  giving  it  a  very  frowsy  and  unkempt  look,  while 
over  the  stately  entrance  is  an  ugly  sign,  '*  For  Sale."  But  as 
yet  no  occupant  has  been  found  and  the  neighbors  are  beginning 
to  whisper  that  the  house  is  actually  ''haunted"  by  its  late 
owner  who  was,  well — eccentric.  But  I  do  not  share  in  these 
popular  sentiments,  for  to  me  Madame  Yigoreaux  will  always 
be  a  gentle  and  charming  memory. 


APRIL    NIGHT 

MARION  DELAMATER  FREEMAN 

The  night  wind  sighs  in  the  cedar  trees. 
Out  of  the  heavy  darkness  and  the  mist 
Rises  the  warm  breath  of  the  teeming  earth. 
The  heart  of  the  world  is  throbbing  with  new  life, 
Life  that  is  all  too  perfect  and  too  sweet, 
So  that  man's  soul,  o'ercharged  with  joy, 
Aches  with  the  heavenly  sweetness  of  it  all, 
And  happiness  must  vent  itself  in  tears. 


ROMANCE 

MARGARET   BLOOM 

I  had  been  working  rather  hard  in  New  York  that  winter  and 
<;onseqnently  had  little  faith  in  romance.  If  anyone  had  told 
me,  when  I  boarded  the  train  to  spend  Christmas  at  home,  that 
twenty-four  hours  later  in  Bristol,  Virginia,  a  fat  justice-of-the- 
peace  would  be  trying  to  marry  me  to  a  young  man  I  didn't 
know,  I  wouldn't  have  believed  it. 

When  I  took  my  seat  in  the  Pullman  in  the  Pennsylvania 
station,  I  noticed  a  young  man  in  the  seat  opposite  me.  Time 
was  when  this  would  have  awakened  some  slight  interest,  "  some 
stirrings  of  my  maiden  heart."  But  now  I  merely  glared  at  him, 
a  habit  I  have  acquired  lately  on  looking  at  a  strange  male.  I 
seated  myself,  put  on  mj^  spectacles  which  make  me  look  like  a 
oross  between  a  meditative  owl  and  a  Boston  infant.  I  then 
took  out  "Barchester  Towers,"  by  Anthony  Trollope,  and  be- 
gan to  read.  Although  I  looked  fairly  well,  this  forever  labelled 
me  a  bluestocking.  All  the  sweet  young  things  read  "  Laddie." 
All  went  well  on  board  the  train  until  the  next  morning.  The 
man  opposite  me  stayed  in  the  smoker.  But  after  breakfast  he 
came  and  sat  down  in  his  seat  just  as  I  was  eating  fifteen  malted 
milk  tablets,  ''  a  satisfying  lunch,"  (I  can't  eat  ordinary  food  on 
the  train).  I  glanced  at  him  and  remember  tliinking  that  he 
really  looked  unobjectionable  aside  from  the  fact  that  he  wore 
eye-glasses  on  a  gold  chain. 

The  train  stopped  for  Bristol,  which  is  a  small  town  between 
Virginia  and  Tennessee.  I  had  nearly  consumed  my  last  malted 
milk  tablet  when  a  long,  lank,  bilious-looking  individual  came 
into  the  car.  He  looked  around,  then  coming  to  where  1  and 
the  man  with  the  eye-glasses  on  a  gold  chain  sat  opposite  each 
other,  he  stopped,  showed  some  sort  of  a  badge  and  said,  "  Ah 
want  you  two.  You  all  bettah  come  along  with  me  quiet  and 
peaceable." 

It  was  horrible.  For  once  in  my  life  I  was  speechless.  "  But," 
said  the  young  man  opposite  me,  "  what  have  we  done  ?"  and 
besides,  waving  his  hand  toward  me,  "  I  never  saw  her  before." 
His  tone  implied  that  this  was  a  source  of  great  satisfaction  to 
him,  *i^  ^ 


418  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

'^  They  all  say  that,"  said  the  lank  individual.    ''  Come  along/^ 

I  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  get  my  coat,  hat  and  hand  bag 
and  then  we  filed  out  in  a  miserable  procession.  I  planned  for  a 
second  to  mnrder  the  lank  individual  outside  of  the  smoking- 
room,  and  I  think  tlie  unfortunate  young  man  with  me  did  too. 
But  the  hump  at  the  hip  of  our  captor  looked  dubious.  We  de- 
scended to  the  platform  into  what  seemed  a  black  and  white 
multitude.  I  remember  particularly  a  little  pop-eyed  darkey 
boy  whom  I  nearly  stepped  on.  The  circus  had  evidently  not 
been  to  town  recently  and  interest  had  been  bottled  up.  I  think 
I  know  what  the  fat  lady,  if  a  sensitive  soul,  suffers  and  I  had 
only  one  hundred  and  twenty  pounds  on  the  outside  of  m^^  sen- 
sitive soul.  The  people  on  the  train  were  also  immensely  inter- 
ested and  I  was  glad  when  the  lankey  individual  showed  us  into 
a  depot  hack  and  got  in  with  us.  I  was  rejoiced  to  see  that  the 
young  man  with  me  was  purple  with  anger.  I  was  also  enraged 
and  I  was  the  first  to  speak. 

^'  Maj^  I  ask  who  j^ou  are  ?  "  I  asked  the  lankey  individual  in 
a  bitingly  cold  mode  of  speech  I  had  found   useful  in  the  past. 

"  I'm  the  sheriff  (it  sounded  more  like  chef  than  sheriff)  of 
the  county,"  he  said  amiably  enough.  Then  seeing  that  I  was 
about  to  go  on,  he  said,  "  Ah'm  takin'  yeh  ovah  to- Jestice 
Brown.  Yuh  pappy's  in  taown  and  he'll  take  yoh  home,  an'  I'll 
take  the  young  fellah  to  jail." 

This  was  a  bunch  of  news  to  digest  and  I  digested  in  silence. 
I  was  pleased  to  see  that  my  companion  was  not  as  crushed  by 
the  news  as  I  had  feared  he  would  be.  He  had  taken  off  his  eye- 
glasses and  chain  and  looked  delightfully  fierce. 

The  hack  stopped  and  the  "  chef  "  led  us  into  a  dingy  little 
office  furnished  mainly  with  a  cuspidor.  More  of  like  furnish- 
ings would  have  made  the  surroundings  more  hygienic  and  in- 
viting, I  thought. 

"  Ah'll  go  ovah  an'  get  the  little  gal's  fathah,"  said  the  "  chef' 
to  ^'Jestice"  Brown.  "  Little  gal,"  to  me,  twenty-seven  years 
of  age  and  accustomed  to  conduct  my  own  affairs  and  those  of 
several  other  persons  with  considerable  success  I  The  '^chef  " 
departed  making  an  exit  in  tone.  He  had  so  far  not  shown  the 
slightest  interest  in  proceedings. 

I  looked  at  "Jestice"  Brown.  He  was  fat,  very  fat,  and 
looked  like  the  walrus  in  the  New  York  aquarium.  He  waited 
until  the  "chef"  was  well  out  of   the   office.     Then    he   said,. 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      419 

*•  Naow,  ah  know  liow  young  folks  feel.  Naow,  alr'll  just 
make  out  a  license,  then  ah'll  tie  the  knot  quicker'n  a  wink,  an' 
when  the  little  gal's  pappy  comes  back  the  knot'll  be  some  tied. 
Haow'll  that  suit  yeh,  young  fellah?"  giving  my  companion 
a  roguish  wink  ;  that  is,  it  would  have  been  roguish,  that  wink, 
if  it  had  taken  anti-fat. 

"But,  I  don't  want  to  marry  her,"  blurted  out  my  unfortu- 
nate companion.  ''That  is —  "  he  stammered.  But  it  was  too 
late.     The  rage  of  the  walrus  was  awful. 

"  So  that's  the  weh  yuh  feel,  is  it  ?  Well,  we'll  see  that  yuh 
have  a  nice  tight  place  to  feel  that  weh  in.  In  fifty  yeah's  ah 
ain't  seen  an  unwillin'  one  befoah.  We  may've  had  a  few,  but 
we  done  thinned  out  ouah  supply  considabul." 

I  am  not  accustomed  to  have  hysterics,  but  I  had  them  on 
this  occasion.  The  walrus  came  over  to  where  I  sat  and  patted 
me ;  that  is,  it  would  have  been  a  pat  if  his  hand  reminded  one 
of  the  '•  dove  brand."  '*  Neveh  min',  little  gal,"  he  said,  "yeh 
pappy'll  fix  him.  An'  mebbe  the  boys'll  tend  to  him."  Sternly 
to  young  man.     "  Young  fellah,  where  wuh  yeh  bawn  ?" 

''  Bangor,  Maine,"  said  my  companion  in  a  subdued  tone. 

"  I  feahed  as  much,"  said  the  walrus,  taking  a  bite  from  some 
substance  he  took  from  his  pocket  and  which  bore  some  myste- 
rious relation  to  the  cuspidor. 

The  door  opened  and  the  "  chef  "  entered,  followed  by  an  indi- 
vidual who  was  even  lankier  and  more  bilious  than  he  himself. 
I  judged  it  was  "  pappy." 

"  Heah  they  ah,"  said  the  "  chef." 

But  "pappy,"  without  interest  said,  "  Thet  ain't  Carrie  (pro- 
nounced Cee)  May,  an'  thet  ain't  Joe  Knox." 

After  this  the  young  man  and  I  were  objects  of  no  interest 
whatsoever  to  anyone.  We  went  to  the  station  and  soon  got  a 
train  out  of  town.  It  was  a  local  known  as  "  the  milk  train." 
My  companion  in  misery  turned  out  to  be  quite  pleasant  and  I 
felt  no  objections  to  his  sitting  with  me  on  the  train. 

"  Now  that  was  rather  romantic,"  he  said.  "Ten  years  ago  I 
would  have  been  immensely  thrilled.  I'm  afraid  romance  is 
dead  for  me,"  he  went  on,  "  my  only  sensation  is  disgust  at  hav- 
ing been  in  a  ridiculous  mix-up." 

"  I  know  I  am  a  born  old  maid,"  said  I,  getting  out  "  Bar- 
chester  Towers,"  and  firmly  adjusting  my  spectacles. 

Whereupon  the  young  man  put  on  his  eye-glasses  with  the 
gold  chain  and  began  to  read  the  "  Atlantic  Monthly." 


AT    MUSIC 

MIRA   BIGELOW   WILSON 

A  thousand  are  at  music  ;  and  the  lights  flare  high 
To  sanctify  the  music  :  and  the  gowns  are  fair 
To  supplement  the  music  when  the  people  stare 
Just  across  the  gallery  or  down  the  other  aisle. 
Glancing  (could  they  help  it  ?)  at  you,  Lady  Claire. 

And  there  with  the  loneliness  that  wraps  you  round, 
A  cloak  of  sorrow  beautiful  but  grey,  1  know 
Too  well  how  your  torn  heart  is  shrinking,  low 
Before  the  glances  of  the  gay  accustomed  folk  : 
How  from  the  glamour  of  the  galleries  comes  but  woe. 

Close  thine  eyes  to  radiance,  forget  the  cloying  rose  ; 

Ope'  thy  heart  without  a  fear  and  thine  ear 

To  music  'ere  the  music  master  goes. 

Lose  thj  soul  within  a  greater  soul  than  thine 

Ere  the  trembling  strings  of  harp  shall  slumber  to  repose. 

For  men  have  framed  deep  harmonies  and  on  their  hearts 
The  sadness,  all  the  sadness  of  the  world,  has  pressed. 
And  they  have  set  the  world  to  dance,  yet  all  their  arts 
Could  not  hide  the  memory  of  the  gloom  confessed  ; 
Till  dancing  and  weeping  hand  in  hand  by  them  are  blessed. 

In  the  song  that  sets  the  tide  of  joy  in  my  heart  high 

I  hear  the  chords  of  weeping  meant  to  sing  for  you  ;    . 

And  I  pray  their  consolation  stealeth  close  to  you. 

Yonder  in  the  gallery  with  your  burnished  hair. 

And  the  heart  whose  hurt  I've  fathomed,  Lady  Claire,  Lady  Claire. 


A    DREAM 

AiSNA    ELIZABETH    SPICER 

He  lay  at  his  ease  on  the  grey-gold  shore 

The  length  of  a  summer  afternoon. 

And,  hearing  the  white-tipped  breakers  roar, 

He  hummed  an  echo,  some  strange  old  tune 

Heard  i'  the  night,  'neath  a  harvest  moon. 

And  as  youth  may  do,  he  wondered  then 

At  earth's  beauty,  the  strange,  short  lives  of  men. 

A  soft  wind  lifted  a  lock  of  his  hair 

As  he  lay  ;  he  raised  his  bright  brown  hand. 

Wondering  at  it;  then,  scarce  aware. 

Slowly  scooped  up  the  golden  sand 

Into  palaces  he  had  never  planned, 

And  dreamed  of  the  wonders  therein  would  be, 

If  ever  the  wish  of  his  heart  had  he. 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      421 

Then  suddenly  over  the  white-tipped  waves 
He  thought  he  had  heard  a  sweeter  sound, 
As  when,  past  the  mouth  of  cool  green  caves 
Dances  the  south  wind  over  a  ground 
More  flower-strewn  than  he  yet  has  found. 
Surer  o'  foot  than  the  chamois,  he 
Runs  through  the  hills  piping  merrily. 

Nearer,  clearer,  sweeter  it  came 

Till  the  boy  leapt  up  half-mad  with  a  pain 

That  was  yet  right  sweet  to  him  (never  a  name 

Has  the  faery  music,  on  lock  or  in  lane, 

The  meaning  of  it  is  seldom  plain, 

But  who  once  has  heard  it  will  pay  dear  toll 

For  to  hear  again,  though  he  lose  his  soul.) 

Over  the  top  of  a  foamy  wave. 

As  he  watched,  sailed  a  ship  right  gallantly. 

With  silken  sails  hung  with  pennants  brave. 

Red,  blue,  yellow,  green  as  the  sea ; 

A  crystal  mast ;  full  easily 

She  rode  ;  in  the  glow  of  her  moon-colored  hold 

He  saw  beautiful  women,  knights  in  gold. 

It  passed — so  beauteously,  scarce  he  knew 

It  was  winning  swiftly  from  him  :  he  fain 

Would  have  joined  that  brave  and  wondrous  crew 

Of  the  strange,  bright  ship.     He  called  in  vain. 

For  the  faery  craft  turned  not  again. 

As  he  watched  the  shining  sails  bow  in  the  wind. 

The  jewelled  trail  that  it  left  behind, 

A  woman  step])ed  to  the  vessel's  stern. 

A  circlet  of  gold  on  her  flaming  hair 

That  streamed  behind  her  ;  her  great  eyes  burned 

Like  stars,  ashine  in  the  frosty  air. 

Proclaimed  her  queen  of  the  good  court  there. 

With  her  white  hand  a  pebble  smooth  and  round 

She  threw  :  it  fell  at  his  side  on  the  ground. 

Picking  it  up,  he  kissed  it.     Then 

Waved  farewell  to  the  distant  ship. 

The  music  died  down,:  he  sighed  :  once  again 

Touched  the  smooth  pebble  to  his  lip. 

Waked,  started,  paled  like  a  frighted  girl — 
In  his  hand  he  held  a  matchless  pearl. 


ABOUT    COLLEGE 


AN   ORATION   OF   MARCUS   TULLIUS   CICERO 

Recently  excavated  in  Northampton,  Mass. 
Habite  ad  Studentes  Colegentis  Smithinis. 

ELSIE   TERRY   BLANC 

You  see  this  day.  o  studentes,  this  institution  and  all  your 
rights,  your  fortunes  and  your  privileges  and  this  most  fortu- 
nate and  beautiful  city,  by  the  great  love  of  the  immortal  gods 
for  you,  by  my  labors  and  counsels  and  dangers,  about  to  be 
preserved  and  restored  to  you.  Since  we  have  by  our  affection 
and  good  report  raised  to  the  immortal  gods  the  foundress  of 
this  place  built  and  embellished  by  her,  and  since  all'  has  been 
detected  by  me,  I  v^ill  now  explain  to  you  briefly  that  you,  o 
studentes  who  are  as  yet  ignorant  of  it  and  are  in  suspense  may 
be  able  to  see  how  great  the  danger  is  and  by  what  means  It 
may  be  arrested  and  averted  from  you.  I  have  continually 
watched  and  taken  care  of  the  means  by  which  we  may  be  safe 
amid  such  great  and  carefully  concealed  treachery. 

First  of  all,  as  I  saw  that  those  whom  I  knew  to  be  inflamed 
with  the  greatest  madness  and  wickedness  were  among  us,  I 
spent  all  my  nights  and  days  taking  care  to  know  and  see  what 
they  were  doing  and  what  they  were  contriving,  that  1  might 
so  detect  the  whole  business  that  you  might  with  all  your  hearts 
provide  for  your  safety  when  you  saw  the  crime  with  your  own 
eyes. 

When  for  some  time  tlie  most  noble  and  excellent  students  of 
the  whole  community  have  come  in  crowds  in  the  early  morn- 
ing, but  were  obliged  to  sit  in  the  last  seats  in  the  senate  cham- 
ber, for  although  the  foremost  seats  were  for  the  greater  part 
vacant,  yet  in  each  reposed  eitlier  a  folio  or  a  part  of  the  toga 

4  3s 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      423 

virilio  as  a  mark  that  the  seat  was  reserved  ;  when  a  venerable 
Senior  has  frequently  entered  a  chamber  where  a  most  difficult 
and  incomprehensible  lecture  was  in  progress  ;  and  where  such 
terms  as  "undistributed  middle,"  "categorical  imperative,*' 
**  transcendentalism,"  "monad,"  "third  dimension,"  etcetera, 
were  used  in  a  fashion  unintelligible  to  great  numbers  of  those 
present,  and  has  observed  upon  the  faces  of  those  occupying  the 
seals  previously  reserved,  an  expression  of  intense  eagerness, 
immeasurable  and  sympathetic  understanding,  while  upon  the 
honest  (jounlenances  of  the  noble  and  excellent  students  in  the 
rear  rows  could  be  seen  the  appearance  of  unaffected  weariness 
and  despair  ;  and  when  tlie  attempt  at  rapid  exit  of  those  most 
excellent  Studeutes  has  been  tempered  by  the  crowd  gathering 
around  the  former  lecturer  and  even  following  him  into  the 
ante-chamber  as  if  to  ask  multitudinous  questions  bearing  or 
not  bearing  on  the  subject, — then  indeed  I  thought  that  an  op- 
portunity was  given  me  of  contriving  what  was  most  difficult, 
that  the  whole  business  might  be  manifestly  detected,  not  by 
me  alone,  but  by  the  senate  also,  and  by  you. 

Therefore,  yesterday,  I  summoned  Lucia  Flacca  and  Celia 
Poratina,  Seniors  brave  and  well-affected  to  the  Republic. 
I  explained  to  them  the  whole  matter,  and  showed  what  I 
wished  to  be  done.  Being  full  of  noble  and  worth}^  sentiments 
towards  the  Republic,  without  hesitation  and  without  any  delay 
they  undertook  the  business,  and  when  it  was  evening,  went 
secretly  to  the  lower  city  and  so  distributed  themselves  that  the 
Institutio  Boydensis  and  the  Villa  Frigidi  Pabuli  Beckmann's 
were  on  either  side. 

In  the  meantime,  about  the  end  of  the  second  watch,  the  am- 
bassadors of  the  usurpers  of  seats  and  pretenders  to  intelligence 
and  devotion  to  learning  began  to  assemble  at  the  Villa  Beck- 
mann's.  Tliey  possessed  themselves  at  the  secluded  table  in  a 
corner.  Then  Lucia  Flacca  and  Celia  Pomtina  concealed  them- 
selves behind  the  ancient  and  venerable  palm  whicli  by  the  will 
of  immortal  gods  has  been  preserved  to  us  from  the  immemorial 
times  of  our  forefathers. 

In  this  manner,  the  fearless  patriots  learned  through  the  con- 
versation of  the  conspirators  that  my  fears  and  observations 
were  not  mistaken  ;  the  honorable  citizens  were  being  basely 
deprived  of  democratic  use  of  seats  and  of  salutary  explanation 
■of  complicated  matters,  for  the  usurpation  of  the  seats  and  the 
intelligent  light  in  the  faces  of  conspirators,  who  although  even 


424  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

more  ignorant  than  their  compatriots  utilized  the  seats  and  the 
expression  of  comprehending  interest  to  mislead  the  instructor 
and  gain  approbation. 

In  like  manner,  through  our  vigilance,  and  the  favor  of  the 
immortal  gods,  a  letter  has  been  intercepted,  addressed  to  an 
instructor  who  is  generally  shunned  by  the  hopeful  j^outh  of 
this  community,  containing  an  invitation  to  a  private  festivitj^  ; 
we  also  obtained  undeniable  proof  of  former  gifts  and  marks  of 
attention,  planned  and  extended  by  these  wretches.  We  must 
not  act  with  much  leniency  in  view  of  so  great  a  conspiracy, 
and  such  a  number  and  multitude  of  domestic  enemies.  These 
deeds  which  would  be  appraised  as  honorable  when  performed 
in  good  faith  as  true  marks  of  disinterested  friendship,  become 
base  and  disgraceful  when  undertaken  with  conspiratory  mo- 
tives ;  to  obtain  under  false  pretences  the  interest  and  good 
opinion  of  those  who  are  in  power. 

Now  since,  O  Studentes,  you  have  the  proofs  of  the  nefarious 
crimes  committed  in  your  midst  you  ought  to  consider  in  what 
manner  these  dangers  should  be  warded  off.  Let  all  honorable 
and  patriotic  Studentes  rise  to  prevent  the  evil  ascendancy  of 
these  debased  persons  ;  let  us,  armed  with  the  consciousness  of 
the  wrong  done  to  us,  and  our  own  integrity,  boldly  cast  out 
from  the  desired  seats  the  folios  of  the  vicious  usurpers.  Let 
us  unashamed  express  our  ignorance,  and  boldly  call  for  en- 
lightening explanations,  by  means  of  intelligent  questions  ob- 
taining the  desire  of  our  hearts,  namely,  the  true  knowledge  of 
matters. 

Concerning  the  matter  of  gifts  and  invitations  to  festivities, 
let  us  ignore  such  base  methods,  and  disdaining  the  company 
■of  those  employing  such  nefarious  means,  ostracize  them  from^ 
our  midst. 

Wherefore,  O  Studentes,  decree  a  supplication  at  all  altars, 
celebrate  this  day;  for  now  you  shall  be  snatched  from  the 
most  miserable  and  cruel  usurpation  of  your  rights  and  privi- 
leges, and  you  shall  be  saved  from  the  destruction  of  the  true 
democratic  spirit  of  this  institutioi],  without  slaughter,  without 
bloodshed,  without  an  army,  and  without  a  battle.  And  all 
violence  of  domestic  enemies  being  warded  off,  j^ou  shall,  O- 
Studentes,  enjoy  perpetual  tranquility.  I  ask  from  you  no  re- 
ward of  virtue,  no  badge  of  honor,  no  monument  of  my  glory,, 
beyond  the  everlasting  recollection  of  this  daj^ 


AN  IMPROVEMENT   ON  HISTORY 

H.    C.    rOWCHLL 

You  have  doubtless  stood  near  the  fiction  counter  in  a  library 
and  overheard  a  remark  of  this  kind  : 

*'  Let's  take  this  one.  It  looks  interesting  :  there^s  page  after 
page  of  conversation.'' 

Now  my  sj^mpathies  are  with  that  young  person  entirely.  It 
is  a  curious  fact  that  unbroken  expanses  of  print  often  repel,  if 
they  do  not  actuallj^  antagonize  us.  One  feels  heroic  after  com- 
batting three  pages  of  uninterrupted  print  and  takes  a  deep 
breath  ]n-eparatory  to  engaging  in  an  encounter  with  tlie  next 
paragraph  of  perhaps  equally  gruesome  dimensions.  Personally 
I  am  ])rejudiced.  and  I  shall  tell  you  wh^^ 

Last  summer  1  had  to  imbibe  enough  English  History  to  be 
able  to  pass  an  entrance  examination  in  the  fall. 

''  You  will  have  to  do  some  collateral  reading,  of  course,"  said 
a  member  of  the  Faculty  to  nu^  in  June.  '' I  should  advise 
Green's  'Short  History  of  tlie  English  People.'" 

Green's  "  Short  History  of  the  English  People"  had  a  nice 
condensed  sound.  I  ])ut  it  into  my  trunk  without  glancing  in- 
side it. 

One  day  at  the  shore  I  decided  to  do  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  col- 
laterally. I  try  not  to  discourage  myself  by  too  hard  tasks  when 
I  am  attacking  something  new.  Raleigh  was  a  dashing  cava- 
lier; the  assignment  to  myself  seemed  lenient — cliaracteristically 
benevolent.  I  opened  to  Raleigh  in  Green.  A  disconcerting 
wall  of  solid  print  met  me.  I  turned  over  the  leaves  to  find 
some  break  in  the  ramparts,  some  tendrils  of  fresh  leaves  peep- 
ing forth.  Not  one  showed  itself,  no  crack  made  by  quotation 
marks,  not  even  a  verdant  sprout  of  italics.  This  wall  of  print 
shouted  defiantly,  "  I  am  adamant  !  "  1  sought  for  means  to 
tunnel  under,  or  for  a  ladder  to  leap  over  ;  there  was  nothing 
for  it  but  to  precipitate  myself  through  it.  catapult-wise. 

This  was  but  the  beginning  of  such  experiences.  Even  the 
text-book  which  I  was  using,  which  was  not  (piite  so  compact 
and  remorseless,  became  an  object  oi^   bitter   dislike.     Mother 

4  26 


426  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

commiseratiiigly  suggested  that  I  place  a  piece  of  cardboard  on 
the  page,  and  draw  it  down  line  by  line  as  I  read,  thus  covering 
up  what  was  coming — edging  up  on  it  by  degrees — sugar-coat- 
ing the  pellet.  This  was  an  alleviating  measure,  but  I  always 
knew  what  was  under  the  cardboard,  and  it  made  me  want  to 
chew  nails  or  something  harder. 

My  quarrel  was  not  altogether  with  the  appearance  of  the 
page ;  the  content  came  in  for  its  drubbing.  It  was  smooth, 
sonorous  English  ;  but  it  was  too  smooth  and  too  sonorous.  It 
did  not  produce  convolutions  in  one's  gray-matter. 

*'  Why  does  not  some  astute  person  write  a  history  in  the  ver- 
nacular as  parallel  reading  to  the  work  of  an  Eminent  Author- 
ity ?"  I  questioned.  "  Let  the  Eminent  Authority  serve  for  cul- 
tural purposes,  the  history  in  the  vernacular  to  help  the  poor 
grinding  student  clinch  facts  in  his  memory." 

The  idea  has  grown  upon  me.  This  history  might  run  along 
somewhat  as  follows  on  the  subject  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough's 
campaigns  : 

"  Where  shall  we  fight  this  bloomin'  war  ?"  said  young  Marl- 
borough, rolling  a  cigarette.  "  Where  will  be  the  best  place  for 
the  moving  pictures  to  take  us  in  action  ?  It  would  be  more 
diverting  and  infinitely  more  expensive  to  have  campaigns  in 
several  places.  ''  Therefore,"  said  he,  turning  to  the  press  re- 
porters standing  about  him,  "  you  may  quote  me  as  saying  that 
the  dog^  of  war  will  be  unleashed  in  several  places." 

So  he  and  his  stalwart  men  faced  the  blawsted  enemy  in  Bav- 
aria, Italy,  Spain,  on  the  Ocean  and  in  the  Netherlands.  [Note 
to  the  student  :  the  first  letters  of  these  names  spell  the  name  of 
a  famous  North  American  animal,  the  bison.  You'll  never  for- 
get this  !]  The  first  chance  that  Marlborough  had  to  display 
his  budding  genius  was  at  Blenheim.  It  was  a  marvelous  vic- 
tory. 

"Hello  !"  said  the  Englishmen  at  home  when  they  heard  of 
it.  You  know  that's  quite  decent  of  that  Marlborough  chap.  If 
he  only  wins  a  few  more  like  this,  we  shall  have  to  build  a  stun- 
ning castle  for  him,  we  shall,  really." 

The  redoubtable  general  then  grew  even  more  desperately 
reckless,  and  won  handsomely  the  battles  of  Ramillies  and 
Malplaquet. 

An  episode  of  the  struggle  between  Charles  I  and  Parliament 
might  read  : 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  427 

Charles  with  a  glittering  group  of  armed  followers  rode  to 
Hull  in  Yorkshire,  where  arms  and  ammunition  which  had 
been  provided  for  the  Scottish  war  had  been  stored. 

"Gimme  that  ammunish  I  "  roared  Charles,  when  he  got  with- 
in roaring  distance  of  the  castle. 

"Yes,  by  ginger  I  "  shouted  his  men.     "  We  need  it." 

In  charge  of  the  castle  was  the  commander  Sir  John  Hothani, 
placed  there  by  Parliament.  He  applied  one  e^^e  to  a  loop-hole 
and  glared  out  at  the  king. 

*'  Haul  up  the  drawbridge,"  ordered  Sir  John  to  his  men  with- 
in the  castle.  "Shut  the  gates  !  Those  impudent  rascals  shall 
not  enter  here  I  " 

"What  in  time — "  sputtered  the  king,  aghast  at  such  high- 
handed proceedings.  But  the  water  gurgled  in  the  moat,  the 
fortification  key;t  on  frowning,  and  the  king  and  his  valiant  men 
had  to  meander  homeward. 

While  I  offer  the  foregoing  sim])ly  as  a  suggestion,  I  do  so 
keenly  conscious  that  the  book  would  not  be  an  ideal  history. 
Now  Carolyn  Welles  has  written  a  rhyme.  It  is  about  Timbuctoo. 
In  speaking  of  the  people  there,  she  says  : 

You  see  I  know  exactly  what 

They  say  and  how  they  look  : 
For  I  read  all  about  them 

In  a  big  three-volume  book. 

By  substituting  "  The  French  Nation,"  "The  Dutch,"  or 
^' The  Icelanders"  for  the  residents  of  Timbuctoo.  and  casting 
it  in  the  past  tense  in  her  last  two  verses  she  has  written  my 
ideal  history  of  any  people  whatever  : 

•'  To  sum  it  up  concisely 

Here's  the  gist  of  what  I  read  : 
The  Timbuctoozers  rise — they  eat 

And  drink — and  go  to  bed. 
And  now,  although  1  hate  to  end 

This  interesting  story. 
That's  all  I  know  af  Timbuctoo 

And  the  Timbuctoozerfi'  glory." 


^GAPS^ 

ADELAIDE   HERIOT   ARMS 

Did  you  ever  wake  up  in  a  strange  place  and  find  it  difficult 
to  connect  your  thoughts  ?  Contrary  to  the  theory  of  the 
"Stream  of  consciousness"  which  I  had  been  reading  in 
''Stout,"  I  felt  a  decided  "  Gap"  in  my  mind  the  other  morn- 
ing. I  thought  I  was  waking  up  in  my  own  room.  I  was  al- 
most positive  that  I  had  stretched  myself  on  my  bed  in  a  hori- 
zontal position  at  ten  the  night  before — and  surely  I  would  not 
have  done  that  in  a  place  other  than  my  own  room.  But  the 
more  I  thought,  the  more  bewildered  was  my  yawning  mind.  (It 
was  in  fact  a  chasm  by  this  time — I  defy  any  one  to  deny  me^ 
for  even  though  I  should  pass  Psychology  this  semester,  I  shall 
be  convinced  that  gaps  and  chasms  do  exist ;  for  I  can  prove  it.) 

My  own  room  is  green.  That  is,  the  wall  paper  has  a  green 
stripe  in  it  and  our  blotters  and  couch-covers  are  green,  and  we 
have  some  bulbs  in  the  window,  which  will  be  green  sometime. 
The  rest  of  the  things  are  pink  and  red,  but  those  are  comple- 
mentary colors  to  green.  So,  all  in  all,  you  see  it  is  a  green 
room.  I  am  explaining  this  carefully  so  that  you  will  realize 
more  fully  how  strange  it  seemed  to  me,  when  I  woke  up  in  a 
room  which  was  absolutely  white.  I  was  not  sure  at  all  that  it 
was  a  room — and  then  I  suddenly  realized  that  I  must  be  in  a 
cave,  for  it  was  more  round  than  square,  and  as  I  looked  about 
me,  I  discovered  round  holes  in  proportionate  places  which  let 
in  a  dull,  gray  light.  Not  far  off,  in  a  corner  I  could  see  a  thin 
smoke  rising  in  puffs  and  wreaths. 

I  suppose  it  was  very  presumptuous  in  me,  but  then  and  there 
I  decided  that  there  had  been  a  long  gap  in  my  mind.  I  could 
not  remember  when  or  how  it  had  come  about,  but  somehow  or 
other  I  had  come  to  Alaska  or  Labrador,  and  had  taken  up  my 
abode  in  a  cave.  Of  course  these  are  not  the  exact  thoughts 
which  went  through  my  mind,  but  I  could  not  ''observe  the 
process  of  thinking  and  think  at  the  same  time,"  so  you  must  be 
satisfied  with  the  after-image. 

I  do  know,  however,  that  I  seemed  to  have  no  toes,  and  when 
I  tried  to  find  my  nose,  I  could  feel  only  a  hard  cold  something. 
I   suppose  these   were   just  sensations,  and  at  that  time  I  took 

4  28 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  429 

great  comfort  in  believiug  them  to  be  nothing  more,  because 
there  is  "  so  much  to  those  particular  members''  that  I  should 
be  terribly  upset  without  them. 

I  was  musing  thus,  when  suddenly  there  was  a  jingle— jang- 
ling very  near  me.  My  ear  drum  drummed  and  set  the  hammer 
going  oh  the  anvil  which  loosened  the  strings  and  finally  my 
optic  nerve  told  my  brain  that  it  must  be  sleigh-bells.  Immed- 
iately I  felt  two  of  my  synapses  opening  and  I  was  making  for 
the  window — not  only  to  satisfy  my  curiosity  but  also  to  throw 
a  little  light  on  my  surroundings.  I  leaned  toward  the  hole  in 
the  wall.  To  my  dismay  the  wall  around  it  began  to  give  way. 
Something  fell  on  my  face  and  shoulders.  It  gave  me  the  sen- 
sation of  cold  (in  spots.)  I  drew  back.  (I  do  not  know  what  was 
the  process  in  my  mind  which  made  me  draw  back.  I  only 
know  that  I  began  to  feel  strangely  shivery,  and  a  lack  of  con- 
fidence in  my  surroundings.)  Then  I  remembered  the  smoke 
which  I  had  seen  in  the  corner.  I  turned  and  made  my  way 
toward  it.  It  took  some  time  to  reach  it,  for  the  floor  of  the 
cave  was  very  soft,  and  sunk  to  my  knees  under  each  step. 

The  smoke  came  from  a  slight  elevation  from  the  cave  floor. 
I  climed  slowly  up,  and  drawing  my  thin  robe  close  around  me, 
I  stretched  my  numbed  fingers  over  the  smoke.  I  was  just  be- 
ginning to  feel  comfortable — when  the  whole  ground  seemed  to 
shake — '"'An  earthquake,''  I  muttured  as  I  rolled  on  the  soft 
floor. 

Before  I  could  re-adjust  my  static  sense,  a  voice  spoke  from 
somewhere.  Looking  up,  I  saw  my  room-mate's  head  peering 
over  the  top  of  a  snow. bank.  Then  she  was  here  too  I  Then  I 
wondered  if  her  consciousness  had  stopped  flowing. 

Evidently  not — my  room-mate  is  a  person  of  very  strong- 
character  and  besides  she  understands  her  Psychology  perfectly. 
She  wasn't  even  bewildered — she  seemed  to  be  laughing.  "Get 
up  out  of  the  c-cold,"  she  said  at  last.  "  Did  you  ever  see  any- 
thing so  funny  as  this  room  ?  " 
"  Room  I  '*'  I  gasped. 

Fortunately  she  shook  me  or  I  should  have  been  frozen  to 
death  (chasm  and  all.)  Then  I  helped  her  sweep  the  snow  out 
and  shut  the  windows.  And  I've  been  awfully  polite  to  her 
ever  since,  because  I'm  afraid  that  if  she  should  get  "  peeved" 
at  anything,  she  might  tell  about  my  "  Gap,"  and  there  are  so 
many  people  who  have  unyielding  faith  in  Mr.  Stout,  that  they 
might  think  me  queer. 


WHILE  THERE'S  LIFE 

DOROTHY  KEELEY 

I  am  in  despair.  Tlie  world  outside  is  bright  and  sunny,  but 
all  within  is  steeped  in  unutterable  gloom.  Can  I  ever  smile 
again  ?  No,  I  can  never  smile  again.  I  have  filled  one  large 
'*  hanky '^  with  tears  of  rage,  and  another  with  tears  of  discour- 
agement, and  a  third  is  readj^  in  my  lap.  A  Christmas  "  hanky"' 
it  is,  with  butterflies  desporting  themselves  on  the  neat  hem. 
How  can  butterflies  desport  themselves  even  on  Christmas 
"  hankies"  and  I  so  '^  free  of  care  ?  " 

"And  why  this  despair  ?"  you  ask.  The  tears  of  rage  start 
again.  The  wings  of  the  gay  butterflies  grow  limp  and  damp. 
I  will  tell  you. 

I  am  a  student  of  Smith  College.  I  belong  to  the  rising  class 
of  1917.  I  take  English  Thirt  with  Miss  Jordan,  I  tell  my 
friends  with  a  superior  air  that  English  Thirt  is  a  fascinating 
course.  English  Thirt  is  a  fascinating  course.  I  love  English 
Thirt.  I  love  Miss  Jordan.  I  love  to  sit  and  listen  to  Miss 
Jordan  once  a  week  in  Eaglish  Thirt.  Miss  Jordan  is  such  a 
pleasant  lady  and  she  is  reasonable  too — so  reasonable.  All  she 
asks  of  you  is  thirtj^  hours  to  be  handed  in  at  any  time.  "Thirty 
hours  at  any  time  "  sounded  pleasant  to  my  freshman  ears. 
"And"  beamed  Miss  Jordan,  "your  old  work  may  also  be- 
revised  and  handed  in." 

Oh,  Perfect  Miss  Jordan  I     Perfect  English  Thirt  ! 

Time  went  on.  The  interests  of  a  member  of  the  rising  class 
of  1917  are  many  and  varied.  Once  a  week  I  went  and  chortled 
in  English  Thirt.  Once  I  handed  in  two  hours  work  and  went 
self-consciously  to  class.  Miss  Jordan  never  read  them.  About 
a  week  before  Christmas  I  overheard  two  juniors  I 

"  Say,  how  many  hours  of  English  Thirt  have  you  got  in  ?'' 

"  But  twenty.     How  manyVe  you  ?  " 

"  But  twenty-two." 

"We'd  better  hustle." 

"Rather." 

^' Going  to  thelibe?" 


THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY  431 

''Yep." 

I  gasped.  I  had  two  hours  of  English  Thirt  in.  They  had 
twenty  and  said  they'd  better  hustle.  What  should  I  do  ? 
What  could  I  do  ?  Then  I  had  a  hope,  a  white,  dazzling  hope  ! 
At  home  in  my  desk  were  themes,  many  themes.  T  would 
revise  them  over  Christmas  and  hand  them  in. 

Monday  I  had  my  shoes  shined.  Tuesday  I  went  home.  My 
family  quite  like  me.  I  have  had  a  busy  and  a  happy  vacation. 
This  morning  I  woke  with  a  queer  taste  in  my  brain.  You 
know  the  way  you  feel  when  you  know  you  ought  to  think  of 
something  disagreable  but  can't  think  what  it  is.  Than  I 
realized  that  it  was  the  taste  of  English  Thirt.  I  went  to  my 
desk — I  opened  my  desk.  My  hair  stood  on  end.  Instead  of 
the  dear  old  mess  that  I  find  each  vacation  it  was  in  order. 
In  spick  and  span  order.  Not  a  scrap  of  paper — not  a  dear 
familiar  paint  brush.  I  rushed  to  mother.  Mother  didn't 
know.  I  rushed  to  Katy.  Katy  did'nt  know.  I  rushed  to 
Sarah.  Sarah  didn't  know.  I  rushed  to  Mademoiselle.  "Ah 
yes.  She  had  cleaned  it  out  for  Mme.  because  it  wuz  in  zuch 
storrange  orrder." 

But  where  had  she  put  the  papers  ?  Ah  she  had  "  trrown  " 
them  away. 

And  now,  dear  reader,  you  know.  To-morrow  I  go  back  to 
Miss  Jordan  and  mid  years  and  I  have  twenty-eight  hours  of 
English  Thirt  to  write. 

The  tears  of  discouragement  have  started.  Oh  Miss  Jordan^ 
couldn't  you  count  this  for  three  hours  ? 


HEARD    ON    THE    TAR    WALK 


Signs  of  the  Times 

A  wet- winged  robin'  calls  its  mate. 
Some  tender  green  things  hesitate 

To  re-appear. 
A  rain  swept  sky — and  winds  that  blow — 
A  flash  of  sun,  and  then  we  know 

That  Spring  is  here  ! 

A  quick  warm  smell  of  good  brown  earth, 
A  dizzy  fly  that  reels  in  mirth 

We  hope^-and  fear — 
And  in  the  heart  there  grow  and  glow 
Deep  pulsing  thrills  :  Ah  then  we  know 

That  Spring  is  here  ! 

Dorothy  Keeley  1917 


The  Eternal  Feminine 

My  mother  always  hated  dogs, 
She  thought  they  were  a  bore. 

And  when  we  said  we  wanted  one 
She  hated  them  the  more. 

"Such  horrid  things,"  she  said,  "A  dog 

I  never  could  endure. 
'Twould  always  be  'round  under  foot 

Or  on  the  furniture. 

I  hate  to  touch  the  little  beasts, 

I  never  would  do  that 
And  hold  one  ? — never  in  the  world 

Their  place  is  on  the  mat." 

But  now  we've  got  a  puppy  dog 

She  sings  a  different  tune. 
"  He  is  a  darling  " — yet  I  laugh, 

She  changed  her  mind  so  soon  1 
432 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  433 

I  hear  her  telling  visitors 

Of  his  behavior  rare. 
'•  He  never  leaps  upon  the  bed. 

Or  even  on  a  chair. 

Right  in  his  basket  does  he  lie 

And  there  he  takes  his  naps. 
He  alveays  stays  there  proi^erly 

Unless  he's  urged  on  laps. 

And  he's  so  knowing,  too,  that  dog. 

When  he  wants  to  take  a  walk 
He  simply  beats  you  with  his  paws 

— He  doesn't  need  to  talk  ! " 

She  pets  him  often,  lovinglj', 

That  horrid,  dirty  pup  ! 
And  once  I  thought  I  heard  her  say 

••  Does  Puppy  want-y  up  ?  '' 

Katharine  Boutelle  1915 

I  will  never  go  through  a  greenhouse  again. 

The  Cactus  My  resolution  was  formed  yesterday  after 
visiting  the  Lyman  Plant  House.  A  girl  we 
l^new  showed  us  around  and  she  certainly  made  it  interesting  ; 
the  flowers  did  not  need  anyone  to  make  them  beautiful. 

In  the  third  house  stau'ls  a  cactus — you  may  be  acquainted 
with  it  yourself.  Our  guide  told  us  its  long,  botanical  name.  I 
believe,  but  it  made  no  impressi<-)n  on  me — I  was  looking  at  the 
cactus.  It  seemed  so  soft  and  velvety  !  Now  anything  that 
answers  to  that  description  appeals  to  my  sense  of  touch  and 
my  hand  almost  instinctively  goes  out  to  test  the  evidence  of 
my  eyes.  Once  in  a  New  York  street  car  I  became  aware  that 
I  was  stroking  affectionately  the  fur  neck-piece  of  a  perfectly 
strange  woman.  I  was  mortified  enough  when  she  and  I  dis- 
covered it  at  the  same  time,  but  my  confusion  then  was  as 
naught  next  to  my  feelings  yesterday. 

I  always  knew  that  a  cactus  was  dangerous,  so  I  said  to  my- 
self, •'  'Tis  these  great  spikes  one  must  avoid,"  and  threw  myself 
wlioie-heartedly  and  whole-handedly  into  stroking  the  beautiful 
green  spaces  between.  The  others  wandered  around  gazing  at 
other  things  ;  but  I  stayed  and  rubbed  that  cactus,  which  was 
just  as  soft  and  lovely  as  it  looked.  I  even  wondered  why  cacti 
were  so  much  talked  against —surely  any  fool  would  know 
enough  to  avoid  those  spikes  !  ^ 


434  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

At  last  my  tactile  touch  was  satisfied,  and  I  joined  my  com- 
panions. 

Kind  friend,  have  you  ever  played  with  a  healthy  cactus  for 
something  over  two  minutes  ?  If  so,  you  can  sympathize.  The 
others  went  on  to  view  the  orchids,  while  I  repaired  to  the 
entrance  place  to  remove  the  numberless  needles  that  were 
clinging  devotedly  to  my  hands.  It  was  discouraging  work. 
What  I  took  off  of  one  hand  decided  they  liked  the  other  just  as 
well,  and  stayed  there.  Finally  one  of  the  students,  who  was  a 
westerner  and  should  therefore,  I  felt,  have  divined  my  instinct 
and  warned  me,  offered  a  pair  of  tweezers.  In  fifteen  minutes 
my  hands  were  cleared  of  all  save  many  thousands  of  stumps, 
which  are  even  now  embedded  in  my  system.  May  be  some 
day,  having  made  the  "Grand  Tour,"  they  will  reappear  in 
some  remote  portion  of  my  body.  As  long  as  my  eyes  and  ears 
are  untouched,  they  may  do  what  they  please. 

Of  course  I  realize  that  I  need  not  make  the  same  error  again, 
of  treating  a  cactus  like  a  long-lost  friend.  I  know  now,  from 
personal  knowledge  of  its  deceptive  nature,  that  it  is  an  outcast 
from  the  kingdom  of  green  things.  That  is  why  it  grows  on 
the  desert.  But  should  I  visit  a  greenhouse,  I  know  I  must  see 
a  cactus,  and  on  such  an  occasion  my  thoughts,  although  vivid 
and  to  the  point,  could  scarcely  be  described  as  holy.  And 
what  is  not  holy  should  not  be  encouraged.  The  only  possible 
conclusion  is,  I  shall  never  go  through  a  greenhouse  again. 

Elk  A  Saul  Lewi  1915. 

Through  and  On 

"I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met. 
Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  where  through 
Gleams  that  untraveled  world  whose  margin  fades 
Forever  and  forever  as  1  move." 

— Tennyson. 

English  D  is  over  and  it  is  a  part  of  our  Senior  Privilege  that 
we  may  ask  ourselves  now,  at  the  beginning  of  spring  term, 
what  is  the  greatest  gift  of  college  ?  What  part  of  college  has 
become  the  most  real  part  of  us  ?  There  are  so  many  parts  of 
college  : — friends,  student  activities,  fun  and  frolic,  and  knowl- 
edge,— that  it  is  hard  to  come  to  a  point  and  say  just  which  one 
of  them  means  and  will  mean  the  most  to  us  through  the  long 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY  435 

years  ahead.  We  shall  always  hold  to  our  college  frieiidships, 
of  that  we  feel  certain.  The  student  activities  with  which  we 
have  been  connected  we  shall  always  remember  with  pleasure — 
they  give  us  a  sense  of  having  left  our  stamp  on  college  in  some 
small  way  at  least.  The  fun  and  frolic  has  been  one  of  the 
pleasantest  parts  of  our  life  here  :  we  have  learned  to  play  and 
to  "  play  hard.*'  We  cannot  forget  that.  And  knowledge  was 
what  we  came  here  to  gain.  Is  it.  then,  these  reminiscences 
that  college  means  to  us  ?  Do  we  look  back  on  college  or  do  we, 
rather,  look  forward  with  college  ?  Are  the  gains  of  college 
dead  things  or  are  they  not  peep-holes  through  which  we  look 
forth  on  the  limitless  unknown  which  seems  to  extend  farther 
and  farther  on  all  sides  the  larger  our  peep-holes  grow  ?  I  love 
to  think  of  my  college  experience  as  peep-holes.  Yet  always 
over  me  there  hangs  a  sense  of  danger— the  danger  of  this  vast 
undiscovered.  Shall  I,  in  ni}^  bewilderment,  lose  myself  in  it  or 
shall  I  see  mj^  path,  a  straight,  long,  shining  road  ?  Shall  I  let 
a  bit  here  and  a  bit  there  satisfy  me  ?  Shall  I  be  content  to  let 
my  knowledge  be  fit  only  for  table  talk,  or  shall  I  concentrate 
and  in  the  end  really  know  something  ?  I  am  still  in  college, 
still  out  of  danger,  but  after  college — what  ? 

DoROTHy  Lilian  Spencer  1914 


This  Demnably  Regular  Life 

We  always  have  soups  of  a  Monday, 

And  codfish  on  most  Friday  nights, 

And  ever  there's  laundry  on  one  day. 

While  on  others  our  room's  put  to  rights, 

On  Wednesdays  and  Sundays  comes  ice  cream 

Which  follows  a  species  of  meat 

Which,  though  it's  poor  pickin',  is  honored  as  chicken 

By  all  save  the  more  indiscreet. 

As  surely  as  dawn  Sunday  morning 

We're  summoned  to  join  in  House  Prayers, 

To  sinners  it  sh'd  be  a  warning. 

To  hear  how  we  render  those  airs  ! 

And  after  the  Sabbath-day  dinner 

We  flee  to  the  parlor,  of  course, 

And  our  musical  talents  are  weighed  in  the  balance, 

And  discovered  not  "wanting'*  but  hoarse  ! 


436       THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

Each  morning  we're  wakened  b}'  ringing 

Of  a  bell  that  once  tinkled  on  kine, 

Each  evening  we  join  in  the  singing 

Of  gems  like  ' '  The  Fall  River  Line." 

And  then  when  the  day  is  well  over 

At  just  ten  o'clock  every  night. 

The  proctor  comes  growling  and  we  hasten  howling 

And  promptly  extinguish  the  light ! 

There  are  those  who  will  say  that  at  college 

There's  small  luck  attending  the  shirk, 

That  the  pathway  to  virtue  by  knowledge 

Is  strenuous  up-hilly  work. 

My  friend,  do  not  let  them  deceive  you, 

It's  true  there  is  struggle  and  strife, 

But  there's  fixed  alteration  in  all  occupation — 

It's  a  "  Demnably  regular  life.^' 

Leonora  Branch  1914 

Ode  to  Music  Hall 

There  comes  a  noise  that  smites  my  ear, 
That  jangles  through  my  brain, 
That  brings  my  hands  up  to  my  head 
As  if  to  ward  off  pain. 

And  now  the  sound  subsides  a  bit  ; 
Now  thunders  like  a  squall. 
A  tower  of  Babel  verily — 
It  must  be  Music  Hall ! 

Hark,  now  a  voice  rings  sweetly  forth 
And  tries  to  drown  the  war  ; 
But  instantly  there  come  a  crash — 
And  it  is  heard  no  more. 

With  plaintive  note  the  violin 
Begins  its  mournful  wail, 
But  soon  is  overtaken  by 
A  piano's  minor  scale. 

A  Bach  prelude  now  bravely  strives 
To  overcome  the  din  ; 
In  chime  Chopin,  and  Mozart,  too, 
Determined,  quite,  to  win  ! 

Ah  well,  'tis  often  that  we  preach 
"  United  strength  the  stronger," 
And  though  perhaps  not  quite  so  sweet. 
The  sound  will  last  mucb  longer  ! 

Ruth  Saperston  1916 


EDITORIAL 


There  was  a  time  when  to  be  accused  of  originality  was  an 
incrimination.  How  far  a  cry  from  then  to  now  !  At  present 
we  seem  to  be  obsessed  with  a  desire  to  be  original.  We  see  it 
manifested  in  our  art  and  literature.  We  wish  our  methods  of 
workmanship  to  be  different,  our  plots  new.  Cubist  art  with 
its  strange  arrangement  of  line  and  fantastic  color  continues  to 
astonish  us.  Mediocre  poetry  that  can  claim  attention  only  on 
the  ground  that  it  is  "  different "  confronts  us  in  the  pages  of 
even  our  most  dependable  magazines.  The  heroes  of  our  poems 
are  men  of  primitive  brutality.  The  heroines  most  prevalent 
in  our  short  stories  are  creatures  of  nature, — untrammeled  by 
conventionality. 

Originality  is  not  only  rampant  in  our  art  and  literature  but 
it  is  dominating  our  amusements  also.  When  hotels  and  rest- 
aurants advertise  the  dansants  and  dinner  guests  dance  between 
courses,  entertainment  has  certainly  strayed  far  from  the  path 
of  sanity.  Even  the  fashions  of  the  season  have  as  their  goal 
the  bizarre  in  color  and  the  grotesque  in  line  rather  than  artis- 
tic suitability. 

The  pendulum  seems  to  have  swung  to  the  extreme.  And 
having  reached  the  extreme  we  can  hope  that  it  will  again  re- 
gain its  normal  eqailibrum.  For  originality  in  moderation  is 
desirable  and  necessary.  Because  it  is  so  indispensable  to  pro- 
gress and  development  oue  is  sorry  to  see  it  put  to  such  abuse. 
Certain  laws  of  symetry  and  harmon}^  must  be  obeyed  if 
balance  is  to  be  maintained.  Originality  has  tried  to  cast  off 
these  fetters  but  without  them  it  can  no  more  aspire  to  become 
art  than  there  can  be  art  without  originality. 

Much  of  the  so  called  originality  of  the  day  seems  but  a 
frantic  effort  to  attract  attention.  It  is  mere  uninteresting 
idiosyncracy.     The  best  and  surest  way  to  attain  originality  is 


438  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

to  think  sanely  and  wisely  and  quietly  and  to  express  yourself 
sincerely  and  simply.  And  some  day  you  will  probably  find 
that  you  have  been   original  all  along — and   didn't   know   it. 

Dr.  Gardiner,  head  of  the  Philosophy  department,  president 
of  the  Zeta  Chapter  of  Massachusetts  announced  the  names  of 
those  members  of  the  class  of  1914  who  had  been  elected  to 
membership  in  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society.  They  are  as 
follows  : 

Margaret  Charlotte  Alexander  of  Brooklyn,  N.  Y. ;  Elinor 
Isabel  Bedlow  of  Dallas,  Texas  ;  Wanda  Dorothy  Best  of  New 
York,  N.  Y. ;  Marguerite  Booth  of  Sewickley,  Pa.;  Madeline 
Claire  Brydon  of  Lancaster,  Mass. ;  Martha  Fabyan  Chadbourne 
of  Northampton,  Mass.  ;  RuthCobb  of  Falls  Church,  Va. ;  Hazel 
Louise  Finger  of  Milwaukee,  Wis.;  Amelia  Oilman  of  Worces- 
ter, Mass.;  Marion  Bowker  Gilmore  of  Keene,  N.  H.;  Ruth 
Hellekson  of  Indianapolis,  Ind.;  Gladys  Lorraine  Hendrie  of 
Northampton,  Mass.;  Marie  Louise  McNair  of  Halstead,  Kan.; 
Nellie  Joyce  Parker  of  Northampton,  Mass.;  Jean  Agnes  Paton 
of  New  Haven,  Conn.;  Ruth  Ripton  of  Schenectady,  N.  Y.,; 
Margaret  Spahr  of  Princeton,  N.  J.;  Hannah  Hastings  White 
of  Worcester,  Mass. ;  Mira  Bigelow  Wilson  of  Andover,  Mass. ; 
Elizabeth  Ann  Zimmerman  of  Lebanon,  Pa. 


EDITOR'S    TABLE 


In  every  discussion  there  is  at  least 
Vindicating  one  who  holds  that  the  river  shall  not 

THE  Conservative  be  diverted  from  its  course  for  the  ob- 
vious reason  that  it  always  has  flowed 
this  wsij.  Whatever  is  said  he  sticks  to  his  point  with  a 
tenacity  that  is  stronger  than  logic.  He  is  too  dogged  to  be 
-called  violent  aud  too  insistent  to  be  called  passive.  He  looks 
very  much  as  the  twelfth  juryman  to  the  other  eleven.  He  has 
a  variety  of  opprobrious  titles  :  public  danger,  impediment  to 
progress,  menace  to  civilization.  But  in  spite  of  the  goodly 
number  of  conservatives  in  the  long  line  of  human  discussion, 
we  pride  ourselves  that  we  have  made  some  advance  over  the 
folk  of  long  ago. 

Fortunately  it  is  the  eternal  characteristic  of  the  radical  that 
he  refuses  to  be  discouraged.  His  enthusiasm  keeps  its  pristine 
vigor.  Cheerfully  he  works  to  keep  the  kettle  a-boiling,  and 
then  siezes  on  the  pot,  the  saucepan  and  the  spider,  only  stop- 
ping long  enough  to  look  around  for  any  other  available  ware. 
His  ceaseless,  experimenting  energy  has  its  effect  and  the  con- 
servatism of  one  generation  becomes  the  antiquated  prudery  of 
the  next  ;  the  radical  idea  of  a  few  leaders  becomes  the  com- 
monplace of  the  rank  and  file.  The  life  work  of  two  brothers 
popularly  supposed  to  be  the  failures  of  the  family,  has  made 
aerial  navigation  a  possibility.  And  the  harmless  and  neces- 
sary house  fly  has  developed  into  an  insidious  demon  whose 
chief  activity  is  the  spread  of  disease. 

At  first  sight  it  looks  as  though  all  the  credit  for  our  progress 
should  go  to  the  radicals,  and  they  do  furnish  the  motive  force. 
But  the  conservatives  also  have  a  function  in  progress  that  is 
valuable  though  less  conspicuous.  Their  slow  caution  and 
mature  deliberation   force  the  scatterbrains  to  take  time,  and 

4  39 


440  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

time  never  fails  to  sift  the  wheat  from  the  chaff.  It  is  the  con- 
servatives that  are  trying  to  retard  the  hasty  passage  of  eugenics 
laws  until  science  has  bad  time  to  la}^  a  good  foundation  of 
facts.  It  is  the  conservatives  in  language  that  frown  upon  an 
objective  case  after  the  verb  ''  to  be/'  and  upon  "  don't  ^^  in  the 
third  person  singular  and  ''a'i'n't"  in  anj^  person  at  all.  In 
time  perhaps  these  may  become  good  form  ;  there  are  pure 
English  expressions  that  had  their  origin  in  slang.  But  they 
will  never  be  on  the  lips  of  the  conservatives  until  time  ha& 
proved  to  their  satisfaction  that  the  language  needs  them. 

In  this  country  we  applaud  the  radical  idea  vociferously  :  one 
on  one  day  and  another  on  the  next.  We  like  change,  variety 
and  experiment.  Sometimes  we  seize  on  one  of  these  new  idea& 
and  shout  it  loud  when  we  have  no  more  than  a  superficial 
speaking  acquaintance  with  its  real  content.  But  we  are  rather 
reluctant  to  recognize  the  spirit  of  conservatism.  It.  is  such  a 
slow,  homely,  uninteresting  old  standby  that  we  quite  forget  to 
see  it ;  then  we  neglect  its  sterling  qualities  to  run  after  the  gay 
fascination  of  the  first  new  passer  by.  R.  C. 


We  are  interested  in  the  literature  in  the  college  magazines 
resulting  from  prize  competitions,  as  it  is  almost  invariablj^  of 
a  high  standard.  We  are  inclined  to  think  that  one  reason  for 
this  is  the  fact  that  the  average  person  will  work  harder  when 
there  is  some  concrete  end  in  view.  That  is  all  very  well,  but 
should  not  one  work  primarily  for  the  sake  of  doing  something 
really  worth  while  ?  A  great  deal  of  the  poor  work  to  be  found 
in  the  college  magazines  is  undoubtedly  due  to  the  writers'  lack 
of  inspiration  to  do  well.  The  editors  of  a  magazine  must 
choose  the  best  from  the  material  that  they  have,  but  if  the  ma- 
terial be  limited  in  extent,  some  work  that  is  not  as  good  as  it 
might  be  must  be  published.  Secondly,  it  follows  that  if  every- 
one would  honestly  try  to  do  his  (or  her)  very  best  in  every- 
thing written,  the  magazines  would  be  considerably  better. 

The  two  prize  studies  in  the  Barnard  Bear  for  March,  *'The- 
Homecoming"  and  "For  Men  Must  Work,"  are  exceedingly 
good,  and  there  is  a  charming  series  of  prize  poems  in  the  Jan- 
uary Occident.  We  hesitate  to  quote  any  of  these,  since  they 
have  been  so  often  quoted  in  the  exchange  departments  of  other 
magazines  :  we  will,  however,  venture  to  do  so  for  the  benefit  of 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      441 

our  readers.     One  of  these  little  poems  is  particularly  charming 
in  its  freshness  and  simplicity.     It  is  called  "  Expectans." 

"  Here  stand  I,  a  little  maid, 

Holding  np  my  empty  cup, 
Waiting,  still  and  unafraid, 

For  Life's  hand  to  fill  it  up. 

Whatso  Life  shall  bid  me  drink, 

That  will  I,  and  smile  at  him  ; 
Lips  shall  laugh,  though  hearts  may  shrink  ; 

Fuller,  Life  I     So— to  the  brim  !  " 

Other  good  poems  in  the  college  magazines  of  the  month  are 
"  The  Sun-worshipper,"  "  Sonnet"  and  "  The  Wanting  Touch" 
in  the  Yale  Literary  Magazine;  "The  Fire  Worshippers:  a 
Garden  Idyl"  in  the  Sepiad ;  ''  Day  Ends"  and  '*  While  Time 
is  yet  with  Us  "  in  the  University  of  Virginia  Magazine  ;  "  Day 
Passes  "  in  the  Vassar  Miscellany  ;  and  '*  The  Evening  Wind  " 
in  the  Williams  Literary  Monthly, 

A  few  words  will  not  be  amiss  here  concerning  the  essays 
about  poets  that  appear  this  month.  '*  John  Masefield  "  in  the 
Occident  for  February  is  a  sympathetic  interpretation  of  the 
poet  and  his  works.  In  the  Yale  Literary  Magazine  '^  The 
Spirit  of  Swinburne's  Poetry  "  is  shorter  and  is  no  careful  analy- 
sis of  particular  poems  ;  it  is,  however,  more  highly  critical. 
"The  Aspiration  of  Keats"  in  the  D'yonville  Magazine,  is  in- 
teresting, but  unfortunately  a  little  short  for  an  adequate  treat- 
ment of  the  subject. 

And  now,  before  we  hand  over  to  our  successor  the  piles  of 
magazines  that  have  become  so  familiar  to  us  and  lay  aside  the 
editorial  "  we"  and  become  ])lain  **  I  "  again,  we  should  like  to 
make  one  plea.  We  have  observed  that  many  college  maga- 
zines have  no  exchange  departments,  and  we  are  of  the  opinion 
that  exchange  departments  would  be  an  invaluable  addition  to 
many  of  them.  The  broadening  influences  of  intercollegiate 
criticism  cannot  be  denied,  and  we  think  that  a  number  of  our 
exchanges  would  profit  by  the  introduction  of  an  exchange  de- 
partment—even at  the  expense,  if  need  be,  of  omitting  a  column 
or  two  of  jokes.  .  D.  O. 


AFTER    COLLEGE 


COMMENCEMENT  ART  EXHIBITION  BY  ALUMNAE 

It  is  proposed  to  hold  an  exhibition  of  the  work  of  alumnae,  in  i3ainting, 
sculpture  and  decorative  art,  at  the  college  during  Commencement.  Presi- 
dent Burton,  on  behalf  of  the  college,  has  offered  to  meet  the  expense  of  such 
an  exhibition.  Mr.  Tryon.  Mr.  Churchill  and  Miss  Strong  of  the  Art  Depart- 
ment have  offered  their  assistance  and  the  exhibition  rooms  in  the  Hillyer 
Art  Gallery.  Mr.  Dwight  W.  Tr3^on,  N.  A.,  Miss  Amy  Otis  and  Mr.  Louis 
G.  Monte jwill  act  as  jury.  It  is  planned  to  have  the  standard  of  the  exhibi- 
tion as  high  as  that  required  of  Smith  alumnae  in  other  fields  of  professional 
work. 

A  cordial  invitation  is  therefore  extended  to  alumnae  and  former  students 
to  exhibit  their  work  in  the  plastic  and  decorative  arts.  Exhibits  must  be  in 
Northampton  before  May  10th.     The  expense  of  transportation  will  be  paid. 

It  is  hoped  that  many  will  accept  this  invitation  to  exhibit  their  work  at 
Smith  College.  Those  who  are  willing  to  do  so  are  asked  to  communicate 
with  the  alumnae  committee  immediately,  that  they  may  receive  exhibitors' 
blanks.  The  names  of  any  former  students  who  are  doing  professional  work 
in  art  would  be  greatly  appreciated  by  the  committee. 

Committee:  Elizabeth  McGrew  Kimball  1901,  Chairman;  Julia  S.  L. 
Dwight  1893,  Elizabeth  Olcott  1913,  Florence  H.  Snow  1904.  Address  :  184 
Elm  Street,  Northampton. 

ALUMNAE  NOTICES  FOR  APRIL,   19H 
Dramatics  Tickets 

Applications  may  be  placed  on  file  at  the  General  Secretary's  Office,  184 
Elm  Street,  Northampton.  Alumnae  are  urged  to  apply  for  the  Thursday 
evening  performance  June  11  if  possible,  as  Saturday  evening  is  not  open  to 
alumnae,  and  the  waiting  list  is  the  only  opportunity  for  Frida3\  Each 
alumna  may  apply  for  only  one  ticket  for  Fridaj'^  evening,  but  extra  tickets 
may  be  obtained  on  a  Thursday  evening  application. 

The  prices  of  seats  will  range  on  Thursday  from  $1.50  to  75  cents  and  on 
Friday  from  $2.00  to  75  cents.  The  desired  price  of  seat  should  be  indicated 
in  the  application.  A  fee  of  10  cents  is  charged  to  all  non-members  of  the 
Alumnae  Avssociation  for  the  filing  of  the  application.  The  fee  may  be  sent  to 
the  General  Secretary  at  the  time  of  application.  Applications  are  not  trans- 
ferable, and  should  be  canceled  at  once  if  not  wanted. 

442 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  44.} 

In  May  all  those  who  have  api)lied  for  tickets  will  receive  a  request  to  con- 
firm the  applications.  Tickets  will  then  be  assigned  only  to  those  who  re- 
spond to  this  request.  No  deposit  is  required  to  secure  tickets,  which  may 
be  claimed  on  arrival  in  Northampton  from  the  business  manager  in  Seelye 
Hall.  Tickets  will  be  held  only  until  5  o^ clock  on  the  day  of  the  performance, 
unless  a  request  has  be  received  to  hold  them  later  at  the  theatre. 

Alumn.*:  Headquarters 

Each  alumna  returning  for  Commencement  is  requested  to  register  as  soon 
as  possible  in  Seelye  Hall,  and  obtain  tickets  for  collation.  Baccalaureate, 
etc.     Registration  will  open  at  9  o'clock  on  Friday.  June  12. 

The  postmaster  asks  each  alumna  to  notify  her  correspondents  of  the  street 
and  number  of  her  Northampton  address  at  Commencement,  in  order  to  en- 
sure the  prompt  delivery  of  mail.  Any  alumna  who  is  uncertain  of  a  definite 
address  may  have  her  mail  sent  in  care  of  the  General  Secretary  at  Seelye  Hall. 

The  General  Secretary  will  be  glad  to  be  of  assistance  in  securing  off-cam- 
pus rooms  or  supplying  information  of  any  kind.  Her  services  are  at  the 
disposal  of  all  members  of  the  Alniiinpe  Association. 

Rooms  for  Commencement 

By  a  vote  of  the  Trustees  of  Smith  College  the  available  rooms  in  the  col- 
lege will  be  open  to  the  alumnae  at  Commencement.  The  chairman  of  the 
committee  in  charge  of  the  assignments  is  Dean  Comstock.  College  Hall. 
Applications  for  the  classes  holding  reunions  should  be  made  to  their  class 
secretaries.  Rooms  will  be  assigned  to  as  many  of  these  classes  as  possible 
in  the  order  of  their  seniority.  In  view  of  the  experience  of  the  committee 
last  year,  no  classes  after  the  one  holding  its  fifth  reunion  can  be  accommo- 
dated in  the  college  houses.  For  the  five  days  or  less  time  the  price  of  board 
will  be  five  dollars.  Alumuse  to  whom  assignments  are  made  will  be  held 
responsible  for  the  full  payment  unless  notice  of  w^ithdrawal  is  sent  to  the 
class  secretary  before  June  1.  After  June  1,  notices  of  withdrawal  and  re- 
quests for  rooms  should  be  sent  directly  to  Dean  Comstock.  Except  in  cases 
where  payment  to  the  class  secretaries  has  been  made  in  advance,  the  five- 
dollar  charge  for  a  campus  room  should  be  paid  at  Miss  Comstock's  office, 
No.  2.  College  Hall. 

LETTER  FROM  MISS  LEAVENS 

Tungchon,  Peking.  China,  via  Siberia. 
Dear  Smith  Girls  : 

Perhaps  j'ou  think  your  missionary  has  forgotten  all  about  you,  for  all 
these  long  fall  months  she  has  not  written  you  a  word.  Her  only  excuse  is 
that  she  has  only  been  doing  a  little  bit  of  the  work,  your  work  that  you  sent 
her  out  to  do.  There  is  plenty  of  it  to  be  done,  not  just  enough  for  to-day 
and  to-morrow,  but  for  years  to  come.  too.  Some  people  say  that  the  work 
of  the  foreign  missionary  is  nearly  done  in  China,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  she 
will  be  needed  for  a  long  time  yet.  Her  work  will  be  different  from  what  it 
was  at  first.     She  will  give  more  time  to  planning  work   and  showing  the 


444  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

Chinese  how  it  ought  to  be  done,  and  less  to  the  actual  doing  of  it.  When  I 
was  at  home  last  year,  a  volunteer  said  to  me,  "I  am  sure  I  never  could 
teach ;  my  ability  is  entirely  along  the  lines  of  organization  and  executive 
work,  and  I  suppose  there  is  not  much  opportunity  for  that  sort  of  thing  on 
the  mission  field."  There  is  a  great  demand  for  just  that,  for  we  have  now, — 
and  every  year  the  schools  are  turning  out  a  few  more, — teachers  who  can 
teach  in  our  lower  schools.  Some  of  them  are  very  good  indeed,  but  all  of 
them  need  a  great  deal  of  oversight  and  suggestion.  Then  there  is  always 
new  work  to  be  planned,  or  changes  to  be  made  in  the  old.  It  is  very  easy 
for  the  Chinese  to  get  into  ruts,  unless  some  one,  with  a  horizon  a  little 
broader  than  theirs,  is  near,  with  friendly  suggestions.  The  high  schools 
and  colleges  cannot  get  on  without  a  foreign  faculty  for  there  are  very  few 
Chinese  women  ready  yet  to  teach  the  higher  branches. 

Beside  this  teaching  and  administrative  work,  there  is  a  great  deal  that  the 
foreigner  can  do  in  personal  influence  with  the  girls,  in  giving  them  high 
ideals,  and  in  trying  to  produce  such  an  atmosphere  as  we  have  in  our  schools 
at  home.  After  all,  the  development  of  Christian  character  in  our  pupils  is 
the  most  important  and  also  the  hardest  part  of  our  work.  I  told  you  how 
much  the  girls  gained  from  the  conference  last  summer.  The  school  has  felt 
the  effect  of  it  this  fall  but  it  is  easier  to  begin  with  enthusiasm  than  to  keep 
on,  and  as  the  end  of  the  year  comes,  we  are  inclined  to  slump  a  bit.  Miss 
Parson  is  coming  down  to-morrow  to  talk  to  the  girls  and  I  am  hoping  for 
much  from  the  influence  of  her  "meeting.  It  will  seem  quite  like  old  times  to 
be  having  a  visit  from  a  Y.  W.  C.  A,  secretary. 

Many  of  our  girls  are  given  both  tuition  and  clothes  by  foreigners.  They 
are  so  very  poor,  it  is  the  only  way  they  can  go  to  school  at  ail,  but. there  is 
alwaj^s  danger  that  they  will  be  spoiled  by  it,  and  grow  to  expect  things  as 
their  due.  I  have  been  trying  to  develop  a  little  of  the  spirit  of  giving  this 
Christmas,  and  have  had  every  girl  make  a  Christmas  card  for  hor  mother, 
during  the  drawing  periods.  They  are  most  enthusiastic  over  their  very 
simple  productions  and  I  hope  they  will  realize  that  Christmas  is  a  time  for 
giving  as  well  as  receiving.  The  entertainment  they  prepared  also  brought 
out  that  thought.  This  year  for  the  first  time  we  had  vacation  at  Christmas 
and  the  foreign  new  year  instead  of  the  Chinese  new  year,  so  the  girls  had 
more  chance  to  be  in  their  homes  at  Christmas.  We  closed  school  on  Satur- 
day with  the  girl's  entertainment,  a  Christmas  tree  with  presents,  some  of 
them  things  from  your  box. 

I  wish  I  could  take  you  to  visit  my  five  or  rather  my  seven  little  day 
schools.  I  said  five,  for  two  are  in  the  country  and  do  not  receive  visits  as 
often  as  the  others.  They  have  from  ten  to  twenty-five  pupils  each  and  I  try 
to  examine  each  school  every  two  or  three  weeks.  As  soon  as  I  enter  the 
room,  the  children  hop  up,  and  making  most  profound  bows,  say.  "  Miss 
Leavens,  how  do  you  do  ?  "  Then  I  sit  down  and  one  class  after  another 
comes  to  say  its  lesson.  It  was  very  embarrassing  the  first  of  the  term,  to  be 
confronted  wdth  books  I  had  not  read,  moreover,  to  have  to  give  out  char- 
acters from  them  for  the  children  to  write  and  then  correct  their  writing. 
I  used  to  hurry  home  and  read  a  few  lessons  with  my  teacher  to  try  to  keep 
a  little  ahead  my  assignments.     I  sometimes  wonder  if  they  suspect  that  I 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  445 

give  them  easy  characters  because  I  am  more  sure  of  them,  than  because  I 
pity  my  studeuts.  I  never  cared  much  for  arithmetic  but  now  I  love  it  for 
there  I  am  on  sure  ground.  Even  the  multiplication  table  in  Chinese  has  no 
terrors  for  me.  When  it  comes  to  geography  I  am  not  so  much  at  home  with 
the  names  of  places,  so  I  generally  let  the  teacher  ask  the  questions.  We 
learned  a  Christmas  song,  so  we  sing  that  too. 

One  of  my  schools  is  about  two  miles  away,  outside  the  east  gate  of  the  city^ 
while  we  live  outside  the  south  gate.  I  am  escorted  by  a  faithful  colie  who 
has  aspirations  to  learn  English,  and  considers  that  a  convenient  time  for 
getting  a  little  help  from  me.  He  carries  a  book  and  asks  me  what  this 
word  is  and  what  that  word  is.  Sometimes  I  understand,  and  very  often,  I 
do  not,  until  he  explains  in  Chinese.  He  certainly  has  some  original  pro- 
nunciations. 

If  you  could  see  the  zeal  with  which  I  read  the  Weekly,  you  would  know 
that  I  am  interested  in  all  that  is  going  on  at  Smith.  I  feel  quite  as  if  I 
knew  you.  and  I  hope  you  are  having  a  very  happy  year. 

Cordially  yours, 

Delia  Dickson  Leavens. 


PERSONALS 

Contributions  to  this  department  are  desired  before  the  end  of  the  month, 
in  order  to  appear  in  the  next  month's  issue,  and  should  be  addressed  to 
Eloise  Schmidt,  Gillett  House.  Northampton,  Massachusetts. 

'98.     Alice  O'Malley.     Address :   616  Pennsylvania   Avenue,    Manila,   Porto 

Rico. 
'03.     Mrs.  Earl  H.  Brewster  (Achsa  Barlow.)  Address  :  Minori,  per  Cariosiel- 

lo  (Salerno,)  Italy. 
'06.     Mrs.   Trevor  O.    Hammond    (Alice   Lindman.)    Address:    421   Spruce 
Street,  Helena,  Montana. 
Ethel  Spalding  and  Ada  Carpenter  '07  are  teaching  in  Miss  Catlin's  School 
for  Girls,  161  23rd  Street.  North,  Portland,  Oregon. 
'09.     Mrs.  L.  H.  Shepard  (Elizabeth  Alsop.)  Address  :  48  Sidney  Place,  Brook- 
lyn, New  York. 
'10.     Agnes  Carter.     Address:    3120  Humboldt  Avenue  South,   Minneapolis, 

Minnesota. 
'11.     Mrs.  George  C.Jones  (Gertrude   McKelvey.)     Address:  247  Lora  Ave- 
nue, Youngstown.  Ohio. 
Olive  Booth  has  been  doing  volunteer  work  for  the  Philadelphia  Child 

Federation. 
Jean  Cahoon  is  managing  the  ".Noonday"  lunch  room  on  26th  Street, 

New  York  City. 
Olive  Carter  is  teaching  English  in  the  Meriden  Connecticut  High  School. 

She  took  her  degree  of  Master  of  Arts  at  Columbia  in  1913. 
Elsa  Detmold  has  announced  her  engagement  to  Terence  B.  Holliday  of 
New  York  City. 


446  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

'11.     Anue  Doyle  is  teaching  Latin  and  French  in  the  High  School  at  Lenox,. 
Massachusetts. 

Myra  Isabel  Foster  is  teaching  History  and  French  in  the  High  School  at 
Lubec,  Maine. 

Angela  Keenan  address  :  38  Aldrich  Street,  Roslindale,  Boston,  Mass. 

Lena  Kelly  is  a  Chemist  in  the  General  Chemical  Company  of  Brooklyn. 
New  York. 

Edith  Lobdell  has  had  two  songs  published  by  the  Willis  Music  Com- 
pany. They  are  **If  Love  Were  What  the  Rose  Is"  and  -'In  the 
Forest." 

Sophronia  Roberts  has  organized  and  is  now  running  The  Pittsburgh 
Clearing  House  of  Charitable  Information. 

Margaret  Russell  is  Chief  Guardian  of  the  A.  C.  A.  Camp  Fires,  and  is 
teaching  fourth  grade  in  the  Academy  at  Portland,  Oregon. 

Margaret  Shoemaker  has  been  doing  Volunteer  work  for  the  Philadel- 
phia Child  Federation. 

Anna  Smart  is  doing  graduate  work  at  the  University  of  Minnesota,  and 
is  assisting  in  the  department  of  Philosophy  and  Psychology. 

Alice  Smith  is  taking  the  course  in  trained  nursing  at  the  Presbyterian 
Hospital  in  New  York. 
'12.     Marion  Scharr  is  teaching  at  the  New  Park  Avenue  School,  Hartford, 

Connecticut. 
'13.    Alice  Adams  is  studying  for  the  Degree  of  Master  of  Arts  at  the  New 
York  State  Normal  College,  Albany,  New  York. 

Helen  Betterley  is  teaching  Mathematics  and  Science  at  the  Jacob  Tome 
Institute,  Port  Deposit,  Maryland. 

Ruth  Brown  is  teaching  English  and  Mathematics  in  the  High  School  at 
Fair  Haven,  Vermont. 

Emily  Chamberlain  is  at  home.  Address  :  127  Mulberry  Street,  Spring- 
field, Massachusetts. 

Sarah  Cheney  is  at  home.    Address  :  30  West  86th  Street,  New  York  City. 

Helen  Collins  is  acting  as  Secretary  in  the  Extension  Department  of  the 
Massachusetts  Agricultural  College,  Amherst,  Massachusetts. 

Vera  Cole  is  the  Assistant  Principal  in  the  High  School  at  Patterson, 
New  York. 

Dorothy  Davis  is  at  home.     Address  :  The  Alders,  Redlands,  California. 

Marion  Drury  is  taking  a  Graduate  Course  in  Music  at  Smith  College. 

Helen  Estee  is  Instructor  in  an  open-air  class  in  the  Primary  Department 
of  the  Park  School,  Buffalo,  New  York. 

Catharine  Gowdey  is  doing  Graduate  Work  at  Columbia  University. 

Helen  Hood  is  teaching  in  the  High  School  at  Bethlehem,  New  Hamp- 
shire. 

Frances  Hunter  is  at  home.     Address  :  Hillcroft,  Adams,  Massachusetts.. 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  447 

'13.  Elizabeth  MacGregor  is  teaching  Science  and  Mathematics  in  the  Searles 
High  School,  Great  Barrington,  Massachusetts. 

Winifred  McQuigg  is  acting  as  Substitute  in  the  Public  Schools  of  Kala- 
mazoo, Michigan, 

Merle  McVeigh  is  living  at  home  and  taking  a  Business  Course  at  the 
Bliss  Business  College,  North  Adams,  Massachusetts. 

Lillian  Pearson  is  teaching  the  Seventh  and  Eighth  Grades  in  Meredith, 
New  Hampshire. 

Ruth  Remmey  is  doing  Graduate  Work  in  English  and  Comparative  Lit- 
erature at  Columbia  University. 

Olive  Tomlin  is  Resident  Teacher  in  Miss  White's  School,  Concord, 
Massachusetts. 

Eleanor  Welsh  is  teaching  in  the  High  School  at  Ridgewood,  New  Jersey. 

•Sara  Wyeth  is  at  home.  Address  :  728  North  Twenty-Fifth  Street,  St. 
Joseph,  Missouri. 

BIRTHS 

'10.  Mrs.  Kenneth  S.  Littlejohn  (Josephine  Keizer),  a  daughter,  Virginia, 
born  February  24,  1914. 

'11.  Mrs.  William  A.  Wells  (Mildred  Plummer),  a  son,  William  Edward, 
born  February  10,  1914. 

e.r-'ll.    Mrs.  J.  Blaine  Korrady   (Louise  Rowley),  a  daughter,  Katherine, 
born  August  25,  1913. 
Mrs.  Howard  B.  Snow  (Alice  Peck),  a  son.  Richard  Birney,  born  Feb- 
ruary 15,  1914. 
Mrs.  Herbert  Woodward  (Ethel  Warren),  a  daughter,  Ruth,  born  Sep- 
tember 19,  1913. 


CALENDAR 

April  17.     Lecture  by  Claude  Bragden. 

Under  the  auspices  of  the  Department  of  Art. 

"       18.     Meetings  of  Alpha  and  Phi  Kappa  Psi  Societies. 

^'       20.     Lecture  by  Henry  A.  Stimson,  D.  D. 

Subject :  Some  Modern  Minor  English  Poets. 

*'      21.     Address  by  Rev.  Dr.  Samuel  M.  Crothers. 

Under  the  auspices  of  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society. 

''      25.     Address  by  Hon.  Bertrand  Russell. 

Under  auspices  of  the  Department  of  Philosophy. 

"      29.     Joint  Meeting  of  the  Vox  and  Clef  Clubs. 

May      4.     Lecture  by  Philip  Churchman. 

Under  the  auspices  of  the  Spanish  Club. 

"        6.     Lecture  by  Robert  Woods. 

Under  the  auspices  of  the  College  Settlements 
Association. 

''        9.     Division  B  Dramatics. 

"      13.     Junior  Promenade. 


JEbe 


Smitb    Colleae 
nilontbl^ 


flDa?-  1914 
©wne&  ant)  ipubllebcJ)  b?  tbc  Senior  Claaa 


CONTENTS 


Was  Dryden's  Treatment  of  the  Cit  Justifiable? 


June  Love  Song 

Sunset 

The  Man  with  the  Scar 

May 

Out  of  Step 

Teotis       .  .  .     , 

Eclaircie 

The  Epicure  Club 

April 

A  Trip  Down  the  Coast 

To  a  String  of  Green  Beads 

Memories 


Helen  Violette  Tooker  1915  449 

Helen  Violette  Tooker  1915  454 

Eika  Saul  Lewi  1915  454 

Eleanor  Everett  Wild  1916  455 

Grace  Angela  Richmond  1916  458 

Marion  Sinclair  Walker  1915  458 

Mary  Coggeshall  Baker  1916  459 

Rosamond  Drexel  Holmes  1914  467 

.     Ellen  Bodley  Jones  1916  468 

Grace  Angela  Richmond  1916  470 

Lucie  Belden  Scott  1916  471 

Laura  Mae  Blue  1917  473 

Helen  V.  Tooker  1915  473 


SKETCHES 

Apples  and  Memories 

Sally 

The  Fountain 

Just  Wait    . 

Rainy  Weather     . 

Simon  of  Cyrene 

Bedelia 

A  Black  Opal 

The  Minister's  Daughter 

The  Vacuum  Cleaner 

After  Spring  Rain 

A  Portrait 


Marion  Sinclair  Walker  1915  474 

Dorothy  Stockman  Keeley  1917  477 

Marion  Delamater  Freeman  1914  478 

Adelaide  Heilbron  1915  479 

Madeline  Fuller  McDowell  1917  .480 

Anna  Elizabeth  Spicer  1914  481 

Ruth  Kingsley  Wager  1915  482 

Laura  Mae  Blue  1917  484 

Dorothy  Goldthwait  Thayer  1915  484 

Natalie  Carpenter  1915  488 

Grace  Angela  Richmond  1916  488 

Leonora  Branch  1914  489 


ABOUT  COLLEGE 


A  Physics  Phantasy 

A  Comfortable  Thought 

Those  Thundering  Feet 

Noteworthy  Advice 

A  Mark 

The  Worst  of  War 

HEARD  ON  THE  TAR  WALK 

EDITORIAL 

EDITOR'S  TABLE 

AFTER  COLLEGE       . 

CALENDAR 


Esther  Sayles  Root  1915 

Dorothy  Stockman  Keeley  1917 

Madeleine  Fuller  McDowell  1917 

Barbara  Cheney  1915 

Grace  Angela  Richmond  1916 

Dorothy  Davies  1915 


490 
493 
494 
494 
497 
498 

499 
503 
506 
509 
512 


Entered  at  the  Post  Office  at  Northampton,  Massachusetts,  as  second  class  matter 
Gazette  Printing  Company,  Northampton,  Mass. 


THE 

Smith  College  Monthly 

Vol.  XXI  MAY,  1914  No.  8 


EDITORS 


Marion  Sinclair  Walker 
Mary  Louise  Ramsdell  Adelaide  Heilbron 

Barbara  Cheney  Katharine  Buell  Nye 

Annie  Preston  Bridgers  Helen  Violette  Tooker 

Katharine  Boutelle  Ellen  Veronica  McLoughlin 

Kathleen  Isabel  Byam  Eleanor  Haller  Gibbons 

Alice  Lilian  Peters 
business  manager  and  treasurer 
Alice  Bradford  Welles 

assistant  business  managers 
Hester  Gunning 
Eleanor  Hollister  Park 


WAS  DRYDEN'S  TREATMENT  OF  THE  CIT  JUSTIFIABLE? 

HELEN   VIOLETTE   TOOKER 

There  has  been  at  one  time  or  another  in  recent  years  much 
talk  about  the  lamentable  dependence  of  a  writer  upon  the 
whims  of  the  public.  ''Freedom  I  Freedom  I  "  is  the  cry.  "Get 
the  public  out  from  under  our  feet  so  that  we  may  have  room 
to  be  Ourselves,  and  write  beautiful  things  and  become  famous." 

"  But  who  will  make  you  famous,"  some  one  asks  innocently, 
*'if  you  do  away  with  the  public  ?"  But  the  literary  aristo- 
crats are  suddenly  deaf. 

Oar  century  cannot,  however,  lay  exclusive  claim  to  this 
problem  of  the  dependence  of  an  author.  History  has  shown 
few  great  writers  who  could   live  without  patronage  of  some 


450  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

kind.  Many  have  needed  financial  support ;  all  have  needed 
the  intellectual  interest  and  symptathy  which  joins  one  genera- 
tion to  the  next.  This  was  a  problem  of  the  seventeenth 
century.,  John  Dryden  recognized  it  and  asked  himself  the 
question,  "  In  whom  shall  I  trust  ?" 

The  custom  of  his  time  was  to  procure  for  each  literary  man 
a  patron  who  should  graciously  receive  all  dedications  and 
adulation  and  in  return  give  to  the  '^servant"  the  protection 
of  his  name  and  more  material  support — a  pension.  Dryden, 
however,  was  not  satisfied  with  this  way  of  doing  things.  He 
believed  that  he  owed  a  debt  to  the  public.  He  conceived  him- 
self not  as  a  being  who  stood  aloof  from  the  multitude  and 
untouched  by  the  course  of  human  events,  but  as  an  English- 
man whose  mind  and  heart  were  the  developments  of  the  life 
and  the  customs  of  the  world  in  which  he  lived.  And  this 
world  was  the  public.  To  a  patron  he  owed  no  debt.  To  the 
public  he  did.  In  some  measure  he  could  prove  his  apprecia- 
tion of  this  by  showing  his  trust.  At  least  if  he  must  owe  his 
support  to  someone  it  was  better  that  it  should  be  to  a  greater 
power  rather  than  to  one  man.  So  Dryden  decided,  and  appar- 
ently never  regretted  the  faith  which  he  had  put  in  the  ''  Cit.'^ 

It  has  been  maintained  that  Dryden's  influence  upon  later 
writers  in  this  turning  for  support  from  the  conventional  patron 
to  the  public,  was  injurious;  that  these  writers  were  gripped  by 
the  desire  for  mere  popularity,  lost  their  ideals  and  sense  of 
proportion,  catered  to  their  audience  and  became,  in  short, 
mere  trucklers  and  high  bidders  for  popularity  when  they 
might  have  been  great  men.  An  ignominious  burden  to  lay  on 
the  shoulders  of  the  public  !  It  is,  of  course,  quite  true  that  a 
man  might  be  swept  away  by  a  desire  for  general  approval 
either  as  the  accompaniment  of  wealth  or  of  a  kind  of  transitory 
notoriety  ;  but  it  is  probable  that  he  had  a  tendency  in  the 
beginning  toward  such  intellectual  degeneracy  and  would  not 
in  any  case  have  overcome  his  instability  suflSciently  to  have 
done  anything  worthy  of  the  preservation. 

Granting,  however,  that  it  were  possible  for  such  a  man  to 
produxje  many  good  things  in  spite  of  his  weaknesses,  what  will 
happen  ?  Give  him  a  patron.  The  public  is  still  there.  That 
cannot  be  taken  away.  And  while  the  public  exists  the  possi- 
bility of  fame  exists.  Of  this  possibility  is  born  the  desire,  and 
all  roads  lead  to  Rome. 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      451 

Another  objection  has  been  urged  to  this  practice  of  depend- 
ing upon  the  public  for  support.  It  is  the  uncertainty  of 
income  which  results  and  which  makes  it  necessary  for  the 
writer  to  pay  too  much  attention  to  the  financial  side  of  his 
affairs,  makes  him  worry  and  fret  and  hurts  his  work.  Dry- 
den's  own  case  will  show  how  false  such  a  theory  is.  In  1672 
King's  Theatre  burned  down.  Dryden  owned  part  of  the 
theatre  and  depended  upon  it  for  a  good  part  of  his  income. 
In  1674  it  was  necessary  to  rebuild.  This  was  distinctly  money 
out  of  Dryden's  purse.  About  this  same  time  he  was  appar- 
ently in  more  or  less  disfavor  at  court  and  it  is  probable  that 
his  salary  as  court  historiographer  and  laureate  was  not  paid 
too  promptly.  So  this  was  a  time  of  extreme  financial  embar- 
rassment for  Dryden — perhaps  the  worst  time  he  ever  knew. 
And  yet  in  the  year  of  1678  he  produced  "All  for  Love,"  which 
is  one  of  his  best  plays. 

Samuel  Johnson  is  another  man  who  was  not  harmed  by 
poverty.  He  was  poor  during  the  greater  part  of  his  life  and 
he  did  good  work.  In  his  later  years,  in  a  state  of  comparative 
prosperity,  he  produced  very  little.  He  himself  acknowledged 
that  this  inactivity  was  the  result  of  his  increased  affluence. 
There  was  no  necessitj^  therefore  no  invention. 

"  But,"  some  people  say,  "the  public  does  not  recognize  its 
responsibility  toward  the  writer..  Look  at  Chatterton."  Well, 
look  at  Chatterton.  He  almost  starved  and  finally  killed  him- 
self, preferring  that  way  to  death  rather  than  the  slower  way 
of  starvation.  But  what  right  had  Chatterton  to  ask  help  from 
the  public  ?  He  had  cheated  and  fooled  it.  It  owed  him 
nothing  except  perhaps  a  grudge  for  having  tricked  it  so  nicely. 
Chatterton  is  not  a  fair  example.  Nor  is  there  any  necessity 
for  a  man's  starving  to  death.  If  he  cannot  make  his  living  by 
writing  poetry  or  plots  or  learned  discussions,  let  him  turn 
fruiterer  and  drive  his  cart  through  the  city  streets.  If  he  is  a 
true  poet  he  will  make  his  poetry  all  the  better  for  the  presence 
of  the  oranges  and  the  strawberries.  Ruskin  says  that  the 
maker  of  a  real  book  writes  because  he  must  and  for  no  other 
reason.     In  any  case  the  fruiterer  can  earn  his  living. 

"All  this  is  very  well,"  some  one  will  say,  "  but  it  is  true  that 
Dryden  pampered  the  coarse  and  vulgar  tastes  of  the  people  in 
some  things.  If  he  had  had  a  patron  he  would  not  have  had  to 
do  this  and  would  perhaps  have  been  greater."     If  Dryden  had 


452  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

had  a  patron  lie  would  have  done  just  as  he  did  do.  The  patron 
would  have  been  his  bank — nothing  more.  Dryden  wanted  to 
show  the  people  how  they  looked  to  Lim,  and  he  wanted  to 
make  them  ashamed  of  themselves.  To  make  them  listen  he 
had  to  keep  them  interested,  and  to  do  this  he  often  had  to  be 
coarse.  Moreover,  part  of  this  coarseness  was  merely  a  true 
picture  of  the  times,  which  he  was  earnestly  trying  to  place 
before  his  audience.  It  is  not  fair  to  expect  even  a  great  poet 
to  be  entirely  in  advance  of  his  age,  and  in  any  case  in  spite  of 
the  vulgarity  and  coarseness  the  beauties  of  the  poetry  remain 
and  are  so  much  larger  a  part  of  the  work  that  it  seems  hardly 
fair  to  lay  much  stress  on  the  meaner  element.  ISTor  is  it  really 
just  to  say  that  Dryden  might  under  any  given  circumstances 
have  been  a  greater  poet.  That  is  something  which  must 
remain  undecided,  and  no  matter  how  much  arguing  is  done, 
one  party  will  continue  to  think  he  would  have  been  greater, 
and  the  other  that  he  would  not. 

Emerson,  speaking  of  scholars,  among  whom  he  includes  men 
of  letters,  says  :    "  They  are  idealists  and  should  stand  for  free- 
dom, justice  and  public  good.      The  scholar  is  bound  to  stand 
for  all  the  liberties,  liberty  of  trade,  liberty  of  the  press,  liberty 
of  religion.^'      And  again,   "It  is  a  primary  duty  of  a.  man  of 
letters  to  be  independent."     Emerson  upholds  independence  for 
men  of  letters,  and  it  is  precisely  this  which   Dryden  gained 
when  he  broke  loose  from  the  old  convention  and  put  his  trust 
in  the  cit.      If  he  had  been  dependent  upon  just  one  man,  his 
patron,  it  would  have  been  necessary  to  praise  him  in  all  things. 
Willy-nilly,  Dryden  must  have  endorsed  his  master's  opinions 
and  elaborated  them  for  the  world  to  read.     If  he  did  not  there 
would  be  no  pension  coming  his  way,  and  he  would  have  had  to 
take  his  second-hand  self  to  another  market.      Would  not  this 
have   been  a  kind   of  intellectual   slavery  ?      And   slavery,  so 
Edmund  Burke  says,  makes  all  men  dull.     But  it  may  be  urged 
that  a  man  must  humor  a  public  quite  as  much  as  he  would 
humor  a  patron.      This  is  not  true,  for  in  a  public  there  are 
many  varieties  of  cits  and  citesses,  and  if  a  certain  opinion  of 
Drj^den's  did  not  suit  the  taste  of  one  it  was  pretty  sure  to  suit 
the  taste  of  another.     So  by  his  decision  he  gained  as  complete 
an  intellectual  freedom  as  is  possible,  and  pointed  the  way  for 
others  to  follow. 

It  is  true  enough  that  a  man  need   not  cater  to  his  public, 


THE   SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY  453 

but,  on  the  other  hand,  there  is  no  necessity  for  him  to  hold 
himself  entirely  aloof.  There  should  be  a  sort  of  graciousness 
in  the  attitude  of  an  author  toward  his  audience,  a  willingness 
to  listen  to  its  opinions.  He  owes  a  debt  there  and  in  no  way 
can  he  better  cancel  it  than  by  meeting  their  wishes  as  far  as  is 
consistent  with  his  own  ideals  and  by  giving  his  ideas  on  the 
subject  in  which  they  are  most  interested.  This  is  very  fine  as 
long  as  he  owes  the  debt  to  a  large  and  heterogeneous  group  of 
people,  but  when  he  must  make  his  payments  to  one  single 
person,  the  results  are  not  so  pleasing.  The  writer^s  inter- 
ests become  narrower  and  probably  less  pertinent.  If  he  still 
reflects  the  attitude  of  the  times  it  is  in  spite  of,  not  because  of, 
his  patron. 

Moreover,  Dryden's  scheme  for  making  the  public  responsible 
for  him  is  infinitely  more  educational  for  the  public  than  the 
older  method.  It  is  generally  conceded  that  the  way  to  develop 
responsibility  is  to  give  the  candidate  something  for  which  to 
be  responsible.  There  is  no  reason  why  an  audience  should  not 
take  care  of  the  man  who  amuses  or  instructs  it,  and  on  this 
principle  Dryden's  attitude  was  based. 

Since  his  time  other  men  have  realized  the  strength  of  his 
position  and  have  gone  and  done  likewise,  and  now  the  patron 
is  entirely  done  away  with.  Has  Dryden's  influence  been 
harmful  in  this  ?  A  glance  at  the  literature  before  his  time 
and  at  that  which  came  later  shows,  as  far  as  it  is  possible  to 
settle  questions  of  the  sort,  that  it  has  not  been  harmful  and 
has  been  beneficial.  Certainly,  there  have  been  more  men 
writing  since  Dryden's  time  than  there  were  earlier,  for  as 
Scott  says,  in  the  late  seventeenth  century  few  of  the  best  men 
of  the  time  were  writing. 

Samuel  Moore  in  The  Library  speaks  of  the  difference  between 
the  reading  public  of  the  middle  ages  and  that  of  modern  times. 
In  the  fifteenth  century  the  reading  public  was  incredibly 
small ;  now  it  is  incredibly  larger.  So  there  has  been  distinct 
progress.  Dryden  stood  in  the  middle  of  this  period  of  devel- 
opment and  certainly  he  seems  not  to  have  retarded  it.  Give 
him  the  honor  which  is  his  due  and  praise  him  for  having  real- 
ized that  the  public  is,  as  Goldsmith's  Chinese  philosopher  says, 
''  a  good  and  generous  master." 


JUNE    LOVE   SONG 

HELEN  VIOLETTE  TOOKER 

All  the  world  is  a-loving,  dear, 

'Neath  the  June  night's  witchery. 

The  low  wind  is  wooing  the  fragrant  rose, 

Playing  his  love  on  the  pipe  he  blows, 

The  dream-woven  airs  that  a  lover  knows. 

That  I  know  for  thee. 

All  the  world  like  a  sweet-toned  harp 

Sounds  an  exquisite  harmony, 

For  night,  the  dark  master,  has  plucked  the  strings 

Till  the  Dreamer  of  Love  leaps  up  from  deep  springs 

And  his  poppy-dust  in  the  earth's  face  flings 

That  thou  mayest  love  me. 


SUNSET 

ELKA  SAUL  LEWI 

Over  the  house  on  the  hill 

A  cloud  is  floating  by. 

Gold  in  the  saffron  sky. 

It  is  drifting,  drifting,  drifting. 

In  a  light  that  is  ever  shifting 

And  yet  seems  ever  still. 

In  a  noiseless  rush  from  the  silent  earth 
A  bird  is  winging  his  eager  flight, 
Up,  up,  up  to  his  boat  of  dreams. 
Up,  up,  up,  in  defiance  of  night. 

Before  he  can  reach  it,  the  twilight  dies, 
Leaving  the  clouds  but  a  blot  of  grey — 
Its  magical  mystery  melted  away. 

The  bird,  despairing  in  sharp,  shrill  cries, 
Drops  down  like  a  stone. 

The  night  has  come. 

4g4 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  SCAR 

ELEAKOIl   EVEREST   WILD 

We  were  all  seated  about  a  beach  wood  fire,  excbangiug  wild 
tales.  The  night  lent  itself  to  charm  and  mystery.  It  was  clear 
and  rather  cold.  Not  more  than  twenty  feet  away  from  us  the 
waves  of  the  Atlantic  Ocean  broke  in  an  even  line,  with  an  even 
thud,  and  the  salt-soaked  beach  wood  burned  green,  yellow, 
purple  and  red  flames. 

One  of  the  party  had  just  finished  an  eerie  tale  and,  after  a 
pause — "You  must  have  had  something  thrilling  happen  to 
you — tell  us,"  said  one  gnome-like  figure  in  the  lurid  light  of 
the  fire  to  me. 

There  was  a  silence  while  I  looked  beyond  the  ruddy  circle  of 
the  flames  to  where  the  band  of  sea  stretched  blacker  than  the 
surrounding  darkness.  Then  I  turned  to  the  motionless  circle 
of  figures,  gilded  by  the  firelight.  "Yes,"  I  said,  "I  have." 
And  this  is  what  I  told  them,  raising  my  voice  to  be  heard 
above  the  crashing  of  the  sea. 

"  I  was  away  at  boarding  school  and  it  was  the  tag  end  of  the 
winter,  that  mushy  season  when,  during  a  period  of  three  weeks 
one's  feet  are  constantly  wet  and  cold  and  one's  shoes  muddy. 
Everyone  was  tired  and  nervous  and  I  was  no  exception  to  this 
rule.  I  was  lying  in  m}^  bed  one  warmish  night  and  without 
realizing  it  I  fell  asleep.  And  I  dreamed  the  weirdest  dream. 
I  felt  a  presence  in  the  room  ;  just  felt  it  there  in  a  way  I  could 
not  explain,  so  that  the  perspiration  gathered  on  my  forehead. 
I  turned  my  gaze  slowly  towards  my  open  door  and  saw — a  man. 
He  loomed  up  in  the  dark  doorway,  a  perfect  giant  of  a  man 
whose  face  I  could  not  see.  I  screamed  and  he  melted  away  into 
the  blackness.  I  didn't  realize  that  1  had  awakened  myself,  but 
was  horribly  frightened,  so  that  the  impression  stayed  with  me 
throughout  the  following  day. 

"A  week  from  this  Monday  night,  I  dreamed  again  of  this  man. 
He  stood  in  the  doorway  a  moment,  then  took  two  steps,  two 
faltering,  swaying  steps  into  my  room  ;  then  melted  into  the 
shadow  and  I  lay  shaking  and  trembling  in  the  dark  with  no 
one  in  the  room. 


456  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

"At  first  I  did  not  realize  that  I  was  dreaming — I  thought  that 
these  dreams  actually  occurred,  but  after  three  or  four  appear- 
ances of  this  dreadful  apparition  I  knew  that  they  took  place 
while  I  was  asleep.  Every  visit  brought  the  man  nearer  to 
my  bedside  till  I  was  a  nervous  wreck.  Every  Tuesday  morn- 
ing I  failed  in  my  recitations.  The  other  nights  in  the  week  I 
went  to  bed  without  fear  of  molestation  but  I  lived  in  such 
dread  of  those  Monday  night  visits  that  dark  circles  appeared 
beneath  my  eyes  and  the  nerve-racking  torture  that  I  went 
through  during  the  day  was  indescribable. 

"At  last,  one  Monday  night,  when  the  moon  was  at  its  full 
glory,  the  huge  dark  figure  swayed  into  my  room,  towards  my 
bed  and  placed  his  big  hands  about  my  throat.  I  could  feel  his 
hot  breath  fanning  my  cheeks  and  his  rough  coarse  hands  were 
tightening  about  my  neck.  I  must  have  fainted  for  when  I 
opened  my  eyes  it  was  morning. 

"Instinctively  I  felt  that  the  next  visit  would  be  climactic. 
My  nerves  were  so  keyed  up  that  I  was  twitching  all  over.  I 
determined  not  to  go  to  sleep,  and  I  kept  wide  eyed  and  staring 
till  three  o'clock.  In  an  instant  I  felt  the  presence  of  my  terror. 
He  came  towards  me.  I  caught  sight  of  his  face  with  the  burn- 
ing red  scar  which  I  had  seen  the  last  night,  and  the  whites  of 
his  eyes  showed  glistening.  He  had  just  placed  his  hot  fingers- 
on  my  neck,  when  I  screamed.  I  found  myself  sitting  up  in 
bed,  gazing  at  the  retreating  figure  of  a  man.  He  slid  out  of 
my  door  and  by  the  time  the  matron  of  the  corridor,  and  a 
hundred,  more  or  less,  of  kimona-ed  figures  reached  my  room, 
there  was  no  one  in  sight. 

"  I  poured  the  story  into  the  ears  of  the  stupefied  matron.  She 
was  a  rather  phlegmatic  woman.  It  took  her  quite  a  while  to 
grasp  the  situation  and  when  she  did,  she  said  '  Lay  aside  your 
fears,  my  dear.  We  smelled  smoke  and  I  ordered  the  furnace 
man  to  keep  watch  during  the  night,  and  undoubtedly  that  was 
he,  looking  for  smoke.'  'No,  no,'  I  said.  'I  know  the  face 
of  the  furnace  man.  This  man  had  a  scar  on  his  left  cheek.  I 
could  recognize  him  anywhere,'  and  I  insisted  on  investigations 
being  made.  Though  the  matron  assured  me  there  were  no 
other  men  about  the  place,  it  was  discovered  that  a  man  had 
come  from  the  village  about  a  week  ago,  asked  for  work,  and 
was  now  working  in  the  boiler  room.  '  He's  going  to  leave  to- 
morrow,' the  matron  assured  me,  '  but  if   you  want  to  see  him^ 


THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  457 

I  can  take  you  down  there  and  you  can  walk  casually  through. 
Don't  arouse  his  suspicions/ 

''  I  took  one  of  the  girls  with  me  and  we  wandered  through  the 
ill-lighted  room.  Standing  by  the  furnace,  into  which  he  was 
shoveling  coal,  I  saw  the  back  of  the  new  "boiler  man."  The 
red  hot  glow  of  the  furnace  shone  on  his  dark  face,  making  a 
certain  red  scar  on  his  cheek  glow  like  live  coal.  He  turned 
away  and  kept  on  shoveling.  I  passed  by  almost  faint  with 
astonishment.  He  left  the  next  day  and  I  never  saw  him  again 
either  in  dream  or  in  life.'' 

At  this  point  in  the  story  I  stopped  and  looked  at  the  man 
sitting  next  to  me.  He  had  been  fidgeting  nervously  and  as  the 
flame  of  the  fire  shot  up  for  a  moment,  I  saw  to  my  horror  that 
h.e  had  a  deep  red  scar  down  the  cheek  nearest  me.  He  saw  me 
start.  ''  Rather  a  coincidence,"  he  said.  "  I've  studied  psy- 
chology a  bit,  and  I  think  I  can  explain  this  string  of  events  to 
you.  You  said  you  were  in  a  nervous  condition.  The  first 
time  you  dreamt  of  the  man  it  made  a  deep  impression  upon 
you,  more  deep  a  one  than  it  would  have  made  had  you  been  in 
perfect  health.  It  preyed  upon  your  mind  ;  you  remembered 
that  it  happened  on  a  Monday  night  so  on  the  next  Monday 
night  you  dreamt  of  him  again.  Having  dreamt  twice  of  the 
same  man  you  were  really  alarmed.  You  kept  on  dreaming 
till  your  nerves  were  in  such  a  condition  that  you  were  com- 
pletely under  their  control.  One  day  you  saw  a  man  in  the 
village  with  a  scar  on  his  face.  Unconsciously  it  made  an 
impression.  The  man  with  the  scar  linked  himself  to  your 
dream,  and  then  by  the  merest  chance  this  man  in  the  village 
came  to  the  school  for  work.  The  man  whom  you  saw  going 
out  of  your  room  was  the  man  with  the  scar,  but  he  had  been 
sent  to  look  for  smoke  by  the  furnace  man.  I  think  that  ex- 
plains away  anything  of  the  supernatural  in  this  case,"  he  said 
triumphantly. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  ''it  would  if  any  of  this  story  had  been 
true,  but  as  it  was  all  nothing  but  an  airy  fancy  of  mine  in  the 
beginning,  merely  concocted  for  the  benefit  of  the  assembly,  I 
fear  your  reasoning  is  for  naught. 

'*  Yes,'^  he  said,  "  I  realized  early  in  the  story  that  you  were 
manufacturing  as  you  went  along,  from  several  inconsistencies, 
such  as  a  furnace  going  in  '  that  mushy  season '  or  on  '  a 
warmish  night.'    There's  another  thing  I  can  explain,  though. 


458  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

Several  members  of  the  party  noticed  my  scar.  It  made  so 
deep  an  impression  on  their  minds  that  it  reacted  on  yours, 
thereby  putting  the  scar  idea  into  your  mind.  I  have  unwit- 
tingly helped  you  to  make  a  good  story.  I  think  I  deserve  your 
heartiest  thanks." 

I  looked  at  him  a  moment  and  then  laughed.     '*  I  thank  you," 
I  said. 


MAY 

GRACE   ANGELA   RICHMOND 

Orchards,  all  drifted  with  the  rose-flushed  snow 

Of  apple  blossoms  ;  breezes  meadow  sweet, 

The  echo  of  a  laugh — swift  feet 

That  dance  the  livelong  day, 

And  sudden  silver  rains  that  come  and  go — 

By  these  and  other  joyous  sounds  I  know 

That  it  is  May. 


OUT    OF    STEP 

MARION   S.    WALKER 

Comrade  of  mine  on  the  long  high-road, 
I  must  travel  a  piece  of  the  way  alone. 
For  the  strange  new-self  that  is  rising  in  me 
That  is  out  of  step  with  our  common  pace 
I  must  seek,  and  strive  to  know. 

So  to-day  will  I  walk  in  a  way  apart. 
This  bypath,  that  turns  from  the  common  road. 
And  I  may  not  ask  that  you  tread  it  with  me, 
O  brave-hearted  comrade  of  steady  pace — 
This  must  be  lonely  road. 

It  may  be  the  path,  when  the  sun  is  low. 
Returning,  will  merge  with  the  common  road. 
But  I  wonder  (and  with  the  wonder  is  pain) 
Can  we,  friend,  side  by  side,  step  for  step  again 
Keep  pace  on  the  common  road  ? 


TEOTIS 

MARY   COGGESHALL  BAKER 

During  the  summer  between  my  freshman  and  sophomore 
years  at  college  the  attenuated  condition  of  my  pocketbook, 
which  in  its  most  prosperous  days  is  never  too  full,  and  which 
was  then  in  a  truly  alarming  state,  made  it  necessary  for  me  to 
adopt  immediate  measures  to  relieve  the  financial  stringency  if 
I  were  to  return  to  college  in  the  fall. 

Before  starting  out  to  look  for  a  job  I  made  a  careful  inven- 
tory of  my  accomplishments,  in  an  effort  to  discover  what  I 
was  especially  fitted  for  in  the  business  world.  I  could  not 
tutor  people  who  were  to  take  their  entrance  examinations  for 
high  school,  because,  in  the  vulgar  vernacular  of  the  present 
day,  I  am  what  is  known  as  a  "perfect  bonehead"  in  every- 
thing but  Latin,  and  children  do  not  begin  to  take  examina- 
tions in  Latin  till  after  they  get  into  high  school.  I  am  a  very 
poor  penman  and  arithmetic  makes  my  head  ache,  so  I  couldn't 
offer  my  services  to  the  lone  bank  in  my  native  city.  Stenogra- 
phy and  typewriting  have  always  seemed  to  me  to  stamp  the 
ofiSce  girl  who  knows  them  as  an  individual  with  supernatural 
powers  which  I  have  admired  at  a  distance  but  never  yet  tried 
to  acquire.  I  would  not  therefore  be  an  invaluable  acquisition 
in  any  of  the  business  offices  of  my  father^s  friends,  and  I 
should  have  hated  to  serve  them  in  a  purely  ornamental  capac- 
ity. So  I  probably  saved  a  good  deal  of  time  and  trouble  by 
going  to  work  at  once  in  the  old  red  mill  on  the  river  bank. 

For  a  few  days  I  sat  alone,  in  solitary  state,  on  a  high  chair 
at  one  end  of  a  long  table,  pasting  little  bows  of  thread  on 
sample  cards.  The  little  bows  were  of  many  colors,  soft  and 
silky  in  texture,  and  they  had  to  be  pasted  each  in  its  own  par- 
ticular place  on  the  cards,  so  for  a  while  the  novelty  of  the 
work  kept  me  content.  Then  it  began  to  pall,  and  the  long 
hours  and  the  ache  between  my  shoulder-blades,  due  to  the 
woi'k,  which,  though  light,  continued  ceaselessly  for  five  and  a 
half  hours  in  the  morning  and  five  hours  in  the  afternoon, 
made  me  long  for  the  companionship  of  my  kind  to  take  my 
mind  off  my  troubles.  All  around  the  room  I  could  see  groups 
of  two  or  three  or  more  girls  whose  work  kept  them  together 
and  who  seemed  to  have  lots  of  good  times  when  the  boss  was 
not  around.     Why  did  I  have  to  work  alone  ? 

4  5  9 


460  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

^^If  I  could  have  even  a  little  Polack  to  talk  to,"  I  mused^ 
"how  nice  it  would  be.  I  could  teach  her  English  and  she 
could  teach  me  Polish,  and  then  in  the  fall  when  my  roommate 
persists  in  talking  Spanish  to  me,  I  could  reply  in  a  language 
as  unintelligible  to  her  as  Spanish  is  to  me.  That  would  be- 
great.  What  interesting  conversations  we  could  have.  Oh 
dear  me  ! " 

On  the  sixth  day  of  my  incarceration  the  work  began  to  come 
faster  and  the  Fates,  or  perhaps  just  the  overseer,  sent  Teotis  to 
me  and  my  prayer  was  answered.  But  how  should  I-  start 
things — what  should  I  say  to  her  to  give  the  conversational  ball 
its  initial  push  ? 

"Are  you  a  Polack  ?"  I  ventured  hopefully. 

"  No.     Are  you  a  Dago  ?"  she  replied. 

"  Well,  I  should  say  not,^'  I  started  to  retort  indignantly,  and 
Teotis  laughed  at  me. 

"I  know  it,"  she  said,  "you're  a  Yankee  and  I  am  French, 
but  nobody  ever  thought  that  I  was  a  Polack  before.  Do  I 
look  like  one  ?" 

" No,  only  I  was  just  thinking  of  them." 

There  was  a  short  silence  while  each  sized  the  other  up. 
What  Teotis  saw  in  me  I  could  not  venture  to  say,  being  proba- 
bly prejudiced,  but  I  decided  that  she  must  be  awfully  nice. 
She  was  not  a  startling  beauty,  but  she  was  decidedly  pretty  in 
her  own  way.  She  had  wavy  brown  hair  and  big  brown  eyes 
with  a  sad  expression  in  them,  which  the  merry  mouth  belied  ; 
her  complexion  was  dark  and  she  had  pink  cheeks  and  a  dimple, 
of  which  she  was  extremely  conscious  but  not  unduly  proud. 
Now  she  smiled  upon  me. 

"You  go  to  Smith's  College,  don't  you,  Mary?"  she  asked, 
and  then,  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  she  continued,  "  I 
heard  some  of  the  other  girls  say  so.  Do  you  like  it  up  to  the 
college  ?  " 

"  Very  much,"  I  replied,  "  there  are  so  many  nice  girls  there 
and  we  have  so  much  fun." 

"  It  must  be  grand.     Do  you  have  to  study  hard  ?  " 

"Yes,  that's  the  only  thing  about  college  that  I  don't  like." 

"  Maggie  says  you're  awful  smart." 

"Does  she  ?  That's  news,"  but  down  in  my  heart  I  thanked 
Maggie,  because  nobody  had  ever  said  that  about  me  before. 

"Say,"  continued  Teotis,  "are  you  the  smartest  person  in 
your  class  ?  " 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      461 

I  thought  of  Myrtle  Warner,  1916's  brightest  light  whose 
lowest  mark  was  a  solitary  A — ,  and  disclaimed  the  honor. 

"  No,  I  am  not.  I  know  at  least  one  girl  who  stands  higher,'^ 
I  replied,  but  neglected  to  mention  that  there  were  some  four 
hundred  others  between  Myrtle  and  me.  I  might  fall  in  her 
estimation  if  I  said  that. 

"  I'd  like  to  go  to  Smith's  College,"  continued  Teotis.  "  Do 
they  take  French  girls  there  ?  " 

*'Yes,  if  they  can  pass  the  examinations,  or  get  certificates 
from  their  high  schools." 

"  Oh,  do  they  have  to  go  through  high  school  before  they  can 
go  to  college  V 

"Yes,  most  always." 

''  I  guess  I  won't  go  to  college  then,"  laughed  Teotis,"  because 
I  only  got  as  far  as  the  seventh  grade  in  the  convent  school. 
But  my  brother  went  to  Canada  to  Le  College  de  Ste.  Hya- 
cinthe  near  Montreal  and  he  never  went  to  the  high  school. 
Smith's  is  different,  I  guess.  There  are  two  hundred  boys  at 
Ste.  Hyacinthe.  It's  a  pretty  big  college  and  my  brother  is 
going  to  be  a  priest." 

"There  are  sixteen  hundred  girls  at  Smith,"  I  retorted  with 
conscious  pride.  Teotis  stared  at  me  open-mouthed  while  that 
sank  in. 

"My  Gawd,'^  she  said  finally,  "a-ain't  that  a-awful !  How 
many  of  you  sleep  in  a  bed  ?" 

I  never  could  make  Teotis  see  college  as  it  really  is.  She  had 
a  preconceived  notion  of  one  big  building,  adorned  with  a  flag 
with  "Smith's  College"  printed  on  it,  in  which  we  lived,  attended 
classes  and  studied.  There  was  a  picture  in  her  mind  of  a  big 
dormitory  on  the  top  floor  with  rows  and  rows  of  beds  in  it  in 
which  Smith  College,  tightly  packed,  enjoj^ed  its  nightly  slum- 
ber. And  none  of  my  tales  about  different  campus  houses, 
about  the  Libe,  College  Hall,  John  M.  Greene  and  the  others, 
had  any  effect  on  her.  As  a  result  of  my  elucidations  she  did, 
however,  change  the  name  on  the  flag  to  "Smith's  Campus." 
She  was  not  quite  clear  in  her  own  mind  as  to  whether  campus 
was  synonymous  with  college  or  just  a  stylish  name  for  board- 
ing house. 

A  chance  reference  to  my  fifth  cousin  over  at  Amherst  College 
called  forth  a  volley  of  questions  from  Teotis.  "  How  does  he 
look  ?  "  she  wanted  to  know.  I  described  him  in  glowing  terms. 
^*  Does  he  come  to  see  you  ?  "  asked  Teotis  with  a  lively  interest. 


463  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

John  is  devoted  to  his  relatives,  so  I  could  truthfully  answer  in 
the  affirmative.  '^Oh,  ain't  that  grand  !"  she  cried,  and  added 
with  a  sidelong  glance,  "  Does  the  teacher  know  it  ?" 

"No,"  I  replied,  thinking  of  the  individuals  who  survey  us 
each  morning  so  impersonally  from  the  platform  of  John  M. 
Greene  Hall,  "no,  I  don't  think  she  does." 

"I  got  you,"  said  Teotis  knowingly.  "You  meet  him  down 
street.  That's  the  way  I  see  Emil  because  my  mother  thinks 
I'm  too  young  to  have  a  steady  friend." 

"Who  is  Emil  ?"  I  asked  in  an  unlucky  moment,  and  her 
answer  consisted  of  a  monologue,  extending  over  two  weeks 
and  a  half.  During  that  time  I  saw  Emil  several  times,  for  he 
used  to  come  through  the  mill  every  morning  on  his  way  up  to 
the  shipping  room,  and  he  nearly  always  stopped  to  talk  with 
Teotis.  He  did  not  tally  at  all  with  her  description  of  him. 
True,  she  did  not  claim  excessive  beauty  for  him,  "but  he  has 
such  pretty  eyes  and  such  nice  ways,"  she  told  me.  The  pretty 
eyes  were  sentimental,  and  the  nice  ways  consisted  chiefly  of 
his  taking  oft"  his  hat  when  he  met  her  and  of  not  putting  his 
arm  around  her  in  the  moving  picture  theatres.  "And  he  is  a 
good  spender,"  Teotis  assured  me.  "We  go  to  the  movies  every 
time  the  pictures  change  and  we  take  in  most  of  the  dances  that 
come  along.  Sometimes  Sundays  he  hires  a  team  and  takes  me 
out  driving.  Teams  cost  two  dollars  an  afternoon,  so  you  see 
he  isn't  any  cheap  sport." 

"Oh,  you  like  him  because  he  gives  you  a  good  time?"  I 
said. 

"No,"  replied  Teotis  virtuously,  "I'd  love  him  just  as  much 
if  he  didn't  have  a  cent,  but  it  does  make  it  nice  to  go  every- 
where. Maggie's  fellow  never  takes  her  around  the  way  Emil 
does  me.  Maggie  says  he  wants  to,  but  she  won't  go,  but  T 
don't  think  he  invites  her.  I  don't  see  why  she  don't  get  a 
better  fellow.  Clarence  Olin  ain't  much."  She  reverted  to  the 
subject  of  Emil  again  and  described  in  minute  detail  their  con- 
versation of  the  night  before,  which  was  about  like  the  one 
they  had  had  the  night  before  that. 

This  continued  for  several  weeks  until  I  became  so  tired  of 
hearing  about  Emil  that  I  began  to  hate  the  rest  of  the  sex,  and 
even  stopped  writing  to  Cousin  John.  Then  I  decided  that  I 
would  just  let  Teotis  talk  all  she  wanted,  only  I  wouldn't 
listen  to  her.  That  worked  very  well,  because  Teotis  liked  to 
talk  and  did  not  usually  say  anything  that  required  an  answer.. 


THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  463 

Then,  just  as  everything  was  going  smoothly  again,  and 
everybody  was  satisfied,  the  catastrophe  occurred.  Teotis  came 
to  work  one  morning  without  her  usual  smile.  As  she  was 
coming  up  the  center  alley  of  the  room  Maggie  was  coming 
down.  Instead  of  singing  out  "  Hello,"  as  was  their  wont,  they 
stared  coldly  at  each  other  a  minute,  then  Maggie  shrugged  her 
shoulders  and  Teotis  tossed  her  head  and  they  both  looked 
away. 

Teotis  came  over,  put  on  her  apron,  and  sat  down  to  work 
silently.  But  Teotis  never  could  be  quiet  long.  "  Me'n  Maggie 
don^t  speak  any  more,"  she  announced  abruptly. 

"  I  am  awfully  sorry,"  I  said  regretfully.     "  Why  not  ?  " 

Teotis'  lips  quivered  as  she  replied,  "She's  took  Emil  away 
from  me." 

"No,  Te,  not  really  r' 

"  Yes,  she  has,"  she  declared  firmly,  "  because  I  seen  her  with 
him  last  night.  Oh,  Mary,  he  looked  grand.  He  had  on  his 
best  suit  and  his  new  tan  shoes.  And  he  made  believe  he 
didn't  see  me.     I  wish  I  could  die.     Then  maybe  he'd  be  sorry." 

"Oh,  cheer  up,"  I  said  consolingly.  "There  are  lots  of 
others  you  can  have."  I  was  sorry  she  was  "  mad"  at  Maggie, 
but  rather  glad  she  had  broken  off  with  Emil.  Now,  perhaps 
she  would  be  willing  to  discourse  on  other  subjects.  I  was 
entirely  wrong.  After  the  first  spasm  of  grief  she  relapsed  into 
a  deep  melancholy.  For  a  whole  day  she  did  not  talk  at  all. 
This  was  bad  enough,  but  worse  was  to  come. 

The  next  morning  she  asked  me  if  I  had  been  to  the  "  Gem  " 
the  night  before.  I  had  not.  "You'd  ought  to  go,  Mary,"  she 
said.  "La  Belle  sang  the  grandest  song.  I  never  cried  so  hard 
in  my  life.  It — it  reminded  me  of  Emil  so.  Listen."  She  sang 
something  to  this  effect  : 

"  You  made  me  what  I  am  to-day, 

I  hope  you're  satisfied, 
You  dragged  and  dragged  me  down  until 

The  soul  within  me  died. 
You  shattered  each  and  every  dream, 

You  fooled  me  from  the  start, 
But  though  you're  not  true. 
May  Gawd  bless  you— 

That's  the  curse  of  an  aching  heart." 

There,  ain't  that  sad  I "  she  cried  with  a  shiver  of  delightful 
agony. 


464  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

*' Pathetic,"  I  agreed  heartily.  "It's  so  hopeless."  Bad  as 
the  words  were,  the  tune  was  worse,  and  Teotis  is  no  undiscov- 
ered Tetrazzini. 

During  the  following  week  I  had  ample  opportunity  to  get  on 
intimate  terms  with  the  song.  Teotis  began  to  sing  it  every 
morning  at  6.30  and  I  left  the  mill  every  night  with  the  accus- 
ing "  You  made  me  what  I  am  to-day"  still  ringing  in  my  ears 
like  a  guilty  conscience.  Something  must  be  done,  for  my  sake 
as  well  as  hers.  She  was  heart-broken — she  told  me  so  herself, 
and  she  put  a  good  deal  of  melancholy  expression  into  the  song. 
In  fact,  no  person  in  a  normal  state  of  mind  could  have  sung  it 
as  she  did.  At  home  I  reproached  myself  for  the  mean  things 
I  nearly  said  to  her  while  undergoing  the  torture.  How  terri- 
ble it  must  be  to  suffer  with  a  broken  heart !  Supposing  John 
fell  in  love  with  another  girl — and  John  is  only  a  cousin,  too  ! 
I  must  do  something  to  help  Teotis,  but  what  ?  Finally  I 
decided.  I  might  "get  in  wrong"  with  Maggie  and  I  liked 
Maggie  for  many  reasons,  but  after  all,  Teotis  was  my  best 
friend  in  the  mill  and  she  cared  more  about  Emil  than  Maggie 
possibly  could. 

That  night  I  was  walking  down  Main  Street  on  my  way  home 
from  the  Library.  Emil  was  standing  on  the  edge  of  the  side- 
walk, hands  in  his  pockets,  and  cap  pulled  down  over  one  ear. 
"  Good  evening,  Emil,"  I  said  cordially.  Hearing  me  call  him 
by  his  first  name  startled  him  somewhat,  but  he  tipped  his  hat. 
When  I  got  past  I  half  turned  my  head  and  smiled  invitingly. 
He  was  by  my  side  in  an  instant. 

'•  Can  I  see  you  home  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Why,  how  nice,  of  course  you  can,"  I  replied,  trying  to  be 
sugary  but  achieving  a  merely  saccharine  result.  I  hate  Emil. 
For  a  moment  silence  reigned,  while  I  was  deciding  just  what 
to  say. 

"  Fine  evening,"  observed  Emil,  "lots  of  atmosphere." 

"Emil,"  I  said,  ignoring  his  remark,  "don't  you  like  Teotis 
any  more  ?  " 

"Teotis  Bombria  ?  Oh,  Teotis  is  all  right,  but  I  am  going 
wit'  Maggie  now.     Been  going  wit'  her  for  two  weeks." 

"  Why  did  you  sting  Te  ?    Do  j^ou  like  Maggie  better  ?" 

"No-o,"  he  admitted,  "but  you  see  it's  just  like  dis.  One  of 
us  has  got  to  sting  de  odder  some  time  and  I  fought  it  wouldn't 
be  me  wot  got  stung.  No  girl  ever  has  frown  me  down  yet — I 
always  get  ahead  o'  dem.     See  ?  " 


THE   SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  465 

*'I  see,  but  Teotis  wouldn't  ever  throw  you  over — Teotis  loves 
you." 

**Aw,  go  awD,"  said  Emil. 

"  Really  she  does,  she  thinks  you're  grand." 

'*Den  why  does  she  have  to  flirt  wid  every  odder  feller  she 
sees  ?  She  always  does,  if  I'm  wid  her  or  not.  She  just  took 
me  along  to  pay  de  bills  and  give  class  to  de  performance.  No 
feller  will  stand  dat,  y'know.     She's  too  fickle." 

"  Emil,  I'm  sure  you're  mistaken.  She^s  awfully  in  love  with 
you  and  she  has  been  just  heart-broken  ever  since  you  stopped 
going  with  her." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?"  he  asked  with  interest. 

*'She  says  so,  and  she's  been  singing  that  sad  song  about  the 
curse  of  an  aching  heart  all  the  time  lately.'^ 

"  Prob'ly  she  just  likes  t'  sing.'^ 

"Oh,  but  she  would  never  choose  that  particular  song  if  she 
were  a  music  lover." 

''I  don't  t'ink  you  understan'  Teotis,"  ho  said  skeptically. 

''Yes  I  do,'^  I  replied  confidently.  "  I  get  her  point  of  view 
perfectly,  even  if  she  never  gets  mine." 

"  Well,""  he  said  after  a  minute's  thought,  "  I'll  t'row  Maggie 
over  den  and  go  back  to  Te.  But  if  she  won't  have  me  no  more, 
somet'in's  goin'  t'  drop." 

"She  will.  Fm  so  glad— now  everything  will  be  all  right 
again."  And  that  night  I  slept  the  sleep  of  one  who  is  con- 
scious of  a  duty  well  performed. 

The  next  day  was  Saturday  and  a  half-holiday,  so  we  were 
very  busy  in  the  morning  and  did  not  talk  much.  I  had  decided 
not  to  tell  Teotis  what  I  had  done,  but  to  let  her  find  out  herself 
from  Emil.  I  noticed,  however,  that  she  was  no  longer  singing 
*' You  made  me  what  I  am  to-day,"  but  was  humming  with  a 
spirit  worthy  of  an  undergraduate,  "  To  Thee,  Oh  Alma  Mater," 
and  "Mid  purple  in  triumph  waving,"  which  I  had  taught 
her  early  in  the  summer.  Had  Emil  seen  her  already  ?  No,  or 
she  would  have  told  me  ;  but  certainly  something  had  happened. 

Sunday  night,  as  I  was  coming  out  of  church,  I  met  Emil 
with  Maggie.  When  he  saw  me  his  eyebrows  came  together  in 
a  black  scowl  and  he  refused  to  speak.  Now  what  could  that 
mean  ?  I  began  to  wonder  if  a  college  girl  knew  any  more 
about  a  mill  girl  than  a  mill  girl  did  about  a  college  girl,  and 
rebuked  myself  for  meddling  with  what  was  none  of  my  affair. 


466  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

Monday  morning  Teotis  greeted  me  with  her  old-time  sunny 
smile,  and  I  felt  relieved.  Everything  was  all  right  as  far  as- 
she  was  concerned,  anyway,  and  that  was  the  main  thing. 
Just  then  Alphonsine  came  along,  and  stopped  as  she  was  pass- 
ing by.     ''  Mornin',  Te,*'  she  cried.     "  I  seen  you  Sat'day  night. '^ 

''  Did  you  ?  "  said  Teotis,  ''  where  ?    I  didn't  see  you." 

"*  There's  a  reason,'"  laughed  Alphonsine.  "You  were 
lookin'  at  somebody  else." 

Teotis  smiled  back  at  her. 

"I  think  he's  grand,"  continued  Alphonsine. 

"  Yes,  isn't  he  ?    He's  so  pretty." 

Alphonsine  passed  on  and  Teotis  turned  to  me.  "  Have  you 
started  going  with  Emil  again  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Oh,  Emil?"  she  said  indifferently,  "no,  I  haven't  got  any 
use  for  him  any  more.  He  ain't  the  only  can  on  the  dump 
heap.     I  got  a  new  fellow  now." 

"Who  is  it  this  time?" 

"  Clarence  Olin.  Do  you  know  him  ?  He  used  to  go  with 
Maggie." 

"Why,  Teotis,"  I  said  tactfully,  "I  thought  you  didn't  like 
him.     You  always  used  to  talk  against  him." 

Teotis  did  not  answer  for  a  minute,  and  then  she  laughed  a& 
she  usually  did  when  caught.  "  I  should  think  by  this  time, 
Mary,  you  would  know  that  I  don't  always  mean  what  I  say." 

"But,  Te,"  I  persisted,  "you  pitied  Maggie  so  much  because 
Clarence  never  used  to  take  her  anywhere." 

"  Well,"  said  Teotis,  prompt  to  defend  her  new  lover,  "  he 
only  gets  six-fifty  a  week  and  that  doesn't  much  more  than  pay 
for  his  board  and  clothes.  I  don't  want  him  to  have  to  steal 
just  so  I  can  go  to  the  pictures,  do  I  ?  Besides,  he  is  lots  better 
looking  than  Emil,  and  looks  is  better  than  money." 

"  You  didn't  think  so  once,"  I  said,  a  trifle  tartly,  as  I  thought 
of  my  misdirected  efforts. 

"No,  but  I've  changed  my  mind,"  retorted  Teotis  with  a 
saucy  smile,  "  and  who  has  a  better  right  ?" 


^'ECLAIRCIE'^ 

VICTOR  HUGO 
TRANSLATED   BY   ROSAMOND   DREXEL   HOLMES 

The  ocean  gleams  beneath  a  heavy  cloud. 

The  wave,  exhausted  by  its  tireless  strife, 

Slumbers,  leaving  the  rocks  in  turn  to  rest 

And  gives  the  shore  one  last  long  kiss  of  life. 

'Twas  as  if  in  all  places,  at  one  time 

Life  were  dissolving  evil,  winter,  grief. 

Darkness,  and  hate,  and  that  the  dead  who  sleep 

Spoke  to  the  living — hope  of  new  belief  : 

"  Love  I "  and  a  soul  obscure  now  opening  free 

Slowly  approached,  off 'ring  to  us  its  strength. 

A  being  from  the  darkness  and  the  shade 

With  open  arms,  and  heart,  and  eyes  at  length 

In  every  vein  receives  from  everywhere 

The  depth  of  life  always  abounding  there. 

The  great  peace  from  above  falls  like  a  tide, 

Each  grass-blade  waves  through  cracks  found  in  the  stones. 

The  soul  kindles.     We  know  each  nest  is  safe. 

Infinity  seems  full  of  rustling  tones, 

One'd  say  it  was  the  hour  when  all  the  world 

New-wakened  hears  the  call  of  early  day  ; 

First  steps  of  wind,  and  work,  of  love,  and  man, 

The  door  unlatched,  the  white  dawn-horse's  neigh. 

The  sparrow,  like  spirit  frail,  with  beating  wing 

Comes  to  annoy  the  giant  waves  that  smile  ; 

Th'  air  plays  with  flies,  the  foam  with  eagle's  wing. 

The  peasant  makes  furrows  and  thus  rules,  the  while. 

The  page  whereon  the  poem  of  the  grain 

Will  be.    The  fishermen  are  there  below 

A  climbing  vine.     Th'  horizon  seems  a  dream. 

Dazzling,  where  floats  the  sea-foam  as  if  snow, 

A  cloudy  plume.     A  hydra  is  the  sea, 

The  cloud  its  bird  of  prey,  and  then  a  light 

Vague  ray  starts  from  the  cradle  which  the  wife 

Rocks,  at  the  threshold  of  her  hut  at  night. 

Gilding  the  fields,  the  flowers,  the  wave,  and  then 

Becoming  light,  touches  a  tomb  that  sleeps 

Near  the  clock-tower.     Day  plunges  to  the  black 

Part  of  the  gulf,  ever  goes  on,  and  keeps 

To  shade— kissing  its  brow  'neath  water  dark  and  awed. 

All — all  is  quiet,  happy,  calm,  at  peace 

Beneath  the  ever  watching  eye  of  God. 

461 


THE  EPICURE  CLUB 

ELLEN  BODLEY   JONES 

The  Long  and  Ruminative  Boarder  and  the  Summer  Girl 
with  silk  stockings  and  scarf  to  match  were  sitting  on  the  piazza 
of  the  Sea  Side  Hotel. 

**  Speaking  of  celery,"  the  Long  and  Ruminative  Boarder 
remarked,  flicking  the  long  ash  from  his  cigarette  with  his 
longer  little  finger,  ''  reminds  me  of  a  club  I  belonged  to  once — 
when  I  lived  in  New  York,  you  know."  The  Summer  Girl  gave 
a  sidelong  glance  and  wondered  how  this  remarkable  young 
man  got — here  !  She  decided  to  conceal  the  fact  that  in  the 
winter-time  she  lived  in  Skunks'  Misery,  and  that  her  father 
was  head  of  the  butcher  shop  in  that  metropolis. 
The  Boarder  had  again  relapsed  into  deep  thought. 
''As  you  were  saying — "  ventured  the  Summer  Girl.  He 
roused  himself  again  from  his  cigarette. 

*'What  was  I  trying  to  recall  ?  Oh,  I  remember.  My  club — 
it  was  an  Epicure  Club."  The  Summer  Girl  didn't  know 
exactly  what  "Epicure"  was,  but  supposed  it  was  something 
like  "Keeley  cure." 

"  We  used  to  meet  once  a  week  for  our  banquets,"  he  con- 
tinued, "in  the  neatest  little  cafd  possible,  in  the  down-town 
district,  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood  of  Twenty-third  Street, 
I  believe.  After  our  banquets  we  used  to  drop  in  to  see  the  last 
act  at  the  theatre,  and  end  up  at  a  cabaret.  Oh,  those  were 
great  days.  There  were  ten  of  us  in  it — and  the  hall  we  engaged 
for  our  meetings  was  a  marvel.  Over  the  door  we  had  our 
motto  in  green  and  gold,  written  in  curling  letters,  and  framed  : 
"'Eat,  drink  and  be  merry,  for  to-morrow  we  die.^  That 
was  the  motto  of  the  Epicureans  in  the  olden  times,  you  know. 
They  were  rather  fond  of  feasting,  I  believe."  He  eyed  the 
Summer  Girl  with  an  elaborately  casual  air.  She  seemed  to  be 
an  appreciative  listener. 

"  The  room  was  a  marvel  of  taste  and  elegance,"  he  went  on, 
"magnificent  Oriental  rugs,  panelling  of  solid  mahogany  rising 
ten  feet  in  height,  and  above,  the  best  oil  paintings.  Whistler, 
Rembrandt — er — and  all  the  rest,  you  know.     But  the  banquet 

4  68 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      469 

was  a  sight  for  the  gods.  Ten  magnificent  young  men.  all 
broad-shouldered  and  of  striking  appearance,  the  kind  the 
ladies  all  fall  for,  in  full  evening  dress,  reclining  at  a  table." 

"Reclining",  did  you  say?"  asked  the  Summer  Girl,  with 
incredulous  eyes. 

"Yes,  reclining.  You  see  in  Rome,  long  ago,  the  Epicureans 
always  reclined  at  their  banquets.  We  merely  carried  out  the 
tradition.  It  is  so  much  more  graceful  than  sitting  up,  you 
know." 

"And  much  more  comfortable,"  assented  the  Summer  Girl 
with  enthusiasm. 

"The  table  appointments  in  themselves  were  objects  of  won- 
der and  admiration  to  all  who  saw  them — everything  of  solid 
silver  and  lined  with  gold — even  the  carving  knives  were  made 
of  hand-carved  African  elephant's  tusks.  All  the  dishes,  of 
course,  were  cut-glass." 

"  How  wonderful  I     And  what  did  you  have  to  eat  ?" 

"Oh  —  the  thought  of  those  delicious  viands!  Everything 
was  prepared  especially  for  the  occasion.  Every  oyster  was  fed 
by  hand,  and  every  sprig  of  asparagus  grown  in  a  separate 
little  green-house.  Of  course  the  cows  that  helped  furnish  the 
ice-cream  were  thoroughly  sterilized  before  the  milking,  and 
each  had  to  undergo  a  physical  examination  to  make  sure  that 
it  had  no  symptoms  of  tuberculosis.  But  let  me  tell  of  the 
banquet.  When  we  were  all  seated  the  courses  began.  They 
were  the  whole  point  of  the  banquet,  you  know,  the  courses.  I 
forget  how  many  we  had  —  fourteen,  I  believe  it  was.  In 
between  the  courses  we  had  our  wine." 

"  Oh,  wine,  of  course,"  said  the  Summer  Girl  with  no  great 
surprise.     She  had  heard  of  that  terrible  place,  New  York. 

"Yes,  we  had  all  kinds  of  wine.  Port,  Rhine,  Burgundy — 
and  all  the  other  kinds,  you  see.  And  now  comes  the  part 
about  the  celery.  After  we  had  indulged  in  one  kind  of  wine 
we  would  eat  olives,  to  take  away  the  taste,  you  understand,  so 
that  we  might  more  keenly  enjoy  the  flavor  of  the  next  kind. 
But  once  one  of  us,  I  forget  his  name,  but  a  magnificent  fellow, 
partook — oh  I  hate  to  recall  it  I — partook  of  an  olive  that  had, 
at  some  time  in  its  previous  existence,  lain  near  a  piece  of 
celery,  and,  if  you  will  pardon  my  saying  so,  had  taken  in 
the  taste  of  the  celery.  Oh  I  It  was  horrible  !  The  young 
man,  unsuspectingly,  ate  the  olive.      Of  course  it  spoiled  the 


470  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

whole  banquet  for  him.  Too  bad— he  was  such  a  magnificent 
fellow,  too  ! 

"Think  of  actually  eating  an  olive  that  tasted  of  celery! 
Not  one  of  us  could  touch  a  thing  after  that.  Even  the  thought 
of  that  olive  sickened  us.  Of  course  we  had  to  break  up  the 
club  forever,  for  who  could  ever  enjoy  a  banquet  again  after 
such  an  unfortunate  circumstance  ?    We  really  couldn't." 

"No,  of  course  you  couldn't,"  said  the  girl  sympathetically. 

A  squalid,  red-faced  cook  appeared  in  the  yard  below,  with  a 
dish  of  odorous  sliced  onions  in  one  hand,  and  a  large  cow-bell 
in  the  other,  which  she  rang  loudly. 

"Dinner!  Dinner!"  she  cried  gutturally,  "all  yous  that 
wants  codfish  hed  better  come  quick  before  the  cat  gets  what 
she  didn't  get  before  ! " 


APRIL 

GRACE  ANGELA  RICHMOND 

By  a  little  fern-fringed  pool 

I  met  April. 
She  was  singing,  plucking  there 
Violets  to  wreathe  her  hair — 

Laughing  April. 

In  the  woods,  all  still  and  cool, 

I  met  April, 
Smiling,  yet  with  lashes  wet. 
What  had  April  to  regret, — 

Laughing  April  ? 

April  dancing  through  the  grasses, 
White  feet  glisten  as  she  passes. 
Whence  she  came  and  whither  sped 
I  know  not,  but  she  is  fled, 
Laughing  April. 


A  TRIP  DOWN  THE  COAST 

LUCIE   BELDEN   SCOTT 

For  three  days  there  had  been  a  south  blow,  and  a  south  blow 
on  the  coast  of  Maine  always  spells  dirty  weather.  There  at  its 
moorings  in  Portland  Harbor  the  big  coast  liner  heaved  and 
tossed,  and  we  who  were  used  to  the  sea  and  her  ways  meditated 
on  what  were  likely  to  be  the  conditions  outside.  Behind  the 
city  was  a  windy  sunset — gold-bordered  clouds  of  purple  heaped 
up  against  a  flaming  west,  and  the  towers  and  spires  and  roofs 
of  Portland  loomed  an  ominous  black  against  the  scarlet  glory 
of  the  sky.  Against  the  lighthouse  at  the  mouth  of  the  harbor 
the  breakers  hurled  themselves  with  savage  fury,  sending  their 
shattered  spray  twenty  feet  into  the  air,  and  then  falling  back 
on  the  teeth  of  the  reef  with  an  angry  snarl.  Beyond  the  mouth 
of  the  harbor  was  an  unending,  interesting  expanse  of  gray, 
water  and  sky  meeting  in  some  far-off  place  which  was  not  a 
line,  merely  a  blending  of  the  wet  gray  of  the  sea  with  the 
sodden  gray  of  the  stormy  sky. 

As  soon  as  we  had  passed  beyond  the  reef  and  out  of  the 
shelter  of  the  harbor  the  long  rollers  of  the  Atlantic  began  to 
make  sport  of  the  floating  house.  But  her  steel-sheeted  sides 
were  proof  against  the  roughest  sea,  and  her  engines  chugged 
smoothly  along.  Then  we  struck  the  swell.  Up  the  first  wave 
climbed  the  ship,  poised  herself  a  moment  on  the  crest,  then  with 
a  quivering  heave  from  side  to  side,  plunged  down  into  the 
trough  of  the  waves,  burying  her  prow  in  hissing  spray,  and 
sending  out  cascades  of  foam  from  her  dripping  sides.  Up  the 
next  breaker  she  went,  trembled  a  moment,  and  then— down  in- 
to the  smooth,  green  valley  between.  Again  and  again,  with 
perfect  regularity,  she  took  the  breakers.  By  degrees  the  dark- 
ness came  on,  bringing  with  it  a  driving  mist  that  the  wind, 
shrieking  always  louder  and  louder  through  ropes  and  cables 
and  cordage,  dashed  into  our  faces,  mingled  with  the  salt  spray. 

We  remained  on  the  hurricane  deck  as  late  as  we  could, 
dreading  the  stuffy  staterooms  with  such  a  splendid,  exhilarating 
storm  brewing  over  the  water.  At  last,  however,  we  went  down, 
and  were  soon  rocked  to  sleep  by  the  steady  roll  and  heave  of 

471 


472  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

the  boat.  About  two  o'clock  I  awoke,  aware  almost  before  I 
was  awake,  of  a  difference  in  the  motion.  I  could  see  nothing 
from  the  window,  but  above  the  wind,  and  the  slap  and  crash  of 
breakers  against  the  boat  I  could  hear  the  far-off  tolling  of  a 
bell,  and  I  knew  that  we  were  just  off"  the  Point  Judith  bell- 
buoy — the  little  framework  of  wood  and  iron  that  is  the  head- 
stone of  the  great  Atlantic's  "  graveyard  of  commerce."^  Through 
the  darkness  I  could  see  the  white  spray  dash  far  above  the  deck, 
then  fall  in  a  hissing  shower  over  the  walls  of  the  cabin,  while 
always  the  wind  shrieked  and  moaned,  and  a  chain,  loosened 
somewhere,  clanked  and  dragged  with  the  roll  of  the  boat.  We 
had  indeed  run  into  "dirty  weather."  Almost  unconsciously  I 
began  to  listen  for  the  engine-throbs,  and  even  as  I  subcon- 
sciously noted  that  the  beat  was  perfectly  regular  the  engine 
missed  a  stroke.  Then  the  boat  plunged,  and  as  she  came  up 
the  engine  missed  again.  Then  I  realized  what  was  hap- 
pening. The  waves  were  running  so  high  now  that  every  time 
the  boat  paused  on  a  crest  her  propeller  was  several  feet  above 
water  ;  which  meant  that  once  every  fifteen  or  twenty  seconds, 
with  the  regularity  of  a  clock,  the  whole  weight  of  her  thou- 
sands of  tons  was  balanced  amidship.  It  was  fun  to  feel  that 
when  we  climbed  up  a  huge  breaker  we  were,  so  to  speak,  on 
top  of  a  liquid  mountain,  but  it  was  not  nearly  so  much  fun 
when  the  engines  suddenly  slowed  down  and  the  boat  slackened 
her  pace  to  less  than  half  speed.  For  hours  we  crept  along 
through  the  dark  and  the  storm  until  finally  a  gray,  watery 
dawn  broke,  and  we  went  out  on  deck.  Inquiry  confirmed  our 
suspicions  as  to  the  cause  of  the  delay  :  one  blade  of  the  propeller 
had  been  completely  wrenched  off  by  the  waves,  and  we  would 
be  anywhere  from  six  to  ten  hours  late  in  making  port. 

All  day  it  stormed,  and  all  day  we  paced  the  deck,  enjoying 
the  rain  and  the  wind  in  contrast  to  the  hot  cabin  and  the  sick 
and  complaining  passengers.  Ail  the  way  down  Long  Island 
Sound  we  identified  lighthouses  and  lightships  and  buoys,  until 
at  last,  just  at  dusk,  the  Singer  Building  loomed  up,  big  and 
gray  and  welcoming,  and  the  poor,  bedraggled  boat  limped  to  her 
pier  in  the  East  River,  '*  delayed  seven  hours  by  storm,"  accord- 
ing to  the  captain's  log. 


TO  A  STRING  OF  GREEN  BEADS 

LAURA  MAE  BLUE 

I  hold  you  to  the  light  and  turn  you  'round, 

Beloved  beads,  and  find  in  your  cool  depths 

The  soft  blue-green  of  shimmering  eastern  skies 

When  all  the  earth's  awakening  ; 

The  color  of  the  tiniest  new  leaf 

That  ever  sprang  from  gnarled  apple  branch, 

And  mist  of  grey-green  twilight  over  sleeping  grass 

Before  the  rise  of  stars  on  a  dim  summer's  eve. 

You  change  and  play  with  every  light  and  shade 

And  yet  you  are  the  same,  inscrutable. 

What  myst'ries,  guarded  all  too  well,  are  known  to  you 

Such  that  we  scarce  have  dreamed  of  ! 

In  what  deep  earth  did  you  lie  hid 

For  countless  centuries  unknown  to  man  ? 

What  universal  burnings  and  upheavals  thus  created  you  ?- 

I  ga/e  at  you,  mine  own,  there  lying  in  my  hand, 

And  wonder. 


MEMORIES 

HELEN   V.    TOOKER 

Just  the  whiff  of  a  red  June  rose 
Blown  in  on  a  rain-born  breeze, 
Calls  up  dreams  of  trysting  place 
And  sweet  haunting  memories. 


473 


SKETCHES 
APPLES  AND  MEMORIES 

MARION   SINCLAIR  WALKER 

The  grapefruit  hath  its  powers  to  charm,  the  orange,  too,  has 
many  merits  ;  but  give  me  the  plain,  ordinary,  every-day  apple. 
Blessings  on  its  rosy,  shining  face  ! 

One  of  my  earliest  recollections,  one  of  the  incidents  that 
stand  clearly  outlined  against  the  hazy  background  of  early 
childhood,  centers  about  an  apple.  I  can  see  myself,  a  small, 
toddling  mite,  hardly  less  round  and  rosy  than  the  huge  apple 
in  my  hand,  making  the  perilous  passage  from  apple  tree  to 
kitchen  door  (some  twenty  yards  or  so).  Perilous  indeed,  for 
Balaam,  the  ram,  bars  the  way.  He  seems  to  be  feeding  peace- 
fully as  I  approach,  may  I  perchance  pass  unobserved  ?  But 
no,  he  is  looking  !  He  sees  me,  and,  what  is  of  more  conse- 
quence, he  sees  the  apple.  Very  calmly,  without  hurry  or 
excitement,  Balaam  lowers  his  head  and  with  one  measured 
sweep  of  his  curling  horns,  rolls  me  over  upon  the  ground,  then 
turns  his  attention  to  the  apple,  which  has  slipped  from  my 
grasp.  I  am  rescued  from  my  ignominious  position  by  Mother, 
but  it  is  long  before  my  tears  will  cease  to  flow,  for  the  dignity 
of  three  years  has  been  outraged— and  Balaam  has  my  apple  ! 

With  apples  comes  the  thought  of  apple-blossoms,  and  what 
a  radiant  vision  is  conjured  up  before  me  at  the  name  !  For 
never  was  my  early  home,  that  little  farmhouse  among  the 
'Connecticut  hills,  more  beautiful  than  in  Maytime,  when  the 
orchards  round  about  blossomed  forth  in  fragrant  loveliness. 
Then  all  summer  long,  in  the  glorious  vacation  days,  playing 
under  the  trees,  I  felt  a  certain  comradeship  with  the  little 
growing  apples,  as  they,  together  with  me,  drank  in  the  life- 
giving  air  and  sunshine  and  grew  and  grew  and  grew. 

474 


THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY  475 

Summer  was  soon  over,  however,  for  vacations,  even  in  those 
golden  days,  had  a  distressing  habit  of  coming  to  an  end.  Yet 
there  was  pleasure,  too,  in  setting  forth  morningly  for  school, 
through  the  crisp  September  air,  with  little  book  and  lunch- 
basi^et  in  either  hand.  My  usual  costume  at  the  time  was  a 
sailor  suit  and  no  one  can  know,  unless  from  experience,  how 
many  apples  a  sailor  blouse  will  hold.  Mine  was  always  dis- 
tended to  huge  proportions  and  was  the  cause  of  unceasing 
wonder  to  a  somewhat  near-sighted  old  lady  whose  house  I 
daily  passed.  Her  eye  took  in  the  general  effect,  but  did  not 
penetrate  to  its  cause  ;  and  she  never  could  quite  understand 
why  I  should  be  of  such  monstrous  size  in  the  morning  and  so 
remarkably  diminished  ere  afternoon. 

As  days  wore  on,  there  would  always  come  Saturday  and 
particularly  dear  to  recollection  are  Saturdays  in  October  for 
that  was  apple-picking  time.  There  was  a  part  of  our  farm 
most  remote  from  the  house,  a  mile  or  more,  where  many  of 
the  winter  apples  grew.  Thither  those  Saturdays  in  October 
would  we  turn  our  course.  Sometimes  we  went  in  force,  with 
horses  and  wagons  and  hired  men  and  ladders,  but  the  times  I 
liked  best  were  when  it  was  just  Daddy  and  I.  For  then,  as 
always,  to  be  with  Daddy  was  to  me  the  best  of  bliss.  I  can 
see  it  now,  the  orchard  with  its  trees  bending  under  the  weight 
of  the  plenteous  harvest  and  Daddy  among  the  topmost 
branches,  while  I  watched  anxiously  from  below,  fearful  lest 
his  footing  should  prove  insecure.  When  at  length  some  far- 
off  factory  whistle,  made  musical  b}'  distance,  proclaimed  the 
mid-hour,  how  good  our  lunches  tasted  and  how  pleasant  was 
the  hour  of  comradeship  as  we  sat  close  together,  my  hand 
on  Daddy's  knee,  talking,  sometimes  of  my  childish  hopes  and 
dreams  and  sometimes  of  that  land  beyond  the  sea  where 
Daddy  as  a  little  child  had  lived.  And  then  at  dusk  we  would 
walk  back  together  over  the  fields,  with  the  smoke  of  our  chim- 
ney beckoning  to  us  and  telling  of  the  hot  supper  waiting 
within. 

At  length  the  shining  harvest  was  gathered  in,  Greenings, 
Russets  and  Baldwins,  all  in  their  appointed  places.  Winter 
evenings  came  and  what  a  thrill  of  excitement  there  was  in 
descending  the  shadowy  stairs  to  that  weird  and  dungeon-like 
cellar,  the  groping  by  flickeriug  lantern  light  for  big  and  juicy 
treasures,    the   pausing   to  gaze   fearfully  over  one's   shoulder 


476  THE   SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

into  the  gloomy  recesses,  for  that  cellar  was  a  place  of  mystery^ 
peopled  with  unnumbered  vague  and  fantastic  creatures  ;  then 
the  rushing  in  sudden,  uncontrollable  panic  up  the  stairs  and 
emerging  with  the  spoils  into  the  cheerful  warmth  and  glow 
above,  not  forgetting  to  bar  the  door  securely  upon  the  pursu- 
ing phantoms  ;  finally  settling  down  to  enjoy  the  fruits  of  that 
perilous  expedition  during  a  long  evening  of  reading  or  some 
other  pleasant  occupation.  Such  are  a  few  of  the  memories 
that  the  sight  of  a  rosy  apple  can  bring  to  me. 

So  high  a  place  had  the  apple  in  my  childish  esteem'  that  I 
remember  always,  on  hearing  the  story  of  Eve's  temptation  and 
her  fall,  I  used  to  see  in  mind  the  picture  of  a  huge  Gravenstein 
apple  upon  the  forbidden  tree,  its  streaked,  red-gold  exterior 
giving  promise  of  rare  lusciousness  within,  and  I  could  not  but 
think  that  Eve  had  chosen  wisely.  Strange,  childish  reasoning- 
that  should  for  such  brief  pleasure  deem  Paradise  well  lost  ! 

Now  that  view  of  life  is  strangely  readjusted.  I  think  it  was 
the  Garden  of  Eden,  that  world  of  simple  joys  and  sweet  con- 
tent, where  the  little  child  walked  amid  blossoms  and  sunshine 
and  rosy,  ripening  fruit.  But  sooner  or  later  we  all  must  go 
from  the  Garden  ;  the  Tree  of  Knowledge  is  far  to  seek  and 
many  a  thorny  path  and  toilsome  journey  must  be  completed 
ere  we  win  its  shining  fruit.  We  do  not  think  to  leave  the 
Garden  forever ;  when  success  has  crowned  our  quest,  we  will 
bring  the  hard-won  treasure  back  to  its  welcoming  shades. 
But  when  we  would  return,  the  gates  are  closed  and  the  angel, 
stern,  inexorable,  with  flaming  sword  upheld  bars  the  way. 
Our  earth-dimmed  eyes  can  hardly  bear  the  brightness  of 
angelic  light  and,  as  we  turn  exceeding  sorrowful  away,  we  see 
but  dimly  through  the  shining  haze  the  waving  branches  and 
the  beckoning  shades  of  the  Garden,  where  the  child  of  yester- 
day was  free  to  roam  at  will,  but  now,  grown  older,  may  not 
enter.  We  ask,  *'  Why  must  it  be  so  ?"  But  the  answer  lies 
with  One  whom  none  dares  question.  The  angel  alone  could 
reveal  it,  for  his  name  is  Destiny. 


SALLY 

DOROTHY  STOCKMAN  KEELEY 

So  Sally  was  to  be  married.  Sally  I  And  why  not  ?  Other 
people  get  married.  But  Sally,  my  Sally!  Come,  you  must 
meet  her. 

I  will  take  you  back  ten  years  and  then,  when  you  have  put 
on  a  middy  blouse  and  a  bat  hat,  I  will  take  you  to  Northamp- 
ton, march  you  up  Main  street  through  girls  and  past  Kiugsley's 
and  then  up  two  flights  of  stairs  to  our  own  little,  yellow  room. 
Yes,  Sally  is  my  room-mate.  Here  she  is.  "  Sally*  my  reader.'' 
You,  dear  Reader,  "  are  awfully  glad  to  meet  her — and  isn't  it 
a  darling  room  and  oh  what  a  peach  of  a  view  I "  Remember 
you  have  gone  back  ten  years  and  are  wearing  a  middy  and  a 
bat  hat.  Sally  giggles,  Sally  alv/ays  could  giggle,  and  then  she 
hides  her  face  in  her  little  hands. 

How  it  all  comes  back  !  The  work,  the  sings,  the  bats,  the 
wonderful  swing  of  life,  and  through  it  all  I  see  Sally.  Sally 
working,  Sally  playing,  Sall}^  bad  and  Sally  repentant,  Sally 
laughing  and  then  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands.  That  funny 
little  habit  was  the  first  thing  I  noticed  and  it  took  me  a  year 
and  a  half  to  find  out  why  she  did  it.  You  see  when  Sally 
laughed,  her  nice  blue  eyes  would  brim  over  and  she  cried  too. 
She  hated  herself  for  doing  it,  but  the  good  Lord  must  have  for- 
gotten to  tighten  the  tear  ducts  in  her  little  head,  because  the 
tears  just  would  come  and  she  couldn't  help  it. 

Kind,  it  would  have  killed  her  if  she  had  ever  hurt  anyone's 
feelings,  I  remember  once  overhearing  her.  *' You  see,"  a  girl 
was  explaining,  '*a  friend  of  my  uncle  is  putting  me  through 
college." 

"  Is  he  ?"  cried  Sally  showing  her  dimples.  "  Why  a  friend 
of  my  aunt  is  putting  me  through  I  "  Little  Liar  !  Her  father 
was  one  of  the  richest  men  in  Boston,  but  she  thought  it  would 
make  the  other  girl  feel  better. to  know  that  she,  too,  was  being 
helped. 

When  she  was  a  very  little  girl,  Sally  used  to  be  punished  for 
staring  at  people  and  unconsciously  imitating  them.  And  that 
bad   baby   trick  had  forgotten  to  grow  up  with  the  rest  of  her. 


478  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

Often  when  with,  her,  I  have  been  horrified  to  see  her  gazing- 
raptly  at  a  street  cleaner  and  solemnly  going  through  the 
motions  of  lighting  a  pipe  or  scratching  her  head. 

She  was  strong  and  sweet  and  oh,  so  in  love  with  the  world  ! 
Best  of  all  she  loved  children  and  dandelions.  I  think  ice  cream 
was  a  close  second.  Sally  !  Sally  !  How  could  a  mere  man  un- 
derstand ?  I  have  watched  you  often  and  seen  you  "pondering 
things  in  your  heart."  Perhaps  they  were  the  yearnings  towards 
motherless  kittens  or  the  mysteries  of  life.  I  cannot  let  you  go. 
You  are  too  wonderfully  made. 

But  somehow  when  I  think  of  little  Sallys  laughing  and  hiding 
their  faces  in  their  hands — why,  mere  man  take  her  and  bless- 
you! 


THE   FOUNTAIN 

MARION  DELAMATER  FREEMAN 

Down  in  the  garden  the  fountain  stands, 
Moss-grown  and  green  and  cool, 

Leaning  upon  its  smooth  edge  I  gaze 
Deep  in  the  crystal  pool. 

Hither  and  thither  dart  gold  fish  gay, 

Flashing  now  gold,  now  red, 
Now  in  the  sunshine  and  now  in  the  shade 

Cast  by  the  trees  overhead. 


Never  a  sound  but  the  murmuring  song 

Of  the  water,  dripping  slow 
From  the  marble  basin  up  above 

To  the  clear  cold  depths  below. 

Roses  are  nodding  and  bowing  low 

To  their  images  clear  and  pale, 
Now  and  then  stirred  by  a  passing  breeze, 

Dropping  their  petals  frail. 

Petals  that  float  on  the  fountain-bowl 

Like  fairy  ships  so  wee, 
Dancing  about  on  the  wind  ruffled  waves 

Like  dream  boats  sailing  a  dreamland  sea. 


JUST  WAIT! 

ADELAIDE  HEILBRON 

I'm  sorry  for  the  Grown-Ups  with  their  dull  and  stupid  ways, 

But  it  does  seem  that  the  fault  is  theirs, 
For  instead  of  having,  as  they  could,  a  host  of  happy  days, 

They  deliberately  go  and  hunt  for  cares. 

Just  think  !  they  stop  our  doing  things,  there's  no  one  to  stop  them,. 

And  yet  the  stupid  creatures  simply  go 
Along  their  weary  round,  it's  mostly  "  office"  for  the  men 

While  the  grown-up  ladies  sit  at  home  and  sew. 

I've  often  wondered  why  I've  never  caught  my  great  Aunt  Ann 

In  the  kitchen  standing  on  a  kitchen  chair. 
Waiting  for  the  blissful  moment  when  they'll  let  her  lick  the  pan 

Of  the  chocolate  cake  that  cook  was  making  there. 

And  I've  never  yet  caught  Father  sliding  down  the  front  stair  rail,. 

Or  out  in  our  yard  playing  Indian  Chief 
With  a  head-dress  made  of  feathers  taken  from  our  turkey's  tail. 

And  a  war-cry  shrill  and  wild  beyond  belief. 

Nor  have  I  e'er  seen  Mother  with  Aunt  Mabel  and  Aunt  Sue, 

In  their  nighties  and  a  pair  of  paper  wings. 
Being  angels  in  our  garden  as  the  girls  just  love  to  do. 

Kind  of  tame,  I  think  but  girls  like  silly  things. 

Or  Grandmother,  for  instance,  never  does  a  thing  that's  rash, 
Why,  when  she  goes  walking  after  we've  had  rain. 

She  never  jumps  in  puddles  just  to  see  how  far  they  splash, 
Nor  scuffs  the  dirt  to  dry  her  feet  again. 

I  wonder  when  Aunt  Mabel  goes  to  walk  with  Mr.  Haines 

Why  on  earth,  instead  of  loitering  that  way, 
She  doesn't  let  him  drive  her  with  a  pair  of  worsted  reins 

While  she  trots  and  shakes  her  mane  and  tries  to  neigh. 

Yes,  I'm  sorry  for  the  Grown-Ups  and  I  help  them  when  I  can,. 

By  rushing  in  upon  the  poky  things  they  do. 
But  then,  they've  this  to  hope  for,  when  I  get  to  be  a  man, 

I  will  show  the  Grown-Up  World  a  thing  or  two. 

47d 


RAINY  WEATHER 

MADELEINE  FULLER  MCDOWELL 

Rain  has  always  had  a  curious  fascination  for  me.  If  I  wake 
up  and  see  a  steady,  relentless  drizzle  pricking  holes  in  all  the 
puddles  and  a  grey  mist  veiling  the  whole  world,  I  invariably 
get  out  of  bed  the  right  way  and  remain  in  the  most  enviable 
mood  imaginable.  Bright  sunlight,  especially  in  the  '  early 
morning,  always  irritates  me.  There  is  something  crude  and 
garish  about  it  that  is  peculiarly  offensive  and  I  feel  that  it  is 
horribly  unappreciative  of,  or  worse  still,  distressingly  callous 
in  regard  to  my  changing  moods.  When  I  am  wearing  spectacles 
of  the  deepest  turquoise  and  feel  that  life  has  no  further  mean- 
ing for  me,  it  is  irritating  beyond  measure  to  have  the  sun 
dance  and  sparkle  and  bubble  over  with  joyousness  and  to  have 
every  little  bird  within  earshot  pour  forth  an  unabridged  ex- 
pression of  his  seraphic  state.  If  the  universe  feels  that  it  is 
impossible  to  sympathize  with  my  sorrow  and  decorously  clothe 
itfelf  in  sombre  tints,  at  least  it  would  be  more  fitting  to  put 
some  bounds  to  its  merriment  and  to  enjoy  itself  in  some  quiet, 
unobtrusive  fashion. 

But  rainy  days  are  much  more  adaptable.  If  I  am  in  a  gloomy 
mood,  I  appreciate  nature's  tactful  unobstreperousness.  Her 
mute  letter  of  condolence  voiced  by  the  steady  drip,  drip,  of  the 
rain  on  the  roof  is  singularly  soothing,  acting  like  a  narcotic  on 
my  jangling  nerves. 

Gray  days  always  seem  more  beautiful  than  sunny  ones.  The 
soft  light  of  a  rainy  day  is  kind  to  the  world's  ugliness.  It  blurs 
hard  outlines  and  casts  a  cloak  of  illusion  over  all  the  squalor, 
the  filth  and  the  sordidness  which  the  pitiless  light  of  a  sunny 
day  shows  forth  with  relentless  candor.  It  makes  the  dark 
places  assume  a  sort  of  wistful  loveliness  like  a  woman  past  her 
prime  upon  whom  falls  the  rosy,  flattering  light  of  softly  shaded 
candles. 

Lastly,  there  has  always  been,  and  probably  always  will  be, 
something  intensely  romantic,  nay  even  beautiful,  about  city 
streets  on  rainy  evenings  between  five  and  seven.  As  a  rule  I 
have  no  troublesome  aspirations.  The  grays  and  the  olive-greens 
of  a  rain-drenched  country  landscape,  for  instance,  do  not  make 

480 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  481 

me  yearn  for  Caret's  skill.  But  when  I  see  the  long,  wet,  shining 
streets,  ink-black  and  oddly  like  patent-leather,  hemmed  in  by 
two  rows  of  tall,  brightly-lighted  houses  and  dotted  with  moving 
splashes  of  yellow  reflected  from  the  headlights  of  swiftly- xDass- 
ing  cabs  and  the  fiery  glow  of  powerful  cars  eating  out  holes  in 
the  mist  and  blackness,  I  long  to  be  a  Childe  Hassam,  to  catch 
it  and  imprison  it  all  in  such  a  masterly  fashion  that  people  will 
fish  up  from  the  depths  of  their  minds  all  the  wet  nights  of  their 
lives,  dripping  with  memories  and  drenched  with  long-forgot- 
ten sensations.  I  long  to  show  them  the  glamour  that  lies  in 
these  hurrying  streets,  to  rouse  their  sleeping  imaginations.  If 
they  would  only  once  feel  the  thrill  of  adventure  in  the  smell  of 
wet  streets  and  the  taste  of  night  fog,  it  would  not  be  hard  to 
make  them  play  that  matchless  game  of  "make-believe." 


SIMON  OF  GYRENE 

ANNA   ELIZABETH  SPICER 

''One  Simon,  a  Cyrenian,  who  passed  by,  coming  out  of  the  country. 

Forth  through  the  quiet  country  way, 

Where  all  the  wheat  grew  nodding  high, 
Thou  earnest,  one  old-summer's  day. 

A  bird  on  a  slender  blossom-spray 

Scarce  trembled  as  thou  passedst  by, 
Forth  through  the  quiet  country  way. 

Perchance,  I  think,  thou  knelt'st  to  pray, 

When,  to  the  city  drawing  nigh, 
Thou  camest,  one  old-summer's  day. 

And  others,  too,  one  grave,  one  gay, 

Came  riding  down  where  the  broad  fields  lie 
Forth  through  the  quiet  country  way. 

An  if  thou  knewest,  none  may  say : 

But,  turning  back,  one  heard  thee  sigh 
As  thou  camest,  one  old-summer's  day. 

To  a  pomp  of  pain  thy  path,  astray, 

Led.     Ah,  didst  know  that  He  must  die, 
As,  forth  through  the  quiet  country  way 
Thou  camest,  one  old-summer's  day? 


BEDELIA 

RUTH  KINGSLEY   WAGER 

Bedelia  was  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  plump,  white 
chicken.  She  had  hardly  been  out  of  her  shell  an  hour  before 
a  violent  rain  storm  left  her  half  drowned  in  the  hen-coop  and 
bereft  of  many  brothers  and  sisters.  Bridget  had  rushed  out^ 
picked  up  the  brood  and  taken  them  into  the  kitchen  to  be 
warmed  and  coddled  back  to  life,  but  Bedelia  alone  responded. 
So  for  many  weeks  she  lived  in  a  box  back  of  the  kitchen  stove. 

"No  doubt  it  was  here  that  she  acquired  her  sentimental  cast 
of  character,  for  Bridget  had  a  *' steady  ^'  who  came  often  of  an 
evening  and  murmured  sweet  nothings  to  his  lady  love  on  the 
back  porch.  Bedelia  used  to  stand  just  inside  the  screen  door 
with  her  bill  pressed  close  against  the  netting  in  search  of  any 
unwary  bug  that  might  have  crawled  inside,  and  she  was  wont 
to  listen  to  the  conversation  and  longed  for  someone  to  say  such 
things  to  her. 

As  the  weeks  went  on,  Bedelia  grew  in  stature  and  was  finally 
relegated  to  the  chicken-yard.  The  other  fowls,  after  greeting 
her  in  a  perfunctory  sort  of  way,  went  about  their  business. 
Bedelia  looked  about  and  was  convinced  that  she  was  decidedly 
out  of  her  element,  but  would  carry  herself  aloof  and  show 
those  miserable  creatures  that  she  was  somebody.  One  young 
rooster  did  approach  her  and  begin  a  desultory  conversation, 
but  she  repulsed  his  timid  advances  and  sauntered  away  to  a 
distant  corner  of  the  yard.  At  night  she  perched  on  one  corner 
of  the  roost  and  craned  her  neck  to  look  out  at  the  moon. 
After  one  day  and  two  moonlight  nights  Bedelia  waxed  fear- 
fully sentimental.  She  roamed  around  the  yard  and  moped 
sadly  in  a  corner  until  a  motherly  old  hen  bustled  up  to  her 
and  advised  chickweed  tonic.  Bedelia  very  rudely  kept  silent 
and  the  motherly  old  hen  walked  away  disdainfully. 

That  night  Bedelia's  feelings  were  almost  too  much  for  her. 
She  thought  of  Bridget  and  her  steady  and  nearly  wept.  She 
began  to  look  with  more  favor  upon  the  young  rooster  and  even 
went  so  far  as  to  eat  a  June  bug  which  he  hesitatingly  prof- 
fered, which  kindly  deed  put  him  in  a  flutter  of  ecstacy. 

482 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY  483 

About  ten  o'clock  Bedelia  woke  with  a  start.  Surely  she 
heard  her  name  called.  She  listened.  From  outside  some  one 
was  singing  softly  : 

"Oh  Bedelia-elia-elia, 

I've  made  up  my  mind  to  steal  yuh, 

Oh  Bedelia,  I  love  yuh  so  ! " 

Her  heart  nearly  stopped  beating.  At  last,  at  last  someone 
who  appreciated  her  superior  qualities  was  coming  to  take  her 
away  perhaps.  At  least  she  could  show  that  young  rooster 
who  was  who. 

"  Oh  Bedelia — "     The  song  was  beginning  again. 

"That's  me,"  said  Bedelia  fervidly  though  ungrammatically. 
She  stuck  her  head  out  of  the  small  window  and  clucked  softly. 
She  saw  no  one  and  settled  back  again  to  listen.  The  young 
rooster,  hearing  his  beloved  one's  voice,  sidled  a  few  inches  in 
its  direction  and  was  immediately  squelched  by  a  wrathful 
glance  from  Bedelia.  She  listened.  Some  one  was  coming, 
and  for  her  she  knew  I 

A  dark  cloud  shut  out  the  moon.  A  great  black  hand,  inserted 
in  the  window,  grouped  about.  Bedelia  moved  closer  and 
clucked  gently.  Then  the  hand  gripped  her  by  the  leg  and 
pulled  her  roughly  toward  the  window.  Bedelia  was  terrified. 
She  squawked  shrilly  and  screamed  for  help.  She  had  hoped 
her  lover  would  be  masterful,  but  this  was  too  much.  Would 
no  one  save  her  ? 

The  amorous  young  cock  had  been  sitting  rigidly  on  the 
perch,  paralyzed  with  amazement  and  terror.  What  could  he 
do  ?  His  brain  refused  to  act  but,  just  as  many  people  do  when 
in  absolute  terror,  he  fell  back  on  an  old  habit.  Flapping  both 
wings  vigorously,  he  gave  vent  to  a  lusty  crow.  Instantly  the 
hen-house  was  in  an  uproar.  Every  chicken  in  the  place  joined 
in  the  din.  Bedelia  felt  the  grip  on  her  leg  loosen  and  she  fell 
to  the  ground.  Rapid  footsteps  were  heard  near  the  house  and 
then  the  report  of  a  gun — voices— and  silence. 

Bedelia  opened  her  eyes  to  see  the  Young  Chanticleer  stand- 
ing foolishly,  near  by.  She  sighed.  He  came  closer  and  touched 
her  gently  with  his  beak.  All  visions  of  romance  vanished 
from  Bedelia's  mind,  and  she  sighed  as  she  put  her  head  against 
his  wing.  "  Oh,  you're  so  brave  I"  and  Young  Chanticleer  was 
diplomatically  silent. 


A  BLACK  OPAL 

LAURA  MAE  BLUE 

As  young  and  as  old  as  the  world, 

The  Spirit  of  the  Mountain  poised 

On  a  lonely  peak. 

Ten  thousand  miles  the  great  blue  stretched 

Beneath  her  feet,  the  heavenly  ball 

Slow  turning  on  its  downward  curve. 

Stealing  up  o'er  the  misty  blue, 
Fold  on  fold  of  gossamer  rose. 
Fold  on  fold  of  the  ocean's  green, 
Mingled  with  tint  of  asphodel. 
Flowed  and  ebbed  in  a  golden  stream, 
Glimmering,  glowing,  coiling,  turning, 
The  fairy  colors  shimmered  and  shone. 

Piercing  the  play  of  the  rainbow  rays, 

Thrusting  up  with  angry  whirl, 

A  rush  of  purple  and  sullen  black 

Poured  through  the  hues  of  the  sunken  sun. 

An  instant  the  light  of  the  world  was  gone, 

Then,  bursting  in  flecks  of  undimmed  flame. 

Like  lightning  flashed  in  a  heated  sky, 

The  playing  colors  darted  and  flared, 

Here  and  there  in  the  changing  dark 

Of  the  closing  dusk  and  the  nearing  storm. 

The  Spirit  of  the  Mountain  with  unspent  breath 

Gazed  on  an  opal,  first  conceived 

In  the  sunset  sky  midst  the  coming  storm — 

As  young  and  as  old  as  the  world. 


THE  MINISTER'S  DAUGHTER 

DOROTHY  GOLDTHWAIT  THAYER 

How  often  have  you  envied  the  minister's  son  who  could  be  as 
bad  as  he  wanted  to,  without  calling  forth  any  more  comment 
than  that  he  was  doing  what  was  proverbially  expected  of  him  ? 
As  for  minister's  daughters,  you  soon  found  that  in  your  case  at 
least,  everything  good  and  noble  was  expected,  that  you  must 
be  a  model  Sunday  school  book  creature  with  none  of  the  baser 
tendencies  of  common,  ordinary  little  girls. 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY  485 

As  soon  as  you  went  to  school,  you  became  aware  of  the  fact 
that  you  were  a  marked  character.  "Sh  !  don't  tell  Mary  that. 
She's  a  minister's  daughter."  How  many  juicy  gists  you  missed 
in  this  way  I  "  Oh  I  I  didn't  mean  to  say  that,  I  forgot  there 
was  a  minister's  daughter  around,"  invariably  followed  a  slip  of 
the  tongue  on  the  part  of  one  of  your  associates.  You  were 
never  quite  sure  whether  their  concern  was  that  your  tender 
sensibilities  should  not  be  shocked  or  that  you  should  not  tell 
your  father. 

Girls  were  bad  enough  but  boys  were  worse!  "Oh!  oh! 
there  goes  Bridget,  the  minister's  daughter."  Bridget  being 
the  worst  name  they  could  think  of,  it  was  invariably  applied. 
How  you  did  wish  that  your  father  were  anything  in  the  world 
but  a  minister  !  How  you  would  have  boasted  of  him  had  he 
only  been  a  druggist  or  a  carpenter  like  the  fathers  of  your  best 
friends.  You  used  to  pursue  every  small  girl  with  the  question, 
"What's  your  father  ?"  in  the  vain  hope  that  you  might  find 
someone  who  was  in  your  own  situation,  but  keeping  her  an- 
cestry dark. 

Not  a  companion  in  misery  was  to  be  found.  There  were 
plenty  of  ministers'  sons— oh  yes !  but  all  revelling  in  the 
luxury  of  being  as  bad  as  they  could  be  with  no  one  to  question 
it  and  say  in  reproachful  tones  "you  musn't  do  that,  your 
father's  a  minister." 

There  were  so  many  things  you  mustn't  do.  You  mustn't 
whisper  in  school,  you  mustn't  climb  trees  like  the  boys,  you 
mustn't  peek  even  the  tiniest  bit  when  you  were  trying  to  jump 
a  hop-scotch  with  your  eyes  shut  and  worst  of  all  to  one  with 
an  unusually  healthy  appetite,  you  mustn't  eat  too  much  at 
parties.  Well  do  you  remember  the  shocked  tones  of  a  girl 
newly  arrived  in  town  when,  in  telling  about  a  club  to  which 
she  had  belonged,  she  said,  "And  Jessie,  the  minister's  daughter, 
proposed  we  have  refreshments  at  our  meetings  and  she  always 
ate  more  than  anyone  else."  Never  would  you  have  anyone 
speak  of  you  in  such  tones,  so  you  made  heroic  attempts  to  re- 
fuse sweetly  all  second  helps. 

It  was  not  only  among  your.young  associates  that  you  seemed 
to  be  in  a  class  by  yourself,  but  even  "grown  ups"  and  worst  of 
all  teachers  were  in  league  against  you.  Whenever  a  Bible 
reference  occurred  in  the  day's  lessons  it  was  always,  "  Now 
Mary,  will  you  tell  us  where   this   comes   from  ?    What !   you 


486  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

don't  know,  why  Fm  surprised."  The  surprise  always  seemed 
to  be  as  great  no  matter  how  many  times  you  failed  to  respond. 

Not  only  every  day  school  teachers  but  Sunday  school  teach- 
ers, too,  expected  a  great  deal  of  you.  You  must  always  know 
your  lesson,  not  only  the  answers  which  could  be  found  in  the 
book,  but  those  which  had  to  be  made  up  in  your  head.  You 
were  just  dying  to  ask  Susie  where  she  got  her  new  hat  or 
whether  she  was  still  mad  with  Frances  but  you  had  to  pay 
very  strict  attention  and  set  a  good  example,  because— well,  be- 
cause you  were  the  minister's  daughter  and  having  been  born  to 
that  calling  you  must  try  to  be  a  success. 

Not  only  the  school  world  laid  its  demands  upon  you  but  be- 
yond that,  threatening  you  at  every  step,  was  the  parish.  You 
never  knew  when  you  might  meet  it.  It  might  be  in  the  shape 
of  an  old  lady  walking  down  the  street,  whom  you  didn't  think 
you  had  ever  seen  before,  but  whose  feelings  were  hurt  because 
you  didn't  smile  and  speak  to  her.  It  might  be  in  the  form  of 
Deacon  Rand  who  chucked  you  under  the  chin  and  told  you  how 
you  had  grown  in  such  stern  tones  that  you  wished  you  could 
telescope  on  the  spot.  It  was  always  around  you,  especially  in 
church.  Yes  !  that  was  worst  of  all.  Of  course  you  had  to  go 
to  church  always,  the  Parish  expected  it  of  you  and  you  had  to 
be  there  promptly,  again  expected  by  the  Parish,  and  above  all 
you  had  to  sit  like  a  good  little  girl  when  you  were  simply  bored 
to  death.  You  did  all  sorts  of  things  to  help  you  to  forget  to 
wriggle.  Poetry  was  perhaps  the  greatest  relief  to  your  feelings. 
One  of  your  productions  has  become  a  family  classic. 

"  Then  the  people  sit  down, 

The  ministor  rises, 
But  there  is  no  fun 

Nor  any  surprises." 

If  only  there  would  be  surprises,  you  thought,  if  only  the 
organ  wouldn't  play,  or  best  of  all,  if  father  would  only  forget 
what  he  was  going  to  say  and  let  church  out  early,  but  there 
were  no  surprises  and  there  you  had  to  sit  in  the  eyes  of  the 
Parish  and  make  the  best  of  it. 

Your  lot  indeed  seemed  a  hard  one  but  it  was  not  without  its 
compensations.  The  old  lady  part  of  the  Parish  invited  you  to 
tea  and  gave  you  delicious  things  to  eat  which  your  mother 
thought  were  not  good  for  you  but  which,  of  course,  it  would 
not  be  polite  for  you  to  refuse.     The  children  part  of  the  parish, 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      487 

or  at  least  their  mothers,  invited  you  to  all  their  parties  without 
fail,  which  were  fun  even  without  the  second  helps. 

There  were  other  compenpations  of  quite  a  different  sort. 
There  was  the  joy  of  counting  special  offerings  which  father 
brought  home,  making  neat  little  piles  of  quarters,  dimes, 
nickels  and  pennies,  mostly  pennies,  and  always  hoping  that 
you  might  find  a  half  dollar  or  that  a  bright  penny  might  turn 
out  to  be  a  gold  piece. 

When  you  began  to  be  grown  up,  there  was  the  rare  and 
coveted  privilege  of  "witnessing''  whenever  a  couple  were  so 
obliging  as  to  want  to  be  witnessed  while  Father  joined  them  in 
the  holy  bonds.  She  might  be  red-haired  and  cross-eyed  and  he 
old  enough  to  be  her  father,  but  you  saw  only  poetry  and 
romance  in  the  occasion. 

Above  all  there  was  the  superior  feeling  which  came  from 
knowing  all  about  things  beforehand.  You  knew  who  the  new 
deacon  was  going  to  be  even  before  he  was  elected.  You  knew 
what  Father  was  going  to  preach  about  if  he  happened  to  know 
himself.  On  other  occasions  he  told  you  "about  twenty 
minutes,"  then  you  knew  that  you  must  be  extra  quiet  Sunday 
morning  so  that  he  might  get  his  inspiration  at  the  last  moment. 
You  knew  the  numbers  of  all  the  hymns  and  what  all  the 
"Notices  for  the  Day  and  Week"  were  about.  This  seemed  to 
make  going  to  church  all  the  more  an  unnecessary  evil. 

You  could  never  get  away  from  your  ancestry  even  by  visit- 
ing all  the  corners  of  the  earth.  Although  you  might  escape  it 
for  a  brief  moment,  someone  always  found  you  out,  until  you 
realized  that  the  marks  of  the  profession  were  indelibly  stamped 
upon  you.  It  is  too  true  that  the  sins  of  th9  fathers  are  visited 
upon  the  children. 


THE  VACUUM   CLEANER 

NATALIE   CARPENTER 

House-cleaning  always  used  to  be 

A  time  of  agony  for  me. 

Confusion  reigned  day  after  day 

While  mop  and  sweeper  held  their  sway. 

My  need  was  simple .    I  required 

A  place  to  sit  when  I  was  tired, 

But  for  six  days  our  home  had  not 

A  place  resembling  such  a  spot. 

If  quite  worn  out,  I  sank  onto 

A  hat-rack  (anything  would  do), 

The  rug  was  pulled  out,  or  instead 

One  "  Life  of  Lincoln  "  hit  my  head, 

The  broom  slipped,  landing  on  my  nose, 

They  rolled  a  book-case  o'er  my  toes. 

It  was  no  use  !    Try  as  I  might. 

My  only  respite  came  at  night. 

Now  I  look  back  on  days  like  those 
And  chuckle.     Really  no  one  knows 
What  bliss  it  is  each  spring  and  fall 
To  house -clean  !     Why,  I  love  it  all  1 
I  calmly  sit  while  Auntie  Min 
Cleans  thoroughly  the  chair  I'm  in, 
We  needn't  move  a  book  or  pull  a  tack, 


'—"vac. 


AFTER  SPRING  RAIN 

GRACE  ANGELA  RICHMOND 

Against  the  rain-filled  darkness  of  the  clouds 

The  crimson  maple  buds  seem  fretwork  on  the  sky, 
And  some  poor  gaudy  blossoms  crushed  to  earth 

Make  carpet  on  the  pavement  where  they  lie. 
The  brilliant  yellow  of  a  flow'ring  shrub 

Starts  out  across  the  grayness  of  the  day, 
Till  sudden,  bright'ning  on  the  dew-washed  grass, 

There  shines  the  glory  of  the  sun's  warm  ray. 

488 


A  PORTRAIT 


LEONORA   BRANCH 


Your  hair  is  soft  as  twilight  dusk, 

And  fragrant  as  the  summer's  day, 
And  the  soft  sunshine  of  your  glance 

Chases  my  shadow-thoughts  away. 
And  oh,  the  sweetness  of  your  mouth, 

To  watch  the  magic  of  your  eyes. 
Deep  with  a  solemn  mystery 

Hid  'neath  a  calm  like  autumn  skies. 

But  more  than  these  I  love  your  hands, 

The  darling,  dimpled  little  thumb 
That  tells  the  tale  of  coquetry 

Of  which  your  eyes  are  dumb. 
Each  slim,  white  finger-tip  of  yours 

Is  to  me  as  a  gracious  sign 
Of  all  the  loving  service  they 

Have  rendered  to  dull  needs  like  mine. 

And  sometimes  when  the  world  is  gray, 

And  my  desires  seem  very  far, 
I  love  to  look  into  your  eyes 

And  see  the  vision  like  a  star 
That  leads  you  onward  faithfully, 

And  then  my  goal  shines  nearer,  too, 
And  my  dim  hopes  are  winged  with  fire 

From  that  clear  flame  which  burns  in  you. 

And  if  I  hesitate,  perchance, 

And  question  how  I  may  attain 
That  distant  goal  which  you  have  set, 

My  weary,  errant  will  again, 
I  need  but  watch  you  at  your  work 

To  know  how  bravely  your  heart  sings, 
While  those  dear  hands  show  me  the  way 

To  consecrate  life's  little  things. 


4  8  9 


ABOUT    COLLEGE 


A  PHYSICS  PHANTASY 


ESTHER   SAYLES   ROOT 


An  atmosphere  of  hushed  activity  filled  the  laboratory.  Girls 
moved  to  and  fro  among  the  tables,  filling  beakers,  testing 
liquids,  making  careful  measurements.  The  water  running 
now  and  then  from  the  faucet  was  the  only  sound  that  dis- 
turbed the  stillness.  Could  this  be  the  morning  after  Thanks- 
giving vacation  ?    Was  this  apparent  absorption  universal  ? 

Harriet  Havateim,  a  sleepy  sophomore,  was  working  in  a 
dark  corner.  She  seemed  to  show  but  a  dull  interest  in  her 
boiling  water  and  busy  thermometers.  It  is  tiresome  work 
waiting  for  steam,  especially  when  you  have  just  been  plunged 
into  your  work  after  having  had  only  fifteen  hours  sleep — an 
enviable  paucity — in  the  last  three  days.  Harriet  seemed  to 
droop,  and  her  eyes  closed.  The  hum  of  work  surrounded  her. 
The  boiling  water  was  making  soothing  sounds.  Suddenly  it 
seemed  that  her  experiment  was  all  done,  and  that  she  was 
writing  up  her  work  with  great  enthusiasm. 

EXPERIMENT   XXXIII,    FROM   NORTHAMPTON 

Subject,  Thanksgiving  recess. 
Object : 

The  object  varies  as  the  value  of  x  in  the  human  equation. 

1.  To  obtain  rest,  and  an  attitude  of  eagerness  toward  work. 

Or  2.  To  whoop  it  up  ;  to  forget  the  grind,  and  see  life. 
Apparatus  : 

A  well-developed  check  from  father  plus  a  Jollj^  Balance  in 
the  bank. 

49  0 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      491 

A  well-stocked  suit-case. 

A  snappy  shirt-waist  with  freshly  pleated  pipettes. 

A  coiffure,  a  la  Hare's  method. 

A  shine  for  pedal  extremities. 

A  broad  grin. 
Method  : 

I  washed  the  face  in  running  water,  being  careful  not  to 
touch  the  double  chin  with  the  fingers.  Then  I  put  on  a  fresh 
collar,  a  new  necktie,  adjusted  pins,  and  backed  away  from  mir- 
ror to  judge  the  effect.  Repeated  operation  and  made  fifty-five 
determinations  to  see  which  way  looked  worst.  I  struggled  to 
fasten  waist  in  the  back  by  Hooke's  Law,  being  careful  to  keep 
the  temper  constant.  I  applied  new  shoes  until  the  pressure  on 
the  little  toe  reached  185°  F  ;  put  on  hat  and  coat,  clasped 
some  one's  umbrella  in  an  unescapable  position,  and  started  out. 
Method  Continued.     Part  I. 

I  reached  the  station  as  the  rear  car  of  my  train  receded  from 
my  field  of  vision  at  an  angle  of  95° — a  poor  sine.  This  mis- 
fortune was  caused  by  an  oversight  in  taking  the  readings  of 
the  N.  Y.,  N.  H.  &  H.  R.  R.  time-table.  I  took  another  read- 
ing by  means  of  vernier  calipers  and  discovered  that  the  next 
train  left  in  1.0559  hours.  At  that  moment  I  noticed  a  change 
in  temperature  due  to  the  rising  of  my  choler.  Seven  calories 
of  heat  were  given  out  and  an  empty-headed  feeling  was  experi- 
enced, due  perhaps  to  the  temporary  evaporation  of  the  brain. 
I  found  it  difficult  to  explain  why  hollow  bodies  are  not  crushed 
in  by  atmospheric  pressure.  I  considered  that  it  might  be 
better  if  some  were.  I  felt  decidedly  sobered,  and  pondered  on 
the  distinction  between  density  and  specific  gravity. 

In  due  time  I  boarded  the  subsequent  train,  which  seemed 
about  as  capable  of  reaching  its  destination  as  the  usual  varia- 
ble is  capable  of  reaching  its  limit.  Using  the  principle  that 
time  may  be  measured  in  terms  of  any  regularly  recurring 
event,  I  computed  the  total  duration  of  the  journey  to  be 
twenty-seven  consultations  of  my  chronometer. 

The  foregoing  data  yielded  a  proof  of  the  proposition  that 
spirits  rise  in  an  exhausted  body  in  direct  proportion  to  the 
approach  of  the  home.     (See  Boyle^s  Law.) 

Note  !  The  chest  was  observed  to  expand— for  coefficient  of  expansion, 
see  Numerical  data. 


492  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

Part  II.     A. 

I  took  care  to  note  the  variations  in  the  home  atmosphere. 
Interest  was  shown  at  the  dinner-table  concerning  my  state  of 
corpulence.  I  reported  that  the  mass  of  a  given  portion  of 
matter  is  invariable,  i.  e.  the  measure  of  the  force  of  gravity- 
acting  between  any  physical  representative  and  the  earth  is- 
constant. 

A  spirited  altercation  followed,  causing  a  waste  of  from 
twenty  to  twenty-seven  ergs  of  energy  in  friction.  Finally  a 
reduction  factor  was  suggested,  namely,  adjusting  my  diet  to- 
zero.  The  effect  was  electrical.  I  determined  to  subtract  the 
fat-producing  elements  from  my  menu  and  to  eschew  induced 
currents — my  favorite  fruit. 

B. 

I  then  began  to  observe  capillary  phenomena  in  every-day 
life.  I  withdrew  the  sustaining  pins  from  my  hair,  preparatory 
to  rearrangement.  I  tested  the  electricity  and  found  it  to  be 
positive.  The  faint  traces  of  a  Marcel  were  noted,  and  the 
wave  length  measured.  I  then  executed  a  simple  suspended 
coil  rather  than  the  usual  helix  design. 

I  adjusted  myself  to  a  frock,  taking  care  to  select  compli- 
mentary colors.  I  added  rings  and  bracelets,  according  ta 
Joule's  experiment.  I  was  going  to  a  dance,  and  at  any  cost  I 
must  have  a  ball  bearing. 

Escorted  by  my  brother  (who  is  usually  a  non-conductor)  I 
crossed  Wheatstone's  Bridge  and  arrived  at  the  house  of  a 
friend.  Here  I  seized  my  opportunity  to  study  the  assemblage^ 
In  regard  to  the  men  my  inferences  were  purely  approximate, 
as  I  did  not  have  my  manometer  ;  but  I  noted  their  joint  resist- 
ance to  magnetic  influence.  In  myself  I  became  conscious  of 
an  internal  resistance  of  (at  a  rough  guess)  forty-three  ohms. 

Induced  by  my  belief  in  the  Fluid  Theory,  I  sought  by  the 
process  of  elimination  to  discover  some  liquid  refreshment. 
Entering  a  dim  conservatory,  a  startling  revelation  was  made. 
A  young  man  and  a  young  woman  appeared  to  be  as  closely 
adjacent  as  von  Guericke's  hemispheres.  This  sight  seemed 
uncalled  for,  yet  I  felt  an  increase  of  potential  energy,  that 
is,  energy  which  a  body  may  have  because  of  advantageous 
position. 

.   But  the  next  discovery  was  that  I  was  gazing  into  a  pier- 
glass.     By  a  hurried  calculation,  I  located  the  apparent  position 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  493 

of  the  image  formed  by  a  plane  mirror,  and  then  went  off  on  a 
tangent  to  find  the  scene  of  action.  I  found  that  my  implied 
hypothesis  was  false,  and  that  the  individuals  in  question  were 
working  earnestly  in  a  dramatic  rehearsal. 

At  this  point  of  the  evening's  progress,  the  sources  of  error 
became  so  complex  that  I  abandoned  my  observations,  that  is, 
scientific  ones. 

Part  IIL 

The  end  of  the  vacation  came.  As  usual  I  remonstrated 
against  the  adherence  in  the  matter  of  vacations  to  the  His- 
toric Standard  of  Length.  A  strong  feeling  of  electrostatic 
repulsion  dominated  me  when  I  thought  of  returning  to  work, 
so  I  tried  to  evolve  a  mechanical  equivalent  of  work,  without 
success. 

In  allowing  these  thoughts  to  circulate  freely  I  perceived  an 
increase  of  atmospheric  humidity.  A  formation  of  mist  ap- 
peared on  my  glasses,  and  I  knew  that  the  dew  point  had  been 
reached, — I  felt  threatened  with  a  fit  of  hydrostatics — 

"Miss  Havateim,  your  experiment  is  ruined," — it  was  Miss 
Blaking's  voice  at  her  elbow. 

''But  it  was  worth  it,"  said  Harriet  sleepily. 

"Why,  I — er — certainly  trust  so,"  said  Miss  Blaking  with 
some  surprise.  "Now  you  can  begin  again  on  'Overcoming 
Inertia.'" 

"  Yes,"  breathed  Harriet,  "  I  can." 


A  COMFORTABLE  THOUGHT 

DOROTHY  STOCKMAN  KEELEY 

It  is  very  nice  to  know 

That  I  am  made  so  neatly, 
And  that  my  little  skin  and  bones 

Cover  me  completely ; 
'Cause  I  would  blush  for  very  shame 

If  when  I  was  a-thinking, 
My  skin  and  bones  should  come  undone 

And  leave  my  thoughts  a-blinking 
And  all  naked  in  the  light ; 

Oh,  I  am  very  glad  to  know 
My  fastenings  are  tight. 


THOSE  THUNDERING  FEET 

MADELEINE  FULLER  MCDOWELL 

I  crouch  in  a  seat  in  the  very  last  row, 

And  pray  for  the  end  of  the  hour. 
I  went  to  the  theatre  last  evening,  and  so 

To  study  was  not  in  my  power. 
They  're  on  the  "Advanced,"  having  done  the  Review, 

And  I  feel  that  my  turn  will  come  next, 
Oh,  dear  me,  just  what  can  I  possibly  do? 

How  near  shall  I  come  to  the  text? 
My  sight  work  was  always  a  wee  bit  too  free, 

When  'twas  second  or  third  sight  at  that, 
And  hence  it 's  not  strange  that  I  plainly  foresee 

How  I  'm  going  to  flunk  perfectly  flat. 
To  say  "  unprepared"  is  impossible — quite, 

(As  it  is  I  am  getting  a  D,) 
So  there  's  nothing  to  do  but  just  to  "  sit  tight" 

And  pray  to  the  Powers  that  Be. 
She  's  calling  on  me,  now  for  failure  complete, 

But  hark !    What  's  that  wonderful  sound, 
Those  echoing  voices,  those  thundering  feet  ? 

My  heart  gives  a  rapturous  bound  ! 
O  Babel  of  voices  that  grow  to  a  roar, 

And  that  preface  the  clang  of  the  bell, 
And  O  thundering  feet  as  you  tramp  past  our  door 

You  bring  my  release — All  is  well ! 


NOTEWORTHY  ADVICE 

BARBARA   CHENEY 

"  The  most  important  thing  to  learn  is  how  to  take  good  notes." 
This  is  what  seniors  told  you  during  that  frantic  first  week  of 
freshman  year.  You  promptly  bought  many  large  blank  books, 
one  for  each  course,  and  set  to  work  with  grim  determination  to 
note  every  word  uttered  by  your  instructors.  You  began  in 
neat  sentence  form  : 

"Samuel  Johnson  was  born  at  Lichfield  on  September  eight- 
eenth, 1709.  His  father  was  a  book  seller."  When  you  reached 
this  point  you  usually  found  that  the  instructor  and  a  large  part 
of  the  class  had  buried  Johnson.  This  was  discouraging.  Some- 
times you  left  spaces,  resolving  to  supply  the  missing  material 

494 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY  495 

from  someone's  else  book.  Often,  too,  because  the  books  were 
all  alike  you  brought  the  wrong  one  to  class.  Still  you  per- 
severed. "  The  secret  of  success,"  you  told  your  roommate,  '*  i& 
a  full  note  book." 

Examinations,  however,  caused  a  rude  awakening.  When 
you  began  to  review  a  strange  chaos  was  revealed.  In  studying 
Latin  you  had  to  use  your  French  book  upside  down  and  your 
English  one  hind  side  before  quite  as  much  as  the  book  suppos- 
edly devoted  to  Latin.  Moreover,  there  was  a  strange  collection 
of  parallelopipeds  mixed  in  with  scansion  rules,  and  words  which 
you  puzzled  over  for  half  an  hour  proved  to  be  algebraic 
formulas.  There  was  a  careful  and  minute  description  of  a 
gentleman's  complexion,  hair,  eyes,  and  general  appearance,  and 
a  neat  record  of  the  date  and  place  of  his  birth,  but  absolutely 
no  mention  of  his  thoughts,  deeds,  or  place  in  the  world.  When 
you  tried  to  supplement  your  gems  of  thought  with  those  of  an- 
other, you  were  even  more  discouraged.  Almost  everyone  ap- 
peared to  have  been  absent  on  the  day  in  question.  At  last  you 
found  a  few  who  had  attended,  but  some  of  their  notes  were  il- 
legible even  to  themselves,  and  the  others  contradicted  flatly 
the  few  facts  you  had  already  acquired. 

Sophomore  year  you  resolved  to  use  more  discrimination^ 
You  would  note  only  the  essential  facts ;  your  one  fear  was  that 
you  would  take  down  too  much.  This  had  peculiar  results. 
In  Bible  class,  in  order  to  omit  the  superfluous,  you  omitted 
everything.  The  pages  under  B  in  your  new  black  leather  note- 
book were  blank  except  for  such  items  as  : 

**  Class  Notes,  December  1st. 

^•'  Old  Job  seems  to  have  been  quite  a  grouch.  When  will  you 
go  to  chapel  with  me  ?  " 

The  lacking  material  was  easily  supplied  at  exam,  time  by  a 
series  of  crams.  You  had  five.  They  seldom  agreed,  but  you 
chose  facts  from  each  according  to  their  legibility.  When  they 
all  disagreed  as  to  a  legible  date  you  took  the  average.  Your 
favorite  cram  was  one  made  by  a  1911  girl.  She  was  so  much 
older  than  you  that  you  felt  she  must  be  right.  When  your 
own  cram  was  made  from  these  reliable  sources  you  had  no 
time  left  to  study  it,  but  your  conscience  remained  undisturbed. 
•  ^*If  he  has  the  nerve  to  flunk  me  after  Tve  worked  a  whole 
day  on  that  cram,  I'll  be  furious,"  you  observed.  But  he  did 
not,  so  you  were  spared  the  trouble. 


49G  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

By  junior  year  you  had  decided  to  try  the  outline  system. 
You  paragraphed  carefully  and  used  A,  B,  C,  and  1,  2,  3,  with 
^reat  agility.  The  material  that  did  not  belong  under  your 
headings  often  had  to  be  left  out,  but  that  did  not  matter  much. 
Your  notebook  was  so  neat. 

You  were  beginning  also  to  appreciate  the  value  of  abbrevia- 
tions and  invented  many.  You  frequently  forgot  what  they 
meant,  which  was  decidedly  inconvenient.  Still,  you  felt  that 
the  plan  was  good  so  you  persevered.  It  was  much  easier  for 
you  now  to  discriminate  between  the  relevant  and  the  irrele- 
vant. Often,  indeed,  you  could  steal  time  to  write  notes  to 
your  friends,  and  it  was  interesting  to  see  the  alarm  of  your 
classmates  when  you  began  to  write.  They  had  just  settled 
back  to  listen  easily,  but  the  moment  your  pen  began  to  move 
they  sat  up.  Evidently  they  were  missing  an  important  point, 
and  you  saw  a  line  of  black  pens  all  down  the  row  busily 
recording  the  professor's  remarks. 

In  senior  year  you  carried  the  abbreviation  system  still  far- 
ther. Sometimes  you  made  the  mistake  of  the  lady  who  labeled 
her  two  pies  *' T.  M.,"  one  for  " 'Tis  mince''  and  one  for 
*"Tain't  mince."  On  the  whole,  though,  you  were  successful. 
You  had  also  acquired  the  outline  habit.  You  outlined  every- 
thing, even  your  exams,  and  it  was  with  diflSculty  that  you 
refrained  from  writing  home  after  this  fashion  : 

'^A.  Health, 

Faint  but  pursuing. 
^'B.  Intellectual  Life. 

1.  Flunked  my  psych,  written. 

2.  Fine  lecture  by  A.  Noyes. 
*'C.  Social  Life. 

1.  Group  dance. 

2.  Swell  bacon  bat. 
"  D.  Outside  Interests. 

1.  How  is  the  cat  ? 

2.  Where  is  my  laundry  ?  " 

There  was  only  one  thing  to  break  the  beautiful  neatness  of 
your  notebook.  You  were  beginning  to  look  ahead  a  little  and 
to  record  anecdotes  and  facts  that  you  wanted  to  remember 
after  you  left  college.  They  could  not  be  outlined  so  you  stuck 
them  in  anywhere  in  brackets.     They  were  something  like  this  : 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  497 

"A  good  example  of  a  'noodle'  is  the  man  who  said:  'My 
father  made  two  trips  to  Jerusalem.  He  died  there,  but  I  don't 
know  on  which  of  the  two  trips  his  death  occurred/" 

Reviewing  for  examinations  was  now  a  pleasanter  task.  Your 
notes  were  concise  and  legible — at  least  to  you — and  the  anec- 
dotes helped  to  enliven  them.  You  had  learned  after  sad  exper- 
ience to  take  good  notes,  but  you  felt  that  the  experience  was 
important.  You  would  deprive  no  one  of  its  benefits.  So  you 
wagged  your  head  sagely  and  told  Freshmen  briefly  that  "  the 
most  important  thing  to  learn  is  how  to  take  good  notes." 


A  MARK 

GRACE   ANGELA   RICHMOND 

My  roommate  was  in  a  reflective  mood.  I  knew  it  by  the 
way  her  feet  were  wrapped  about  the  rungs  of  her  chair,  by  the 
melancholy  look  upon  her  countenance,  and  by  the  gnawed 
condition  of  her  pen-holder.  Knowing  what  such  a  condi- 
tion meant,  I  was  discreetly  silent  and  waited  for  the  pearls  of 
wisdom  that  were  bound  to  fall  from  her  lips.  Finally,  after 
some  agonized  preliminary  squirms,  she  spoke. 

"I  have  decided,"  she  said,  ''that  there  is  too  much  false 
modesty  in  college." 

I -shuddered.  She  had  had  gym.  the  last  hour,  could  that 
sheeted  parade  have  disturbed  her  sanity  ? 

*'  Really,"  I  murmured,  "  it  seems  to  me  that  the  gym.  faculty 
couldn't  let  us — " 

*'  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that  kind.  I  mean— well— marks  and 
things.  After  all,  when  we  get  an  A,  or  even  several  of  them, 
why  shouldn't  we  talk  about  it  ?" 

I  might  as  well  mention  here  that  my  roommate  always  does 
get  "an  A,  or  even  several  of  them,"  on  every  report. 

''The  early  Anglo-Saxons,"  she  went  on,  and  I  perceived  the 
influence  of  English  4.1,  "didn't  object  to  boasting.  Even 
Beowulf  tells  of  his  exploits.     Why  shouldn't  we  ?  " 

"  Me  and  Beowulf,"  I  observed  facetiously,  "  never  did  agree. 
Now  I  see  why.     I  always  was  a  modest  little  violet." 

"Don't  be  flippant,  Edna.  It's  a  college  fault,  and  /  am 
going  to  overcome  it.     I  shall  tell  just  what  I  get  this  semester." 

"  M-m-m-m,"  said  I. 

i 


498  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

The  marks  came  out  yesterday.  But  though  I  know  that  th& 
A-'s  were  there,  no  one  else  has  heard  my  roommate  mention 
anything  except : 

"A  C  in  Math,  my  dear  ;  isn't  that  frightful  V  She  does  not 
always  put  her  theories  into  practice  ! 


THE  WORST  OF  WAR 

DOROTHY  DAVIES 

My  dear,  I'm  so  excited, 

There's  war  in  Mexico  : 
O'Shanghnessy  has  his  passport 

Which  means  he  has  to  go. 

Thank  heaven  my  father's  forty-five 

And  brotherless  I  am  ; 
The  only  friend  ' '  I  should  worry  "  about 

At  present  is  in  Japan. 

If  President  Burton  should  volunteer 

Perhaps  he  might  be  sent 
To  keep  the  boys  in  order 

In  an  Amherst  regiment. 

We  could  go  as  Red  Cross  nurses, 
We'd  graduate  just  the  same, 

And  so  earn  our  diplomacy 
In  the  battlefield  of  fame. 

Cheer  up,  my  dear,  don't  look  so  blue, 
We'll  all  be  kept  from  harm. 

For  Roosevelt  is  hiking  home 
With  a  game  bag  on  his  arm. 

Yes,  Roosevelt  is  coming, 

The  U.  S.  A.  is  saved. 
To  wait  for  his  arrival 

The  war  has  been  delayed. 

But  wait,— I  have  an  awful  thought — 

If  there's  war  in  Mexico, 
After  all  my  darling  plans  and  schemes. 

My  Prom- man  has  to  go  ! 


HEARD    ON    THE    TAR    WALK 


The  Reason 


"  This  sudden  change  is  very  queer 
An  explanation,  please,  my  dear. 
Your  spirits  seem  to  bubble  o'er, 
I  never  saw  you  thus  before  ! " 

My  friend  looked  down  and  blushed  the  while 
Then,  she  answered  with  a  smile 
"A  Junior  with  perpetual  grin 
Must  mean — she  has  a  Senior  pin  I " 

Marie  Graff  1915 


It  happened  on  a  story-book  kind  of  day — 

Disillusioned  all  sunshiny,  when  big  white  ice-cream  clouds 
are  floating  by  and  the  sky  is  all  blue.  I  was 
young,  very  young — of  the  age  when  you  talk  to  flowers  and 
trees  and  especially  to  butterflies. 

This  day  I  awoke  with  an  ambition — my  very  first,  I  think, — 
I  wanted  to  catch  a  bird  !  I  did  not  know  exactly  what  I  should 
do  with  it,  but  I  must  catch  one — and  feel  it ! 

I  had  heard  of  a  way  to  do  it,  too.  They  said  if  you  put  a  tiny 
bit  of  salt  on  the  tail  of  a  bird,  you  could  creep  up  to  it  and 
catch  it,  so  easily  ! 

I  submitted  quite  cheerfully  to  my  bath  that  morning,  with- 
out once  wailing,  ^' don't  let  the  rag  drag  I"  and  I  beamed  on 
the  family  at  breakfast  in  the  knowledge  of  my  coming  triumph. 

The  salt  was  easily  obtained— not  like  matches.  Then  I  trotted 
out  in  search  of  a  victim.  I  could  not  stop  to  chase  even  one 
yellow  butterfly.  I  wanted  most  of  all  to  get  a  robin,  to  see  if 
the  red  part  of  it  was  fiery  hot.  If  it  only  were,  I  thought,  there 
would  be  no  more  struggles  getting  forbidden  matches !    But 


500  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

somehow  all  tlie  robins  seemed  busy  elsewhere  and  I  had  to  be- 
gin on  a  sparrow. 

I  saw  one  down  on  a  bush,  being  very  quiet.  Slowly  I  slipped 
along  behind  it — too  slowly,  I  guess,  fur  before  I  reached  it,  it 
had  gone  up  into  a  tree,  to  see  what  one  of  its  friends  was  find- 
ing to  eat.  Then  I  saw  a  robin  I  It  was  running  along  in  the 
grass  and  it  stopped  to  pull  up  a  worm.    I  almost  got  that  robin  ! 

I  rested  awhile  and  then  went  after  another.  He  was  a  most 
desirable  robin — I  came  closer  and  closer  to  him,  then  threw  the 
salt,  oh  so  confidently  and  joyously  !  But  the  instant  the  salt 
touched  that  robin's  tail,  he  gave  a  start  and  flew  up  from  the 
ground,  and  flew  and  flew  I 

Mother  said  that  the  robin  could  not  have  realized  that  it  was 
soM  that  fell  on  his  tail.    But  somehow  I  felt  that  he  did  know  ! 

Ruth  Kilborn  1916. 

Mob  Trials 

Fat  legs,  thin  legs,  curved  legs,  straight, 

Strong  legs,  weak  legs,  wobbly  gait ; 

Dainty  ankles,  fat  ones,  rounded  like  a  knob — 

Every  kind  reveal  themselves  when  trying  for  the  mob. 

Awkwardly,  one  by  one,  in  the  presence  austere  of  the  judges, 
Glided  the  "  nymphs"  and  "  shades,"  the  expectant  mob  of  Dramatics. 

Effie  Oppenheimer  1914. 


The  Sand  Man 

Along  the  beach  on  a  windy  night 

And  over  the  dunes  of  brown 
A  little  old  man  comes  creeping  along 

From  a  place  called  the  Nowhere  Town. 
We  know  that  he  must  be  very  old 

And  withered  and  bent  and  gray. 
For  every  night  for  years  and  years 

He's  passed  along  this  way. 

He  comes  along  when  the  sun  has  set 

And  the  shadows  are  long  and  deep, 
And  he  scatters  sand  in  the  children's  eyes 

And  puts  them  all  to  sleep. 
And  the  children  long  to  see  him 

But  he's  never  about  by  day, 
For  every  night  when  his  task  is  done 

He  silently  creeps  away. 

Eleanor  L.  Halpin  1914 


Change 

A  baby — with  his  dimpled  smile 
Played  with  his  tiny  toes  the  while 
You  fondled.     He  laughed  up  at  you 
And  took  your  sweet  caresses  as  his  due. 

A  sturdy  youth  of  six,  he  says,  "  O  gee, 
This  business  isn't  any  fun  for  me — 
I  won't  be  kissed,  le'  me  alone 
I'm  gettin'  old,  I'm  almost  grown." 

Eleanor  Park  1915. 


In  the  Swim 

Tom  boasts  that  he  can  dive  the  best 

Of  any  at  the  shore, 
Bill  does  the  Salamando  Leap, 

Says  he,  "  Who  could  wish  more?" 

Moll  does  the  crawl  stroke, 

Nell  can  float,  the  rest  do  other  things — 
I  hold  my  head  high  with  the  best, 

I  swim— with  water-wings ! 

Marion  Delamater  Freeman  1914. 


As  Advertised 

If  you'll  believe  me  !    Not  one  pair 

Of  stockings  left  for  me  to  wear. 

It's  awfully  late,  and  darning's  slow, 

But  those  vile  holes  would  surely  show. 

These  stockings  certainly  won't  last. 

The  runners  come  so  very  fast, 

I  s'pose  that  it  must  be.  alack. 

Because  they're  '•  Guaranteed  Fast  Black." 

Helen  V.  Tooker  1915. 


When  ? 

I  sit  in  the  libe  from  nine  to  ten, 

Some  tennis  players  go  by, 
I  sit  in  my  class  next  hour  and  then 

A  gliding  canoe  I  spy. 
See  couples  strolling  here  and  there 

With  not  a  book  in  sight. 
They  seem  to  hide  all  studious  air, 

But  perhaps  they  study  at  night. 
I  watch  a  group  start  on  a  drive 

To  be  "off  for  the  day." 
The  whole  college  seems  alive 

'Tis  truly  the  day  for  play. 
I  sit  in  the  libe  from  two  to  four 

'Tis  quiet  as  can  be, 
I  never  knew  it  so  still  before 

I  struggle  with  English  B. 
I  wander  to  the  Field  quite  late 

All  Smith  seems  playing  there, 
Do  their  lessons  have  no  weight  ? 

Can  it  be  they  do  not  care  ? 
Car  riding  holds  the  attention  of  all, 

The  libe  is  empty  at  night, 
"We  study  between  Spring  and  Fall" 

Said  the  student.    Was  she  right  ? 

Marie  Graff  1915. 


502 


EDITORIAL 


There  was  a  time  when  we  sang  the  word 
part  of  our  most  sacred  hymns,  and  moreover,  we  meant  some- 
thing by  it.  "Attractive,^'  too,  although  it  occupied  a  less 
honored  position,  had  distinct  meaning  and  force.  We  did  not 
say  "good-looking"  very  often,  but  when  we  did,  we  meant 
"good-looking,''  "not  Launcelot,  nor  another."  At  the  oppo- 
site extreme  of  our  vocabulary  we  had  in  reserve  for  use  when 
some  unusual  set  of  circumstances  should  demand  it  the  word 
**  fiendish."  We  really  had  no  expectation  of  needing  it,  ever, 
but  it  was  interesting  to  have,  to  look  at  occasionally. 

Now  times  have  changed.  We  talk  glibly  to  our  friend  of 
her  "adorable  hat,"  of  the  "attractive  waist''  that  she  is  wear- 
ing, and  of  the  "  fiendish  written"  which  we  have  just  attended. 
We  are  taking  a  course,  too,  which  is  "  simply  deadly."  Once 
cannon  balls  under  certain  circumstances  were  deadly.  So  were 
poisons.  There  is  to  be  considered  also  the  relation  between 
these  apparently  strong,  but  really  meaningless  expressions, 
and  words  generally  supposed  to  be  barred  from  the  cultured 
person's  vocabulary,— such  expressions  as  "  darn  "  and  "  gosh  '' 
— or  even  "gee."  Is  there  any  real  distinction  between  the 
two  classes  of  expressions — is  not  one  as  good  (or  as  bad)  as  the 
other  ?  Each  is  equally  meaningless.  Yet  some  people  who 
would  hesitate  to  say  "darn  "  may  be  heard  exclaiming  over  a 
"fiendish  written." 

There  is  no  valid  reason  why  we  should  not  change  the  signifi- 
cance of  a  word,  if  it  seems  important  and  worth  while  to  do 
so,  and  if  a  sufficient  number  of  people  desires  the  change.  But 
we  have  no  moral  right  to  render  a  term  meaningless  and  then 
retain  it  in  our  vocabulary.  Such  a  course  is  both  unintelligent 
and  insincere,  and  makes  truth  of  intercourse  impossible.  The 
catch-words   which   are  so  large   a  part  of   our  college  vocab- 


o04  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

ulary  at  present  are  meaningless,  because  so  frequently  and 
indiscriminately  employed.  The  person  who  says  *'  She  is  a 
perfect  dear,  so  attractive,"  may  mean  anything  or  nothing, 
but  the  hearer  who  is  looking  for  an  honest  estimate  of  the 
''perfect  dear"  will  go  elsewhere.  If  you  insist  upon  offering  a 
catch-word  when  you  are  asked  for  an  opinion,  there  is  nothing 
more  to  be  said. 

The  word  itself  has  some  right  to  consideration.  A  word 
that  for  centuries  has  been  hallowed  by  the  lips  of  poets  should 
not  lightly  be  degraded  to  the  rank  of  a  catch-word.  Yet  aside 
from  the  claim  of  the  word,  which  to  some  talkers  may  seem  an 
abstract  and  fanciful  one,  there  is  the  injury  to  the  user  of  the 
catch-words  to  be  considered.  It  is  very  easy  to  slip  into  this 
peculiarly  lazy  form  of  social  response  ;  then  it  grows,  until 
presently  not  only  upon  trivial  occasions,  but  in  the  presence  of 
a  real  experience,  there  is  nothing  to  say.  Moreover,  having 
nothing  to  say,  you  have  not  the  grace  to  keep  silent,  but  you 
produce,  glibly  and  mechanically,  a  jaded  and  meaningless 
catch-word. 

One  day  last  spring  we  were  walking  actoss  campus,  looking 
in  the  direction  of  the  hill  by  the  Observatory,  and  breathing 
in  the  beauty  of  the  azaleas,  which  were  in  full  bloom— a 
glorious  riot  of  color.  We  were  lost  in  contemplation  of  the 
rarely  beautiful  sight,  when  suddenly  a  voice  behind  us  was 
heard  to  say,  ''  See  those  good-looking  colors  over  there  !"  For 
a  moment  we  had  a  mad  desire  to  choke  the  speaker,  so  strong 
was  the  sense  of  insult  to  something  worthy  and  dear.  Pres- 
ently, however,  we  were  only  very  sorry  for  her.  It  was 
pathetic  to  think  how,  as  the  experiences  of  life  knocked  daily 
at  her  door,  she  would  always  keep  them  waiting — with  a  catch- 
word. 

The  hasty  judgment,  which  is  in  reality  no  judgment,  is  a 
close  associate  of  the  catch-word  habit.  You  say,  apparently 
with  feeling,  ''She's  a  perfect  dear — simply  darling,"  without 
being  able  to  state  any  of  the  elements  of  her  dearness,  often 
repeating  the  statement  merely  because  someone  has  said  it  to 
you  concerning  the  person  in  question.  Sooner  or  later  you  are 
completely  under  the  spell  of  the  habit,  and,  collecting  a  bundle 
of  catch-word  judgments  along  the  way,  you  go  about  "ador- 
ing Browning"  and  "abhorring  Wordsworth"  until  the  end  of 
each  fashion,  with  not  the  smallest  idea  of  why  you  are  doing 
either. 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY  505 

Not  only  in  the  miniature  world  of  college  is  the  catch-word 
a  menace  to  the  truth  of  intercourse.  It  is  this  catch-word  way 
of  meeting  the  problems  of  life  and  of  the  world  that  is  hinder- 
ing their  solution— that  is,  in  many  cases,  creating  the  problems. 
As  long  as  we  approach  what  we  choose  to  call  the  "  immigrant 
problem"  with  such  cant  phrases  as  "social  uplift"  and  ''unlet- 
tered foreigner"  (he  may,  by  the  way,  be  as  "lettered"  as  we 
are,  and  in  a  greater  number  of  languages)  we  shall  never  reach 
the  real  issue,  the  fact  that  we  have  to  deal  with  individuals 
like  ourselves,  with  like  diversity  of  interests  and  aspirations, 
and  not  with  an  abstract  problem.  In  like  manner,  we  can 
never  reach  common  grounds  of  sympathetic  understanding 
with  a  neighboring  nation  if  we  insist  upon  dismissing  its 
people  with  a  few  contemptuous  catch-words. 

While  we  are  in  college  there  is  still  time  to  shake  off  the 
habit  which  is  paralyzing  our  judgment  and  making  truth  of 
intercourse  impossible.  The  sooner  we  escape  from  its  grasp 
and  begin  to  speak  in  terms  of  meaning  and  sincerity,  the  better 
we  shall  be  equipped  to  take  our  place,  later  on,  as  useful  citi- 
zens of  the  world. 


EDITOR'S    TABLE 


''  Please,  please  !  "  A  very  small  voice,  shrill- 

Spring  Term  ing  through  the  key-hole  of  Old  Man  Winter's 
door,  was  lost  in  the  confusion  that  prevailed 
within.  *^  Let  me  come  in,  please,  please  !  "  This  was  the  hun- 
dredth time  beyond  a  doubt  that  the  little  voice  had  implored 
him.  But  just  now  he  was  occupied  with  a  north-north-westerly 
wind  that  was  starting  out  on  its  day's  journey. 

^'  That's  the  way  to  do  it ! "  Winter  growled,  while  snowflakes 
showered  from  his  beard.  "  Stir  'em  up  as  much  as  you  like. 
Don't  be  afraid." 

Then  it  was  that  the  inhabitants  of  [N'orthampton  turned  up 
the  collars  of  their  mackinaws.  "  Lo,"  said  they,  "the  winter 
we  have  with  us  always.  When  may  we  wear  white  skirts  and 
go  on  bats  ?  "  And  their  sighs  soared  up  to  Winter,  as  he  stood 
unmoved  among  his  winds  and  snow. 

'' It's  ^^^me  for  me  to  come,"  shrieked  the  voice  behind  his 
door.  Winter  turned  guiltily,  "  It  isn't  time,"  he  said.  Then 
he  wavered, 

"  What's  your  evidence  ?  " 

''The  Sun  says  it's  time.  You're  spoiling  everything — snow- 
ing on  the  May  flowers,  blowing  on  the  maple  trees.  Let  me 
in  !     You're  spoiling  everything  !" 

The  Sun  settled  the  question.  He  rose  up,  smiling,  from  be- 
hind the  clouds  and  the  hills  grew  faintly  pink  with  maple  buds. 
Winter  drooped,  melted,  drifted  away  in  vapour.  His  door 
swuilg  open  as  the  hinges  warmed — and  Spring  ran  in.  Tiny 
flowers,  soft  buds  filled  the  air  and  the  north  wind  slunk  away. 
The  fields  grew  green  and  in  Northampton  the  inhabitants  put 
on  white  skirts  and  the  hurdy-gurdies  came  out. 

And  said  they,  "Let's  not  work  any  longer.  We'll  have  a 
bat  right  now." 

506 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      507 

And  tliey  did.  They  played  on  the  meadows  and  had  such  a 
good  time  along  the  Connecticut  that  they  forgot  to  work  ! 
There  were  those  among  them  who  said  that  it  was  the  mark  of 
a  Good  Sport  to  finish  the  work  they  had  started  before  the  Sun 
€ame  out  to  stay.  But,  of  course,  they  couldn't  expect  to  be 
heard  when  the  others  were  so  busy. 

But  just  when  the  fun  was  liveliest,  adreadful  thing  happened. 
June  came.  June  brought  hot  days— and  Finals.  And  then 
those  Northampton  people  gasped  and  said,  "Why — why — Fd 
forgotten  about  Finals  ! "  And  the  days  grew  hotter  and  they 
had  to  cram,  yes,  just  cram  and  cram  and  cram.  They  tried  to 
keep  cool  by  drinking  lemonade  but,  alas,  too  late  they  found 
they  could  not  keep  cool  and  sweet  by  the  same  method.  (They 
had  spent  all  their  money  on  Bats  so  they  couldn't  afford  much 
sugar.)  And  there  were  those  who  told  them  to  '^  Keep  Sweet" 
until  they  got  nervous.  After  that  I  don't  know  what  happened. 
This  was  all  a  long  time  ago.  Those  improvident  ones  have 
been  superseded  by  a  people  who  are  not  as  they  were.  They 
have  Balance,  these  latter-day  folk. 

Spring  Term  is  a  time  of  sunny,  exhilarating  days  ;  many 
happy  moments  are  to  be  found  along  the  Connecticut,  at  the 
Old  Golf  Grounds  and  across  the  meadows.  But  let  us  not  for- 
get that  there  are  courses  to  be  completed.  It  can  be  the  hap- 
piest, sunniest  part  of  the  year  for  us,  and  still  be  not  unmixed 
with  purposeful  work.  In  the  cool  bright  days  we  are  apt  to 
forget  that  too  many  sets  of  tennis  may  mean  a  grim  reckoning 
in  June.  If  we  could  remember  to  mix  work  with  play  in  May, 
we  should  not  need  to  struggle  for  a  little  play  to  mix  with  work 
in  June.  It's  just  a  question  of  facing  your  work  squarely  ;  it's 
a  question  of  the  sense  of  balance  that  college  is  said  to  bring. 
Let's  try  to  meet  the  question  in  such  a  way  that  this  sense  may 
be  cnlled  "  the  balance  that  college  brings." 

K.  B. 

"And  the  moral  of  this,  my  dear  children,"  is,  don't  be  mor- 
bi<l.  It  is  discouraging  enough  to  have  to  find  this  tendency 
expiv'ssed  so  often  in  ordinar.y  magazines,  to  wisli  after  we  have 
read  ;i  story  that  we  hadn't  done  it,  to  close  the  magazine  with 
a  dissatisfied,  hopeless  feeling.  But  a  college  monthly  is  no 
place  for  hard,  un solvable  problems,  the  kind  of  questions  that 
it  can  never  do  us  any  good  to  think  over  or  answer.      "The 


508  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

Greatest.  Diver,"  "Dolores"  and  '^Prospectors"  in  the  Occident^ 
*'  Chrissy  "  in  the  Vassar  MisceUany  and  "  I  Will  Forgive  Them 
for  Their  Childishness  "  in  the  Harvard  Advocate  all  leave  one, 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  they  are  exceptionally  well  written 
stories,  with  that  disagreeable,  bad-tastey  feeling. 

My,  what  a  lot  of  good  stories  there  are  in  the  April  maga- 
zines !  There  are  some  serious  articles,  too,  of  which  an  essay 
on  ''The  Poetry  of  Alfred  Noyes,"  in  the  Nassau  Literarif 
Magazine,  is  a  very  comprehensive  and  sympathetic  treatment 
of  the  poet  as  well  as  of  his  poetry.  The  Vassar  Miscellany,  in 
"At  Dove  Cottage,"  although  using  a  trifie  too  many  quotations 
for  the  coherence  of  the  article,  presents  a  very  charming  and 
rather  unusual  picture  of  Wordsworth  and  his  sister  in  their 
home  life. 

Among  the  really  good  short  stories  are  "The  Nautilus,^' in 
the  Nassau  Literary  Magazine,  which  is  a  dainty  presentation 
of  the  real  spirit  of  Christmas  ;  "  Kipling  at  the  Kidds,"  from 
the  Wesleyan  Literary  Monthly,  with  its  incongruity  of  The 
Vampire  and  a  bar-room;  in  the  Vassar  MisceUany  "The 
Prom  "  is  a  keen  satire  on  the  present  day  rush  for  pleasure ; 
"The  Ebb  Tide"  in  the  Minnesota  Magazine  and  "An  Aca- 
demic Brutus"  in  the  Yonkers  Kalends. 

"  From  the  Ships  on  the  Open  Sea,"  in  the  Harvard  Advocate, 
takes  us  back  to  the  days  of  the  Titanic  disaster  and  gives  an 
exceedingly  realistic  picture  of  the  tortured  suspense  of  those 
who  waited  for  news.  The  story  ends  with  a  very  delicate 
human  touch.  "  The  Three  Sisters,"  in  the  Nassau  Literary 
Monthly,  an  Easter  story  of  the  little  girl  who  "  is  still  alive  in 
us  and  in  the  things  she  loved,"  is  unusually  tender  and  sympa- 
thetic. The  Minnesota  Magazine  gives  us  a  humorous  as 
well  as  essentiallj^  human  treatment  on  the  modern  dance  in 
"Youth,"  while  The  Mt.  Holyoke,  in  "The  Perfume  of  Lilies," 
offers  a  very  realistic  picture  of  the  child  of  the  New  York 
slums,  the  sort  of  a  stor^^  which  makes  your  throat  contract 
with  the  pity  of  it  all.  "  The  Martyr"  and  "A  Little  Mistake" 
in  the  Williams  Literary  Monthly  and  "The  Work  of  His 
Hands"  in  the  Welles  College  Chronicle  complete  the  list  of  the 
best  stories  for  last  month. 

E.  G. 


AFTER    COLLEGE 


ALUMNAE  NOTICES 
The  Tempest 


Applications  for  Dramatics  tickets  may  be  placed  on  file  at  the  General 
Secretary's  Office,  184  Elm  Street,  Northampton.  Alumnee  are  urged  to 
apply  for  the  Thursday  evening  performance.  June  11,  if  possible,  as  Saturday 
evening  is  not  open  to  alumnae,  and  the  waiting  list  is  the  only  opportunity 
for  Friday.  Each  alumna  ma}'  apply  for  only  one  ticket  for  Friday  evening^ 
but  extra  tickets  may  be  obtained  on  a  Thursday  evening  application. 

The  prices  of  seats  will  range  on  Thursday  from  $1.50  to  $0.75  and  on 
Friday  from  |3.00  to  $0.75.  The  desired  price  of  seat  should  be  indicated 
in  the  application.  A  fee  of  10  cents  is  charged  to  all  non-members  of  the 
Alumnae  Association  for  the  filing  of  the  application.  The  fee  may  be  sent  to 
the  General  Secretary  at  the  time  of  application.  Applications  are  not  trans- 
ferable, and  should  be  canceled  at  once  if  not  wanted. 

In  May  all  those  who  have  applied  for  tickets  will  receive  a  request  to  con- 
firm the  applications.  Tickets  will  then  be  assigned  only  to  those  who  re- 
spond to  this  request.  No  deposit  is  required  to  secure  tickets,  which  may 
be  claimed  on  arrival  in  Northampton  from  the  business  manager  in  Seelye 
Hall.  Tickets  will  be  held  only  until  5  o'clock  on  the  day  of  the  performance, 
unless  a  request  has  been  received  to  hold  them  later  at  the  theatre. 

Alumna  Headquarters 

Each  alumna  returning  for  Commencement  is  requested  to  register  as  soon 
as  possible  in  Seelye  Hall,  and  obtain  tickets  for  collation,  Baccalaureate, 
etc.     Registration  will  open  at  9  o'clock  on  Friday,  June  12. 

The  postmaster  asks  each  alumna  to  notify  her  correspondents  of  the  street 
and  number  of  her  Northampton  address  at  Commencement,  in  order  to  en- 
sure the  prompt  delivery  of  mail.  Any  alumna  who  is  uncertain  of  a  definite 
address  may  have  her  mail  sent  in  care  of  the  General  Secretary  at  Seelye  Hall. 

The  General  Secretary  will  be  glad  to  be  of  assistance  in  securing  off-cam- 
pus rooms  or  supplying  information  of  any  kind.  Her  services  are  at  the 
disposal  of  all  members  of  the  Alumnae  Association. 

Rooms  for  Commencement 

By  a  vote  of  the  Trustees  of  Smith  College  the  available  rooms  in  the  col- 
lege will  be  open  to  the  alumnae  at  Commencement.  The  chairman  of  the 
committee  in  charge  of  the  assignments  is  Dean  Comstock,  College  Hall. 
Applications  for  the  classes  holding  reunions  should  be  made  to  their  class 
secretaries.    Rooms  will  be  assigned  to  as  many  of  these  classes  as  possible 

5  0  0 


510  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

in  the  order  of  their  seniority.  In  view  of  the  experience  of  the  committee 
last  year,  no  classes  after  the  one  holding  its  fifth  reunion  can  be  accommo- 
dated in  the  college  houses.  For  the  five  days  or  less  time  the  price  of  board 
v^ill  be  five  dollars.  Alumnae  to  whom  assignments  are  made  will  be  held 
responsible  for  the  full  payment  unless  notice  of  withdrawal  is  sent  to  the 
class  secretary  before  June  1.  After  June  1,  notices  of  withdrawal  and  re" 
quests  for  rooms  should  be  sent  directly  to  Dean  Comstock.  Except  in  cases 
where  payment  to  the  class  secretaries  has  been  made  in  advance,  the  five- 
dollar  charge  for  a  campus  room  should  be  paid  at  Dean  Comstock's  office, 
No.  2,  College  Hall. 

PERSONALS 

Contributions  to  this  department  are  desired  before  the  end  of  the  month, 
in  order  to  appear  in  the  next  month's  issue,  and  should  be  addressed  to 
Lilian  Peters,  Dickinson  House.  Northampton,  Massachusetts. 

eaj-'07.    Anna  B.  Rounds  has  announced  her  engagement  to  Dr.  James  A. 

Barrett  of  La  Grange,  Maine. 
'11.  Marion  Lucas,  until  recently  social  editor  of  the  Springfield  Republican, 
has  accepted  a  position  with  the  International  Health  Commission  and 
is  to  do  research  work.  Address  :  725  Southern  Building,  Washington, 
District  of  Columbia. 
'12.  Margaret  Burt  is  working  in  the  Traveler's  Insurance  Company,  Hart- 
ford, Connecticut. 

Mabel  Curtiss  is  teaching  in  the  High  School  at  Ansonia,  Connecticut. 

Louise  Naylor  is  working  in  the  People's  Settlement,  408  East  8th  Street, 
Wilmington,  Delaware. 

Ruth  Paine' s  marriage  to  John  Blodgett  will  take  place  May  21. 
'13.    Margaret  Allen  is  teaching  Civics  and  Commercial  Arithmetic  in  the 
Middletown  High  School,  Middletown,  Connecticut. 

Mary  Arrowsmith  is  at  home  in  Bay  Ridge,  Long  Island,  New  York. 

Marjorie  Ashley  is  teaching  in  the  High  School  at  Candor,  New  York. 

Gladys  V.  Bailey  is  teaching  French,  Latin   and  History  in  the  High 
School  at  Jonesport,  Maine. 

Florence  Blenkiron  is  at  home.     Address  :  945   Orange  Street,   Los  An- 
geles, California. 

Agnes  Conklin  is  teaching  in  the  Susquehanna  Valley  House  for  Orphans, 
Binghamton,  New  York. 

Eliza  Crosby  is  at  home  in  Dover,  New  Hampshire. 

Anne  Doulan  is  teaching  English  and  Physics  in  the  Avon  High  School, 
Avon,  New  York. 

Annie  Dunlop  is  at  home.  Oak  Park,  Illinois. 

Mary  Dunne  is  teaching  French  and  History  in  the  Derby  High  School, 
Derby,  Connecticut. 

Winifred  E.  Durham  is  teaching  in  the  Crystal  Lake  Schools,  North 
Crystal  Lake,  Illinois. 


THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  511 

'13.     Agnes  Folsoin  is  assistant  in  Wells  River  High  School  of  Vermont. 

Eleanor  Galleher  is  teacher  of  French  and  English  in  the  High  School  at 

Berlin,  New  Hampshire. 
Marian  Gardner  is  teaching  at  Blair  Academy,  Blairstown,  New  Jersey. 
Hester  Gamwell  is  at  home  in  Bellingham,  Washington. 
Mabel  Girard  is  teacher  of  French  and  English   in  the  High  School  at 

Randolph.  Vermont. 
Sybil  Green  is  at  home. 

Mary  Hassett  is  teaching  Latin  in  the  High  School  at  Lee,  Massachusetts. 
Eleanore  Holmes  is  taking  a  course  in  the  Bryant  and  Stratton  Business 

School  of  Boston. 
Grace  Jordan  is  at  home.      Address :    345  Central  Street,  Springfield, 

Massachusetts. 
Ruth  Le  Gro  is  at  home  in  Palmer,  Massachusetts. 
Beatrice  Litchfield  is  teaching  English,  Latin  and  History  and  acting  as 

Assistant  in  the  High  School  at  Suffield,  Ohio. 
Martha  Lundagen  is  teaching  Algebra  and  English  in  the  High  School  at 

Leominster,  Massachusetts. 
Louie   Lyman  is  teaching  a  primary  grade  at   Easthampton,   Massa- 
chusetts. 
Ruth  Machette  is  teaching  French  and  Mathematics  in  the  North  Kings- 
town High  School,  Wickford,  Rhode  Island. 
Ruth  McClellan  is  studying  Vocal  Music  in  the  Knox  Conservatory  of 

Music.  Galesburg,  Illinois. 
Margaret  McGrath  is  teaching  Mathematics  iu  the  High  School  at  North 

Brookfield.  Massachusetts. 
Agnes  McGraw  is  teacher  of  Mathematics  and  Music  at  Miss   Mill's 

School,  at  Mount  Airy,  Philadelphia,  Pennsylvania. 
Annah  Montague  is  teaching  Mathematics  in  the  High  School  at  Putnam, 

Connecticut. 
Mildred  Morrow  is  teaching  Mathematics  and  Physics  in  the  High  School 

at  Bridgton,  Maine. 
Mathilde  Parlett  is  at  home.      Address  :    728  Georgia  Avenue,  Bristol, 

Tennesee. 
Eleanor  Phippen.     Address  :  26  Lynde  Street,  Salem,  Massachusetts. 
Sarah  Porter  is  teaching  at  Berlin,  Connecticut. 

Louisa  Quigg  is  substituting  in  the  schools  of  Pawtucket,  Rhode  Island. 
Edith  Rogers  is  at  home. 
Florence  Seaman  is  taking  a  year  of  graduate  work  in  the  University  of 

Southern  California,  Los  Angeles,  California. 
Mary  Shea  is  Principal's  Assistant  at  the  Park  Avenue  School,  West 

Springfield,  Massachusetts. 
Arline  Smith  is  living  at  home  and  teaching  Mathematics  and  English  in 

Detroit,  Michigan. 


512  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

'13.     Annie  Smith  is  teacher  of  Historj*  at  Waterbury,  Connecticut. 

Cora  Stiles  is  teaching  English,  Latin  and  French  in  the  High  School  at 

Conway,  Massachsetts. 
Mercy  Stock  is  teaching  at  Sharon  High  School,  Sharon,  Connecticut. 
Marion  Stone  is  at  home  in  Newton,  Massachusetts. 
May  Taylor  is  at  home,  studying  and  teaching  music.      Address  :    156 

Fifth  Avenue,  New  York  City. 
Marian  Thompson.    Address  :  529  High  Street,  Fall  River,  Massachusetts. 
Alice  Van  Nuys  is  at  home  in  Northampton.     She  is  continuing  her 

course  in  Music  at  Smith  College. 
Anna  Wallace  is  teaching  at  Proctorsville,  Vermont. 
Edith  Week  is  at  home.     Address  :  247  Ruby  Road,  Brooklyn,  New  York. 
Florence  Willcox  is  teaching  German  and  Art  in  Hackettstown,    New 

Jersey. 
Elise  Williams  is  teaching  Mathematics  and  Latin  in  the  High  School  at 

Bath,  New  Hampshire. 
Dorothy  Wilner  is  teaching  at  Au  Sable  Forks,  New  York. 
Mina  Winslow  is  studying  music  at  home. 
Alice  Woodworth  is  at  home.    Address  :  203  South  34th  Street,  Omaha, 

Nebraska. 


CALENDAR 


May    15.     Lecture  by  Professor  Charles  Downer  Hazen,  under 
the  auspices  of  the  History  Department. 
*'     16.     Division  B  Dramatics. 
"     20.     Field  Day. 

Meetings  of  Alpha  and  Phi  Kappa  Psi  Societies. 
Open  Meeting  of  the  Clef  Club. 
"     30.     Decoration  Day. 
June     1-11.     Final  Examinations. 

''     10.     Meetings  of  Alpha  and  Phi  Kappa  Psi  Societies. 

"     13.     Meeting  of  Alumnte  Association. 

"     14.     Baccalaureate  Sunday. 

'•      15.     Iv}-  Day. 

''     16.     Commencement  Exercises. 


XLbc 


Smitb    College 
flRontblp 


3une^  1914 
®vone^  anD  publidbeb  b^  tbe  Senior  Claae 


CONTENTS 


A  Criticism  of  Plato's  Theory 

Modern  Point  of  View 
Au  Clair  de  la  Lune 
*'One  May  Morning  in  Hell" 
Sandy,  Hero 
Memory    . 
The  Good-Bye 
Interrupted  Adventure 
May  Days 
Ghosts 

The  Eyes  of  the  Campus 
From  the  Forest 
Midday  in  June 


of  Dramatic  Art  from  a 

Anna  Elizabeth  Spicer  1914  513 

Marion  Delamater  Freeman  1914  522 

Anna  Elizabeth  Spicer  1914  522 

Faye  Morrison  1914  523 

Leonora  Branch  1914  526 

Esther  Loyola  Harney  1914  527 

Margaret  Bloom  1914  531 

Rosamond  Drexel  Holmes  1914  533 

Leonora  Branch  1914  533 

Anne  Eleanor  von  Harten  1914  534 

Esther  Loyola  Harney  1914  537 

Marion  Delamater  Freeman  1914  537 


SKETCHES 

Uncle  Charlie 
Lullaby 

A  Child's  Thoughts 
A  May  Evening     . 
The  Coming  of  Darkness 
The  Wind    . 
Mary  Anton 


Frances  Milliken  Hooper  1914  538 

Mira  Bigelow  Wilson  1914  545 

Leonora  Branch  1914  546 

Jeanne  Woods  1914  547 

Margaret  Bloom  1914  548 

Marion  Delameter  Freeman  1914  550 

Dorothy  Thome  1914  551 


ABOUT  COLLEGE 


Medical  Report  from  Smith  College 

Marion  Delameter  Freeman  1914 


The  Order  of  Things 
The  Allowance     . 
Past— But  Not  Forgotten 
Cooperative  Living 
The  Three  Fates 


Rosamond  Drexel  Holmes  1914 
Rosamond  Drexel  Holmes  1914 
Rosamond  Drexel  Holmes  1914 
Myra  Bigelow  Wilson  1914 
Margaret  Louise  Farrand  1914 


The  World  Is  Too  Much  with  Us" 

Margaret  Louise  Farrand  1914 


552 
554 
555 
555 
556 
558 

558 


HEARD  ON  THE  TAR  WALK 
EDITORIAL 
EDITORS  TABLE 
AFTER  COLLEGE       . 


559 
564 
567 
570 


Entered  at  the  Post  Office  at  Northampton,  Massachusetts,  as  second  class  matter 
Gazette  Printing  Company,  Northampton^  Mass. 


THE 

Smith  College  Monthly 

TOL.  XXI  JUNE,  1914  No.  9 


EDITORS: 

Marion  Sinclair  Walker 
Mary  Louise  Ramsdell  Adelaide  Heilbron 

Barbara  Cheney  Katharine  Buell  Nye 

Annie  Preston  Bridqers  Helen  Violette  Tooker 

Katharine  Boutelle  Ellen  Veronica  McLoughlin 

Kathleen  Isabel  Byam  Eleanor  Haller  Gibbons 

Alice  Lilian  Peters 
business  manager  and  treasurer 
Alice  Bradford  Welles 

assistant  business  managers 
Hester  Gunning 
Eleanor  Hollister  Park 


AlCRITIdSM  OF  PLATO'S  THEORY  OF  DRAMATIC  ART 
FROM  A  MODERN  POINT  OF  VIEW 

ANNA  ELIZABETH   SPICER 

In  our  life  at  the  present  day  there  are  few  forms  of  art  more 
truly  popular  than  the  drama.  This  fact  is  being  shown  in 
every  way:  by  the  talk  of  the  "man  in  the  street/'  by  the 
■columns  of  theater  advertisements  in  our  newspapers,  the  sec- 
tions of  dramatic  criticism  in  our  magazines,  the  numerous 
performances  of  amateur  theatricals,  the  increasing  interest  in 
the  pageant  and  the  municipal  theatre,  and  the  recent  excel- 
lent books  of  criticism  by  excellent  critics.  The  lion  of  the 
afternoon  teas  is  the  writer  of  the  newest  successful  play,  and 
matinee  idols  are  to  be  found  in  every  town  of  a  few  hundred 
inhabitants. 


oU  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

The  theatre  in  Plato's  time  was  no  small  nor  insignificant 
matter.  Euripides,  Sophocles,  ^schylus,  were  even  then 
names  to  conjure  with.  ''The  theaters,"  says  Jowett,  "  were- 
free,  or  almost  free,  to  all,  costing  but  a  drachma'^  (a  shilling 
or  less)  ''at  the  most."  Then,  too,  the  play  was  the  thing,  and 
is  no  more  than  coming  into  its  own  again. 

And  Plato,  could  he  be  waked  from  some  wondrous  dream  of 
his  beloved  Republic,  and  be  presented  with  the  statistics  of  the 
theatres,  would,  after  pondering  a  while  over  them,  sadly  shake- 
his  head  and  murmur — to  himself,  for  in  what  sympathetic  soul 
could  he  confide  ? — "  ^vptov  tjSlov  ^o-w." 

The  question  of  the  drama  is  a  vital  one  to  Plato.  "We  must 
come  to  an  understanding  about  the  mimetic  art,"  he  says. 
And  then  he  proceeds  whole-heartedly  to  condemn  the  dramatic 
art  in  every  way. 

Plato's  arguments  against  dramatic  art  may  be  divided  into 
three  chief  groups,  the  economic  arguments,  the  ethical  argu- 
ments, and  the  philosophical  arguments. 

Gouverneur  Morris  has  well  put  a  criticism  which  is  some- 
times heard  of  philosophers  :  "  The  men  who  live  in  the  world 
are  very  different  from  those  who  dwell  in  the  heads  of  philoso- 
phers." But  Plato  cannot  be  touched  by  this  criticism  in  so  far 
as  it  applies  to  practical  interest  in  life.  With  him  philosophy 
becomes  more  technical  than  it  has  ever  been  before  and  Plato's 
interest  lies  not  only  in  the  practical  side  of  life  but  in  the  con- 
structive as  well.  The  economic  aspect,  then,  is  most  important 
for  Plato. 

The  Republic  starts  out  with  this  question  to  be  answered  : 
What  is  justice  ?  And  the  answer  is  found  to  be  :  ^'Justice  is 
the  harmony  of  human  life."  In  the  individual  this  refers  to 
the  setting  "  in  order  of  his  own  inner  life"  ;  in  the  state  justice 
is  the  same,  the  outward  manifestation  being  a  man's  doing  his 
own  business  :  the  carpenter  is  to  build  houses,  the  shoemaker 
to  make  shoes,  and  so  forth.  So,  can  we  not  see,  if  we  consider 
the  actor,  and  the  author,  who  in  writing  plays  would  be  put- 
ting himself  into  the  places  of  different  characters,  that  he  is 
violating  the  principle  of  a  well-ordered  life,  on  which  justice 
is  founded  ?  He  will  not  be  doing  his  own  business,  and  aiding 
in  the  economic  welfare  of  the  state, — no,  far  from  that ;  he  will 
be  rushing  hither  and  thither,  being  first  a  god,  then  an  old 
man,  then  a  woman  ;  a  king,  then  a  beggar.     This  will  never  do.. 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  515 

Plato  makes  Socrates,  who  is  of  course  clearly  his  spokesman, 
give  an  emphatic  dictum  on  this  point.  In  Book  III  of  the 
Republic  he  says,  "  Then,  Adeimantus,  let  me  ask  you  whether 
our  guardians  ought  to  be  imitators  ;  or  rather  has  not  this  ques- 
tion been  decided  by  the  rule  already  laid  down  that  one  man 
can  only  do  one  thing  well,  and  not  many  ;  and  that  if  he 
attempts  many,  he  will  altogether  fail  of  gaining  much  reputa- 
tion in  any  ?"'  "  The  same  person  will  hardly  be  able  to  play 
a  serious  part  in  life  and  at  the  same  time  to  be  an  imitator  and 
imitate  many  other  parts  as  well."  There  is  in  the  Republic  no 
place  for  the  Jack-of-all-trades. 

Under  these  words  lies  the  question  of  specialization.  Now 
there  is  danger,  of  course,  in  too  much  scattering  of  interest  ; 
modern  education  is  not  blameless  in  this  respect.  The  Jack- 
of-all-trades  is  not  exactly  an  admirable  member  of  society  ; 
but  one  may  transgress  on  the  other  hand,  also. 

Plato  is  too  dogmatic  ;  there  is  not  enough  elasticity  allowed 
by  him.  For  the  fullest  self-realization,  which  is  in  the  end  a 
benefit  to  both  individual  and  community,  you  must  look  out, 
see  others'  views,  understand  their  work ;  and  this  cannot  be 
accomplished  by  one  who  sticks  narrowly  to  his  own  little  task. 
The  shoemaker  must  learn  to  know  more  than  his  shoe-making. 
Kant  has  said  that  feelings  without  thoughts  are  empty  ;  but 
also  that  thoughts  without  feelings  are  blind.  This  is  to-day  one 
of  the  great  arguments  for  the  drama.  Charles  Reade,  discussing 
certain  forms  of  cruelty  in  Tlie  Cloister  and  the  Hearth,  says, 
^^This  defect,  intellectual  perhaps  rather  than  moral,  has  been 
mitigated  in  our  day  by  books,  especially  able  works  of  fiction  ; 
for  there  are  two  roads  to  that  highest  effort  of  Intelligence, 
Pity— experience  of  sorrows,  and  Imagination,  by  which  alone 
we  realize  the  grief  we  never  felt."  And  I  am  sure  he  would 
not  deny  that  this  same  service  is  rendered  as  effectually  by  the 
drama.  Then,  instead  of  Justice  being  endangered,  she  is  even 
nearer  her  perfect  fulfilment. 

As  to  the  example  Plato  gives — "for  even  when  two  species 
of  imitation  are  nearly  allied,  the  same  person  cannot  succeed 
in  both,  as,  for  example,  the  writers  of  tragedy  and  comedy,"— 
we  offer  in  refutation  to  this  our  master  of  the  drama  ;  we  open 
our  Shakspere  first  to  '''As  You  Like  It"  and  then,  over  a  few 
pages,    to   ''Macbeth.'^      And    Shakspere,  far    from    being    an 

1  R.  394E. 


516  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

eccentric  genius,  is  regarded  by  us  as  perhaps  the  most  sane  of 
all  artists;  of  all  dramatists  the  man  who  in  his  life  as  in  his 
art  was  most  praiseworthil,y  human.  The  dialogues  of  Plato 
himself  are  an  argument ;  but  Plato,  from  his  ethical  point  of 
view,  has  lost  sight  of  this  fact.  He  does,  it  is  true,  provide 
that  the  youth  of  the  Republic  are  to  be  surrounded  by  all  most 
beautiful  things,  but  he  does  not  go  far  enough. 

It  is  difficult  to  disconnect  any  one  of  the  arguments  from  the 
others,  as  they  are  so  bound  up  together  by  the  one  dominating 
idea  that  art  consists  in  mere  imitation  of  nature.  It  is  neces- 
sary to  treat  this  more  fully  later.  But  if  we  remember  that 
for  Plato  art  is  merely  the  imitation  of  common,  every-day 
reality,  thrice  removed  from  the  real,  which  is  the  Ideal,  we 
may  understand  more  fully  his  economic  argument.  For  art, 
according  to  this,  would  be  more  or  less  a  waste  of  energy,  abso- 
lutely opposed  to  all  principles  of  political  or  social  economy. 
For  some  forms  of  art,  it  is  true,  he  admits  advantage  to  be 
gained — for  instance,  music  of  certain  kinds.  But  dramatic  art 
offers  no  such  help  to  the  soul,  he  thinks.  It  has  no  practical 
results  for  good.^  And  so,  from  an  economic  point  of  view,  all 
participation  in  tragedy  and  comedy  is  a  waste  of  valuable 
energy  which  by  author,  actor  and  spectator,  might,  much 
better  be  turned  into  the  channels  of  real  life. 

This  argument  can  be  opposed  only  by  the  acknowledgment 
that  art  does  not  mean  for  us  what  it  did  for  Plato ;  it  is  not, 
we  think,  a  mere  imitation  of  nature. 

Probably  the  greatest  influence  that  ever  came  into  Plato's 
life  was  that  of  the  teaching  of  Socrates.  And  Socrates'  effect 
was  to  deepen  Plato's  interest  in  moral  questions,  as  well  as  in 
economic  and  philosophical  ones.  Plato  is  a  moral  enthusiast. 
With  the  effect  on  the  author  of  writing  such  things  he  does 
not  treat.  He  seems  to  have  little  hope  of  reforming  the  poets 
and  little  sympathy  with  them.  The  dramatic  poet  is  lazy  ;  he 
will  not  take  the  trouble  to  imitate  ^'  the  wise  and  calm  tempera- 
ment,^' which  is  '^nearly  always  equable,"  and  "not  easy  to 
imitate."  He  works  "as  if  his  whole  vocation  were  endless 
imitation,"  and  the  objects  of  his  imitation  are  those  things 
which  it  is  most  easy  to  imitate,  to  wit,  the  evil.  He  eulogizes 
tyranny,  too. 

The  only  aim  of  the  dramatic  poet  is  i^opularity.      He  does 

1  R.  599C-600. 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  517 

not  care  about  truth,  so  long  as  the  theaters,  in  which  his  plays 
are  running,  are  packed  ;  and  we  think  of  George  Whetstone  in 
the  sixteenth  century,  grieving  over  the  English  dramatists, 
who  are  indiscreet,  "not  caring  a  straw,  so  people  laugh." 
And,  since  the  dramatist  is  an  imitator  of  an  imitator,  his  crea- 
tions have  an  inferior  degree  of  truth.  Why  should  he  be 
infallible?  He  himself  "may  have  come  across  imitators  and 
have  been  deceived  by  them.""  '  He  gets  more  and  more  deeply 
involved  in  unrealities,  until  all  life  is  to  him  and  to  those  who 
enjoy  his  works,  "  but  a  dream  within  a  dream,"  and  the  dream 
is  a  nightmare  ! 

From  the  moral  point  of  view  both  actoi'  and  spectator  are 
more  or  less  dupes  of  the  dramatic  poet,  in  whom  is  the  root  of 
evil.  Although  Plato  does  not  expressly  say  it,  we  may  sup- 
pose that  he  believed  the  acting  of  plays  was  bad  morally  for 
the  actor. 

As  to  the  spectator,  the  effect  is  the  same  as  that  of  real  life, 
differing  only  in  degree — of  inferiority — not  in  quality.  There 
is  presented  to  the  spectator  "an  inferior  part  of  the  soul." 
And  so,  to  the  youth  who  are  easily  impressionable  ^  and  to  the 
less  so,  but  still  impressionable,  adults,  are  presented  :  per- 
verted images  of  the  gods  ;  a  woman  quarrelling  with  her 
husband,  or  striving  against  the  gods  ;  cowards  :  men  who 
"  scold  or  mock  or  revile  one  another  in  drink  or  out  of  drink," 
etc.,  etc.  How  can  a  man  seeing  these  help  becoming  thor- 
oughly degenerate?  "For  our  soul's  health"  we  must  culti- 
vate, if  any,  the  poet  "who  will  imitate  the  style  of  the  virtu- 
ous only."  And  Plato  seems  to  think  the  dramatic  poets  would 
not  do  so,  if  they  could. 

To-day  one  may  find  division  of  opinion  among  dramatists  as 
to  the  treatment  of  good  and  evil.  Gervinus  and  Ulrici  repre- 
sent one  point  of  view  among  German  critics  of  Shakspere  ; 
they  "have  an  obsession  of  morality."  And  Charles  Klein, 
well-known  to  the  American  audience  from  his  plays,  "The 
Lion  and  the  Mouse,"  etc.,  takes  this  view.  "What  I  ask,"  he 
says,  "  is  not  merely  that  we  should  be  shown  that  evil  pun- 
ishes, but  that  it  shall  be  insisted  on  as  equally  axiomatic  that 
good  rewards."  But  even  this  poetic  justice  is  more  than  Plato 
would  allow. 

1  R.  605A. 
2R.39oD. 


518  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

It  is  true  that  there  is  a  moral  danger  for  the  actor.  "  The 
long  playing  of  a  role  like  Hamlet,  if  it  be  well  enacted,  works 
so  insidiously  upon  the  spirit  of  the  actor  as  to  become  a  formid- 
able danger.  No  conscientious  actor  could  repeat  the  perform- 
ance of  such  a  role  as  Dr.  Jekyl  and  3Ir.  Hyde  through  an 
extended  run,  without  incurring  grave  responsibilities  to  him- 
self ;  while  the  portrayal  of  the  characteristic  habits  of  Rosa- 
lind, on  the  other  hand,  acts  as  an  irresistible  nervous  tonic,  so 
ineradicably  is  the  spirit  joined  to  the  kindly  clay  in  which  it 
was  begotten.''^  It  is,  however,  in  regard  to  the  spectator  .that 
Plato  is  insistent. 

The  larger  and  by  far  the  most  important  school  of  critics  to- 
day has  taken  a  much  broader  and  more  reasonable  view.  To 
them,  also,  as  to  Aristotle,  the  effect  of  art  is  not  the  same  as 
the  effect  of  nature. 

Bosanquet's  criticism  of  Plato  is  important :  "  The  technical 
defect  thus  revealed  consists  in  substituting  a  direct  connection 
of  subordination  for  an  indirect  connection  of  coordination 
between  the  spheres  of  beauty  and  of  the  moral  order.  By  this 
subordination  beauty  is  required  to  represent  the  moral  order  as 
moral,  and  nothing  more ;  whereas  it  is  really  an  expression, 
coordinate  with  the  moral  order  as  a  whole  and  not  bound  under 
its  rules,  of  that  larger  complication  and  unity  of  things  which 
reflects  itself  in  the  sense  of  beauty  on  the  one  hand,  and  on  the 
other  hand  in  the  social  will."'  And  he  goes  on  to  give  the 
modern  view  point :  *' Beauty,  indeed,  within  its  own  territory 
of  expression  for  expression's  sake,  is  secure  from  praise  or 
censure  upon  purely  moral  grounds.  But  wherever  expression 
is  not  for  expression's  sake,  but  is  determined  by  alien  motives, 
such  as  the  promotion  of  virtue  or  knowledge,  or  again  the  stim- 
ulation of  sensuous  desire,  then  it  is  outside  the  aesthetic  fron- 
tier, and  moral  criticism  upon  it  is  justified  not  only  in  sub- 
stance but  also  in  form." 

William  Archer,  one  of  the  most  important  critics  to-day, 
follows  Bosaoquet  :  "A  story  made  to  the  order  of  a  moral 
concept  is  always  apt  to  advertise  its  origin,  to  the  detriment  of 
its  illusive  quality."^ 

Brander   Matthews  thinks   that    "  the   drama  cannot   evade 

1  Bliss  Carman  in  "  The  Making  of  Personality." 

2  Bosanquefs  "  History  of  Esthetic." 

3  William  Archer  :  ••Playmaking." 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      519 

moral  responsibility  "  ;  and  yet  "the  playwright  is  never  called 
upon  to  be  a  preacher.'^ ' 

A.  C.  Bradley  i^ives  the  name  of  "  moral  order"  to  that  which 
Bosanquet  calls  "that  larger  complication  and  unity  of  things.'' "^ 
But  the  moral  here  is  not  the  narrow  moral. 

The  whole  attitude  of  these  critics  is  admirably  summed  up 
by  Shelley  in  his  preface  to  Cenci  :  "The  highest  moral  purpose 
aimed  at  in  the  highest  species  of  the  drama  is  the  teaching  of 
the  humnn  heart,  through  its  sympathies  and  antipathies,  the 
knowledge  of  itself,  in  proportion  to  the  possession  of  which 
knowledge  every  human  being  is  wise,  just,  sincere,  tolerant 
and  kind." 

In  the  third  place,  Plato  argues  that  the  emotions,  the  "in- 
ferior parts  of  the  soul,"  are  aroused  by  dramatic  presentations. 
In  his  psychology,  the  emotions,  sensations,  desires,  appetites, 
are  all  on  the  lowest  plane  of  the  soul  and  at  eternal  variance 
with  the  higher  paths,  the  reason  and  the  will. 

Present-day  psychology  takes  an  entirely  different  view  of 
the  emotions.  By  it  they  are  regarded  as  natural  ;  not  to  be 
utterly  crushed  out.  There  is  a  right  use  of  the  emotions  as 
well  as  an  abuse,  and  this  is  not  admitted  by  Plato. 

We  have  been  continually  putting  off  the  discussion  of  art  as 
imitation  of  nature.  In  order  to  understand  Plato's  adoption  of 
this  attitude,  it  is  necessary  to  consider  briefly  a  few  main 
points  of  his  philosophy.  Therein  lies  the  fundamental  differ- 
ence of  Plato's  treatment  to  ours. 

For  Plato,  Ideas  are  universals  ;  eternal,  self-subsisting  enti- 
ties, which  have  their  being  apart  from  sensible  things  in  "a 
realm  intelligible  for  the  intellect  alone."  Their  totality  consti- 
tutes a  system  or  intelligible  world  which  is  composed  of  all  the 
Ideas  participating  in  one  another  ;  and  all  Ideas  participate  in 
a  higher  Idea,  the  Idea  of  the  Good,  which  is  their  principle- 
Knowledge  consists  in  apprehending  the  universal  principle  of 
the  object. 

The  Good,  the  Beautiful  and  the  True  are,  although  b}^  no 
means  identical,  closely  related.  "That  is  beautiful  which  is 
good";  he  is  a  "fool  who  directs  the  shafts  of  his  ridicule  at 
any  other  sight  but  that  of  folly  and  vice,  or  seriously  inclines 

1  Matthews :  "A  Study  of  the  Drama." 
3  Bradley  :  Shaksperian  Tragedy." 


520  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

to  weigh  the  beautiful  by  any  other  standard  but  that  of  the 
good."' 

But  this  Beautiful,  which  has  such  a  large  and  important 
part  to  play  in  the  all-important  Idea  of  the  Good,  is  not  tangi- 
ble, concrete  Beauty.  On  this  point  Plato  is  most  emphatic. 
The  real  Beauty  is  the  absolute  Ideal  Beauty ;  and  in  the 
Fhaedrus  he  says  of  her,  ''where  souls  go  in  company  with 
blessed  gods,  there  Beauty  is  seen  shining  in  company  with 
celestial  forms"  (Ideas).  Sensible  perception  of  beauty  is  but 
a  reminiscence  of  the  real  Beauty  :  "'  the  shock  of  beauty  is  the- 
soul's  sudden  half -remembrance  of  the  world  of  Divine  Ideas"  ;; 
as  Wordsworth  says,  "Trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come." 
And  a  modern  reflection,  from  Yeats,  "  If  beauty  is  not  a  gate- 
way out  of  the  net  we  were  taken  in  at  our  birth,  it  will  not 
long  be  beauty. "  ^  The  philosopher  advances  from  loving  things 
which  seems  beautiful  to  the  eye,  to  loving  beautiful  people, 
and  so  on,  toward  the  true  Beauty. 

But  Art,  although  it  may  aid  in  this  search  for  Beauty,  may 
hinder  also.  There  is  a  great  gulf  fixed  between  "the  sight- 
loving,  art-loving,  practical  class  .  .  .  and  those  .  .  .  who 
are  alone  worthy  of  the  name  of  philosophers.  .  .  .  The  lovers 
of  sounds  and  sights  are  .  .  .  fond  of  fine  tones  and  colours 
and  forms  and  all  the  artificial  products  that  are  made  out  of 
them,  but  their  mind  is  incapable  of  seeing  or  loving  absolute 
beauty."  The  true  philosopher  must  neither  put  the  "objects 
in  the  place  of  the  idea  nor  the  idea  in  the  place  of  the  objects." 

In  the  illustration  of  the  bed,  Plato  shows  most  clearly  his- 
idea  of  art  as  an  imitation  of  nature.  Imitation  itself  implies  no 
evil ;  but  art  is  the  imitation,  not  of  this  wondrous  Ideal,  but  of 
the  every-day,  sensible  world,  an  imitation  of  an  imitation.  Art 
and  Beauty  are  two  different  things;  as  Paymond  says,  "in 
his  own  mind  he  never  connected  the  two  as,  in  any  sense, 
necessarily  connected." 

We  do  not  consider  Art  an  imitation  of  Nature,  nor  as  the 
unnatural  as  opposed  to  the  natural.  In  the  words  of  Ray- 
mond, "'it  differs  from  the  immediate  expression  of  nature  in 
being  mediate  or  represented  expression,  Nature  made  liumanJ^ 
As  literature,  the  dramatic  art  is  "bound  to  be  faithful  to  the 
inner  spirit  and  laws  of  life,"  but  we  must  remember  that  in  the 

1  E.  452. 

2  W.  B.  Yeats  :  '•  Celtic  Twilight." 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      521 

realm  of  art  "  essential  veracity  has  no  relation  to  the  mere 
actuality  of  every-day  existence."  (Matthews).  The  stage  is  the 
realm  of  appearances.  Aristotle,  who  was  more  a  follower  of 
Plato  than  he  cared  to  confess,  made  a  great  advance  on  Plato 
when  he  acknowledged  that  the  effect  produced  by  art  is  not 
the  same  as  that  produced  by  the  natural  (although  he,  too,  held 
art  an  imitation  of  nature). 

This  view  of  art  as  an  imitation  of  nature  is  the  essential  dif- 
ference between  Plato  and  modern  philosophers  and  critics. 
We  are  able  to  see  Falstaff  and  Richard  II  and  Macbeth  and 
Othello  without  being  any  the  worse  for  it — nay,  perchance  we 
become  better.  We  can  attend  the  presentation  of  any  really 
good  problem  play  without  necessarily  becoming  morally  degen- 
erate. In  the  words  of  Hugo,  "  the  beautiful  is  as  useful  as  the 
useful." 

It  is,  of  course,  impossible  to  criticize  Plato  as  we  would  a 
man  who  wrote  such  things  to-day.  Things  have  changed 
since  then.  In  the  unprejudiced  view  which  the  long  passage 
of  time  enables  us  to  take,  we  can  even  find  services  which  such 
a  view  has  rendered  to  thought.  "It  bears  witness  to  the 
instinctive  demand  for  depth  and  completeness  in  art  as  repre- 
senting the  powers  that  reveal  themselves  in  that  order  of  the 
world  of  which  the  moral  order  is  one  among  other  significant 
reflections ;  and  it  embodies  the  conviction  that  there  is  a 
superior  art  and  beauty,  which  being  not  free  but  subservient 
to  a  practical  or  sensuous  end,  cease  to  be  objects  of  aesthetic 
judgment  and  become  the  ligitimate  prey  of  moral  censure  or 
commendation.  And  censure  of  these  must  indeed  always  be 
one  degree  truer  than  commendation.'"  Plato  has  given  us 
something  on  which  to  work,  and  we  may  ow#  him  more  grati- 
tude than  we  seem  to  find  reason  for. 

1  Bosanquet. 


AU  CLAIR  DE  LA  LUNE 

MARION  DELAMATER  FREEMAN 

When  the  world  lies  still  in  the  light  of  the  moon, 
In  the  pure,  ethereal  light  of  the  moon, 
Shadows  lie  amethyst  under  the  trees, 
Leaves  scarcely  stir  in  the  whispering  breeze. 
In  the  light  of  the  moon. 

When  the  sea  lies  pale  in  the  light  of  the  moon, 
In  the  clear,  white,  shimmering  light  of  the  moon. 
Dim  sails  flash  with  a  silvery  gleam 
As  they  drift  along  like  ships  in  a  dream, 
In  the  light  of  the  moon. 

When  voices  have  died  in  the  light  of  the  moon. 
Breathless,  bewitched  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 
Hands  grow  taut  lying  palm  in  palm, 
Hearts  beat  fast  in  the  voiceless  calm, 
In  the  light  of  the  moon. 


^^ONE  MAY  MORNING  IN  HELL^ 

ANNA  ELIZABETH  SPICER 

The  nine  old  rivers  flow  memorial  ways. 

On  their  grey,  wavering  banks  one  May  morning 
I  heard  the  shadow  of  a  throstle  sing 

The  shadow  of  a  song.     On  earth  such  days 

Be  war"  and  wine-sweet.     Here  in  Hell  one  pays 
All  thoughts  of  bliss  and  dreams  of  wandering 
Ever,  for  one  pale,  worn-old  dream  of  Spring 

A-blooming.     What  has  Hell  to  do  with  Mays  ? 

Then  one  live  note  from  the  dead  song  o'  the  bird ! 
All  suddenly,  to  let  the  sunlight  pass, 
A  jagged  streak  in  Hell-roof  high  overhead. 

An  there  be  stranger  things,  I  never  heard — 
For  Lethe-banks  woke  trembling  green  with  grass. 
And  one  blue  violet  wakened  all  the  dead. 


522 


SANDY,  HERO 

FAYE   MORRISON 

Sandy  lived  in  a  house  by  the  sea,  and  all  day  long  he  played 
and  ate  and  slept.  His  little  legs  grew  sturdy  and  hard  and  his 
hair  grew  quite  straw-like  in  the  hot  sun  and  salt  air.  Days 
were  happy  ones  for  him,  there  was  sand  to  dig  in,  and  curious 
things  to  pick  up  and  examine.  Some  days  the  waves  would 
wash  up  queer  pink  and  purplish  jelly  things,  which  would  slip 
sm.oothly  between  his  fingers.  Then  other  days  there  were 
shells  to  be  discovered  nestling  in  the  sand.  One  morning  he 
woke  up  and  discovered  a  great  dark  mass  of  wood  piled  high 
upon  the  beach  and  extending  one  beam  out  over  the  breakers. 
It  was  a  black  and  slippery  derelict  and  promised  many  inter- 
esting adventures  for  Sandy.  All  that  day  he  lived  in  the  mys- 
tery of  the  great  drenched  thing,  crouching  under  its  shadows, 
playing  the  castaway  fearful  of  discovery,  then  stalking 
proudly  over  its  slippery  length,  defying  any  danger  that 
lurked  on  the  high  seas.  He  was  a  valiant  little  pirate,  yet  one 
thing  troubled  him.  After  all,  he  was  a  very  small  boy,  and  he 
couldn't  somehow  get  up  courage  to  go  quite  to  the  edge  of  that 
beam  that  hung  so  high  over  the  water.  It  beckoned  and  defied 
him,  but  he  couldn't  forget  how  slippery  it  was  and  how  noisy 
the  breakers  beneath  it.  Sandy  was  not  a  coward.  He  was  too 
young  to  recognize  cowardice  as  a  thing  to  be  despised.  His 
experiences  had 'not  called  for  moral  struggles.  His  timiditj^ 
resulted  from  a  lack  of  opportunity  rather  than  from  instinct. 
Yet  when  Sandy's  supreme  moment  came  he  met  the  issue  like 
a  general  to  whom  bravery  is  a  habit.  It  all  came  about 
because  of  Sandy's  family. 

There  were  many  reasons  why  Sandy  lived  alone  by  the  sea 
with  only  Mrs.  Hanrahan  and  Daddy.  He  could  remember 
dimly  a  time  when  there  was  Mother.  He  had  often  wondered 
about  her.  She  had  been  so  gay  and  pretty.  Then  one  day 
Daddy  had  told  him  that  a  little  sister  had  come  to  them  only 
to  go  back  to  Heaven  so  quickly  that  it  hardlj^  seemed  as 
though  she  had  been  there  at  all.  His  mother  could  not  forget 
her,  however,  and  Sandy  knew  that  for  many  weeks  she  was 

523 


524  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

very,  very  ilh  Then  one  day,  several  great,  important  men 
came  and  placed  her  in  their  machine  and  drove  away.  She 
had  looked  at  Sandy  peculiarly  and  when  Daddy  said  to  her, 
''  Kiss  Sandy,  dear,"  she  had  only  stared  vacantly  and  oddly. 
Mrs.  Hanrahan  cried,  and  Daddy,  who  had  been  so  boyish, 
looked  old  and  haggard.  They  hurried  Mother  away  and  he 
had  never  seen  her  since. 

It  was  shortly  after  that  that  Sandy  went  to  live  by  the  sea.. 
Each  night  he  watched  the  road  for  the  cloud  of  dust  and  black 
speck  which  meant  that  Daddy  was  tearing  home  to  him  at 
frightful  speed.  There  was  always  a  mad  dash  up  to  the  curb^ 
a  big  figure  leaping  from  the  machine  and  the  small  boy  would 
be  swallowed  up  in  a  bear-like  embrace.  The  evenings  were 
happy  ones  for  Sandy.  One  night  he  had  stopped  in  the  midst 
of  his  play  and  asked  if  Mother  was  ever  coming  home.  Then 
Daddy  took  him  on  his  lap  and  explained  that  Mother  was 
away  getting  well  and  that  some  day  she  would  come  back  to 
him;  It  seems  that  she  couldn't  quite  forget  the  little  sister 
whom  Sandy  hadn't  even  seen  and  it  would  be  a  long  time 
before  she  would  be  well  and  happy  again. 

One  day  Mrs.  Hanrahan  interrupted  him  in  one  of  his  most 
exciting  games  and  told  him,  with  much  adjusting  of  false  teeth,. 
that  Daddv  had  sent  word  that  company  was  coming  and  Sandy 
must  be  made  ready.  That  evening,  instead  of  just  Daddy  there 
was  a  great  bearded  man  with  him,  who  looked  so  hard  at 
Sandy  that  he  was  quite  shaky.  After  dinner,  instead  of  the 
customary  play  time,  father  and  the  stranger  sat  and  talked  a 
long,  long  time.  They  seemed  to  be  talking  of  Mother,  for 
Sandy  heard  the  deep  voice  say  something  about  her  being^ 
quite  well ;  then,  something  about  lost  interest  and  that  perhaps 
the  new  surroundings  and  the  boy  might  arouse  her.  Then 
Sandy  heard  his  own  name  spoken  and  his  father's  voice  said 
slowly,  "If  it  is  to  be  done,  Sandy  must  do  it."  So  he  was  to- 
do  something,  then.  He  wondered  long  about  that.  When 
Daddy  came  in  to  say  good-night,  he  cuddled  Sandy  in  his  arms 
and  told  him  that  Mother  was  to  come  back  to  them  and  that 
she  was  very,  very  sad,  and  that  Sandy  must  do  all  he  could  to 
make  her  smile.  Sandy  felt  very  old  then  and  life  began  to 
mean  something  besides  sand  and  sun.  He  was  to  make  Mother 
smile,  and  he  tasted  the  joy  of  responsibility. 

She  came,  and  Sandy  could  have  cried,  she  was  so  little  and 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  525 

white.  From  that  moment  he  consecrated  himself  to  her.  To 
make  Mother  smile  was  his  happiness.  Some  days  he  would 
almost  succeed  in  making  her  smile  ;  then  other  days  she  would 
not  see  him  and  he  would  hear  deep,  painful  sobbing.  At  such 
times  Mrs.  Hanrahan  would  hurry  him  off  to  the  beach  and  at 
night  Daddy  would  look  more  grave  than  usual. 

As  days  went  by  Sandy  became  quite  discouraged,  when  sud- 
denly one  day  '*  The  Plan"  evolved.  It  grew  slowly  in  his 
mind,  but  it  all  had  to  do  with  that  black,  slippery  beam  that 
hung  so  far  over  the  water.  Perhaps  if  some  day  when  Mother 
was  lying  in  the  sand  looking  out  toward  the  sea,  he  should 
crawl  up  to  the  very  tip  and  wave  she  might  not  only  smile  but 
laugh,  especially  if  he  had  to  scramble  to  hang  on.  No  general 
ever  planned  a  manoeuvre  with  greater  minuteness  of  detail 
than  did  Sandy  plan  his  deed.  There  was  something  very 
heroic  in  the  absolute  forgetfulness  of  that  awful  slipperiness. 
**  It"  was  to  take  place  in  the  morning  after  one  of  Mother's  hard 
•days.  He  chose  morning  because — well — it  would  be  over  with 
sooner.  The  day  he  chose  dawned  and  Sandy,  looking  a  little 
pale,  trudged  valiantly  beside  his  mother,  saw  her  comfortably 
arranged  among  her  cushions,  and  then,  sauntered  carelessly 
toward  the  black  pile  which  suddenly  seemed  to  have  grown 
blacker  and  bigger.  He  crawled  upon  the  fateful  beam, 
stretched  himself  flat  and  wiggled  a  few  inches.  He  glanced 
toward  his  mother  hurriedly.  She  was  not  watching.  Gather- 
ing courage,  he  crawled  a  few  feet  farther  than  he  had  ever  been 
iDefore.  The  water  pounded  beneath  him  but  still  he  crawled 
on.  He  wondered  if  she  were  looking  and  if  she  were  smiling. 
A  few  more  inches  and  he  would  be  there.  He  closed  his  eyes  ; 
the  salt  spray  stung  his  face.  He  could  feel  himself  slipping — 
slipping — 

In  that  awful  moment  a  cry  rent  the  air.  That  was  the  last 
he  knew  except  that  the  water  was  choking  him  and  he  was 
being  pounded  and  bruised.  When  he  awoke  Mother's  arms 
were  holding  him  fast  and  Mrs.  Hanrahan  was  pumping  his 
arms  in  a  horribly  painful  fashion.  '^Oh  Sandy,  Sandy,  if  I 
had  lost  you ! "  his  mother  kept  sobbing. 

Sandy  couldn't  quite  make  things  out.  He  knew  that  his 
plan  had  failed  miserably  and  that  Mother  was  crying  instead 
of  smiling.  Yet  the  feeling  of  her  arms  about  him  was  so  loving. 
He  hoped  Daddy  would  understand.      Then  he  sank  off  again 


526  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

into  unconsciousness  and  forgot  everything  for  many  hours — 
and  days. 

After  that  Mother  seemed  to  forget  that  she  was  sad  and  sat 
long  by  Sandy's  side  and  bathed  his  head.  And  when  those 
horrible  dreams  came  pressing  about  him,  he  felt  loving  arms 
holding  him  and  a  soft  voice  soothing  him.  He  was  a  very, 
very  sick  boy,  but  when,  one  day,  he  woke  up  entirely  well  and 
strong  there  were  Daddy  and  Mother  smiling  and  tearful,  to 
welcome  him. 

It  all  came  out  finally,  and  bit  by  bit  he  told  them.  But  he 
couldn^t  understand  why  crying  had  helped  Mother  as  much  as 
laughing  and  why  Daddy  had  held  him  tightly  and  called  him 
"hero^'  when  he  had  so  miserably  failed. 

Many  days  later  the  big  gruff  man  came  to  visit  them,  and 
when  Mother,  smiling  and  pink,  led  Sandy  in,  he  couldn^t  at  all 
understand  why  his  two  hands  were  seized  or  why  the  great 
specialist  asked  how  his  colleague,  the  doctor,  was,  and  said, 
his  voice  shaking  with  laughter,  that  here  surely  was  a  rival  to- 
be  reckoned  with. 


MEMORY 

LEONORA  BRANCH 

Ah,  I  am  tired  to-day  !    If  I  could  lie 
Close  to  the  cool,  kind  earth  a  little  space 
And  feel  the  touch  of  raindrops  on  my  face, 

And  watch  the  great  white  clouds  sail  softly  by ; 

If,  resting  so  a  while.  I  could  forget 
The  restless  ways  of  men,  nor  ever  heed 
The  phantom  of  the  world's  grim,  anguished  need, 

I  should  be  happy,  dear,  perhaps,  and  yet, — 

Forgetting  thus,  should  I  at  length  be  free  ? 
Would  it  not  sear  my  soul, — remembered  bliss 
From  our  dear  past, — the  magic  of  your  kiss. 

The  quiet  hope  that  still  you  needed  me  ? 


THE  GOOD-BYE 

ESTHER   L.    HARNEY 

Their  summer  had  been  a  happy  one. 

Days  of  gaiety,  of  tennis,  of  golf,  and  pleasures  had  followed 
each  other  quickly  until  now  it  was  the  end. 

Cool  nights  and  turning  leaves,  good-byes  to  friends  and  com- 
panions, all  told  of  the  end  of  summer. 

The  man  and  the  girl  had  gone  on  their  last  horse-back  ride 
together  this  night.  The  full  moonlight  had  lured  them  from 
the  glow  of  the  big  fireplaces,  and  they  had  gone  off  and  up 
through  the  pine  forests. 

The  girl  was  more  silent  than  usual,  and  had  met  her  com- 
panion's exhilarating  gaiety  and  enthusiasm  with  rather  a 
forced  vivacity. 

To  the  man,  this  girl  was  a  type  of  the  splendid  girl,  and  he 
had  thoroughly  enjoyed  her  companionship.  They  had  been 
together  in  most  affairs  and  gossip  had  linked  their  names 
together  more  than  once.  He  knew  it,  but  he  secretly  laughed 
at  such  an  idea.  He  was  from  the  West  and  she  was  from  the 
East,  and  they  had  laughed  and  jested  over  it  often,  the  East 
and  the  West. 

Now,  he  was  to  go  back  alone,  and  he  could  not  tell  when  he 
would  see  her  again.  He  would  miss  her.  He  was  certain  of 
that,  and  a  lonely  feeling,  such  as  he  ascribed  to  the  bidding 
good-bye  to  good  times,  came  over  him  suddenly.  Well,  all 
good  times  must  end,  he  thought,  as  he  spurred  on  his  horse 
with  his  heel.  The  world  was  a  small  place,  after  all,  and 
maybe  next  summer — but  he  could  not  fool  himself.  He  knew 
that  next  summer  he  would  have  to  stay  home  away  out  in  the 
West  and  work.  "What  a  shame,''  he  rebelliously  said,  and 
then  looked  away  as  she  quickly  raised  her  head  to  catch  his 
remark. 

She  rode  on,  enjoying  the  wonder  of  the  night.  And  yet  she 
was  a  little  sad.  In  truth  the  girl  was  wondering  at  herself. 
A  queer,  big  feeling  came  over  her  as  she  thought  of  the  end  of 
their  summer  together.  She  would  always  come  up  here,  she 
thought,  but  he  would  never  again.  He  had  told  her  of  his 
plans.      Another  year  and  she  would  be  doing  all  these  things 

527 


528  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

over  again,  but  he  ?  Well,  she  told  herself  practically,  he 
would  he  married.  And  she  ?  She  ^ave  her  horse  a  little  snap 
of  her  whip  at  the  irritating  thought  of  what  was  to  become 
of  her. 

'*  You  will  write  to  me  ?"  he  said. 

"  Of  course,"  she  answered. 

*^  You  will  tell  me  all  the  gay  doings  which  you  will  have  this 
winter,  won't  you  ?  " 

^^  Yes,"  she  replied. 

"And — if  you  are — "  but  he  did  not  say  it.  The  thought  of 
her  married,  as  all  women  should  be,  he  reflected,  was  somehow 
painful  to  him, 

"  It  must  be  the  night,  or  the  thought  that  summer  is  gone," 
they  both  thought  as  they  cantered  on. 

The  ride  back  to  the  hotel  was  a  brisk  one.  Neither  had 
cared  to  talk.  They  were  such  good  friends  that  the  silence 
between  them  was  not  noticed. 

He  was  to  leave  early  in  the  morning. 

She  had  told  him  that  she  hated  to  say  good-byes,  and  so  she 
meant  to  leave  him  on  the  steps.  They  gave  their  horses  to  the 
groom  and  came  up  the  steps  quietly  on  to  the  veranda. 

The  girl  had  planned  to  hurry  away  with  a  smile  and  a  gay 
word  on  her  lips,  but  the  man  blocked  her  way. 

"I  had  a  glorious  summer,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand.  '*I 
will  never  forget  it." 

"And  so  did  I,"  she  interrupted  brightly  with  an  impatient 
movement. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said,  shaking  her  cool  little  hand. 

"Good-bye,"  she  answered,  and  with  a  queer  little  smile, 
"  good  luck  ! " 

And  he  was  gone,  down  the  steps  and  out  to  his  hotel,  leaving 
her  alone  on  her  own  veranda. 

She  leaned  over  the  railing  and  looked  down  to  the  river, 
gleaming  and  alive  with  the  richness  of  the  moon. 

What  a  glorious  night  it  was  1 

And  so  this  was  the  end  of  it  all ! 

A  wistful  little  song  came  into  her  head,  "  Good-bye  to  Sum- 
mer," and  she  remembered  it  was  Tosti's  "  Good-bye." 

The  end  of  the  summer,  the  end  of  good  times  with  a  splendid 
companion,  as  the  man  had  been.  Into  her  thought  crept  a 
little,  bitter  reminder.     "  Men  were  all  that  wa}","  she  reflected. 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  529 

^  Every  girl  was  like  a  new  plaything,  a  toy  to  be  enjoyed  to 
the  full  and  forgotten." 

But  the  girl  was  fair  and  just  in  her  thoughts,  and  she 
remembered  that  she  herself  had  often  had  that  attitude  toward 
the  many  men  with  whom  she  had  ridden  and  danced  and 
laughed. 

And  how  like  life  it  was,  she  thought,  the  coming  and  going 
of  friends,  the  swift  speeding  days,  the  passing  on  of  faces  seen 
and  noticed  in  the  crowd  and  never  to  be  seen  again. 

An  odd  little  pain  hurt  within  her  somewhere.  She  longed 
to  go  in  and  cry  it  out  to  someone.  But  what  was  there  to  cry 
out,  to  tell  ?    What  need  to  seek  the  crumbs  of  comfort  ? 

The  man,  this  man,  who  had  grown  curiously  into  all  her 
thoughts,  with  whom  she  had  hopelessly  interwoven  herself, 
was  causing  all  this  pain. 

And  then  she  knew,  as  she  gazed  out  wonderingly  at  the 
glory  of  the  night  before  her,  that  she  must  have  always  cared, 
and  a  rising  surge  of  pity  for  herself  started  up  within  her. 

So  she  cared  for  him,  she  loved  him.  And  she  began  to  ask 
herself  when  it  had  all  begun.  But  she  could  not  finger  the 
thread  of  it  all.     It  seemed  as  if  she  had  always  cared. 

He  must  never  know,  he  must  never  guess  it.  Would  that 
be  hard  for  her,  she  wondered.  She  felt  that  she  could  hide 
this  divine  feeling  and  exult  in  herself,  but  the  sensation  of  her 
triumph,  the  loneliness  of  it  all,  came  to  her  with  a  sudden 
dizzy  wave. 

Now  the  night  seemed  to  have  changed  to  her.  The  moon- 
light had  suddenly  shifted  and  thrown  before  her  more  shadows. 
The  glory  of  its  brilliancy  was  gone.  It  was  like  the  memory 
of  a  sad,  sweet  song.  Now  the  big  things  of  the  landscape 
loomed  up  before  her,  and  the  little  details  were  blotted  out  and 
blackened.  She  felt  as  if  she  were  looking  at  life  as  it  really 
was,  as  if  she  were  seeing  the  things  of  real  value  and  worth 
where,  before,  her  eyes  had  not  seen.  It  was  worth  it  all,  she 
thought,  and  suddenly  she  felt  older. 

A  breeze  had  come  up  and  was  stirring  the  heavy-topped 
trees  beneath  her.  She  watched  them  bend  and  sway  and  obey 
the  touch  of  the  wind.  As  she  watched,  she  saw  that  where 
there  was  once  light,  now  there  was  shadow.  A  dark  figure 
seemed  to  be  moving  in  and  out  of  the  light  and  shade.  She 
watched  it  grow  and  loom  up  into  the  figure  of  a  man.  She 
saw  the  man  come  on  and  grow  clearer  to  her.  - 


530  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

And  yet  she  did  not  wonder,  for  she  thought  it  was  a  part  of 
her  reverie. 

Nor  did  the  firm,  hastening  steps  on  the  veranda  cause  her  to 
stir  or  to  speak.     She  stood  curiously  still — waiting. 

The  man  came  toward  her.  His  face  seemed  serious  and  pale 
in  the  misty  darkness  about  them.  His  eyes  searched  her  with 
an  intentness  that  burned  into  her  soul. 

''  I  could  not  go  away — that  way,"  he  said,  brokenly,  with  an 
effort  to  connect  his  words.  *'  It  came  to  me  as  I  left  you  there» 
— that — I  could  not  say  '  good-bye '  that  way,— as  if — we  were — 
just  friends,"  he  blurted  out. 

She  was  very  still  and  made  no  effort  to  help  him.  It  was  as 
if  she  were  dreaming,  and  feared  to  make  a  stir  lest  her  dream 
vanish  into  the  night  before  her.  The  man  took  her  hands  and 
shook  them  with  a  quick,  jerky  movement. 

''  I  can't  help  it,"  he  said,  "  I  care  so  much, — don't  you  under- 
stand, can't  you  see  that — I  felt  as  if  I  were  going  out — into  the 
desert,  alone,  and  it  seemed — it  seemed  as  if  I  were  the  only  one 
left  in  the  world.  And  I  thought  that  something  in  me, — 
somewhere,  would  burst  until — until  I  came  back  to  find  you — 
to  tell  you  that — I  must  have  always  loved  you  and  never 
known  it — " 

He  broke  off  abruptly  and  looked  down  into  her.  face. 
"Couldn't  you  care  a  little?'^  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  wa& 
almost  a  whisper. 

The  crushing  of  her  hands  in  his  by  his  strong  grasp  gave 
her  the  physical  sensation  of  pain.  His  words  seemed  to  be 
written  on  her  heart,  and  she  could  hear  their  joyous  echo  in 
her  soul. 

Her  face,  too,  was  very  pale  and  serious  but  strangely  illumi- 
nated, as  if  from  a  brilliancy  within  herself.  *'I,  too,  have 
always  cared,"  she  said,  with  a  happy  voice  that  held  a  linger- 
ing note  of  sadness  in  it.  And  he  took  her  into  his  arms  with  a 
happy  little  laugh. 


INTERRUPTED  ADVENTURE 

MARGARET  BLOOM 

I  had  always  intended  to  be  a  mean,  adventuresome  old 
maid,  not  given  to  helping  raise  the  offspring  of  brothers, 
sisters,  and  second  cousins.  So  this  spring,  having  verified  by 
the  family  Bible  my  suspicion  that  I  was  forty-seven  years  old, 
I  decided  to  "cut  loose''  while  I  still  had  teeth  and  was  in  full 
control  of  my  limbs  and  other  paraphernalia  of  adventure. 

Acting  upon  my  resolution  to  be  unobliging,  I  told  my  sister- 
in-law,  Anne,  that  I  couldn't  keep  the  children  this  summer, 
while  she  went  to  Atlantic  City,  for  I  had  a  plan  of  my  own, 
which  would  occupy  me  for  quite  a  while. 

When  Brother  Robert  came  home  from  the  store,  Anne  told 
him  the  news.  He  asked  me  what  my  plan  was.  I  really 
hadn't  decided  on  anything,  but  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  I 
said  I  was  going  to  "  tramp  it."  At  this,  Bob's  eyes  grew  as  big 
as  saucers,  and  he  said  something  about  "unprotected  women 
staying  in  the  shelter  of  the  home."  I  remarked  that  I  thought 
I  was  as  good  a  physical  specimen  as  he  was,  being  taller,  fatter 
and  generally  more  imposing-looking  and  able  to  take  care  of 
myself.  He  asked  me  whom  I  was  going  to  take  with  me.  I 
didn't  have  the  slightest  idea,  but  happened  to  think  of  Letty 
Simpkins. 

Now  Letty  isn't  just  right  in  her  mind,  but  she  is  one  of  those 
unlucky  ones  who  are  able  to  do  a  lot  of  work  satisfactorily  and 
willingly.  She  is  about  my  age  and  I  thought  she  ought  to 
have  a  vacation.  So,  that  evening,  I  went  over  to  her  brothei-'s 
house  where  she  lived,  called  her  out  of  the  kitchen  where  she 
was  baking,  and  told  her  my  plan  three  times  so  that  she  would 
be  sure  to  understand  it.  I  told  her  that  I  would  come  around 
the  next  morning  at  five  and  we  would  start  right  off. 

Next  morning,  I  got  up  before  the  family,  left  a  note  saying  I 
had  gone  and  took  a  good-bye  look  at  the  children,  who  luckily 
didn't  wake  up.  I  did  hate  to  leave  them  and  Tommy  hadn't 
been  eating  well  for  a  day  or  two.  The  night  before  he  had 
said  he  didn't  care  for  any  pie,  and  his  mother  had  wanted  to 
send  for  the  doctor.      But  I  had  made  up  my  mind,  so  I  called 

631 


532  THE   SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

my  dog,  Fido,  and  went  over  to  Lettj^'s  place.  Letty  was  wait- 
ing for  me  and  we  started  off  as  fast  as  we  could  and  soon  got 
out  from  town  into  the  country.  We  stopped  at  a  little  cross- 
road's grocery  and  got  some  eggs  and  bacon,  with  a  skillet  to 
cook  them  in.  We  went  up  into  a  clump  of  trees  and  cooked 
our  breakfast  by  a  little  brook.  Letty  sat  by  my  side  content- 
edly munching  her  food.  Letty  was  going  to  make  a  fine  trav- 
elling companion,  I  thought.  Fido  cleaned  up  the  scraps  and 
we  struck  out  across  the  timber,  until  we  came  to  a  road  and 
walked  along  it.  Tow-headed  children  peered  at  us  through 
fence  palings  and  strange  dogs  barked  at  Fido,  who  is  a  sedate 
animal.  In  his  youth,  Fido  bit  the  minister,  and  has  been  a 
changed  dog  since. 

I  felt  fine  and  Fido  and  Letty  seemed  rejuvenated.  I  couldn't 
help  thinking,  though,  of  Tommy  and  how  he  refused  the  pie. 
It  worried  me. 

Pretty  soon  we  sat  down  under  a  tree  by  the  roadside.  While 
we  were  sitting  there,  along  came  Dr.  Davis  behind  his  old 
mare,  Jane.  He  waved  when  he  saw  us.  '^  Kate,"  he  said  to 
me,  "  Letty's  brothers  are  mad  enough  to  eat  you.'' 

^' Now,  James  Davis,"  said  I,  "do  you  remember  the  time 
you  got  caught  up  in  the  tree  in  Pendergras's  orchard  and  I 
called  off  their  dog  with  a  bone  ?  Here's  your  chance  to  do  me 
a  favor.     ISTow,  you  just  don't  mention  that  you've  seen  us  I " 

"All  right,  Kate,"  said  the  doctor,  and  started  to  drive  off. 
*'Did  I  tell  you  Tommy  was  down  with  the  measles  and  has 
been  taking  on  terribly  for  you  ?  "  said  he  in  an  off-hand  man- 
ner, "  and  that  Letty's  brothers  can't  find  a  cook  ?  They  talk 
some  of  getting  a  Pole  to  do  the  cooking." 

I  never  have  seen  Letty  so  angry.  "A  Pole  in  my  kitchen  ?" 
says  she.     "  Not  while  I  live  !  "    She  really  looked  quite  bright. 

"  I  guess,  James,  you'll  have  to  make  room  for  us  in  your 
buggy,"  said  I,  calling  Fido  and  helping  boost  Letty  up. 
* 'Anne's  no  nurse  and  anyhow  she  doesn't  understand  Tommy's 
nature,  the  way  I  do.  Touch  up  that  old  nag  of  yours,  and 
stop  laughing,  James  Davis  I  " 

The  doctor  chuckled  all  the  way  back  and  I  suppose  it  was 
funny.  Tommy's  measles  were  a  lesson  to  me,  though,  and 
never  again  shall  I  try  to  shirk  my  responsibilities.  Being  an 
aunt  is  a  serious  matter. 


MAY  DAYS 

ROSAMOND  DREXEL  HOLMES 

The  velvet  grass  that  only  spring  can  know, 
Trees  coming  back  to  life  as  from  the  dead, 
Clouds — wee  white  caps  in  that  blue  sea  o'erhead 

Floating — innocent  of  a  world  below. 

Purer  than  lilies  or  the  gleam  of  snow. 
Tingles  the  air  with  fragrance  that  is  shed 
By  pointed  firs  or  scarce  late  berries  red. 

What  time  but  May  has  ever  stirred  us  so  ? 

You  feel  it,  too.     I  need  not  take  your  hand 
Or  even  look  at  you.     It  is,  you  see, 
Too  clear  a  message  sent  to  you  from  me, 

Too  evident  you  know  and  understand. 

No  numbers  of  to-morrows  could  take  away 

The  perfectness  of  one  such  fair  to-day. 


GHOSTS 

LEONORA  BRANCH 

I  saw  them  at  twilight  yesterday, — 
The  ghosts  of  the  things  I've  tried  to  be, — 

They  stepped  so  softly  across  my  way. 
And  stretched  out  their  clinging  hands  to  me  ! 

I  saw  the  Beauty  I've  never  had. 

And  her  wondrous  eyes  smiled  into  mine, 

"  Though  you  may  not  have  me,  dear  child,  be  glad 
For  souls  have  vision  to  know  my  sign." 

And  the  Gift  of  Words  and  the  Winsome  Ways, 
Which  my  queer,  still  spirit  has  been  denied, 

Came  forth  from  the  ghostly,  shadowed  maze, 
And  lingered,  pitying,  by  my  side. 

And  the  Love  I've  longed  for,  but  sought  in  vain. 
Bent  softly  and  breathed  on  my  brow  a  kiss. 

"  Have  you  known  my  sister,  stern-eyed  Pain, 
And  felt,  in  the  knowing,  no  quiet  bliss?" 


I  saw  them  at  twilight  yesterday, 
The  ghosts  of  the  things  I've  tried  to  be, 

And  I  felt  in  the  old,  heart-breaking  way 
The  pitiful  difference  'twixt  them  and  me  I 

6  33 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  CAMPUS 

ANNE  E.    YON  HARTEN 

-The  eyes  of  the  campus  are  its  windows.  With  fixed  and 
level  gaze,  they  look  forever,  out  of  their  red  brick  faces,  watch- 
ing the  life  of  the  college  pass  by,  year  in  and  year  out,  like  a 
great  sea,  restless  and  changing.  But  the  windows  change  very 
little,  except  in  some  cases  when  time  invests  them  with  heavy 
eyebrows  of  ivy-tendrils.  To  be  sure,  windows  are  mute  and 
secretive  in  their  habits ;  they  do  not  tell  us  of  the  work  and 
triumphs  of  the  many  classes  that  have  preceded  us,  nor  do 
they  disclose  to  us  how  the  patriarchal  faculty  member  looked 
before  his  locks  were  touched  with  the  ^' first  streaks  of  the 
eternal  dawn."  However,  no  one  need  scorn  a  window,  for 
besides  discharging  very  worthy  duties,  such  as,  for  example, 
ventilating  our  houses,  they  have  also  various  lessons  to  teach. 
If  you  are  an  artist  or  a  philosopher,  they  will  supply  you  with 
food  for  speculation,  sufficient  to  last  through  a  lifetime ;  but 
if  you  are  neither  an  artist  nor  a  philosopher,  and  can  see- 
nothing  in  a  window,  you  will,  no  doubt,  at  least  be  interested 
in  what  can  occasionally  be  seen  through  them. 

It  seems  to  be  generally  conceded  that  the  eyes  more  than 
any  other  single  feature  lend  character  to  the  human  face,  not 
only  on  account  of  their  varied  expression,  but  also  because  of 
their  size,  shape  and  position.  In  the  same  way  a  building 
derives  character,  whether  taciturn,  piquant,  dignified,  or 
unconventional,  from  the  size,  shape  and  position  of  its  win- 
dows. Examples  are  not  lacking  on  the  campus.  The  long, 
narrow  windows  of  College  Hall  with  pointed  Gothic  arches, 
seem  to  look  at  the  world  with  eyebrows  raised  in  habitual 
scepticism,  while  the  little  dormers  peep  out  from  the  roof  like 
timorous  birds  afraid  to  emerge  from  their  shelter.  In  the 
transept  of  Assembly  Hall  is  a  window  of  plate  tracery,  an 
invention  of  the  thirteenth  century,  and  the  age  of  '^zealous 
enthusiasm  and  simple  faith."  When  I  look  up  at  its  intricate 
windings  and  curves,  and  its  bits  of  colored  glass,  which  reflect 
interesting  designs  upon  the  dark  rafters,  I  feel  that  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  chapel  exercises  are  no  loiiger  held  there,  it  is  the 
most  prayerful  spot  in  the  college. 

5  34 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY  535 

Seel  ye  Hall  shows  an  astonishing  contrast  with  the  tracery  of 
the  Middle  Ages,  in  windows  that  would  no  doubt  please  the 
most  modern  taste  of  all— that  of  the  "  Cubists."  The  windows 
of  John  M.  Greene  Hall  are  of  ample  dimensions,  radiating  an 
abundance  of  sunshine  and  good  will,  like  those  cheerful  and 
benignant  Southern  gentlemen  in  the  pages  of  F.  Hopkinson 
Smith. 

Like  the  human  eye,  windows  have  their  moods.  They  are 
closely  in  sympathy  with  the  sky  and  the  earth,  and  quickly 
reflect  their  joy,  their  anger,  their  sorrow.  The  varying  expres- 
sions within  these  moods  are  so  fleeting  that  an  artist  cannot 
pretend  to  catch  them.  Suppose  for  the  sake  of  adventure  we 
go  forth  early  on  a  spring  morning.  The  sun  is  just  rising  and 
the  feathery  clouds  are  tinged  with  pink.  In  one  night  a  faint 
green  has  crept  into  the  lawn,  while  a  diaphanous  haze  seems 
hovering  in  the  bushes  and  about  the  tops  of  tall  trees.  Some 
of  the  windows  have  a  sleepy  appearance,  their  drawn  curtains 
giving  the  effect  of  closed  eyelids,  but  in  all  of  them  are  wink- 
ing bits  of  blue  sky,  pink  images  of  fleeting  cloud,  with  green 
and  brown  from  the  earth.  In  addition  to  reflections  of  the 
outward  world,  there  are  also  reflections  on  the  inner  side  of 
the  glass,  from  gay  chintz  and  flowered  wall  paper,  which  blend 
and  combine  with  the  outer  reflections,  until  the  whole  effect  is 
like  that  of  a  glowing  opal.  People  and  various  objects  moving 
by  are  also  reflected  in  the  window  panes,  until  I  think  of 
Friar  Bacon  and  Friar  Bungay,  and  their  magic  crystal,  into 
which  they  could  look  and  see  the  fates  of  men  unfold  them- 
selves. 

Reflections  of  this  sort  are  always  more  perfect  in  plate  glass 
in  that  their  outline  is  more  distinct,  but  the  reflections  in  glass 
with  a  slightly  rippled  surface  are  always  more  artistic,  in  that 
they  contain  more  variety. 

At  noon,  the  intense  light  of  the  sun  fades  the  earth's  colors 
into  a  more  or  less  prosaic  conformity.  The  windows  have 
been  thrown  open  on  account  of  the  heat,  and  their  appearance 
is  very  much  changed.  They  are  now  in  their  black  mood.  A 
window  at  noon  is  the  blackest  spot  in  the  landscape — it  is 
blacker  than  the  artist  can  ever  hope  to  represent  it  in  a  picture, 
for  black  paint  has  a  smooth  surface  that  reflects  light.  The 
explanation  for  the  blackness  of  windows  is  that  the  room 
behind  them  acts  as  a  vacuum  or  hole,  which  is  the  only  thing 


536  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

in  the  world  that  does  not  reflect  light,  and  consequently  gives- 
the  effect  of  utter  blackness. 

Windows  in  their  black  mood  are  apt  to  give  a  sad  and  lugubri- 
ous look  to  buildings.  They  stare  with  crushing  apathy  at  the 
weary  traveler  entering  a  strange  town,  giving  Mm  no  hope 
of  cheer  or  comfort  within.  Dark  windows  in  the  midst  of 
shabby  surroundings  bespeak  a  hum-drum  and  thread-bare  life 
of  careless  poverty.  But  darkness  in  windows  that  we  know 
and  love,  promises  us  refreshing  coolness  and  tranquil  retire- 
ment, such  as  one  feels  in  the  dim  cathedrals  of  Italy. 

At  sunset,  the  ej^es  of  the  campus  take  on  another  aspect. 
The  windows  suddenly  flame  as  if  the  whole  interior  of  the 
house  were  on  fire.  For  a  few  minutes  the  flames  rage,  and 
then  gradually  grow  dimmer,  until  they  are  a  dull,  sullen  red, 
which  fades  by  degrees  to  the  color  of  dried  rose  leaves. 

The  shadows  are  now  gathering  fast ;  the  houses  and  trees 
blend  into  dark  masses,  which  then  sink  into  the  uniform  dusk 
of  night.  It  is  now  that  the  windows  again  become  evident. 
They  appear  like  an  array  of  Jack-o'-lanterns  at  a  huge  lawn 
party,  a  soft,  warm,  glowing  orange  color,  such  as  Maxfield 
Parrish  loves  to  use.  Here  against  a  drawn  window  curtain  I 
can  see  the  shadow  of  a  woman,  moving  fantastically  as  if  in 
the  mazes  of  a  dance  ;  there  in  the  cozy  glow  of  an  open  fire  is 
a  family  group  sitting  in  a  library,  there  is  a  student  bending 
over  a  book,  with  a  green  shaded  light  near  her  head.  But  the 
outsider  turns  his  head  from  these  scenes,  which  he  knows  were 
not  made  for  his  eyes,  with  the  feeling  of  an  intruder  that  one 
has  when  reading  the  love  scene  in  a  novel. 

Probably  the  most  interesting  aspect  of  the  window  is  the 
frame  that  it  makes  for  the  outer  world.  No  doubt  the  loveliest 
pictures  we  have  on  our  wall  are  those  nature  pictures.  As  I 
entered  my  room  after  night  had  come  on,  I  was  confronted 
by  my  window.  Through  it  the  chill  night  breezes  were  blow- 
ing. Beyond  was  an  expanse  of  dark  blue  sky  in  which  a  few 
wisps  of  stars  had  just  appeared.  Near  the  horizon  was  a  streak 
of  faint  lemon  color,  against  which  the  blackness  of  the  land- 
scape stood  out.  The  moonlight  fell  in  silver  bars  and  parallel- 
ograms upon  the  floor,  across  which  the  shades  of  bare  tree 
branches  were  moving  restlessly  to  and  fro. 

'*  Hello,"  called  my  room-mate,  coming  in.  "  Is  the  students^ 
lamp  out  of  order  again  ?  " 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      537 

''  Oh  no,"  I  answered.  '*  I  was  just  admiring  the  moonlight. 
Isn't  it  beautiful  ?  I  remember  I  once  saw  a  picture  of  Mr. 
Connoyer's  in  which  he  had  caught  that  effect  exactly.  I  don't 
understand  how  he  did  it." 

^'No,"  said  my  room-mate,  "  when  all  he  had  to  do  it  with 
was  a  little  powdered  earth  ground  up  in  oil,  smeared  on  a  piece 
of  canvas  with  a  few  pig's  bristles  stuck  in  a  piece  of  tin  at  the 
end  of  a  stick  ! " 


FROM  THE  FOREST 

ESTHER  L.    HARNEY 

Deep  in  the  forest  a  wild,  weird  bird  sang 
A  song  in  which  gladness  and  beauty  rang  ; 
Echoed  the  forest  the  sweet,  piercing  tone, 
Echoed  it  up  to  the  stars  as  a  moan. 
Winds  bore  the  thread  of  the  lilting  tune, 
Flung  the  refrain  to  the  luminous  moon, 
Breathed  it  in  whispers  to  me  so  divine, 
That  it  sang  in  my  heart  as  I  gave  it  to  thine. 


MIDDAY  IN  JUNE 

MARION  DELAMATER  FREEMAN 

The  bees  hum  drowsily  among  the  hollyhocks, 

The  butterflies  drift  slowly  to  and  fro, 

And  in  the  thick-leaved  trees  the  silent  birds 

Seek  shelter  from  the  sun.     The  roses  bend 

Their  heavy  heads  and  make  the  hot  air  sweet 

For  dying.     Overhead  is  cloudless  blue, 

The  sun  streams  on  the  world  like  molten  gold, 

Midday,  warm,  sweet,  and  in  the  heart  of  June  ! 


SKETCHES 

UNCLE  CHARLIE 

FRANCES   MILLIKEN  HOOKER 

CHAPTER  I 

Theresa  did  not  know  many  men.  She  knew  her  father  and 
her  uncle  and  her  cousins  and  all  like  male  relatives  which 
gather  in  one's  family  contingencies.  She  knew  the  chauffeur 
and  the  postman,  the  doctor  and  the  minister,  and  probably  two 
or  three  more  to  which  we  may  add  a  few  of  the  young  dudes 
who  were  ever  more  or  less  omnipresent  whenever  Suzanne 
was  home. 

Suzanne  was  Theresa's  sister.  She  was  very  pretty.  Her 
eyes  were  not  unlike  the  color  of  the  gentian  flower,  which, 
when  she  raised  and  looked  up  at  you  through  the  dark  fringe  of 
her  lashes,  held  you  with  a  certain  undefinable  something  which 
was  hers  to  charm  and  bewilder  the  hearts  of  men.  She  was 
light  and  graceful.  She  was  ever  sweet  and  gracious.  No 
matter  where  it  was  that  she  went,  she  always  had  swains  to 
do  her  bidding,  Theresa,  of  course,  was  not  as  old  as  Suzanne. 
Theresa  was  only  fifteen  ;  Suzanne  was  twenty-four.  And  yet 
at  no  time  in  Suzanne's  existence  had  she  known  so  few  men. 
Theresa  would  have  had  no  idea  what  to  do  or  say  if  a  man  had 
even  asked  to  call.  At  her  age  Suzanne  had  been  out  at  parties 
and  already  had  had  two  proposals,  one  of  which  she  almost 
accepted,  but  at  the  crucial  moment  she  thought  she  had  fallen 
into  fancy  with  another.  She  might  have  accepted  him,  but 
again  she  saw  another.  And  this  grew  to  be  very  characteristic 
of  Suzanne  and  her  butterfly  way  of  living.  Of  late,  however, 
she  had  met  a  Mr.  Lymon  Penneman,  and  it  was  re]3orted  that 
she  at  last  had  ''settled  down  to  one"  and  had  become  engaged. 

Theresa  heard  of  this  report.     She  was  not  surprised.     She 

538 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY  539 

had  heard  Suzanne  in  her  sleep.  More  than  this,  Suzanne 
for  some  time  had  made  a  great  point  of  asking  Theresa  into 
the  drawing-room  whenever  anj'one  excepting  Mr.  Penneman 
•came  to  see  her. 

*'They  are  all  such  bores,"  she  would  tell  Theresa,  "and 
besides,'^  she  would  add  in  a  laugh,  "I  am  not  sure  but  what  I 
need  a  chaperon." 

"Oh,  I  know  why,"  answered  Theresa  one  night,  "It's 
because  you  are  engaged  to  Mr.  Penneman.  I  don't  care.  I 
kind  of  like  the  chap  myself." 

"Theresa!" 

"Well,  you  are,  aren't  you  ?" 

Suzanne  answered  in  giving  Theresa  a  big  bear's  hug  and 
""We  are  going  to  announce  it  next  week." 

"Now  does  that  mean  that  no  one  ever  can  come  here  any 
more  but  Mr.  Penneman  ?" 

"  I  hope  so,"  Suzanne  replied,  giving  Theresa  a  gentle  tweak 
to  her  cheek. 

"  I  am  sorry  then,"  the  little  girl  sighed. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter  with  you  ?" 

"Well,  I'm  afraid  I  shall  miss  Mr.  Graham." 

"Mr.  Graham?  Oh  you  shall  see  him  often  enough,"  said 
Suzanne  laughing.  "He  is  Lymon's  best  friend.  He  will 
probably  be  here  almost  as  much  as  Lymon  himself." 

"  I  wish  he  would,"  continued  Theresa.  "  Then  you  could  go 
-off  into  the  library  with  Mr.  Penneman  and  I  could  stay  in  the 
<lrawing-room  and  entertain  Mr.  Graham." 

Suzanne  looked  at  Theresa  greatly  amused.  "Not  a  bad 
plan,"  she  said.     "  Not  a  bad  plan  at  all." 

Now  it  must  not  be  conjectured  that  from  what  lias  been  said 
Theresa  was  in  any  wise  attracted  to  Mr.  Graham,  excepting  as 
a  child  who  likes  almost  any  person  who  will  talk  to  her  and 
have  the  tact  to  treat  her  as  if  she  were  as  old  as  himself.  She 
enjoyed  his  jokes  and  she  loved  his  stylish  clothes.  In  particu- 
lar she  admired  the  way  in  which  he  pulled  off  his  gloves  and 
laid  them  inside  his  hat  on  the  hall  table.  The  other  nice 
thin^-  about  him  was  the  way  he  would  wind  np  the  victrola. 
Whether  he  was  different  from  any  other  man  in  these  signifi- 
cant respects  you  may  have  jonv  doubts.  Theresa  was  a  queer 
child  when  it  came  to  minute  details.  Mr.  Graham  was  not  an 
object  of  her  affection,  no,  she  never  had  objects  of  such  nature. 


540  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

She  liked  him,  however,  very  much.  When  the  time  for  her 
sister's  wedding  approached  and  the  various  pre-nuptial  enter- 
tainments were  given,  Theresa  found  herself  being  escorted 
hither  and  thither  in  the  most  deferential  manner  by  Mr. 
Graham.     He  was  the  best  man,  she  was  the  maid  of  honor. 

''I  was  going  to  have  Dot  for  maid  of  honor,"  said  Suzanne 
one  evening  at  a  dinner  party,  sitting  next  to  Mr.  Graham, 
'*but  she  has  gone  to  Europe.  You  would  have  enjoyed  her. 
She  is  so  lovely.     Now  I  don't  know  whom  to  ask." 

^'Did  it  ever  occur  to  you,  Suzanne,"  replied  Mr.  Graham, 
''to  ask  Theresa?" 

"Goodness,  no,"  answered  Suzanne,  looking  up  to  catch  a 
gleam  of  humor  in  Mr.  Graham's  eyes,  but  seeing  only  serious- 
ness and  earnestness  there,  she  added,  "why,  you  never  would 
forgive  me  if  I  had  her.  Nobody  wants  a  child  to  dance  with 
and  bring  to  the  opera  and  so  on.  Theresa  is  old  enough, 
surely,  but  she  is  such  a  child." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Mr.  Graham,  "but  not  so  much  of  a  child 
as  you  think.  She  is  naive.  She  is  bright.  She  is  original. 
Suzanne,  it's  a  relief  after  all  these  girls  with  their  society 
manners  and  their  infernal  sophistications  !" 

"Don't  you  think  the  other  men  would  mind?"  Suzanne 
spoke  again. 

"Well,  let  them,"  came  Mr.  Graham's  answer.  "I'll  take 
care  of  her.'^ 

"All  right  then.     We'll  have  Theresa." 

"We'll  have  some  life  and  fun  too,"  added  Mr.  Graham. 

The  bridal  party  was  a  great  success.  Everyone  congratu- 
lated himself  and  herself  and  themselves  for  having  had  the 
fortune  to  be  in  it.  But  no  one  was  more  enthusiastic  than  Mr. 
Graham.  Theresa,  perhaps  ;  but  it  was  all  too  much  like  a  play 
of  imagination  to  her  to  be  appreciated  by  the  usual  outflow  of 
spirits.  Mr.  Graham  had  such  a  good  time  with  it  all,  he  found 
it  necessary  to  come  down  and  see  Theresa  and  talk  it  over. 
Theresa,  you  know,  was  not  as  yet  blase  and  had  not  attended  so 
many  affairs  since,  that  this  had  faded  into  the  dim  recesses  of 
parties  in  general.  For  her  this  was  still  in  the  form  of  the 
particular  and  it  would  appear  to  be  in  similar  form  for  Mr. 
Graham.  Yet  you  may  somehow  believe  that  for  Mr.  Graham 
the  particular  had  quite  a  wider  connotation. 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  541 

CHAPTER   II 

Theresa  was  sitting  at  her  desk.  She  was  writing  a  theme 
for  her  next  day's  English  class.  A  knock  came  upon  her  door. 
"  Hello,"  she  said. 

"It  is  me,  Miss  Theresy.  Here's  a  lovely  box  of  flowers 
for  you." 

Theresa  jumped  up  from  her  chair.  "Flowers  for  me,  and 
frcrm  Fleischman's.  Oh,  Mary,  I  would  rather  have  flowers 
from  that  place  than  from  any  other  in  the  city.  Fleischman's 
is  the  best  florist  there  is  and  it's  select  and  stylish.  Look  how 
nifty  and  all  the  box  is  tied  up.  See  this  little  lavendar  tag. 
Yes,  and  all  written  with  lavendar  ink.  Fleischman's  always 
does  that." 

"Yes,  Miss  Theresa,  but  who  do  you  suppose  they  are  from  ?" 
"  I  don't  know.     Who  do  you  suppose  ?     Here,  you  cut  the 
string.     I  want  to  save  that  tag." 

"I'll  warrant  it  is  that  Mr.  Graham." 

"Oh  no,  he  never  sends  me  flowers  unless  we  are  going  out. 
And  besides,  he  is  in  the  hospital." 
"What  is  the  matter,  Miss  Theresy  ?" 
"  Mumps." 
"  How  unromantic." 

"  He  has  been  dreadfully  sick.  He  wrote  to  me  and  said  he 
thought  it  would  help  a  lot  if  I  would  think  of  him  now  and 
then.  I  know  what  he  meant.  He  wanted  me  to  write  to  him, 
so  I  did.     I've  written  to  him  every  day,  too." 

"Yes,  and  if  I  am  any  judge  of  the  mail  I  bring  j^ou  every 
day,  I  should  say  he  answered  you." 

"Those  aren't  all  from  Mr.  Graham.     I  only  get  one  a  day." 
"What'd  I  tell  you.  Miss  Theresy  ?    That  man  is  plumb  crazy 
about  you." 

"Just  as  though  anyone  could  be  crazy  about  me.  I'm  not 
that  kind.  He  isn't,  either.  Why,  he  writes  the  funniest 
things.  I  try  to  write  as  funny  as  I  can,  too.  Sometimes  I 
almost  laugh  out  loud  at  my  own  jokes." 

"You  are  indeed  a  child  yet.  Anyone  else  with  half  a  wit 
would  catch  on  after  a  while.  No  man  as  old  as  Mr.  Graham  is 
going  to  pay  attention  to  a  young  girl  like  yourself  unless  he  is 
serious." 

Theresa  did  not  heed  this  last  remark.     She  had  been  tearing 


542  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

off  the  paper  from  the  flower  box,  and  she  was  now  about  ta 
take  off  the  cover.  *'  Look,  Mary,"  she  said,  "  isn't  that  a  beau- 
tiful box  ? " 

^'  Grand  !  but  let  me  see  the  flowers.  What  do  you  care  what 
kind  of  a  box  you  get  ?  Young  ladies  nowadays  are  certainly 
particular." 

"  One,  two,  three,"  counted  Theresa,  "on  comes  the — " 

"  Oh  how  lovely,  how  grand,  Miss  Theresy  !  And  they  are 
roses." 

"Red  ones,  Mary,  little  tight  red  roses  in  the  bud!  Now 
which  vase  shall  we  put  them  in  ?  The  blue  one  is  too  large, 
the  green  one  is  too  high.  Oh,  yes,  that  little  silver  one  which 
Mr.  Graham  gave  me  last  Christmas.  I'll  get  the  water,  you 
take  the  roses  out  and  fix  them,  so  I  won't  stick  my  fingers 
when  I  put  the  roses  in  the  vase." 

"  Such  a  child,"  mused  Mary,  as  she  picked  the  little  red  buds, 
up  in  her  hand.  "  It  doesn^t  seem  as  if  she  ever  would  be 
awake.  And  yet  ain't  she  like  these  flowers,  giving  pleasure, 
making  happiness,  scattering  love,  and  all  the  time  unconscious 
of  it  all.     But  when  they  open, — when  they  wake  ! " 

"  Here  we  are,"  called  Theresa,  coming  down  the  hall.  '*  I'm 
in  too  much  of  a  hurry.     I  keep  jolting  the  water  out.  " 

*'  Did  you  think  I'd  run  away  with  the  posies  ?"  Mary  called 
back. 

"No,"  said  Theresa  as  she  came  into  the  room,  "but  I  just 
happened  to  think — that  I  hadn^t  looked  for  the  card." 

"The  card,  of  course,"  said  Mary,  rumaging  among  the  folds 
of  the  paraffine  paper  in  which  the  flowers  had  been  wrapped.. 
"Here  it  is." 

Theresa  took  the  envelope  and  broke  the  seal.  The  hand- 
writing on  the  outside  was  unfamiliar,  but  the  card  inside  was 
Mr.  Graham's.  "  For  your  birthday,  my  little  girl,"  she  read 
softly  to  herself,  "  from  your  adoring  Uncle  Charlie.'^ 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me  who  they're  from?"  asked 
Mary  with  sincere  interest. 

"My  Uncle  Charlie,"  laughed  Theresa. 

"Your  Uncle  Charlie,"  gasped  Mary,  gathering  up  the  box 
and  papers,  "  and  who  is  he  ?  " 

"My  Uncle  Charlie,"  answered  Theresa  gleefully,  "why, 
don't  you  know  ?  " 

Mary  started  for  the  door.      She  turned  before  she  made  her 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      543 

final  exit.  '^I  would  like  to  know.  Miss  Theresy.  If  it  is  a 
secret  with  a  man,  I  think  you  had  best  to  let  me  in  on  it,  too. 
Children  who  have  no  mothers  and  no  sisters — " 

"  I  have  Suzanne/'  Theresa  interrupted, 

"But  Mrs.  Penneman  lives  a  good  many  miles  away.  You 
just  better  confide  right  now  in  your  old  Mary." 

"'  It  really  isn't  a  secret,  Mary.  I  would  just  as  soon  tell. 
You  see  Mr.  Graham  is  very  old — he  isn't,  of  course,  as  old  as 
Father,  but  he  is  older  than  Suzanne.  He  is  almost  thirty- 
three.  We  have  known  each  other  so  long  now,  but  it  sounds 
sort  of  disrespectful  for  me  to  call  him  Charles,  and  I  don't  like 
Mr.  Charles, — and  so  I  just  decided  that  I  would  call  him  Uncle 
Charlie.     I  think  it  pleased  him,  too.'' 

"  Let's  see — your  birthday  is— why,  it  is  to-day."  Mary  looked 
so  surprised.  ''And  to  think  there  wasn't  a  one  of  us  remem- 
bered it.  You  poor  child,  didn't  anybody  remember  ?  Well, 
that  is  not  the  point.  Let's  see,  you  are  eighteen  to-day.  That 
isn't  so  bad."  Mary  went  on  with  her  calculations,  "  Mr. 
Graham  is  thirty-three,  you  say.  Thirty-three  less  eighteen 
leaves  —  only  fifteen.  That  ain't  too  much  disperity,  Miss 
Theresy." 

Theresa  had  gone  back  to  her  desk.  She  had  to  finish  her 
theme  for  her  next  day's  English  class.  She  wrote  on  very 
busily  for  some  time,  then  she  stopped  to  gather  thought,  and 
her  eyes  fell  upon  the  vase  of  little  tight  red  rosebuds  sitting 
on  her  table.  She  went  over  to  the  table  to  inhale  their  sweet 
perfume. 

"  Kind  Uncle  Charlie,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  I  shall  be  glad 
when  you  are  well  again  and  I  can  see  you." 

CHAPTER  III 

Several  years  passed  by.  Uncle  Charlie  had  become  an  out 
and  out  bachelor.  He  lived  at  the  University  Club,  spent  his 
evenings  with  the  boys,  and  was  leading  a  monotonous  and  yet 
not  unhappy  existence.  Now  and  then  he  broke  over  enough 
to  come  out  and  see  Theresa  or  to  take  her  to  the  opera,  when 
she  had  time  to  let  him,  for  Theresa  was  away  at  boarding 
school  and  did  not  come  home  very  often. 

"You  are  a  dear  little  girl,"  he  said  to  her  one  evening. 
"When  I  get  very  lonesome  I  think  of  you  and  your  merry 
little  face.  I  often  wonder  if  you  will  ever  know  how  much  I 
care  for  you." 


544  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

*''Yes,  Uncle  Charlie,'"'  Theresa  answered  simply,  "I  think  I 
know  now." 

Uncle  Charlie  looked  deep  into  Theresa's  eyes,  and  she  uncon- 
sciously turned  away  from  his  gaze.  "You  are  going  away 
again  to-morrow,"  he  continued. 

"'  Do  you  miss  me  ?  " 

"  Do  I  miss  you?"  the  man  repeated.  "Do  the  blind  men 
miss  the  sunshine  ?" 

"Probably,"  said  Theresa  with  a  mischievous  twinkle,  "'un- 
less they  are  born  that  way,  and  then  of  course  they  can't  miss 
it  because  they  have  never  seen  it." 

"They  might  not  have  seen  it,"  suggested  Mr.  Graham,  "but 
they  could  have  felt  it." 

"You  ought  to  know  more  girls,  Uncle  Charlie,"  said  Theresa 
in  her  nonchalant  manner  of  changing  the  subject  without  the 
slightest  warning.  "  I  know  several  men  at  school,  brothers  of 
my  roommate  in  particular.  They  come  up  to  the  week-end 
parties  and  to  our  dances.  I  should  miss  you  if  I  didn't  have 
them.'' 

"Do  you  know  many  men  ?"  Uncle  Charlie  asked  playfully. 
He  had  to  be  playful  when  he  wanted  to  talk  seriously  with 
Theresa. 

"No,  not  many.  I  never  shall  know  as  many  as  Suzanne. 
She  had  more  men  friends  than  girls.  And  I  think  she  must 
have  had  at  least  one  or  two  love  affairs  before  she  met  Lymon.'^ 

"No  doubt,  no  doubt,"  laughed  Uncle  Charlie,  slapping  his 
knees.  "Suzanne  had  a  fascinating  charm,  I  know  Suzanne 
of  old." 

"  But  no  one  has  ever  asked  me  to  marry.  No  one  has  ever 
asked  to  kiss  me." 

"  No,  you  are  different,  decidedly,"  Uncle  Charlie  said. 

"I  guess  I  am  not  very  popular  with  men.  I  like  them.  I 
think  they  are  lots  of  fun,  but  1  couldn't  have  anj'one  hold  my 
hands  and  say  the  odd  kind  of  things  some  of  the  girls  like. 
Why,  I  think  I  should  hate  a  man  who  was  so  silly." 

"You  like  somebody  on  m}^  order,"  Uncle  Charlie  pointed  to 
himself  in  great  pride. 

"Yes,"  came  a  quick  reply,  "  you  are  the  type  of  man  I  like. 
Now,  I  know  I  never  could  fall  in  love  with  you.  You  are  so 
nice  and  old,  I  always  think  of  you  as  my  uncle.  I  can  come 
to  you  and  tell  you  things  and  I  can  always  count  on  you  the 
very  first  one  if  I  should  ever  have  need  of  help." 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  545 

'^You  think  you  never  should  be  able  to  fall  in  love  with  me, 
«h  ?    Well,  that  is  a  nice,  safe  feeling  to  have.'^ 

"If  you  were  nearer  to  my  age,  perhaps  I  might.  No,  I 
wouldn't  even  then— because  then  you— you  wouldn't  be  my 
Uncle  Charlie." 

"  Did^you  ever  meet  anyone  whom  you  thought  you  might 
fall  in^love  with  ?" 

•'  I  don't  know.  Sometimes  I  think  I  have."  Theresa  blushed. 
*'  I  wouldn't  be  surprised,  but  maybe  it  was  one  of— of — of  my 
roommate's  brothers.  But  if  I  should — that  is  if  I  did — why, 
you  and  I  would  be  just  as  good  friends,  wouldn't  we  ?  " 

"Just  as  good  friends  always,"  Uncle  Charlie  smiled.  "Just 
as  good  friends  always." 


LULLABY 

MARY   BIGELOW   WILSON 

Child,  how  you  play,  how  you  smile 

Now  that  your  mother  is  by  I 

Why  will  you  cry. 

Can  I  with  nought  beguile. 

Now  she  is  gone  awhile  ? 

I  tell  a  tale  of  sheep. 
Sheep  that  the  shepherds  keep 
There  in  the  valley  deep. 
Yet  there  is  nought  beguiles, 
Stranger,  thy  fleeting  smiles. 
Strange  thing,  best  fall  asleep. 

Child,  how  you  sleep,  how  deep, 
Close  in  my  arms,  the  while 
Across  your  brow  there  creep 
Half  frowns  you  try  to  smother, 
One  smile  and  then  another. 
Child,  was't  in  your  sleep 
You  dreamt  of  mother  ? 


A  CHILD^S  THOUGHTS 

LEONORA  BRANCH 

Shadows 

Some  mornings  when  I  go  to  school 
The  world  seems  puckered  like  a  frown, 

I  watch  the  shadows  in  the  pool, 
And  all  of  'em  are  pointing  down. 

But  coming  home  I  see  the  sky 
Arched  like  some  giant's  drinking  cup, 

And  watch  the  tree-tops  wave  on  high, 
And  always  they  are  pointing  up. 

And  then  I  have  to  stop  and  laugh, 
Though  maybe  I've  been  cross  all  day. 

To  think  the  pool  shows  only  half, 
And  that's  just  shadows,  anyway. 

Trees 

I  think  I'd  rather  be  a  tree 

Than  almost  anything  1 
'T  would  be  so  nice  to  grow  outdoors, 

Especially  in  Spring. 

I'd  like  to  stretch  my  roots  down  deep 

And  wriggle  'em  around, 
Pretendin'  they  were  nigger  toes 

That  played  tag  underground. 

I'd  stretch  my  branches  up  so  high, 

Up  in  the  sweet,  fresh  air  ! 
I'd  let  the  breezes  toss  me  'round, — 

They  couldn't  muss  my  hair. 

I'd  have  such  queer,  tough  bark  on  me, 

Like  scaly,  suu-dried  mud. 
And  my  !   how  funny  I  should  feel 

When  I  began  to  bud. 

But  I  can't  be  a  tree,  of  course, 

And  p'raps  it's  better  not. 
For  trees  can't  move  so  very  far 

And  so  they  miss  a  lot  ! 

546 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      547 

And  then  at  night  time  I  just  know 

I'd  want  my  nice,  soft  bed, 
An'  so  I  guess  it's  just  as  well 

That  I'm  a  girl  instead. 

Houses 

The  streets  used  once  to  frighten  me, 

(But  that  was  long  ago  !) 
The  houses  stood  so  stiff  and  straight 

And  glared  down  at  me  so  I 

The  doorways  looked  so  queer  and  cross, 

So  cold  and  dignified. 
As  though  they  wouldn't  like  to  have 

A  child  like  me  inside. 

But  once  a  thought  came  to  my  mind, 

So  quick  it  made  me  blink  ! 
Those  empty  windows  even  seemed 

To  smile  a  bit,  I  think. 

And  since  then  they  look  friendlier 

When  through  the  streets  I  roam, 
Because  I  know  that  ev'ry  house 

For  someone  is  a  home. 


A  MAY  EVENING 

JEANNE  WOODS 

From  the  tense,  electric  grip  of  the  crowd's  pulsation, 
From  the  dizzy  lights  and  voices'  humming  roll, 

To  this  cool  place,  all  stars  and  soft  spring  breezes, 
I  have  come  to  stand  erect  and  spread  my  soul. 

I  slip  my  arm  around  this  old  elm's  good  roughness, 
The  wind  blows  back  my  hair,  gray  clouds  sail  by, 

And  up  from  where  the  grasses  meet  the  water 
Come  frog-notes,  as  I  listen,  shrill  and  high. 

Down  at  my  feet,  half  hid  in  the  wet  grasses, 

I  see  a  fire-fly,  faint  reflected  light 
Of  that  great  star  that  swings  there  in  the  heavens, 

Triumphant  in  the  vast,  free,  infinite  night. 


THE  COMING  OF  DARKNESS 

MARGARET   BLOOM 

Old  Anton  Schwartz  was  surprised  at  the  overly  kind  greet- 
ing of  the  brothers  Eble  as  he  passed  through  the  little  antique 
shop  on  his  way  to  the  workroom  in  the  rear.  Their  greeting 
was  usually  business-like  and  brief,  as  was  fitting  for  men  who 
had  a  large  and  fashionable  business.  But  this  morning  there. 
was  something  troubled  in  their  very  cheerfulness. 

Anton  Schwartz  entered  the  workroom,  where  he  had  spent 
six  days  of  his  week  for  twenty  years.  It  was  a  small  room, 
whose  corners  melted  into  Rembrantian  shadows,  not  lightened 
by  the  one  small  window.  A  large  table  stood  in  the  middle  of 
the  room  with  a  low  hanging  light  over  it.  The  table  was  clut- 
tered with  the  larger  tools  of  the  trade.  (The  more  delicate 
ones  were  kept  carefully  in  cases  by  themselves.)  Near  the 
table  was  a  small  safe  which  held  the  jewelry  to  be  repaired. 

Anton  Schwartz  put  on  the  dark  eyeshade  he  had  been  using 
for  the  last  few  months  to  rest  his  eyes  and  to  keep  them  from 
dimming  as  they  did  from  time  to  time.  He  brought  out  his 
little  lamp  and  made  some  gold  solder  preparatory  to  repairing 
an  old  coral  pin  which  he  held  in  his  hand.  There  was  a 
certain  happy  eagerness  in  his  manner  as  he  regarded  the  beau- 
tiful old  pin.  His  figure  had  a  certain  life  and  verve  which 
had  before  been  lacking  and  his  meagre  insignificance  seemed 
less  meagre  and  insignificant. 

He  looked  up  a  trifle  impatiently  as  Frans  Eble  came  into  the 
workroom.  It  was  unusual  for  the  younger  brother  to  appear 
here  as  his  suave  and  debonair  manner  were  in  demand  by  the 
fashionable  customers  in  the  front  room. 

*'We  didn't  expect  to  see  you  here  this  morning,  my  brother 
and  I,"  said  Frans  Eble,  speaking  very  cheerily.  "We  thought 
you'd  be  wanting  to  take  a  vacation.  You've  been  a  pretty 
steady  worker,  you  know,  and  you've  certainly  earned  a  rest. 
Didn't  the  oculist  tell  you  something  of  the  sort  ?" 

*'  He  told  me  I  would  be  stone  blind  in  a  month,"  said  Anton 
Schwartz,  still  regarding  the  coral  pin  with  the  same  eager 
interest.  "  Herr  Eble,  see,  is  this  not  beautiful  ?  It  has  been 
badly  handled  before,  but  I  will  repair  the  hurt." 

648 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  549 

"But  Anton,"  said  Frans  Eble  kindly,  with  a  relieved  note 
in  his  voice  as  if  he  were  glad  of  the  old  man's  matter-of-fact 
attitude,  "hadn't  you  better  give  up  this  work  ?  It  is  so  hard 
on  your  eyes.  My  brother  and  I  take  great  pleasure  in  think- 
ing of  what  we  may  do  for  you  in  the  future  as  a  slight  token 
of  our  appreciation  of  your  work  for  us.'^  Herr  Eble  had  strug- 
gled a  little  over  this  stiff  speech,  as  a  man  does  when  he  wishes 
to  speak  very  naturally.  He  did  not  say  that  he  and  his  brother 
had  decided  between  them  to  provide  munificently  for  Anton 
Schwartz's  future  needs. 

"Herr  Eble,"  said  Anton  Schwartz,  lying  down  the  pin  and 
peering  out  at  his  employer  under  the  dark  shade,  "the  oculist 
says  if  I  did  not  use  my  eyes  I  might  see  for  three  months  more. 
I  wish  to  go  on  working,  while  the  sight  lasts,  so  that  I  may 
say  that  my  eyes  rested  last  upon  the  beautiful.  The  oculist 
says  that  the  sight  will  go  quick  as  a  flash.  I  wish  that  my 
eyes  should  last  look  upon  some  jewel,  some  piece  of  work  that 
has  the  beauty." 

"Do  as  you  please,"  said  Herr  Eble  gruffly,  as  if  he  were 
uncomfortably  moved  and  needed  to  clear  his  throat.  He  went 
back  to  the  front  sales  room  where  he  waited  on  a  customer,  just 
arrived  in  her  limousine,  with  less  than  his  customary  suavity. 

Left  alone  in  the  workroom,  Anton  Schwartz  happily  repaired 
the  coral  pin,  soldering  into  thin  gold  calyxes  two  clusters  of 
coral  grapes  which  had  slipped  loose.  Then  he  mended  the 
tiny  clasp  of  a  chain  of  quaintly-set  garnets.  He  was  working 
feverishly  and  eagerly  as  if  each  piece  might  be  the  last  on 
which  he  should  work.  He  handled  one  black  and  white  cameo 
pin  gingerly,  as  he  cleaned  it,  for  its  dull  black  and  white  did 
not  interest  him. 

At  noon  Wilhelm  Eble,  the  older  brother,  came  into  the 
workroom. 

"Time  to  stop  work  and  eat,"  he  said.  "  I  know  you  like 
noodle  soup  and  they  are  to  bring  you  up  some  hot  from  the 
delicatessan  on  the  corner." 

This  brother  Eble  left  hastily,  perhaps  to  avoid  being  thanked. 
Anton  Schwartz  ate  the  soup  when  it  was  brought  up.  He 
was  hardly  conscious  of  what  he  was  eating  and  hurried  back 
to  his  work. 

First,  he  tightened  the  settings  of  an  amethyst  pendant.  He 
knew  this  piece  well,  as  he  had  repaired  it  several  times  in  his 


550  THE   SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

twenty  years  with  the  Ebles.  He  half  wished  that  his  eyes 
might  have  closed  when  full  of  its  rich  purplish  light. 

The  winter  evening  came  on  and  other  shadows  came  to  join 
those  already  filling  the  little  workshop.  The  corners  were  in 
total  darkness,  but  Anton  Schwartz,  sitting  under  the  bright- 
ness of  the  hanging  lamp,  seemed  to  be  in  a  luminous,  phosphor- 
escent light.  His  eyes  no  longer  pained  him,  nor  did  they  dim 
and  fill  with  moisture.  They  felt  strong  and  there  was  a  lifting 
away  of  the  strain,  which  had  borne  heavily  upon  him  for 
months,  perhaps  years.  He  felt  young  again  and  he  was  work- 
ing with  the  accuracy  and  precision  which  had  been  his  years 
before,  when  his  eyes  had  fully  aided  the  skill  of  his  hands. 

He  picked  up  the  last  piece  in  his  repair  tray.  It  was  a  pear- 
shaped  diamond,  not  large  but  of  singularly  fine  water.  He 
knew  this  piece  and  greeted  it  tenderly  as  if  it  were  an  old 
friend.  He  held  it  up  before  his  eyes  and  the  lamp  above  him, 
striking  the  stone,  caused  it  to  send  out  darts  of  brilliant  light. 
He  opened  his  eyes  wide  and  the  diamond  seemed  to  fill  all  his 
vision.  It  was  superbly  beautiful  now,  divinely  beautiful,  he 
thought,  like  the  divine  halo  of  some  saint  or  like  that  of  the 
Saviour,  Himself.  Suddenly,  Anton  Schwartz  felt  that  this 
might  be  the  supreme  moment  when  his  eyes  would  cease  to 
see,  for  he  had  never  felt  so  close  to  absolute  beauty,  divinely 
perfect.  Then  he  knew  it  had  been  the  moment.  He  put 
the  diamond  back  into  the  tray  and  quietly  waited  until  the 
brothers  Eble  should  come  and  take  him  home. 


THE  WIND 

MARION  DELAMATER  FREEMAN 

Hush  !    Don'  yo'  cry,  yo'  mammy's  baby. 

Don'  yo'  git  skeered  o'  de  wind  dat's  howlin' 
He  can't  git  in,  mammy  won't  let  him  ! 

'Sides,  he's  jus'  sneakin'  'roun"  an'  prowlin'. 

He  wouldn't  hurt  yo',  Lawsee  Massy  I 

He's  jus'  plaj'in',  fond  o'  teasin", 
He  jus'  loves  to  ruffle  people. 

Blow  deir  hats  oft",  set  'em  sneezin". 

He  ain't  bad  !    Don'  let  him  scare  yo'. 
Sit  heah  on  mammy's  lap,  and  hark  !    • 

Jus'  heah  him  snicker  in  de  keyhole  I 
I  'clare,  he's  listenin',Jout  in  de  dark  I 


MARY  ANTIN 

DOROTHY   THORNE 

She  moves  across  the  platform  with  a  quiet,  liomelike  step. 
Majesty  is  not  there,  nor  regal  bearing,  and  though  nothing  is 
wanting  in  dignity,  it  is  rather  that  of  the  fireside  than  of  the 
purple.  Her  form  is  slight,  but  with  the  sound  of  her  first 
word,  the  possibility  of  oblivion  threatens  no  longer.  Natu- 
rally, simply,  she  tells  her  anecdote  of  village  life  and  from  it 
draws  the  idealistic  lesson  which  she  is  to  teach.  " You  "  and 
*' I"  are  the  characters  she  draws  and  to  the  audience  before 
her  she  speaks  directly,  intimately,  using  the  first  and  second 
person,  allowing  no  barrier  of  artificial  formality  to  be  imposed 
by  the  rostrum  on  which  she  stands  or  the  great  gathering 
which  she  addresses. 

Her  words  are  commonplace  enough  in  themselves,  but  as 
they  pour  forth  in  a  swift  current  of  enthusiasm  not  one  is 
heard  indistinctly  and  each  shoots  home  its  winged  message. 
The  tones  of  her  voice  vibrate  with  tense  emotion  as  she  points 
backward  at  the  path  we  have  trodden  and  shows  whither  that 
way  must  lead.  Idealistic,  burning  with  a  divine  fire  of  earnest- 
ness and  high  sincerity,  she  calls  us  to  rouse  ourselves  from  our 
blind  indifference  and,  with  the  enthusiasm  of  an  inspiredbeing, 
marks  out  our  exalted  mission. 

The  inspiration  is  here,  but  the  means  of  fulfilment  ?  With 
the  abstraction  of  the  idealist,  the  generalization  born  of  too 
brief  experience  with  the  commonplace,  she  considers  not  the 
ties  on  which  the  smooth  rails  of  progress  must  be  laid.  Some- 
one may  come,  many  will  have  to  come,  to  work  out  the  prac- 
tical details,  but  here  she  stands  to-day  in  the  spirit  of  the 
prophets  of  old,  vibrant  with  the  power  of  her  message,  the 
truth  of  her  experience.  Her  logic  weak,  her  political  under- 
standing dormant,  she  is  through  the  supreme  sincerity  of  her 
feeling  the  seer  of  our  greater  destiny,  the  prophetess  of  our 
more  perfect  patriotism. 


ABOUT    COLLEGE 


MEDICAL  REPORT  FROM  SMITH  COLLEGE 

marion  delamater  freeman 

Dear  Sir  : 

In  reply  to  your  query  about  diseases  prevalent  in  Smith.  Col- 
lege, I  submit  the  following  report.  You  think  winter  the 
most  advantageous  time  for  epidemics.  It  is  not  so.  Here  at 
Smith,  spring  is  the  deadly  season.  More  maladies  than  one 
could  enumerate  break  forth  at  this  pleasant  time,  and  few  are 
those  who  escape  one  or  all  of  them.  They  are  of  all  sorts, 
kinds,  and  varieties. 

The  first  one  is  springius  feverius.  Almost  all  students  have 
it.  Its  symptoms  are  day  dreams,  disinclination  to  work, 
indifference  to  marks,  and  a  desire  to  look  at  the  moon.  It  is 
rarely  dangerous,  and  soon  cured  by  an  injection  of  pep. 

Another  rather  common  malady  is  fussitis.  This  is  usually 
manifested  in  a  desire  to  dance,  to  talk  in  a  low  voice  near  the 
grotto  or  fountain,  and  to  eat  at  Rose  Tree  Inn  or  the  Lonesome 
Pine  in  company  with  a  person  of  the  opposite  sex.  It  is  hard 
to  cure. 

These  two  are  simple  diseases,  without  very  violent  symptoms 
except  in  extreme  cases.  We  now  turn,  however,  to  more 
serious  complaints. 

Of  these,  poesia  frensidosa  is  an  interesting  one.  It  manifests 
itself  at  this  season  in  most  students  taking  Eaglish  Thirt.  Its 
first  symptoms  are  absent-mindedness  and  general  drowsiness. 
These  are  followed  bj^  a  violent  eruption  of  verses,  sometimes 
very  bad.  It  is  almost  always  cured  by  a  good  dose  of  E,. 
administered  by  Miss  Jordan. 

Of  like  character  is  Artitis  Outdorsia.  This  is  usually  caught 
in  the  Art  Gallery.      Its  symptoms  are  an  immediate  desire  to- 

S6S 


THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  553 

rush  out  of  the  house,  accompanied  by  a  species  of  insanity, 
during  which  the  student  is  obsessed  by  the  idea  that  she  is  a 
moving  van.  This  is  followed  by  an  outbreak  of  sketches.  It 
is  cured  sometimes  after  a  consultation  between  Drs.  Tryon  and 
Strong,  in  which  they  decide  to  admintster  either  E  or  D,  some- 
times by  a  protracted  period  of  rainy  weather,  which  is  always 
very  soothing. 

Speaking  of  insanity,  it  takes  several  very  interesting  forms 
up  here.  One  of  them  is  Dramaticum-la-la-Tempesticum.  The 
germs  are  caught  in  the  late  fall  or  early  winter,  but  no  symp- 
toms manifest  themselves  until  late  winter  or  early  spring,  at 
which  time  biweekly  fits,  called  rehearsals,  take  place.  These 
become  more  and  more  violent  as  time  goes  on.  The  patients 
walk  about  campus  carrying  blue  serge  bundles  under  their 
arms,  and  at  times  retire  to  the  Gymnasium,  Students'  Building 
or  Seelye  27,  where  they  are  treated  by  Dr.  Williams.  This 
disease  is  considered  so  serious  that  the  college  has  a  famous 
specialist,  Dr.  Young,  who  comes  frequently  from  New  York 
to  consult  with  Dr.  Williams.  When  confined  in  their  own 
rooms  the  patients  often  become  violent,  striding  about,  over- 
turning furniture,  and  crying  out  in  deep  tones  utterly  unlike 
their  own  when  sane.  In  the  late  spring  the  symptoms  become 
alarming.  The  patients  rush  about  madly,  and  emit  strange 
sounds.  Every  morning  a  clinic  is  held  in  Dr.  John  M.  Greeners 
Sanitarium,  at  which  the  patients  rave.  After  a  few  violent 
struggles  they  are  reduced  to  a  state  of  complete  exhaustion, 
however,  from  which  they  are  only  revived  by  a  dose  of  chapel. 
The  disease  culminates  in  four  very  violent  fits  or  convulsions, 
which  take  place  in  rapid  succession  during  June,  after  which 
the  patient  rallies  slowly  and  is  able  to  receive  visitors.  The 
peculiarity  of  this  malady  is  that  it  attacks  only  seniors,  and 
that  it  recurs  year  after  year,  apparently  without  check. 

A  short  but  violent  ailment,  Promitis,  attacks  most  juniors 
some  time  in  May.  This  may  be  guarded  against,  but  most 
people  will  not  take  the  necessary  precautions.  It  lasts  but 
two  days,  three  at  most,  and  is  marked  by  great  activity,  an 
eruption  of  fl.owers,  and  extreme  mental  excitement,  followed 
by  complete  lassitude  and  irritability.  It  has  one  serious  conse- 
quence in  that  it  leaves  the  pocketbook  in  a  decidedly  weakened 
state,  from  which  it  may  not  recover  for  a  year  or  more. 

Last  but  not  least,  I  will  cite  a  very  curious  disease  which  is 


554  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

less  widespread,  but  which  has  lasting  results.  I  speak  of  Liter- 
arium  Societitis.  This  is  divided  into  two  classes,  Alphitis  and 
Phi  Kappa  Psitis,  but  the  symptoms  are  exactly  alike. 

It  attacks  apparently  normal  girls  in  the  prime  of  youth  and 
health.  It  is  preceeded  by  an  acute  attack  of  heart  failure. 
The  first  symptom  is  a  violent  eruption  of  spots,  usually  on  the 
chest,  and  more  rarely  on  the  back.  These  last  for  a  day,  after 
which  all  but  two  fade  from  view,  being,  however,  visible 
under  a  very  thin  waist.  After  two  or  three  weeks  one  of  the 
remaining  spots  vanishes.  The  last  one  is  permanent,  however, 
and  the  individual  attacked  rarely  recovers.  The  first  eruption 
causes  great  mental  excitement  and  extreme  joy,  which  never 
completely  dies.  These  diseases  are  absolutely  incurable,  and 
so  far  no  doctor  has  found  anything  to  alleviate  them.  The 
difference  between  Alphitis  and  Phi  Kappa  Psitis  lies  in  the 
the  shape  of  the  spots. 

There  are  a  few  other  ailments,  such  as  batitis  and  trolley- 
caritis,  but  they  lack  the  serious  qualities  of  the  aforementioned 
ones  and  therefore  do  not  merit  our  consideration. 

Respectfully  yours. 

Freeman,  M.  D. 


THE  ORDER  OF  THINGS 

ROSAMOND  DREXEL  HOLMES 

She  was  in  my  class  at  college.     "Who? 
What  was  she  like  and  what  did  she  do  ? "' 
Why  she  wrote  a  little  verse  or  two 
And  a  tune  of  a  song  that  no  one  knew, 
That 's  all  I  can  remember. 

She  did  n't  come  out  for  basket  ball, 
Nor  for  college  as  such  did  she  care  at  all. 
The  others?    They  laughed  at  her  most  of  ail 
And  did  n't  notice  much  in  the  fall 

That  she  left  that  same  September. 

And  to  think  she  is  making  nations  stir, 
The  one  clear  light  that  shines  in  a  blur, 
While  they  are  unheard  of  who  confident  were, 
For  the  fame  she  did  not  seek  found  her, 
And  claimed  her  the  One  Great  Member. 


THE  ALLOWANCE 

ROSAMOND  DREXEL  HOLMES 

At  last  my  April  allowance 

Has  come  to  me  from  home. 
I  can  go  and  see  the  Castles  dance 

(A  topic  for  a  ' '  pome  ") . 
I  can  go  car-riding  far  away, 

A  nickle  to  the  mile, 
And  maybe  get  np  to  Mt.  Tom 

Some  day — in  a  long  while. 

I  've  been  down  to  the  note-room 

And  there  I  saw  a  sign  : 
"  Buy  your  class  supper  tickets  here 

If  you  would  come  to  dine.' 
"Pay  your  class  tax  and  all  your  bills 

If  you  would  graduate." 
"Your  million  dollar  pledge  is  due." 

"Help  Wellesley.  ere  too  late." 
And  as  I  read  I  give  a  sigh, 

And  as  I  sigh  I  pay, 
But  anyhow  cars  don't  run  up 

Mount  Tom  till  the  first  of  May. 


PAST-BUT  NOT  FORGOTTEN 

ROSAMOND  DREXEL  HOLMES 

We  sit  in  class  quite  grouchy. 

As  they  call  the  fatal  roll. 
Thinking  of  lucky  absentees 

Who  in  their  motors  roll. 

We  watch  the  junior's  hair  curl 
That  was.  oh,  so  straight  before, 

And  remember  we  were  lovely,  too, 
And  hope  'twill  rain  some  more. 

We  get  so  cross,  we  nearly  cut — 
I  'd  like  to  throw  a  bomb. 

Instead.  I  sigh  for  a  past  youth 
And  the  last  year's  Junior  Prom. 

565 


CO-OPERATIVE  LIVING 

MIRA   BIGELOW   WILSON 

*^  It's  your  turn  to  scrape  at  breakfast ! "  I  was  perusing  the 
Elizabethan  Sonnet  in  the  classic  shadow  of  the  English  shelves 
in  the  "libe"  when  this  statement  was  handed  across  the  table 
to  me  on  the  fly-leaf  of  "  The  Golden  Treasury."  That  was  in 
the  fall  of  1912 ;  and  I,  because  cooperative  living  and,  in  par- 
ticular, the  work  of  the  breakfast  squad,  were  new  to  me,  was 
much  amused  and  promptly  referred  my  informant  to  that 
passage  which  reads  : 

"  These  pretty  pleasures  might  me  move 
To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  Love." 

The  next  morning  I  investigated  the  process  designated 
as  ''scraping"  and  came  upon  a  domestic  scene  which  still 
lingers  in  my  memory.  The  scraper  held  the  center  of  the 
stage,  preparing  dishes  for  immediate  ablution.  On  either  side 
were  the  president  of  "Pill  Club"  and  an  "Oriental"  senior, 
who  wielded  their  dish  mops  with  one  hand,  and  expounded 
philosophy  versus  theology  with  the  other. 

They,  in  turn,  were  flanked  by  the  dish- wipers,  a  species  of 
Old  Greek  chorus  draped  in  blue  checked  gingham,  who  occa- 
sionally voiced  the  popular  verdict  or  waved  an  eloquent  but 
moist  towel  in  approbation  of  the  sallies  of  the  Oriental.  A 
touch  of  modernity  was  added  by  the  frequent  asides  in  dialect, 
which  reached  us  from  the  kitchen  slide  where  Kate  was  dis- 
pensing muffins. 

But  this  foreign  element  was  well  offset  by  the  truly  Hellenic 
and  hasty  arrival  of  the  messengers,  in  other  words  the  seniors, 
who  dashed  through  folding  doors  in  breathless  haste  for  soft- 
boileds,  two  and  a  half,  three  and  a  half  and  four  and  a  quarter 
minutes ;  and  who,  coming  upon  the  discussion  with  little 
previous  knowledge  of  its  trend,  took  it  upon  themselves  to 
offer  emphatic  if  abbreviated  negatives  to  both  sides.  Scraping 
is  not  my  regular  occupation,  but  I  gleaned  afterward  that  here, 
as  of  old,  the  catastrophe  usually  occurs  off  stage.  Either  the 
messengers,  hotheaded  from  the  fray,  run  into  various  obsta- 
cles in  the  nature  of  side-tables  or  other  waitresses  in  the  dining 

566 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY  557 

room,  or  the  four-and-one-half-miniite  egg,  delayed  by  the  con- 
troversy to  six  minutes,  is  brought  discreetly  but  firmly  to  the 
notice  of  the  too  philosophic  messens^er  by  "  the  powers  that  be." 

The  reason  why  it  was  not  often  my  fate  to  scrape  was 
because  that  privilege  was  bestowed  upon  seniors  who  coveted 
early  morning  positions.  For  the  greater  part  of  the  year,  I  was 
one  of  the  turbulent  messengers,  in  which  capacity  it  was  eter- 
nally my  privilege  to  disagree  with  the  scraper  on  the  subject 
of  idealism  versus  materialism.  The  ideal  aim  of  the  waitress 
is,  by  the  way,  to  educate  all  possible  customers  to  the  point 
where  they  will  know  that  eggs  in  a  round  dish  are  hard,  in  a 
shallow  dish,  soft.  Hence  the  vernacular  of  the  breakfast  room 
is  "soft  and  shallow,"  "round  and  hard.  ' 

This  year  a  certain  inability  on  my  part  to  arise  with  the 
rising  bell  has  led  me  to  forsake  the  breakfast  squad  for  the 
work  of  the  solitary  sweeper.  As  an  intellectual  employment 
sweeping  is  far  inferior  to  scraping,  and  yet  there  are  compen- 
sations. It  is  the  sweeper's  prerogative,  in  case  her  archene- 
mies leave  valuables  in  corridors  or  bathrooms,  to  convey  them 
to  the  pound,  a  mode  of  confiscation  as  dire  as  it  sounds.  It  is 
very  bad  for  one's  temperament  to  have  this  means  of  vengeance 
so  easy  to  one's  hand,  for  veageance  smiled  upon  by  justice  is, 
as  any  moralist  will  tell  you,  one  of  the  most  dangerous  things 
in  a  state.  Yet  another  means  of  satisfaction  may  be  employed, 
although  it  is  not  even  recognized  by  justice  ;  that  is  the  possi- 
bility of  mutilating  with  the  mop  the  tender  fronds  of  hostile 
ferns  or  the  spring  buds  of  geraniums  left  for  the  night  in  the 
corridor.     I  will  say  I  have  not  descended  as  yet  unto  this  depth. 

On  the  whole,  however,  sweeping  has  few  attractions.  Le- 
gally, one  may  whistle  as  one  mops  from  seven-thirty-five  to 
eight-twenty  in  the  morning,  but  it  has  been  suggested  that 
one  mercifully  refrain.  An  open  door  gives  a  chance  for  a  bit 
of  gossip  ;  and,  over  some  tale  of  interest,  one  may  lean  on 
one^s  mop  as  over  a  back-yard  fence.  Yet  it  is  early  for  gossip, 
which  reaches  maturity  in  the  house  about  twelve-forty-five 
noon.  So  that,  in  general,  early  morning  sweeping  is  just 
early  morning  sweeping. 


THE  THREE  FATES 

MARGARET  LOUISE  FARRAND 

You  think  fatalism  has  had  its  day. 

And  we  all  are  believers  now  in  free  will, 
But  wait  until  vacation  time, 

And  you  '11  see  that  we  all  are  fatalists  still. 

''What  time  do  you  arrive  in  New  York  ?" 

"Whenever  that  special  deigns  to  get  in." 
"Do  you  think  that  you  '11  make  connections  in  Springfield?" 

"  There  is  always  hope,  but  the  chances  are  thin." 

"Will  your  trunk  be  there  when  you  reach  home^oniWednesdayi?"" 

"  I  checked  the  thing  on  the  B.  and  A. 
I  've  got  to  have  my  chiffon  that  evening, 

But  there  really  is  nothing  to  do  but  pray." 

Yes,  we  still  believe  in  the  three  fatal  sisters, 
Though  we  call  them  by  difierent  names  to-day ; 

Not  Clotho,  Lachesis,  Atropos,  but 
N.  Y.,  N.  H.,  B.  and  M.,  B.  and  A. 


**THE  WORLD  IS  TOO  MUCH  WITH  US^ 

MARGARET  LOUISE  FARRAND 

We  walked,  you  and  I,  at  sunset  time, 

Away  from  the  noisy  haunts  of  men, 

And  we  found  a  little  hill  to  climb. 

The  world  was  a  blaze  of  glory  then, 

Golden  and  crimson  and  fiery  red 

Were  the  clouds  in  the  western  sky  outspread, 

While  tall  and  black  'gainst  the  flaming  sky 

The  pine  trees  lifted  their  branches  high. 

And  as  we  gazed  at  that  sunset  glow, 

You  dreamed  your  dreams  and*I  dreamed  mine, 

And  our  dreams  were  joined  by  a  thread  so  fine 

That  words  would  have  snap't  it.     Our  eager  eyes 

Swept  the  breadth  of  the  sunset  skies 

Till  suddenly — we  saw  a  hen-house. 


55 


HEARD    ON    THE    TAR    WALK 


The  Optimist 


A  tiny  little  bird  sat  on  a  wire, 

Bobbing,  bobbing 
With  the  little  breezes  flying  higher, 

And  chirped,  hobnobbing. 
As  he  sat,  so  happy  and  so  free, 

Rocking,  rocking 
Higher  than  the  top  of  the  highest  tree, 

His  head  a  cocking. 
Came  a  little  boy  with  a  stone  and  a  stick. 

No  shoe,  no  stocking. 
Fulled  a  little  string  and  did  the  little  trick, 

Shocking,  shocking. 
But  the  little  birdie  only  looked  more  pert 

Swinging,  swinging  ; 
Too  happy,  far,  for  any  stone  to  hurt, 

And  kept  on  singing. 

Rosamond  Drexkl  Holmes  1914. 

To  My  Parentage 

Well,  here  I  am. 

And  there  are  you, 
I'm  glad  I'm  back — 

Yet  I  miss  you. 

Since  yesterday  and  day  before 

I've  thought  of  you  a  lot — and  more. 

I've  thought  how  good  you  are  to  me, 

How  very  good  you  are  to  me. 

A  little  homely  flower — I, 

A  common  weed,  most  pass  me  by. 

Not  even  worth  a  second  look. 

If  ever  they  a  first  look  took. 

And  yet  you  are  so  good  to  me.  ^ 

I  wonder  why  all  this  should  be — 

Why  should  you  be  so  good  to  me  ? 

Frances  Milliken  Hooper  1914. 

ce  ft 


560  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

A  SuiiMER  Evening  in  Hamp 

I'm  modest  and  tidy 
In  my  dress  of  dark  brown 

That  o'er  my  round  body 
Fits  craftily  down. 

I'm  small  and  I'm  harmless. 

And  affectionate,  too. 
I'm  fond  of  bright  objects 

And  things  of  gay  hue.   • 

I  don't  like  the  darkness 

And  terrors  of  night. 
So,  timidly  blundering, 

I  rush  in  where  'tis  light. 

But,  alas,  what  awaits  me  ! 

Why  should  people  treat 
One  who's  perfectly  harmless 

And  dainty  and  neat? 

Some  run  panic-stricken 

And  leave  me  alone- 
Then  enter  there  others 

With  hearts  of  cold  stone. 

They  handle  me  rudely. 

Grabbing  me  tight. 
And  most  impolitely 

Thrust  me  into  the  night. 

Now  I  know  that  I'd  never 

Throw  you  out  to  fly, 
If  you  were  a  June  bug. 

And  a  college  girl  I. 

Dorothy  Ochtman  1914. 


Proof  Positive 

The  buds  upon  the  maple  tree 
Burst  out,  the  breeze  began  to  be 
Warm,  the  waters  of  Connecticut 
Rose  high  and  sank  down  slowly,  but 
It  seemed  not  Spring  to  me. 

This  morn  I  felt  that  I  must  shout : 

Spring  !     Spring  had  come  without  a  doubt ! 

I  saw.  when  I  looked  in  the  glass, 

Like  dandelions  on  the  grass, 

My  freckles  had  popped  out ! 

Erma  Kathleen  Quinby^1914. 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      501 

The  little  girl   stepped  warily  over  the 

Of  the  People  occasional  stones  relieving  the  mud  flats. 
Her  shoes  had  just  been  whitened,  and  she 
was  particular.  Now  she  had  crossed  all  the  way  from  the 
yacht  club  to  the  little  houseboat  in  the  tall  grasses,  and  she 
stepped  up  to  the  place  where  the  porch  would  have  been,  and 
stamped  the  mud  off.  Then  she  rapped  on  the  gray  board  and 
pulled  aside  the  canvas  door-curtain  to  peep  in. 

"May  I  come  in,  please?"  she  asked,  smiling,  "or  are  you 
busy  ?"  The  man  at  the  other  end  of  the  little  low  room  turned 
from  his  easel  with  a  frown.  How  he  hated  summer  visitors  ! 
He  looked  up  at  the  little  girl  all  in  white  and  lumberingly  rose 
to  his  feet. 

"Oh,  you,  is  it?"  he  mumbled.  "Come  in,  do!"  Then, 
pushing  the  easel  back  toward  the  window  framing  his  subject, 
"  ''Most  too  dark  to  paint,  anyways,"  he  added,  graciously 
enough. 

She  went  down  the  step  slowly,  looking  with  interest  at  all 
the  water-colors,  and  perched,  like  a  lost  bird,  on  an  old  camp- 
stool.  The  artist  leaned  back  against  the  wall  with  his  thumbs 
in  his  pockets,  and  appreciation  lighted  his  rugged  face  as  he 
looked  at  the  very-up-to-date  little  girl  in  his  very-much-behind- 
the-times  little  studio. 

"Is  that  the  one  you  were  just  doing  ?"  she  asked,  pointing 
to  a  fresh  picture  on  the  easel. 

"Yep,"  said  the  old  man,  with  a  chuckle,  "an'  what  d'ye 
think  ?     I  sold  it  already." 

"What !  before  it's  even  done  ?"  said  his  caller,  in  true  sur- 
prise at  someone's  rash  step. 

"  Yes'm,  young  feller  just  stepped  by  a  few  minutes  since  'n 
said  he  liked  it,  so  I'm  just  goin'  to  finish  it  up  for  him.  Sum- 
mer boarder,"  he  added  contemptuously.  The  little  girl  flushed, 
for  she  knew  his  native  contempt  for  the  "  shif'less,"  as  natives 
consider  those  foreign  to  their  kind. 

"Did  you  hear  about  the  man  who  drowned,  up  river  this 
morning?"  she  tried,  thinking  to  divert  him.  But  the  artist's 
face  showed  no  gleam  of  interest. 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  "  I  believe  someone  did  mention  it.  'T  wa'n't 
any  one  particular,  was  it  ?  Only  a  summer  boarder,"  he  added 
indifferently.     But  the  little  girl  was  not  heeding  him. 

"  It  was  so  awful,"  she  went  on.     "  I  was  down  at  the  station 


562  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

and  I  saw  a  lovely  looking  girl  with  a  bab}'.  And  I  heard  one- 
of  the  trunk-men  say,  *  What  a  cute  baby  ! '  and  the  other  one 
said,  ^  Yep,  that  baby  ain't  got  no  father  ;  he  was  drowned  up 
river  this  morning,  just  off  the  sand-bar.    Fishing,  he  was—'  ^' 

''Huh,"  .interrupted  the  artist.  ''Oh  pshaw!  You  don't 
mean  it  ?  Really  ?  Oh,  you  don't  say.  Had  a  kid,  did  he  ?- 
Oh  pshaw  ! " 

The  girl  looked  up  in  surprise.  There  was  a  husky  note  she 
had  never  heard  in  her  old  friend's  voice  ;  and  he  was  mopping 
his  eyes  with  his  handkerchief.  She  suddenly  felt  very  far 
away  from  her  artist  friend.     She  got  up  to  go. 

"  Good  night,"  she  said,  "  I  am  so  glad  about  the  picture." 

"Picture,"  said  the  man  vaguely,  "what — "  and  she  was  gone. 

Slowly  he  picked  up  the  easel,  and  with  careful  touch  put 
away  his  work.  He  turned,  and  looked  out  of  his  one  tiny  win- 
dow, across  the  land  he  loved,  where  the  glorious  July  sun  made 
even  the  mud  flats  glow.  Long  he  looked  at  the  so-familiar 
scene.  How  well  it  was  engraved  on  his  heart — and  on  his 
canvas.  But  even  art  is  not  all-sufficient.  Then  he  spoke 
aloud— to  the  evening.' 

"  Huh,"  he  said,  softly.     "  Had  a  kid,  did  he  ?    Pshaw  ! " 

Rosamond  Drexel  Holmes  1914. 

At  the  Faculty  Tea 

The  ladies  sipped  demurely  ; 

A  few  men  were  in  sight ; 
The  seniors  flitted  to  and  fro, 

Resolved  to  be  polite. 

"Just  speak  to  any  faculty, 

Though  you're  not  introduced," 
The  hostess  told  us  when  we  came, 

Thus  courage  was  induced. 

We  gossiped  with  the  ladies 

And  gathered  'round  the  men 
To  hear  the  latest  class-room  " gists" 

And  giggle  now  and  then. 

One  gentleman  stood  quite  alone, 

The  girls  had  left  his  side. 
But  with  a  broad,  magnanimous  smile 

Each  little  group  he  eyed. 


THE   SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  563 

One  tender-hearted  maiden, 

More  thoughtful  than  the  rest, 
Shied  up  to  him  and  bravely  spoke, 

He  answered  with  a  jest. 

Then  conversation  turned]|to^Math. 

She  prattled  on  some  more  ; 
"  They  say,"  her  tongue  ran  glibly  on, 

"  That  new  Profs  such  a[bore  ! " 

The  broad  smile  waned  perceptibly, 

Some  girls  who  overheard 
Were  giggling  in  their  handkerchiefs. 

But  no  one  said  a  word. 

They  laughed  until  their  faces  flushed, 

But  I-— oh,  don't  you  see|? 
I  did  not  laugh  at  all,  because 

That  tactless  girl  was  me  ! 

Effie  Kurz  Oppenhebier  1914. 


Futility 

I  did  my  hair  quite  up  to  date 

On  that  raw  December  day  ; 
I  pulled  it  down  and  pinned  it  tight 

In  the  very  latest  way. 

But  now  I  look  my  class-book  o'er 

I  simply  have  to  smile, 
For  oh,  that  stylish  "  do  "  of  mine 

Is  quite,  quite  out  of  style  ! 

Eloise  Schmidt  1914. 


EDITORIAL 


Chapel  is  over,  and  the  slickered,  rubbered,  and  urobrella- 
covered  throng  streams  down  the  steps  and  hurries  to  its  varied 
activities  in  class-room,  laboratory,  or  library.  We  pause  to 
watch  them  pass,  and  we  wonder,  as  we  look,  how  each  one  of 
them  is  meeting  her  rainy  day.  When  they  have  all  gone  by 
and  the  college  has  settled  down  to  its  nine-o'clock  quiet,  we 
consider  what  we  have  seen  and  heard,  and  we  decide  that  here 
in  Smith  College,  at  least,  there  are  three  ways  of  accepting  a 
rainy  day. 

First  of  all,  there  is  the  way  of  the  aggrieved  person,  and  we 
are  amazed  at  the  number  of  those  who  travel  therein.  This 
individual  looks  upon  the  behavior  of  the  weather  as  a  personal 
insult,  and  resents  it  accordingly.  Moreover,  she  expresses  her 
resentment  in  words,  and  incredible  though  it  may  seem, -she 
expects  sane  people  to  listen  to  her.  ITay,  more,  she  even  looks 
for  sympathy.  Though  her  numbers  be  many,  this  type  of 
person  is  not  worthy  of  future  consideration. 

The  second  way  is  the  way  of  the  competent  person — the 
aggressively  competent  person.  She  has  made  ready  for  her 
rainy  day.  Her  overshoes  stood  ready,  parallel,  each  to  each  ; 
the  buttons  are  all  on  her  rain-coat  and  her  umbrella  is  never  at 
the  "  Lost  and  Found."  She  has  no  grievance  against  her  rainy 
day.  She  accepts  it  with  a  certain  resigned  preparedness,  but 
it  is  preparedness  for  an  enemy. 

There  is  a  third  way.  It  is  the  way  of  the  person  who  makes 
friends  with  her  rainy  day.  We  know  her  from  afar,  by  her 
joyful  face  upturned  to  the  pelting  drops,  and  by  her  body 
glorying  in  the  struggle  with  the  storm.  She  may  be  a  compe- 
tent person,  with  everything  in  readiness— in  fact,  she  is  very 
likely  to  be,  but  she  is  something  more.  Perhaps  she  is  an 
optimist,  if  by  that  term  we  mean  a  person  who  finds  the  best 
in  her  rainy  day. 

564 


THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY  565 

There  is  something  in  this  matter  of  the  acceptance  of  rainy 
days  that  is  significant  of  character,  and  preparedness  for  life. 
For,  like  spring  in  Northampton,  life  has,  from  time  to  time, 
its  rainy  days,  that  have  to  be  met  in  one  way  or  another. 
The  aggrieved  person,  who  still  resents  her  rainy  days,  may  be 
left  out  of  the  discussion  at  once.  She  is  still  in  Life's  Kinder- 
garten class. 

The  competent  person,  who  has  made  ready  for  her  rainy 
day,  and  receives  it  as  a  matter  of  course,  though  as  an  enemy, 
represents,  perhaps,  most  of  us.  She  is  the  normal,  average 
person,  if  such  a  one  is  to  be  found.  There  is  something  in  her 
quiet  fortitude  that  commands  admiration.  She  is  a  comfort- 
able person  to  have  around— she  will  '"do,"  on  the  whole,  very 
well,  although  she  isn't  having  as  good  a  time  as  she  might 
have.  Yet  the  souls  who  have  reached  Life's  mountain-tops  are 
those  who  have  learned  to  make  friends  with  their  rainy  days. 

It  was  one  of  his  rainy  days— though  no  one  would  ever  sus- 
pect it— that  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  was  looking  out  upon 
when  he  wrote  : 

"  The  world  is  so  full  of  a  number  of  things 
That  I'm  sure  we  should  all  be  as  happy  as  kings." 

He  had  made  friends  with  his  rainy  day.  There  are  people, 
however,  who  resent  what  they  consider  the  too  optimistic — too 
blindly  cheerful  note  of  Stevenson's  couplet.  They  remind  us 
that  the  world  is  full  of  a  number  of  other  things,  also,  things 
which  make  it  impossible  for  some  of  us  to  be  as  happy  as — 
even  self-respecting  private  citizens  (who,  by  the  way,  are 
doubtless  much  happier  than  kings).  Ruskin  could  not  ignore 
this  ^' number  of  things,""  and  said  that  he  should  be  ashamed 
if  he  could  be  happy,  knowing  the  world's  misery. 

"What  about  the  butterfly  who  had  only  one  day  to  live,  and 
that  day  was  a  rainy  day?"  So  ended  a  story  which  has 
haunted  us  ever  since  we  read  it,  with  the  tragedy  of  its  appeal. 
It  was  the  people  represented  by  the  butterfly  whose  one  day 
was  a  rainy  day,  whom  Raskin  could  not  forget.  We  cannot 
forget  them,  either,  and  we  should  be  ashamed  of  ourselves  if 
we  could.  In  the  activities  which  we  speak  of  so  inexpressively 
as  ''social  uplift"  we  are  translating  into  life  our  inability  to 
forget.  We  whose  rainj^  days  come  rarely,  and  are  followed 
by  a  morning  of  glorious  sunrise  and  shimmering  leaves,  are 
trying  to  bring  some  of  the  brightness  of  that  morning  to  our 


566  THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

brothers  in  their  continuous  rainy  day.  But  it  is  not  imperti- 
nence to  them  for  us  to  be  ^'  as  happy  as  kings."  If  we  come  to 
them  bewailing  the  inclemency  of  the  weather,  we  are  merely 
adding  a  few  more  drops  to  the  general  downpour.  If  we  come 
as  the  competent  person,  armed  with  overshoes  and  umbrellas, 
we  shall  see  but  a  transient  gleam  light  up  their  faces,  for  the 
best  of  overshoes  and  umbrellas  will  wear  out  in  a  life-time  of 
rainy  days.  But  if  we  have  made  friends  with  our  rainy  day — 
have  found  the  best  and  glory  in  it — then  we  have  something 
worth  while  to  offer.  We  do  not  come  saying,  ''Oh,  what  a 
dreadfully  rainy  day  !  I'll  be  wretched  with  you,"  nor  yet 
'^  How  very  sad  that  your  day  must  be  rainy.  But  here  are 
some  overshoes."  No,  we  come  showing  the  joy  of  wrestling 
with  the  storm,  the  exhilaration  of  pelting  rain  on  the  face,  the 
quiet  content  that  comes  with  the  drip  of  rain  upon  the  roof. 
So,  serene  in  our  share  of  all  weathers,  we  travel  with  them 
toward  the  patch  of  sunshine  that  is  behind  every  cloud  in  the 
eastern  sky. 


EDITOR'S    TABLE 


College  makes  us  broad.  Of  course  I  That  is  a  universal 
premise  which  we  accept  as  one  of  the  indisputable  facts  of  our 
academic  existence.  What  do  we  understand  this  to  be,  this 
attribute  of  breadth  which  college  gives  ?  We  are  not  quit© 
-clear  as  to  the  precise  definition  and  yet  we  should  agree,  I 
think,  that  the  interests  of  an  educated  person  are  not  limited 
by  the  boundaries  of  one  particular  group  of  people.  A  lack  of 
sympathy  with  the  movements  and  interests  that  are  vital  to 
others  betrays  in  us  a  sluggish  mentality,  a  selfish  emphasis 
upon  the  things  that  touch  our  own  petty  lives  and  fortunes. 
This  is  the  reverse  of  what  we  expect  college  to  bring  us  ;  this 
is  what  we  call  a  '*  narrow  outlook." 

When  we  come  to  college  we  are  brought  in  touch  with  the 
learning  and  the  service  which  the  great  minds  of  the  world 
have  evolved.  Such  influences  should  make  for  breadth.  But 
if  we  ourselves  do  not  open  our  minds  to  these  stimuli,  college 
will  leave  us  as  untouched  as  the  clam  who  locks  himself  in  his 
«hell  at  an  alien  touch.  We  are  not  in  constant  touch  with  the 
world  of  actual  deeds  ;  but  we  are  being  made  acquainted  with 
that  world.  Our  courses  in  Economics  and  Sociology,  for 
instance,  could  hardly  fail  to  make  us  realize  the  seriousness  of 
problems  that  are  being  puzzled  over  and  the  dreadful  realities 
that  need  to  be  reckoned  with.'  Yet  listen  to  this  remark 
made  by  a  college  girl  in  reference  to  the  Colorado  mine  war. 
'' Those  miners  got  as  much  as  they  earned.  What  are  they 
fussing  about  now  ?     There  must  always  be  a  lower  class  I " 

It  is  safer  to  pass  over  the  primitive  form  of  reasoning  illus- 
trated. But  we  cannot  ignore  the  attitude.  It  is  an  excellent 
example  of  our  clam-like  friends.  Shall  we,  safely  tucked  away 
in  our  shells,  snugl}^  await  the  issue  of  the  struggle  in  which 
men  are  fighting  for  the  common  rights  of  men  and  shall  we 


568  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

say  complacently,  ''Ah,  this  must  be  !  Those  miners  constitute 
the  class  that  must  exist "  ?  Shall  we  accept  this  bovine  stand- 
ard which  declares,  "Yesterday  I  lived  here  ;  the  miner  worked 
in  the  earth.  To-day,  and  to-morrow  likewise,  shall  be  as 
yesterday  "  ? 

Nor  do  college  girls  alone  offend.  Ever  since  the  beginning 
of  the  Mexican  trouble,  we  have  been  told  by  various  writers 
and  speakers  that  the  people  of  that  harassed  country  were 
shiftless  Indians,  incapable  of  governing  themselves.  Do  we 
forget  so  soon  what  it  means  to  be  fighting  and  dying  for  lib- 
erty ?  And  do  we  forget  how  much  a  word  of  sympathy- and 
cheer  meant  to  those  brave  men  who  guided  our  growing  nation 
to  Freedom  ?  The  people  of  Mexico  have  been  wronged,  denied 
man's  birthright  of  justice  and  freedom.  Shall  we  continue  ta 
deny  them  their  right  to  rule  their  own  country  ?  The  traditions 
of  the  discovery  and  founding  of  Mexico  are  as  stirring  and  as 
sacred  to  the  Mexicans  as  our  stories  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  are 
to  us.  Is  it  not  infinitel}^  cruel  for  us,  happily  provided  for, 
richly  endowed,  to  forget  the  weakness  and  the  misery  of  others 
in  the  flush  of  our  own  well-being  ? 

It  is  true  that  here  in  college  we  cannot  do  much  that  is  prac- 
tical to  help  those  who  are  trying  to  better  conditions.  But  we 
can  keep  our  interest  in  the  world  awake  and  our  sympathies 
from  lying  dormant.  K.  B. 

There  is  an  unusual  element  in  many  of  the  stories  for  this 
month.  It  is  found  in  the  treating  of  really  deep  sociological 
and  other  worth-while  subjects  in  short-story  form.  This  treat- 
ment endows  theories  with  personality  and  creates  in  the  place 
of  "cases"  actual,  heart-gripping  people. 

The  best  of  these  is  found  in  the  Barnard  Bear  under  the 
title,  "For  They  Know  Not  What  They  Do.'*'  It  contains  an 
appeal  which  all  the  keen,  statistical  tirades  against  the  divorce 
evil  lack.  The  heart-broken  cry,  "Oh  little  Teacher,  my  baby 
is  going  to  call  another  man  'Father,'^'  comes  very  near  to 
being  the  crux  of  the  whole  matter.  "  S22, 584.(33,"  in  the 
Williams  Literary  Monthly,  the  cost  to  a  community  of  a 
feeble-minded  boy,  who  should  never  have  been  brought  into 
the  world,  is  a  brutal  but  verj^  graphically  told  story  on  this 
same  sociological  theme.  "  How  the  Other  Half  Lives,"'  from 
the  Radcliffe  Magazine,  a  story  of  the  ridiculous  blunders  of  a. 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      569 

group  of  friendly  visitors  and  their  badly  managed  and  unwel- 
come attempts  at  "social  uplift,"  is  too  exaggerated  to  be  any- 
thing but  amusing.  "The  End  of  the  Feud,"  found  in  the 
Western  Oxford,  is  a  peculiar  and  unusual  story  of  that  strange, 
inexplicable  condition,  the  family  feud  of  the  Southern  moun- 
tains. "One  Thing  Thou  Lackest,"  though  hardly  in  the 
sociological  category,  answers  a  big,  perplexing  question.  The 
question,  "Will — will  there  be  another  life  of  some  sort  or  will 
it  be— just  the  end  ?"  was  asked  of  a  Y.  W.  C.  A.  secretary  by 
her  best  friend,  dying  of  tuberculosis,  and,  stripped  of  her  pro- 
fessional manner,  the  secretary  quailed  before  it  and  admitted 
miserably,  "  I  don't  know."  But  the  answer  came  from  little, 
white-haired  Hallelujah  Nancy,  a  distributor  of  tracts  in  the 
prisons. 

Also  in  the  more  serious  vein  come  the  essays,  all  of  which 
deal  with  distinctly  modern  authors.  The  one  on  Joseph  Con- 
rad in  The  Occident  sounds  the  keynote  of  this  tendency  by 
severely  criticizing  the  attitude  of  the  people  who,  "whenever 
a  new  book  comes  out  read  an  old  one."  The  Mt.  Holyoke  has 
an  appreciation  of  Tagore  which  is  very  well  done,  giving  quite 
comprehensively  some  points  in  his  philosophy  as  well  as  the 
essentials  of  his  style.  One  exceedingly  good  characterization 
is  made  of  his  English  in  the  sentence,  "We  hardly  recognize 
our  own  language,  so  fresh  and  colorful  it  seems."  A  well- 
written  treatment  of  "Maurice  Maeterlinck,  Playwright,''  in 
the  Wells  College  Chronicle,  sums  up  the  impression  his  work 
leaves  on  one  most  aptly  in  "  He  is  intoxicating  to  read  because 
one  literally  gets  drunk  on  the  honey  of  his  words." 

How  many  charming  little  endings  there  are  to  the  short 
stories.  "The  Roles  Reversed"  in  the  Wesleyan  Literary 
Monthly  surprises  you  chiefly  because  you  expect  the  unusual 
and  instead  find  the  perfectly  usual;  "Rocking  Chairs  and 
Wooden  Spoons,"  which  the  Nassau  Literary  Magazine  offers, 
has  a  solicitous  editor's  note  warning  the  reader  that  for  some 
unexplained  reason  the  author  neglected  to  finish  his  story  ; 
the  Bowdoin  QuilVs  "Thieves"  and  the  Amherst  Monthhfs 
"Amateur  Criminal"  have  startlingly  unexpected  endings,  and 
"A  Calabash  Pipe,"  Wesleyan  Lit,  has  its  point  a  little  too 
evident,  though  it  makes  up  for  it  with  the  charming  epigram 
for  its  last  sentence,  "Those  hot-blooded  fools  who  have  nothing 
better  to  do  than  chase  women  are  bound  to  get  left  in  the  end.'* 

E.  G. 


AFTER    COLLEGE 


Weihsiex,  Shantung,  China, 

January  25th,  1914. ' 
Miss  Eleaxor  Cory. 
Dana  Place, 
Englewood. 

My  Dear  Miss  Cory: 

We  are  back  again  in  old  China,  cheered  by  the  memory  of  our  happy  year 
■at  home.  I  often  wish  that  you,  who  showed  so  kindly  an  interest  in  our  life 
here,  could  be  with  us  to  see  real  conditions. 

Last  week,  when  eight  of  the  "tai-tais,"  ladies  of  high  rank,  came  out  to 
call  on  me  in  gratitude  for  an  operation  Dr.  Roys  had  done  for  one  of  them,  I 
looked  at  their  tiny  bound  feet  and  recalled  what  I  had  heard  so  often  in 
America  :  "  Footbinding  has  ceased  in  China."  Outside  the  circle  of  Christ- 
ians, there  has  been  no  attempt  in  our  district  to  break  the  old  custom. 

One  returns  to  find  the  women  of  these  parts  almost  as  ignorant  and 
shut-in  as  they  were  fifty  years  ago.  One  smiles  sadly  at  the  memory  of 
many  a  woman's  club  in  America  in  which  the  complacent  assertion  was 
made:  "China's  women  are  emancipated,  and  suffrage  is  an  established 
fact." 

The  West  has  viewed  through  rose-colored  glasses  the  progress  of  affairs  in 
the  Flowery  Kingdom.  Alas!  In  spite  of  wonderful  changes,  the  present 
situation  is  far  from  roseate.  In  the  tremendous  opportunity  and  need  of  the 
medical  work,  we  often  recall  the  question  asked  by  so  many  at  home :  "How 
many  trained  nurses  and  doctors  have  you  on  the  staff  of  your  hospital  ?  " 

Nothing  could  so  satisfactorily  answer  this  question  as  an  actual  visit  to  the 
clinic.  Won't  you  come  with  me,  and  we  can  slip  into  the  women's  clinic 
now  in  progress  ? 

The  doctor  is  already  seated  at  the  table  in  the  consulting  room,  and  one  by 
one  the  patients  come  in  "to  invite  the  G-reat  Master  to  spend  heart  and  see 
their  sickness."  Everything  is  done  according  to  Chinese  etiquette.  The 
first  question  in  all  polite  conversation  is  asked :  "  What  is  your  honorable 
name?"  "My  name?"  "Yes,  your  name?'"  "3/z/  name?"  "Yes.  your 
name?"  "My  name  is  'Wang'."  The  same  number  of  questions  is  neces- 
sary to  ascertain  the  village  and  the  age  of  the  patient ;  but  the  women's  full 
conversational  powers  are  revealed  by  the  next  question:  "What  sickness 
do  you  wish  me  to  '  see '  ? "'  The  cork  pops  out  of  the  bottle  at  this,  and  a  flow 
of  talk  follows.     Such  picturesque  description  of  symptoms  ! 


THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  571 

"  My  legs  have  gone  sour." 

"  My  teeth  have  worins  (cavities)  in  them.  I  won't  allow  yon  to  pnll  them, 
but  please  just  rub  on  a  little  Western  medicine  and  make  them  grow  sound 
again." 

"The  devil  is  sitting  in  my  insides."  ("Who  has  not  experienced  these 
symptoms  ? ) 

"  My  legs  and  arms  are  wooden  :  and  my  ears  itch." 

"A  partition  is  growing  across  in  my  interior." 

Most  pitiful  of  all  are  the  cases  of  women  and  children  who  innocently 
suffer  for  the  misdeeds  of  others.  Our  first  two  cases  to-day  are  women  with 
repulsive  skin  trouble.  The  throat  of  one  is  in  a  horrible  condition,  the 
palate  utterly  eaten  away.  The  poor  woman  can  scarcely  speak  above  a 
whisper.     Shall  we  make  a  hurried  exit  or  can  we  possibly  stay  for  more? 

In  comes  a  little  child  of  one  year,  and  we  instantly  think  of  the  little  one. 
well  and  happy  in  her  clean  nursery  just  next  door.  No  portion  of  the  little 
patient's  body  is  in  a  healthful  condition  :  from  the  crown  of  her  head  to  the 
soles  of  her  feet  sne  is  covered  with  ulcers.  It  Is  almost  more  than  we  can 
bear,  and  we  find  ourselves  murmuring  in  impotent  pity  :  "Oh  God.  the  poor 
little  lamb !  The  poor  little  lamb  I "'  It  would  be  unpardonable  to  harrow 
you  with  this  case  if  it  were  not  that  the  doctor  can  "  fix  "  it.  After  cleansing 
-and  treating  the  little  child,  there  will  be  no  happier  child  in  the  whole 
village. 

But  one  marvels  afresh  that  the  doctors  can  so  tenderly  touch  and  care  for 
«uch  unspeakably  repulsive  conditions.  We  are  reminded  of  Him  who  in  His 
purity  put  out  His  hand  to  touch  and  make  whole.  We  do  not  wonder  that 
one  searches  in  vain  in  all  the  world  for  such  work  done  by  any  one  of  the 
non-Cliristian  religions. 

Our  next  little  patient  is  thirteen  years  old,  so  poor  that  years  ago  she  was 
sent  to  her  future  husband's  home  to  be  the  family  drudge.  Her  mother-in- 
law  has  died  and  there  is  no  one  in  the  home  but  her  betrothed  husband, 
aged  thirty-three,  and  his  brother.  It  is  not  difficult  to  fill  in  the  story  of 
what  her  life  must  be  I  Her  condition  is  too  repulsive  for  any  attempt  at 
description  :  and  we  can  only  hox^e  for  a  speedy  release  from  a  life  of  constant 
suffering. 

What  a  ray  of  sunshine  comes  into  the  room  with  the  little  lad  of  one  year 
who  contentedly  grabs  his  small  foot  and  chews  it.  God  must  know  that 
human  hearts  cannot  bear  an  unbroken  succession  of  hopeless  cases.  So  He 
now  and  then  sends  a  little  child  to  smile  up  into  the  doctor's  tired  eyes,  and 
to  bring  comfort.  The  condition  of  this  child,  suffering  from  rickets,  can  be 
bettered  ;  and  the  happy  mother  carries  him  away  holding  in  his  hand  a 
brightly  colored  picture  card. 

And  so  they  pass  in  and  out  of  the  consulting  room,  thirty  two  patients 
this  afternoon.  The  medicines  are  given  out  and  directions  repeated  unto 
seventy  times  seven.  Surely  they  must  understand  now  I  But  the  oiiJtment 
will  very  likely  be  eaten;  the  patient  "well  shaken."  instead  of  the  bottle  : 
and  the  four  days'  supply  of  pills  swallowed  at  one  time  to  insure  a  rapid 
recoverv. 


572  THE   SMITH  COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

The  afternoon  clinic  is  over  and  we  hurry  out  to  reach  the  sun  and  air. 
The  eternal  mystery  of  pain  surges  through  us  in  the  question  :  Why  must 
sentient  human  creatures  suffer  so,  when  much  of  it  is  preventable  ?  For 
hours  the  world  seems  dark  with  inscrutable  purposes  and  appalling  punish- 
ments. It  is  a  relief  to  turn  from  the  clinic  to  the  in-patients,  for  it  is  they 
who  reap  the  greatest  benefit  of  the  medical  work.  By  remaining  days  and 
often  weeks  in  the  ward,  they  hear  the  message,  the  telling  of  which  is  our 
only  reason  for  being  here.  Many  a  home,  yes,  and  sometimes  an  entire 
village,  has  been  transformed  by  one  who  first  heard  of  Christ  in  the  mission 
hospital. 

Do  you  ask  to  be  taken  to  see  the  hospital  wards  ?  You  will  not  recognize 
them  unless  I  point  out  to  you  the  low,  ill-ventilated  Chinese  rooms  which  for 
a  dozen  years  have  been  the  only  wards  Weihsien  has  had.  Where  are  the 
light,  airy  rooms  you  pictured,  with  trained  nurses  in  immaculate  "aniforms^ 
moving  about  among  snowy  cots  ?  Where  indeed  ?  Here  you  will  see  low, 
brick  beds,  with  two  or  three  persons  on  a  bed,  wearing  the  filthy  clothes 
which  do  service  an  entire  winter,  day  and  night,  without  washing.  The 
only  bedding  is  the  family  wadded  quilt  which  is  used  year  in,  year  out,  by 
the  family  who  doubtless  will  shiver  to-night  because  they  generously  allowed 
the  sick  person  to  take  the  quilt  with  him.  In  place  of  the  nurse,  you  will  see 
a  relative  or  neighbor  of  the  patient,  in  his  filthy  clothing,  clumsily  waiting 
on  him  ;  because  there  is  no  nurse,  and  unfortunately  the  doctor's  day  holds 
only  twenty-four  hours. 

For  a  moment  you  may  stop  to  recall  that  this  hospital  furnishes  the  only 
surgical  relief  for  a  district  containing  three  millions  of  people.  Then  you 
will  count  the  twenty-five  "beds"  while  you  ponder  the  fact  that  often 
eighty  people  occupy  these  beds. 

Do  you  wonder  that  the  Chinese  gentleman  who  came  in  yesterday  with  his 
son,  for  operation,  left  early  this  morning,  repulsed  by  the  lack  of  proper 
accommodations  and  privacy?  And  do  you  wonder  that  we  often  are  heart- 
sick trying  to  work  in  such  conditions  ? 

But  a  better  day  is  dawning  1  Another  foreign  doctor  has  been  added  to 
our  staff,  and  a  trained  nurse  is  ready  to  come.  A  committee  of  leading 
Chinese  and  of  foreigners  has  asked  the  Board  for  a  new  hospital.  The 
doctor,  rubbing  his  eyes  with  a  sense  of  unreality,  has  drawn  plans  for  an 
adequate  sixty-four  bed  hospital,  to  cost  |10,000  gold. 

One-tenth  of  that  sum  is  in  hand.  And  we  hope  that  some  who  are  giving- 
for  the  China  Campaign  will  designate  their  gifts  "for  the  new  hospital  at 
Weihsien." 

Ever  yours  heartily, 

Mabel  M.  Roys. 
(Mrs.  C.  K.) 


THE  SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY  573 

PERSONALS 

Contributions  to  this  department  are  desired  before  the  end  of  the  month, 
in  order  to  appear  in  the  next  month's  issue,  and  should  be  addressed  to 
Lilian  Peters,  Dickinson  House.  Northampton,  Massachusetts. 

'09.     Frances  Bickford  has  been  made  head  of  the  school  department  of  the 
New  Haven  library. 

Mrs.  George  Deming  Grannis  (Louise  Winthrop)    Address  :    2301  Port- 
land Avenue,  Minneapolis,  Minnesota. 

'11.     Anna  Doyle  has  been  teaching  Latin  and  French  in  the  High  School  at 
Lenox,  Massachusetts. 

Marian  Hazeltine  has  been  teaching  Latin  and  History    in  the  High 
School  at  Belfast,  Maine, 

Margaret  Keen  has  been  cruising  in  the  West  Indies. 

Mary  Lewis  has  been  teaching  English  in  Martha  Washington  College, 
Abingdon,  Virginia. 

Elizabeth  Macdougall  has  been  teaching  Domestic  Science  in  New  York. 

Eleanor  Mills  has  gone  to  Europe, 

Frederica  Mead  has  gone  on  a  trip  around  the  world. 

Mrs.  Riley  McConnell  (Grace  Otteson)  is  living  at  the  Navy  Yard,  Mare 
Island,  California, 

Dwight  Power  is  working  with  a  publishing  company  in  New  York. 
Address  :     "  The  Judson,"  Washington  Square,  New  York  City, 

Raena  Ryerson  and  Helen  Scriver  are  going  abroad  together  this  month. 

Elizabeth  Sherwood  is  at  home.  Address  :  113  Harvard  Street,  Spring- 
field, Massachusetts. 

Margaret  Shepard  is  playing  among  the  second  violins  of  the  MacDowell 
Club  Orchestra  of  Boston,  Mass. 

Loretta  Wallace  is  Directress  of  a  girl's  club  in  the  University  Settle- 
ment, and  a  Friendly  Visitor  in  connection  with  the  Orange,  New 
Jersey,  Bureau  of  Charities. 

Marian  Yeaw  has  been  acting  as  chairman  of  the  East  Orange  Day 
Nursery. 

*13.    Edith  Alden  has  been  teaching  in  the  Essex  High  School,  Essex,  Mas- 
sachusetts. 

Marion  Amsden  has  been  teaching  Biology  and  French  in  the  High 
School  at  Melrose,  Massachusetts. 

Beatrice  Armijo  is  at  home.  Address  :  269  West  79th  Street,  New  York 
City. 

Alene  Ayres  is  at  home.  Address  :  216  Ogden  Street,  Bridgeport,  Con- 
necticut. 


574  THE  SMITH   COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

'13.    Ruth  Bach-Wiig  is  at  home.     Address  :    507  Cumberland  Avenue,  Port- 
land, Maine. 

Charlotte  Barrows  has  been  teaching  French  and  Ancient  History  in  the 
Rockville  High  School  at  Rockville,  Connecticut. 

Cora  Beach  has  been  teaching   Mathematics,  English,  and  History  in 
Walden,  New  York. 

Josephine  Beecher  has  been  teaching  Latin  and  German  in  the  Livonia 
High  School,  Livonia,  New  York. 

Eleanor  Brodie  is  at  home.     Address:    16  Sewall  Avenue,  Brookline, 

Massachusetts. 

Caroline  Daugherty  has  been  teaching  in  the  Public  Schools  of  Indiana, 
Pennsylvania. 

Lillian  Dowd  is  at  home.     Address :    11  Spruce  Street,  Nashua,  New 
Hampshire. 

Gertrude  Dudley  is  at  home.     Address :    76  Pearl  Street,  Malone,  New 

York- 
Catherine  Ferry  is  at  home.     Address :    88  Elizabeth  Street,  Pittsfield, 

Massachusetts. 

Constance  Fowler  is  at  home.     Address:    40  Ingersoll  Grove,  Spring 
field,  Massachusetts. 

Helen  Kempshall  is  at  home.     Address  :    240  South  Broad  Street,  Eliza- 
beth, New  Jersey. 

Ethel  Libby  is  at  home.    Address :    15  Pine  Street  Court,  Springfield, 
Massachusetts. 

Martha  McMillan  is  at  home.     Address:    941  James  Street,  Syracuse, 
New  York. 

Marie  Moody  is  at  home.     Address :    212  Ashland  Boulevard,  Chicago, 
Illinois. 

Hildur  Osterberg  has  been  taking  a  post-graduate  course  in  the  Univer- 
sity of  Southern  California,  Los  Angeles,  California. 

Theia  Powers  is  at  home.    Address  :    Lyndonville,  Vermont. 

Harriet  Scholermann  is  at    home.    Address :    171    Field  Point  Road, 
Greenwich,  Connecticut. 

Blanche  Staples  has  been  teaching  in   the  York  High  School,  York 
Village,  Maine. 

Edith  Strong  has  been  teaching  in  the  Central  Grammar  School,  New 
Britain,  Connecticut. 

Meron  Taylor  has  been  teaching  Chemistry,  Botany,  Zoology,  and  Latin 
in  the  High  School  at  Stroudsburg,  Pennsylvania. 


THE  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY      575 

'13    Mabel  Weld  has  been  teaching  in  New  City,  New  York. 

Marjorie  Willson  has  been  teaching  English  and  History  in  the  Whites 
School,  Austin,  Texas. 

MARRIAGES 

'94.     Olivia  Dnnbar  to  Ridgely  Torrence,  February  21,  1914. 

'95.     Ruth  Warren  to  Erwin  F.   Smith.     Address  :     1474  Belmont  Street, 
North  West,  Washington,  District  of  Columbia. 

'06.     Carrie  McKay  to  George  P.  Crema.    Address:    412  11th  Street,  Ocean 
City,  New  Jersey. 

Elizabeth  Roberts  to    Arthur    G.    Browne.    Address :    1115  North    E 
Street,  Tacoma,  Washington. 

'07.    Louise  DeForest  to  Robert  Veryard,  December  3,  1913.    Address :    Care 
of  Chinese  Y.  M.  C  A.,  Tokio,  Japan. 

'09.     Gertrude  Gerrans  to  Charles  W.  Pooley,  January  17,  1914.    Address : 
Linwood  Terrace,  Buffalo,  New  York. 
Jean  MacDuiiie  to  George  D.  Pirnie.     Address  :    112  Magnolia  Terrace, 
Springfield,  Massachusetts. 

Eleanor  Mann   to  Harvey  D.  Blakeslee,  April  15,  1914.    Address  :    48 
Inwood  Place.  Buffalo,  New  York. 

Alice  Woodruff  to  Donald  D.  Willcox,  April  4,  1914.     Address  :    94  Lin- 
den Street,  New  Haven,  Connecticut. 

'11.    Helen  Earle  to  Henry  R.  Johnston,  May  20,  1914. 

Edith  Foster  to  Henry  Strong  Huntington,  Jr.    Address :    122    State 
Street,  Watertown,  New  York. 

lima  Sessions  to  Robert  Hunt  Johnson,  April   13,  1914.     Address     296 
Woodward  Street,  Waban,  Massachusetts. 

Mary  Vidaud  to  Heermance  M.  Howard,  April  18,  1914. 

ex-'ll.    Clarice  Taylor  to  Robert  M.   Williams  of  Rochester,  New  York, 
March  17,  1914. 

'12.    Mary  Butler  to  Chester  Wright,  January  20,  1914. 

Henrietta  Dana  to  Thomas  D.   Hewitt,  April    25,   1914.     Address,    118 
Hicks  Street,  Brooklyn,  New  York. 

Theo  Gould  to  Raymond D.  Hunting,  March  31, 1914.     Address  :  41  Long 
Street.  Allston,  Massachusetts. 

Carolyn  Ward  to  Dr.  Harry  Ingling,  February  11,  1914.    Address  :    51 
West  Main  Street,  Freehold,  New  Jersey. 

'13.     Florence  Hirscheimer  to  Paul  Rosenwasser,  February  9, 1914.     Addr  ess 
1315  North  Market  Street,  Canton,  Ohio. 

Vera  O'Donnel  to  Guilford  Jones.     Address  :  Colorado  Springs,  Colorado. 


576  THE   SMITH   COLLEGE   MONTHLY 

ENGAGEMENTS 

'00.     Florence  E.  Shepardson  to  E.  S.  Taggard  of  Portersville,  California. 

'11.     Adaline  Moyer,  June  17,  1914. 

'12.     Louise  Hibbs  to  Rev.  Roscoe  M.  Meadows.     To  be  married  this  month. 

BIRTHS 

'00.     Mrs.  Francis  D.  Costello  (Julia  Gragg),  a  son,  James  Gragg,  born  April 
1, 1914. 

Mrs.  Roilin  Polk  (Beth  Crandall),  a  daughter,  Betsy,  born  April  26,  1914. 

'10.     Mrs.  Nelson  R.  Peet  (Gertrude  Barry),  a  son,   Samuel  Clinton,  born 
April  4,  1914. 

'11.    Mrs.  Harvey  Hall  (Florence  Foster),  a  son,  Harvej^  Hall,  Jr.,  born  April 
9,  1914. 

Mrs.  Claude  P.  Terry  (Chloe  Gillis),  a  daughter,  Claudia  Gillis,  born 
November  26,  1913. 

Mrs,   Cyrus    Boutwell  (Margaret  McCrary),   a    daughter,    born    April 
23,  1914. 
€cc-'ll.    Mrs.  William  P.  Gaddis  (Katharine  Berrj^hill).  a  daughter. 

Mrs.   Alder  Ellis  (Grace  Child),  a  son.  Alder  Ellis,  Jr.,   born  October 
15,  1913. 

'i;^.    Mrs.  Frances  B.  Davis  (Patty  Westcott),  a  daughter,  Elaine  Seymour, 
born  February  13,  1914. 

'13.    Mrs.  William  F.  Zimmerman  Jr.  (Susan  Phelps),  a  son  William  Fred- 
eric 3rd,  born  March  9,  1914.