Skip to main content

Full text of "The Smith College Monthly"

See other formats


This is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on Hbrary shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project 

to make the world's books discoverable online. 

It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject 

to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books 

are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover. 

Marks, notations and other maiginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the 

publisher to a library and finally to you. 

Usage guidelines 

Google is proud to partner with libraries to digitize public domain materials and make them widely accessible. Public domain books belong to the 
public and we are merely their custodians. Nevertheless, this work is expensive, so in order to keep providing this resource, we liave taken steps to 
prevent abuse by commercial parties, including placing technical restrictions on automated querying. 
We also ask that you: 

+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Google Book Search for use by individuals, and we request that you use these files for 
personal, non-commercial purposes. 

+ Refrain fivm automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are conducting research on machine 
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the 
use of public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help. 

+ Maintain attributionTht GoogXt "watermark" you see on each file is essential for informing people about this project and helping them find 
additional materials through Google Book Search. Please do not remove it. 

+ Keep it legal Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just 
because we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States, that the work is also in the public domain for users in other 
countries. Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of 
any specific book is allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner 
anywhere in the world. Copyright infringement liabili^ can be quite severe. 

About Google Book Search 

Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers 
discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web 

at |http : //books . google . com/| 










/ — 

6in Of 


NOV 4 1932 


Smith Colleae 


October * 1000. 
CoitDuctet) b|? tbc Senior Claaa. 



T&B Value or trb College Life 

Ivy Poem 

The Fairy Gk)DM0THEB'8 Answer 

A Memory 

Horror of an Unknown TmNO 

Mary BueU Saylea 2900 ) 

Charlotte Lowry Marsh 1900 6 

EtM Augusta Porter 1903 6 

Eihd Baratow Howard 1901 12 






An Underoraduatb View of Smith Golleqe Ideals 

To Smitb College 
One College Success 

A Woman's Way 
St. John's Eve . 

Charlotte Burgis DeForest 1901 18 

Helen Iwbel WdOmdge 1902 17 

EUen Oray Barbour 1903 IB 

Eliiaheth Scribner Brown 1901 2d> 

Jtforsvi^rifiB Cutler Page 1901 26 

Marie Stuart 1901 29 

Attie Neai Locke 1901 29i 

The Girl who "Looks" 

In Which the Cow Does Not Appear 

Margaret Hamilton Wagenhdlk 1903 81 
Margaret Rebeeea Piper 1901 86; 

The Song of the Sea 

My Fire . 

A Lullaby 

Martha Melisea Hotvey 1901 87 
Eda wm Letka Brun^ 1902 88 


The Smith College Monthly is published at Northampton, Massachu- 
setts, on the 15th of each month, daring the year from October to Jane, iucla-^ 
sive. Terms, $1.60 a year, in advance. Single nnmbers, 20 cents. Contri- 
bations may be left at 8 Gynmasiam Hall. Sabecriptions may be sent tO' 
E. M. deliong, 58 High Street, Northampton. 

Entered at the Post Offloe at Northampton, Maasachasetts, as eecond olaoa mattect. 

■M>rAIIO Ct)lL(6e 



eiFT 0» 



NC'* - ■" 



Smith College Monthly 


Ethel Wallace Hawkins, 
Charlotte Bubois Deforest, Ruth Louise Gaines, 

Ethel Barstow Howard, Marguerite Cutler Page, 

Jean Shaw Wilson, Laura Woolset Lord. 

business manager, 
Ethel Marguerite deLono. 

Vol Vm. OCTOBER, 1900. No. i. 



** Knowledge not purchased by the loss of power ; " — thus does 
"Wordsworth define the only knowledge which he believes to be 
"** rightly honored with that name/' What precisely does he 
mean us to understand by this "power'' which he so highly 
exalts ? He has nowhere told us ; but so much at least is evi- 
dent : it is a power larger than intellectual power and inclusive 
of it, as the whole man is larger than and includes his mind. 
It is of this power, and of some of the elements which the col- 
lege life contributes to its upbuilding, that I wish to speak. 
How then shall I define it ? It is the total capacity to deal with 
life, to organize out of its manifold experiences a complete in- 
dividual being, capable of effective activity. The building up 
of this great central power, on which all lesser powers depend, 
seems to me the supreme end of education. 

I am endeavoring, you see, gracefully to avoid that eternally 
recurring academic question, Is character or activity the true 
end of life ? — since I can not conceive of a strong and good 
character failing to express itself in effective and benevolent 
activity, nor, on the other hand, of effective and benevolent 


activity proceeding otherwise than from a strong and good 
character. Furthermore, I am leaving entirely at one side the 
various practical ends which, from necessity or choice, individ- 
ual students set before themselves ; for the reason that they are 
" various," while I am seeking to get at the universal common 
end toward which, whether consciously or not, all of us alil^e 
are working. None of us are designed to be either mere wage- 
earners or mere ornaments to cultured society. And therefore I 
ask you to lay aside for the moment all thought of the various 
preparations for specific tasks offered by the college, and to 
consider with me some of the ways in which life in the college 
world fits one for the larger life of a larger world, aids in the 
building up of the power to deal with its problems and to or- 
ganize an efficient individuality out of its complexities. 

There is one misconception of the college life — by no means 
the most common one, I fancy, and yet, where it exists, a se- 
rious one— which I would gladly remove at the outset. The 
college world is emphatically not a simple world, — a world of 
cloistered calm, and studious silence, and serene, wide spaces 
for meditation. It is, in Wordworth's phrase — used of his own 
Alma Mater, but equally applicable to ours — " a living part of 
a live whole," an organic part of the exceedingly complex 
whole of our modern world. And it is its very complexity 
which makes life in this college world at once so difficult and so 
valuable an experience. On the one hand, a thousand conflict- 
ing interests and ambitions are constantly luring the student to 
forget that supremely important end of the whole educational 
process, growth in power ; while on the other hand, with the 
resistance of these tendencies, with the steady control of com- 
plicated conditions and the intelligent direction of individual 
energies among them, comes a sort of power that can never 
come where conditions are simple and all one's life is plotted 
out for one. That misdirections of energy result, with mis- 
takes and failures innumerable, often deepest where to the out- 
ward eye success is most complete, — all this is inevitable. But 
did all her ways lie clear before the college girl from the outset, 
were she forced to make no perplexing choices and to grapple 
with no bewilderingly difficult problems, how much better fit- 
ted to make such choices and to grapple with such problems 
would she be at the end than she was at the beginning ? Some- 
times in the struggle she may lose her sense of proportion ; but 




irr ORATION 3 

the truest sense of proportion is that which is evolved out of 
confusion, for it is the only kind that can be trusted to survive 
worse confusions to come. 

There are two great essentials of that power of dealing with 
life which I defined a little while ago : knowledge of self, and 
knowledge of human nature. The great value of the college 
life, to my mind, is the way in which it forces upon every par- 
ticipant in it some knowledge at least of these two great reali- 
ties. If, looking back upon her four years' course, the gradu- 
ate can feel that despite her many mistakes and failures and 
follies, she has laid firm hold on the first of these two great 
essentials, the knowledge of self, has come to understand, once 
for all, her own powers, limitations, and capacities ; and has 
hegxin to grasp the meaning of the second, to understand some- 
thing of the richness and fullness and marvelousness of human 
nature,— then she has reason to be profoundly grateful for all 
the experiences that have forced upon her the knowledge of 
these things. 

For forced upon her it is. Especially diflBcult, well-nigh im- 
possible indeed, is it for her to avoid self-knowledge. The 
many-sidedness of the college life compels her to test her abili- 
ties and character in all directions. Continual comparison of 
herself with others of the same age, but of widely diflferent na- 
tures and attainments, reveals unsuspected weaknesses and un- 
guessed strength. Then, too, she is seldom left to her own ob- 
servations and conclusions on herself. Nothing is more char- 
acteristic of the college life than its frankness. Most of us are 
furnished by our friends, before we leave it, with all needed 
materials from which to construct that view of **oursels as 
ithers see us," which is so important a part of the total knowl- 
edge of self. There is much, too, to be learned from the good- 
humored banter of comrades ; for elements of serious criticism 
are easily detected under the friendly fun. The last traces of 
sentimentality and conceit — those twin frailties of youth— are 
laughed out of the college girl long before the end of her se- 
nior year ; and a good, healthy, vigorous sense of humor is 
laughed in. 

No quality of mind is more appreciated in the world to-day 
than this same sense of humor ; and not the least valuable con- 
tribution of the college life to the power of the individual is 
the ability to see things in that sort of proportion and perspec- 


tive which humor— true humor^ the cliosen companion of sanity 
and mental poise — gives. The growing knowledge of self alone 
furnishes ample opportunity for its exercise, if, as has been 
said, the final test of a sense of humor is the ability to laugh at 
oneself. Without such a sense of humor, on the other hand, 
thorough self-knowledge can not exist ; for on it does the in- 
stinctive perception of the true relation between the self and 
the outer world depend, — a relation which no philosophical 
theory satisfactorily explains. But the sense of humor does 
not come alone to bless the newly self-enlightened individual. 
Sanity and mental poise, as I have said, are its almost insepara- 
ble companions ; and with them comes courage. Oneself is sel- 
dom an altogether pleasant person to look in the eye ; but the 
deed once done, though few of us can claim full credit for it, 
we have dared to face that greatest of miseries, our own weak- 
ness, and should be ready, like Teufelsdrackh, to shake off base 
fear forever. Thus self-knowledge brings self-command, per- 
haps the most difficult of all forms of command, — certainly an 
absolute essential of every other form. 

So much for the knowledge of self which the college life 
teaches. The knowledge of human nature — of course at best 
a knowledge of the first rudiments only of that vast subject — 
is not forced upon the student with quite the same rigor. Yet 
certain peculiar opportunities for its study are offered. Our 
college community is indeed in one way singularly undiversi- 
fied. We are all young, we are all of the same sex, we are all 
interested in things intellectual, we form but one social class. 
But within these limits what variety prevails ! Every type of 
character, every kind of ability, every degree and variety of 
culture, every form of prejudice and provincialism to be found 
in the outside world, is represented here. Then, too, the mem- 
bers of the college world have altogether peculiar opportunities 
for coming to know one another. The exigencies of the cam- 
pus house system, the labors of committees and societies, the 
interests of class work, draw together girls of the most diverse 
kinds. Somehow they manage to work with and to learn from 
one another ; and each comes to realize that the world would 
be a very queer place, and life quite unlivable, were her fellow- 
beings mere duplicates of herself. Thus she learns the value 
of adaptability, the necessity for organization, and its practical 
workings ; and these are lessons of immense importance in the 


modem world, where the complex interrelations between indi- 
viduals and groups of men are recognized and dealt with as 
they have never been before. 

Bat there is another gain from the knowledge of hnman na- 
ture, as much greater than this practical one as poetry is greater 
than prose ; yet harder to define, as the things of the heart are 
always harder to define than the things of the head. Of a 
value hardly to be exaggerated is that broadening of the sym- 
pathies which all trae knowledge of others brings. Every time 
that we lay hold on the central principle of another's being, see 
the world through his eyes, and grapple with his problems, the 
Umits of our own beings miraculously expand and we feel our- 
selves of a sudden larger and richer and stronger. Nor is this 
all; for the peculiar virtue of genuine sympathy, as distin- 
guished from the sentimental and enfeebling thing falsely so 
called, is that it impels to action ; it furnishes the only real 
basis for vital and helpful work. Without it no one can 
possess in its fullness that power of dealing with life which is 
essential to the full-grown citizen of the world. 

Have I attributed too great a share in the building up of this 
power to the college life ? It is a most imperfect life. No one 
sees more clearly than do we who have lived it, its absurdities 
and immaturities, its narrowness, its provincialisms. But in its 
essential soundness and sanity and helpfulness we all believe ; 
and above all, in the promise of power which it holds out to all 
who live it in a spirit of earnestness. 

Mary Buell Saylbs. 


It hath passed by — ^the little space of time- 
Like a fair dream, and these few summer days 

Crown with rose blossoming and loveliness 
Onr comradeship along the pleasant ways. 

It hath been told— the tale of fleeting years, 
And lo, we leave a living thing to twine 

Clinging and close as memory and love, — 
Live thon like memory, O ivy vine. 


We have gone hand in hand a little while, 

And dreamed a dream, and searched a mystery 
With yonng, brave vision, and have faintly seen 

Behind the dream a hox>e and prophecy. 
We have sown seed of tmth npon our sonls, 

With hearts that sang and made their own sunshine, 
Spite of dim fear and the far harvesting, — 

Live thon like snnuy hope, O ivy vine. 

And lo, we linger at the parting time 

A little while, because we love the way 
Our feet have trodden coming hitherward, 

With all its tangled thorns and blossoms gay. 
The shadow of the past creeps softly on, 

And love would leave behind a living sign 
Among the echoes and the memories, — 

Live thou like love, O little ivy vine. 

Charlotte Lowry Marsh. 


Lettice had been a good girl all the morning, so Aunt Jane 
had said ; and Aunt Jane knew that to be good during a hot 
August forenoon and till three o'clock in the afternoon, was not 
the easiest thing in the world, especially for ten-year-old little 
girls. As Lettice had finished the last towel that was ready to 
hem. Aunt Jane decided to give the child a reward of merit, 
or, in other words, to let her play for an hour with Ann Law- 
ton. After all. Aunt Jane was sorry for the poor little thing 
and tried to do her best by her. But to Lettice, Aunt Jane's 
best was a strange and unsatisfactory quantity, the existence of 
which she sometimes altogether doubted, and which, even in 
later years, she could never wholly understand. 

This day, however, had been an exception. Aunt Jane had 
been quite kind. Not like her mamma — oh no ! But perhaps a 
fairy godmother was just beginning to turn Aunt Jane into 
somebody very, very nice, who would truly love her, and — and 
be like her own mother. What supposing this was the first of 
it ? Perhaps to-morrow Aunt Jane would kiss her good night, 
and maybe the night after she would hold her in her lap and 
tell her a long, long story. The child laughed at the pure joy 
of it all as she ran across lots to Ann's. 


Ann was two years older than Lettice. She was quite aware 
of the fact herself, considering Lettice as childish and generally 
queer. Lettice liked to play little-girl plays, too, and Ann felt 
herself getting too old for such things. Consequently as she 
saw Lettice coming, she made up her mind that it was too hot 
to play, and that it would be more befitting her age and dignity 
if they just talked under the apple-trees. Besides, the minister 
and his wife were invited to tea and might arrive any minute, 
so she mustn't get her dress or hair mussed up. Thus it came 
about that after a time Ann sat primly beneath the trees, with 
Lettice lying beside her in the grass, talking. 

"Did you ever wish you had a fairy godmother?" Lettice 

" A what ? " asked Ann, with an astonished look. 

" Why, a fairy godmother," explained Lettice. " Somebody 
to come to help you the minute you wished for her, and give 
you everything you wanted just when you wanted it." 

"I don't believe there's any such person," announced the 
other child, firmly. ** Where'd you ever hear of one ? " 

" Oh, my own mamma used to tell me about 'em," answered 
Lettice, with a far-away look in her brown eyes. ** She used to 
tell me lovely stories about giants, and fairies, and beautiful 
princesses. You just ought to have heard her ! And the fairy 
godmother always used to do the wonderfullest things !— give 
the good people lots of nice things, and punish the bad people 
80 that they were just as 'shamed, and turn queer people into 
splendid ones. It was just fun ! " 

" But it wa'n't true," objected Ann. 

"Oh well," Lettice replied, "you could make believe, you 
know, just as easy. It isn't hard a bit, Ann, not a bit. My 
mamma knew how to do it." 

"Perhaps she'd show me how," suggested her companion, 

" Oh, she can't, now," returned Lettice, in a shocked voice; 
"don't you remember, she's gone to heaven. That's why I 
have to live with Aunt Jane." 

"I forgot," stammered Ann; then, after a pause, "Was 
your mother like your Aunt Jane ? " 

"Oh no !" exclaimed Lettice, "my mamma used to love me, 
and kiss me good night, and tell me stories ; but Aunt Jane 
just makes me wipe dishes and hem towels ; and all the stories 


she ever tells are on Sundays about Daniel in the lions' den, and 
Jonah and the whale. And then she'll say, ' Now get your lit- 
tle Bible and read it all over, and don't ask me to tell you any 
more stories to-day. You're old enough to amuse yourself.'" 

*' That's the way I get my stories," Ann remarked. " They're 
true when you take 'em out of the Bible. I sh'd think you'd 
like 'em better when they're true." 

" Oh no ! " contradicted Lettice. " You just see what fun it 
is ! I'll show you how to play fairy godmother." 

" Ann ! " called a shrill voice. 

"In a minute," Ann shouted; then in a lower tone, "I 
don't believe there'd be much fun in that play ; 'twouldn't be 
real a bit. Anyway, I'm older than you. Perhaps if I was 
your age I'd like to play it. But I've got to go ; we've got com- 
pany come. Ask your aunt if you can't come over another 

" If I hem a lot of towels, perhaps she'll let me next week,'^ 
replied Lettice. " Why don't you come down to see me ? " 

" Ann I " called the shrill voice again. 

" Yes, I'm coming. —Perhaps I will. Qood-by, Lettice," and 
Ann ran up to the house, while Lettice walked slowly back over 
the fields. 

Half-way across W€is an old stone-heap around which were 
great clumps of yellow daisies. Lettice paused among them to 
pick a few. 

" If I was going home to my own mamma," she said softly, 
" I'd take her a big bunch of these, and we'd have 'em on the 
table. But Aunt Jane calls 'em weeds, and I don't believe the 
fairy godmother's got her along as far as liking flowers. I 
guess I'd better help the fairy godmother, and not bother Aunt 
Jane. — Poor little daisies I " She kissed those she had picked 
and gently laid them down one by one in the grass. 

"Qood-by," she whispered; then, turning, ran lightly on 
until she reached the house. 

She found Aunt Jane writing a letter. As the child entered 
the door, the woman looked up in surprise. 

"Why, you actually came back on time!" she remarked. 
" I've got something for you to do, so it's a good thing you 
didn't stay any longer." 

"What is it ?" Lettice asked. 

"Your Aunt Susan and your Uncle John are coming to sup- 


per to-morrow night/' announced Aunt Jane, " and I want you 
to go straight down to Mis' Shaw's with this note, and ask her 
and the deacon to come up, too. It's all written in the note. 
And don't stay, come right back ! " 

Lettice took the note, inwardly rejoicing at the prospect of 
company, but outwardly very quiet. Aunt Jane liked quiet 
girls. As soon €is she was out of sight of the house, however, 
her face dimpled all over and she clapped her hands. 

^'It means cake and cookies, and the best tea-things, and the 
silver, and all the pretty dishes," she cried. " Won't it be fun ! 
How fast the fairy godmother works ! " 

She did her errand as swiftly as possible, and when she re- 
turned, Aunt Jane actually praised her. 

"You're getting to be quite a help," she had said. " I guess 
it does you good to play with Ann Lawton. She's a real good 
little girl, and I hope you'll try to be just like her." 

Lettice turned to the window and curled her lip. Ann was 
stupid at making believe. She didn't want to be like Ann. 
Then the recurring thought of company drove all else from her 

The next day was all hurry and bustle. Lettice did her best 
to please Aunt Jane, but Aunt Jane would not be pleased. 
Lettice tried to help polish the silver and wipe the cups ; but 
the woman finally declared that she was more bother than she 
was worth, always under foot, and, giving her a basted square 
of patchwork, told her to sew that. So with lips that trembled, 
and eyes that winked hard, the child sat by the window and 
sewed. Thoughts as hard as the lumps in her throat rose in her 
mind, but with the thoughts the desire to cry vanished. 

•'I wish Aunt Jane'd drop some of the dishes," she half whis- 
pered, at length. "I wish the fairy godmother'd joggle her 
elbow, so she'd drop a whole pile of plates. And then I'd have 
the pieces to play house with, — I just wish she would." 

Suddenly there was a crash. Lettice jumped. Aunt Jane 
exclaimed, " Goodness alive ! " On the floor lay six pieces of 
what had been but a moment before a small blue platter. Aunt 
Jane gazed at the fragments in dismay not unmingled with 

"Well, there's no use crying over spilt milk," she remarked 
at last. "You can pick up the pieces, Lettice, and carry 'em 
out to the stone-heap. It'll be good work for you.— Everything 
goes wrong to-day." 


Lattice gathered up the bits of china, but did not take them 
out to the stone-heap. She hid them carefully under the gar- 
den hedge, gloating over Aunt Jane's discomfort and glorying 
in the addition to her slender store of playthings. 

It was well the child had the memory of this to help her 
through the rest of that long, hard day ; for Aunt Jane grew 
hotter and tireder and crosser, until she put on her company 
manners with her company dress. Lettice went to bed early 
that night as usual, hoping that to-morrow Aunt Jane would 
be nicer. But to-morrow came, and another to-morrow ; and 
the fairy godmother, from whom Lettice had hoped so much, 
seemed to have utterly abandoned her work. 

" I wonder if I've made Aunt Jane mad,*' said Lettice once, 
stopping in the midst of her fourth dinner-party with the broken 
bits of china. " I'm afraid p'raps I was kind of wicked the 
day we had company. I most wish I hadn't thought of having 
Aunt Jane break the dishes. Perhaps if I hadn't, she'd be 
nicer to me. Oh, I do wish she'd like me. I wonder if I couldn't 
do something big, so she'd be real s'prised and pleased." 

She began to think hard, with hands clasped over her knees. 
What was there she could do to show the fairy godmother that 
she really deserved to have Aunt Jane reformed, and to make it 
easy for Aunt Jane to love her ? Suddenly she seized the frag- 
ments of the platter and began fitting the six pieces together. 
Yes, they all joined nicely,— and glue would make them stay 
joined. But she didn't want to give them up ; it was such fun 
to play with them. A shadow swept over her face. She clasped 
her hands again over her knees, and swayed back and forth, 
trying to make up her mind. At last the unsatisfied longing 
for love overcame everything else ; and with a pitiful little 
smile, she gathered the pieces tenderly together and made her 
way to the kitchen. Aunt Jane had gone to a missionary meet- 
ing, so Lettice had a clear field before her. She laid the' china 
on the table, and climbing a chair, took the glue-pot from the 

" Aunt Jane never lets me use the glue," she said hesitating- 
ly. "I don't know as I ought to do it ; but Aunt Jane'U be so 
pleased with the platter that she won't care about the glue. I 
just know she won't." 

She put the pot on the stove and added a little water. She 
knew how — hadn't she watched Aunt Jane lots of times ? Then 
she discovered that the fire was out. 


" ril have to fix some more/' she thought. " Aunt Jane puts 
in paper, and shavings, and chips, and wood. I guess I can do 

Very laboriously she gathered her material together, and 
after much puffing and blowing, had the satisfaction of seeing 
the flames curl up around the paper and fasten upon the wood. 
She put the stove-lid on with a sigh of satisfaction, and moved 
the glue-pot farther front. Then pushing back the damp rings 
of hair from her face, she sat down to wait " till it bubbles, 
'cause that's the way Aunt Jane did." 

At last the bubbles appeared and Lettice set to work in good 
earnest. ** There ! " she said, as she pressed the third piece into 
place. " I guess Aunt Jane'll be pretty s'prised. It's going to 
look real nice when it's done. Oh dear I " as the clock in the 
next room struck four, " she'll be here pretty soon ; I've got to 
hurry fast." 

She spread the glue on the fourth piece and tried to join it to 
the rest of the platter ; but somehow she couldn't make it 
match, and in her haste she hit the first piece, so that it separa- 
ted itself from its neighbor. With an impatient exclamation, 
she bent down closer, and with greater efforts tried to press it 
back in place ; but her fingers were sticky and she grew more 
excited and more tired, and the platter would not stay together. 
She had tried so hard, why wouldn't it behave ? With brave 
persistency she started in anew, when suddenly the screen-door 
opened and Aunt Jane stalked in. Her grim, astonished eyes 
took it all in : the hot stove, the littered shaviugs, the glue-pot, 
forbidden to inexperienced hands, and Lettice, red and tired, 
bending over the broken platter. 

"Lettice Huntington Arnold!" she exclaimed. "What are 
you doing ? Haven't I told you time and time again not to 
touch that glue-pot ? And a fire, too ! What do you mean by 
mussing up my clean kitchen in this way ? " 

Lettice dropped her eyes to the floor. 

" I was — going — to mend the platter— and — and s'prise you," 
she said at last, in a trembling tone. 

"Well, I guess if that platter could have been mended, I'd 
have mended it myself," returned her aunt, unfeelingly. 
" How did you dare to be so wicked ? Take those pieces of 
china out to the stone-heap, and then go straight to bed." 

Lettice seized the fragments and stumbled out of the door. 


with hot tears blinding her eyes. She ran to the stone-heap 
and flung the china with a crash upon it. Then with a heart- 
breaking cry, she dropped upon the ground. 

*' Oh, I wish I had my own mamma," she sobbed. 

" What's the matter ?" asked a voice. 

Lettice lifted her tear-stained face. Ann Lawton stood look- 
ing down on her curiously. 

" I just — wanted my own mamma," she said in a choking 
voice, and buried her face again among the grasses. 

" Why don't you make believe ? " asked Ann, contemptuous- 
ly mindful of their last conversation. 

" It's no use," the child sobbed, brokenly. " I don't — want a 
make-believe mamma, — I want — my truly one," and the tears 
came again. 

Ann looked down timidly. Tears were almost unknown to 
her ; they were so babyish ; she hardly knew how to treat them. 
The little figure on the grass lay quivering in the attempt to 
control itself. The pitifulness of the half-stifled sobs found its 
way into even Ann's matter-of-fact heart, and a sudden wave 
of sympathy swept over her face. She dropped on her knees 
beside the child, and put her arms around her. 

" Don't cry," she whispered. 

Eva Augusta Porter. 


To-day I went into my true love's room, 
And all was there untroubled, as of old. 
The quaint, dull tapestries and carven wood 
Were burnished with the sunset's ruddy gold ; 
And there I saw my true love's broideries 
Unfinished, and her sweet-toned lute unstrung. 
And careless laid upon the window-seat. 
Where she had left it with a song unsung. 
Then through the oriel a little breeze 
From the rose gardens wafted me a breath 
Of summer's fragrance, such as she herself 
Had hoped to breathe in heaven — after death. 
And my true love, my own dear love, was gone ; 
Yet without tears I went into that place 
Where last I looked on her— I could not mourn. 
Remembering the smile upon her face. 


Something that falls npon ub with a chill 
At high-noon time ; a thing that tnmB the day 
To hideons grimace and mockery ; 
Something that langhs in hiding with a sonnd 
That freezes np the aool,— it Inrks close by,~ 
A thing we dread to hear and dare not see, 
Which darkness conld not hide nor silence still, 
Whose noise is never heard, whose sight remains 
Unknown to ns ;— and yet the fear of it, 
Abiding since the day when life began, 
Is branded on the sonls of all mankind. 

Ethel Babstow Howabd. 



The years of the average student in a woman's college are 
taken from that period in her life which is of most importance 
in its bearing on her future. She is making experiments, and 
her experiments are along two lines : first, in the adoption of 
ideals, and second, in the adoption of means by which to realize 
those ideals. Indeed, all our life may be said to be a series of 
experiments along these lines ; but naturally, the experimenta- 
tion is most pronounced and varied in the formative years, be- 
fore the plastic character of youth has hardened in the mold of 
habit. And the experiments have the greatest influence on life 
if they come in the latter part of the formative period, when 
the imagination — that factor of prime importance in the shap- 
ing of ideals — ^has been modified by experience and reason from 
the lawless fancy of childhood to a far-sighted and inspiring 
force. With the importance of these college years in mind, we 
come to ask what ideals the student finds here ready-made for 
her acceptance or modification, and what helps are offered her 
for their realization. 

The college has a double choice of ideals to make, one for it- 



self as a corporate body, one for the individual under its care. 
The college, realizing that it exists for its members, tries to 
benefit each individual by granting to each as much liberty of 
self -development as is compatible with the interests of a com- 
munity of students. Thus the college seems to find its ideal in 
flexibility in organization : organization there must be, if there 
is to be order ; and flexibility in custom and curriculum is a 
necessity, if the habits, tastes, and needs of hundreds of differ- 
ing students are to be consulted. Smith College as an organi- 
zation is working toward this ideal ; the changes which an 
undergraduate has seen in the past three years have tended 
toward its realization. If, in song last year, some of the classes 
memorialized themselves as "victims of experiment," it was 
more to indulge a sense of humor and a love for classification 
than to indicate the failure on their part to see the progress of 
which the " experiments " were signs. 

Throughout its existence, the guiding policy of this college 
has been freedom from tradition. Precedent here or in other 
colleges has not been considered a sufficient reason for any cus- 
tom or requirement. Tested by a standard of value rather 
than of age, however time-honored, such things as class and 
college yells, class enmities, hazing, and the academic cap and 
gown — in spite of widely differing opinions — have been found 
wanting. In our organizations, too, we differ from our sister 
colleges ; we have no intercollegiate fraternities, not even the 
Phi Beta Kappa, and our Association for Christian Work is not 
affiliated with the World's Student Christian Federation. Yet 
we do not take pride in this isolation for its own sake ; quite 
possibly, even probably, time will show that our policy has 
been carried to an extreme : but should that ever be, this same 
policy of freedom will be found as effective in breaking away 
from the errors of our own past as in avoiding those found in 
the past of other colleges. We do believe that in general 
this policy has been fruitful of great advantage to the college, 
and as its beneficiaries, we are grateful that its life began and 
has so long continued under the guidance of one master person- 
ality, of force sufficient to oppose the current of tradition, or 
turn its power into new channels of greater utility. 

Even by this time, the college woman has not outlived the pe- 
riod in which she herself is regarded as an experiment ; a state- 
ment of her value still calls forth in many places a raised eyebrow 


or a shrug. Colleges for women have no dor -ibt produced prigs ; 
they have produced blue-stockings, and s^i^'jmetimes unhelpful 
and unlovable women ; and the peculiaritj/ies of individual tem- 
peraments, accentuated perhaps by abnr^rmal conditions, have 
been interpreted as the undersirable rQ;J^sults of a college educa- 
tion. But in such cases the college ^nas been misunderstood. 
If you would find the ideal of this c^jllege, do not seek it in a 
woman's form with a man's intelle^^jt and a man's tastes ; the 
best of public opinion scouted 8uc>li an appearance as a phan- 
tom of horror before it had a chf^nce to become a type : nor will 
you find it in the professional, woman ; the college has long 
since left behind that period in its career when it was regarded 
as a training-school for specialists. The ideal of our college 
for each of its students is the attainment of intellectual woman- 

The intellectual factor of a college training is much more far- 
reaching than to include only the courses taken and the books 
studied. It includes all the forces which go to stimulate indi- 
vidual thinking. Students do not come to college to " finish " 
their education. I know of no phrase better expressing pre- 
cisely what it is not the purpose of the college to do for any 
one. The college fails in its intellectual aim if the formal edu- 
cation of its class-room has not begotten at least the seeds of an 
intellectuality which will find its nutrition in all the experiences 
of the future, and grow more and more toward the independ- 
ence and impartiality of deep and high thinking. This type of 
intellectuality assimilates to itself ; its knowledge is not put on 
like a garment, but is incorporated, — unlike that of an old man 
who once remarked that he had studied English grammar forty 
years before, and then added, *'But I hain't had no use for it 
since." The true intellectuality outlives the memory of dates 
and formulae, and is not dependent on particular surroundings ; 
it is subjective, tested by its ability to thrive on one end of a 
log without a Mark Hopkins on the other end. It is not, how- 
ever, for this reason visionary and unpractical. It is not akin 
to the schemes of Gilbert's Girl Graduates, who would fain ex- 
tract sunbeams from cucumbers and teach pigs how to fly. On 
the contrary, it is of great value in life, for while it candidly 

*' To recognize in things aronnd 
What can not tmly there be fonnd," 


it has the power to infuse into these things new ingredients 
which may transform them. 

Our college has before it the difficult task of distilling this 
essence of the intellectual out of the means of education at its 
hand. The most apparent of these means is the ordinary lec- 
ture or recitation, attendance upon which is rigidly required. 
In the face of this requirement, however, this college realizes 
that the adjustment of the mind to routine work under outside 
compulsion carries with it the danger of leaving the student 
without the will or the self-application to work when the press- 
ure is removed. Realizing this, the class-room seeks less to 
teach facts than to cultivate the philosophic attitude of mind, 
the scientific spirit, the sympathetic moral interest, — qualities 
which can not be crammed for an examination, nor divorced 
for the summer vacation. In granting its students the liberty 
of pursuing courses in art and music on the same basis as that 
of the usual academic studies, our college shows an apprecia- 
tion of the basal unity of culture ; and in the changes soon to 
go into operation, — changes in accordance with which the con- 
ferring of the A. B. degree is not limited to students of Greek 
and the higher mathematics, — this college has taken a long step 
forward, proving its realization of the truth that not the object 
of study, but the quality of the studying, makes the student. 

The college has other means than the purely academic for 
stimulating the intellectual life, — the campus houses. There in 
her fellow-students the student meets herself multiplied or divid- 
ed, with additions and subtractions of abilities, ambitions, expe- 
riences. Her condition, the circumstances of her fellow-beings, 
the vicissitudes of life, force themselves on her thought, and 
give her as knotty problems to solve as any that she meets in 
the class-room. On being told how many students there were 
here, a visitor once exclaimed, ** How much talking there must 
be ! " Talking— yes, there is much of it ; and it is one of the 
most valuable means ot education that the college can boast. 
Amid much conversation that is flippant, amid much that is 
purely recreative, there goes on incessantly an exchange of 
thought, a broadening of outlook, an increase of human inter- 
est, which can not be measured as a stimulant to the intellectual 

But I said that the ideal of our college for its students was 
intellectual womanliness. The intellectual is after all only the 


qualifying adjective ; the womanliness is the chief thing. 

Were the intellectual alone cnltivated, we should utterly fail of 

that "hannonious blending of the knowing and the loving 

powers *' of our nature, wherein, as Phillips Brooks tells us, 

lies the real secret of power. A healthful balance of nature's 

faculties must be cultivated and preserved ; we are to grow 

*' not alone in power 
And knowledge, bat by year and hour 
In reverence and in charity." 

When Mark Twain said that the cauliflower was only a cabbage 
gone through college, he showed a keen appreciation of the re- 
fining and transforming power of culture. The intellectual 
training which has not made finer and stronger the fibres of our 
very being has been sadly misdirected. 

Character and refinement, the love of the good and the beau- 
tiful, are letters which the world reads and remembers much 
better than it does an acute mentality. The prejudice which 
the college as an institution for woman has had to meet has 
been largely due to the fear that it would detract from her 
womanly virtues, her womanly charms. We try to prove that 
fear a mistaken one. In our four short years here, we test the 
little ideals of our past by the ideals the college has for us, and 
we test the college ideals by the highest standard of character 
and life which the world and our own souls can afford. And if 
the experiment of these vital college years is not a failure, they 
show us new truths, add emphasis to old ones, and teach us in 
loving gratitude to accept the ambition of the college for us : 
"To virtue, knowledge.'' 

Charlotte Burgis DeFgrkst. 


Once more we bring our hearts to thee. 

Once more onr hoi)eB we dedicate, 

O College of onr love ! — 

Thon mighty wind whom soul hath wrought. 

Whom none but soul again may move. 



As 8Tire as life that never ends, 

Thongh man may come and speak and go. 

So surely stand thy halls ; 

As shadows blowing on the sea, 

So frail our ivy on thy walls. 

O silent voice whom none may know, 
O tempest blast who goest forth 
Where none may follow thee, 
Thy children listen for thy word, 
Thy breath that they may hear and see. 

With empty words we dare not call, — 

Too deep she dwelleth in our thought, 

Too deep vnthin our heart. 

She is of life a x>art to us ; 

Her praise of life be more than part. 

To her we bring what we have done, 

Alike our failure, our success, — 

She is our guide in all ; 

Our sternest judge when we would boast. 

Our surest help if we should fall. 

To her we bring our hoxie of life, 

Our old ideals nobler grown. 

Her lesson sought for, found : — 

Life still is greater than our thought. 

For thought still waits, untaught, unbound. 

Thy blast bears out we know not where, 
The end we fear not, for his soul 
That wrought thy life in thee 
Still shapes thy course aright to those 
Whose sails have met the rougher sea. 

Once more we bring our hearts to thee. 

Once more our hopes we dedicate, 

O College of our love I — 

Thou mighty wind whom soul hath wrought. 

Whom none but soul again may move. 

Helen Isabel Walbridoe. 


On her first night in Northampton, Katherine Hayes went to 
sleep wondering what one of the girls had meant by talking 
about " those poor dazed freshmen." Why should a freshman 
be dazed ? To be sure, she had been a little puzzled, on her 
arrival, by the fact that they had not given her a single room. 
She had not told them that she wanted to room with anybody. 
And then, her trunk had not come ; she wondered if it could 
be that the expressman had not gotten the address right. There 
was certainly nothing bewildering about her junior room-mate. 
She was a pretty, jolly little girl, who sat on the edge of her bed 
and asked her questions, and, in the intervals of being embraced 
by returning classmates, tried unsuccessfully to discover mutual 
acquaintances. She had seemed a little surprised at Katherine's 
saying she was sure she should prefer a junior room-mate to 
one of her own class, but had answered that there were, of 
course, some advantages about the arrangement. Katherine 
wondered what it felt like to be homesick ; and then she won- 
dered if they were lonely without her, and whether she should 
get a letter to-morrow, and if they would take good care of her 
horse, Lynette, — how she should miss her I And she wondered 
if she really ought to be dazed. 

The first few days of college were full of interest. Katherine 
soon discovered what was meant by " dazed freshmen." She 
herself had been out of school a year, and certainly most of 
her class did seem young and '^ half-baked," and not quite sure 
where they were going. She had expected to find at once sev- 
eral congenial friends ; but if she did take a fancy to the girl 
she sat next to in chapel or recitation, she was more than likely 
not to see her again for days. The freshmen in her own house 
seemed particularly uninteresting, and had somehow gotten 
acquainted with each other before she decided that she wanted 
to know them. This decision she did not arrive at until she had 
discovered that the sophomores and upper-class girls, although 
cordial and ready with more or less reliable information, had 

for the most part their own groups of friends, and took it for 



granted that she would fall naturally into place among her own 
classmates. Why these classmates should put her down as 
*' snippish," she could not imagine. 

" At the Frolic," Katherine had read somewhere, " the fresh- 
man meets congenial members of her own class, and it is likely 
to prove the center from which many of her friendships ra- 
diate." But on the morning after the Frolic, she found that 
she could recall hardly a face. She remembered only a bewil- 
dering throng of figures in an extraordinary variety of cos- 
tume, ranging from full evening dress to shirt-waist and short 
piqu(5 skirt. One of the seniors, to be sure, had impressed her 
tremendously ; but she discovered, on bowing to her after 
church next day, that she had not produced a similar impres- 
sion upon the senior. Several members of her own class had 
promised to call. She was sure she should not be able to tell 
which was which when they came ; but they did not come. 

** Why don't you play with your little classmates in this 
house ?" her room-mate asked. ** Honestly, Katherine, that's 
the only way to begin. You can * expand ' more afterwards, if 
you want to. But it's so much more fun having your friends 
right around you." 

** Well, Alice, you know, the girls in my class all seem so 
young, somehow. It's funny, but I haven't found one of them 
yet that I'm sure I care to be friends with. I like that senior 
down at the end of the hall, though. I wonder why she doesn't 
pay any more attention to me. I'm sure I've always been nice 
to her." 

" It can't be that she thinks you seem so young, somehow ? " 

"Why, Alice, I don't think I seem young. No one ever told 
me so, I'm sure. And anyhow I thought the girls here would 
be so diflferentt I thought they came because they wanted to 
be improved, and — " 

" And now they won't let you improve them ?" 

Katherine turned away. It hurt her more than she would 
confess when she was laughed at. She generally took it well 
enough, but to-day she was not exactly in the humor to conceal 
what she felt. She was beginning to realize that she was ** out 
of it." She was not the kind of girl who is denominated 
** pill," and who, sooner or later, consistently rolls into place. 
She felt that if she did not fit into the mosaic at first, there was 
small chance that she would find her proper position later on ; 


still less would she eventually become the center of the pattern. 
At home, her companions had been carefully selected for her ; 
here, like Becky Sharp, she had to be her own mamma, and she 
trusted her own judgment at once too much and too little. 
"Slie was ever so nice to me yesterday," some girl would say, 
"and to-day she'll hardly speak to me." And one remark, 
which the speaker had been at no pains to make inaudible, was 
still rankling in Katherine's memory : " It's quite evident that 
that girl has had no bringing up whatsoever." A certain set of 
girls, however, pursued her with attentions which she found 
extremely distasteful. "It's their motto on the stairway 
doors," she told her room-mate, " that impressed me the first 
thing, and it's been growing steadily worse : ' Push.' " 

She came across the campus one afternoon as the juniors were 
pouring out of class meeting, and she caught scraps of their 
conversation : " Otherwise, it couldn't be better ; " ** I was so 
impressed by the fact that I only got five votes." — " Who's your 
president?" called some one, from a window. "Elizabeth 
Hodges," came the answer. " Isn't it grand ? " 

"Elizabeth Hodges,'' murmured Katherine, as she went on 
to her room. " Is that Elizabeth Hodges of Hamilton ?" she 
demanded, as her room-mate entered. 

" Why, you come from the same place, don't you ? Why 
didn't you tell me you knew her ? Isn't it fine she's elected ? " 

" But it seems so funny ! However did you happen to do it ? " 

" Happen to ? It was almost unanimous. She's the finest 
girl in the class." 

'^ It seems queer, that's all. I suppose she must be a nice 
girl, all right, but somehow nobody at home seemed to know 
her. There — that sounds terribly snobbish, doesn't it ? Only, 
that's the way things are there, you know." 

" Well, it isn't the way they are here," returned Alice. " We 
all think she's a mighty good sort of person to know. No- 
body'd any more think of patronizing her ! If she were to 
take you up — but then, I don't guess she will." 

'* I met her over in College Hall the other day," said Kathe- 
rine, with a trace of disapprobation in her tone, " and she said 
she was coming to call on me. It struck me as rather fresh at 
the time, but I suppose I'm greatly honored." 

Katherine's isolation was becoming irksome. For the sake of 
being less alone, she began to tolerate those whose attentions 


had at first annoyed her, and told herself that she was growing 
broad-minded. They were, she knew, the girls who had been 
loudest in condemning her as snobbish ; they were of the class 
who are never prouder than when they can come home from 
church and boast that they didn't hear a word of the sermon ; 
but still, they were good enough in their way. They were gen- 
erous and, to a large extent, sincere. Even if some motives 
for entering college were more commendable than others, those 
who came for " the life " were surely not to be blamed. At 
least they were consistent, for they manifested a beautiful in- 
difference to flunks and low grades. As the weeks went on and 
Katherine grew more intimate with them, she neglected her 
own class work more and more, and developed an extraordinary 
proficiency in the art of guessing. 

October passed, and Elizabeth Hodges did not call. Kathe- 
rine tried to make herself think that she was relieved, but she 
did not succeed, for she was uncomfortably conscious that a 
junior president does not necessarily make it her first duty to 
call on freshmen. 

Elizabeth, on her part, had given up all idea of making the 
call. She had been a little surprised by Katherine's manner 
toward her, and, concluding that the interview would not be 
particularly enjoyed by either, had put the matter out of her 
mind. It was recalled to her one evening when, in the parlors 
of one of the college houses, she was presented to a celebrity 
who had just been lecturing in Assembly Hall. 

*' Miss Hodges, from Hamilton, Professor Roland," some one 
had said. ** I believe you have friends there.'* 

" From Hamilton, Miss Hodges ? Then I've just come from 
your home. I was staying with Judge Hayes ; you know him, 
of course ? " 

** I know who he is," Elizabeth replied. 

** Then I suppose you know his daughter? She's up here," 
he said. ** Charming little girl ; I was disappointed not to find 
her at home." 

" I'm afraid I can't say I know Katherine very well. I im- 
agine slie's better known in her own class ; she's a freshman." 

*'0h, yes, yes, to be sure. I should say she'd be very popu- 
lar. Just the kind of girl to fit in here. Self-possossed, but 
not too much so ; really a charming manner." 

** She will 1)0 better known later, I'm sure," answered Eliza- 


beth, with some hesitation. There really did not seem to be 
anything to say about Eatherine ; her making such an impres- 
sion on the professor was decidedly puzzling. To her, Kathe- 
rine's manner had seemed anything but charming. But while 
Professor Roland was reconciling his impressions of Eatherine 
with Elizabeth's non-committal attitude by that generality 
which seems to the masculine mind of universal application, 
that all women are jealous, Elizabeth was beginning to realize 
the truth concerning Eatherine's position. **The poor child 
must feel simply lost in this place," she said to herself. ** ' Not 
popular with her own class,' they say ; that's pretty hard. I 
believe I'll take the risk, after all, and go and see her." 

One afternoon early in November, Eatherine was feeling 
particularly blue. In this mood she felt that her companions 
were worse than unsatisfying, and that at the same time there 
was no escape for her while she remained in the house. She 
seemed to herself to have no center of gravity, and to achieve, 
by each motion that she made, an entirely unexpected result. 
Removed from her family and social life, she was out of her 
orbit. She wandered, hopelessly amid conditions where, as it 
were, the algebraic signs familiar to her former life represented 
totally different quantities. In her sanguine moods she felt 
that some day she should discover what these signs stood for, 
and then solve the problems about her as the other students 
seemed to do ; but to-day nothing desirable seemed possible. 
The college experience to which she had looked forward so am- 
bitiously was degenerating into a series of more or less credita- 
ble and successful attempts at ''having fun." The fun was 
tempered by the knowledge that those in the community for 
whose opinion she most cared either noticed her not at all, or 
referred to her somewhat scornfully as "one of that crowd.'* 
In desperation she felt that her feet were irreversibly set upon 
the downward path, and that she was never meant for college 
life. For the intangible spirit of the place had no fellowship 
with the seeking of pleasure for its own sake ; other things 
were sought, and the pleasure came with them, so it seemed, 
and came abundantly. If the two prominent sophomores who 
roomed next to her occasionally pulled down each other's hair, 
it did not necessarily follow that they watched the clock with 
strained nerves during the next day's recitations. Why was it 
that their apparently incessant tennis and basket-ball were no 


such impediment to their college work as was in Katherine's 
case the lounging in and out of her friends' rooms ? There was 
something mysterious in the matter, something radically 
wrong ; and she felt blind and powerless. And then, to think 
of Elizabeth Hodges being junior president ! 

It was just then that Elizabeth Hodges knocked at the door. 
Katherine rose cordially as she entered, for she had resolved to 
be at least courteous the next time they met. 

" It was ever so good of you to come, Miss Hodges,'* she 
said. ** You must be a very busy person.'' 

" I'm only sorry I couldn't come before," answered Elizabeth, 
seating herself with a self-possession and a graciousness which 
surprised Katherine and made her wonder whether, after all, 
the president of the junior class might not be well worth culti- 
vating. This idea deepened into a conviction before her visitor 
left. There was a magnetism about Elizabeth which caused 
Katherine to unbend to her more than she had to any one 
since her arrival. She seemed an embodiment of the college 
spirit, and when she went she left a breath of it behind. To- 
gether with a feeling of shame at her misunderstanding and 
misuse of all that was around her, there came upon Katherine 
the dawning of a great love. And she saw that she had only 
to put out her hand and take of the plentiful harvest that was 
waiting to be gathered. This stimulant, tender, comprehending 
atmosphere, of which she suddenly began to realize the exist- 
ence, — could it be the result of the association in this place of 
girls like Elizabeth Hodges ? If she could but begin again ! 

Then all at once she smiled. Who was she, that she could 
not begin again ? Did^any one outside of her house know her ? 
Were there not many paths she had left quite untrodden, many 
channels into which she could pour herself, and forget the past ? 
The mortifying realization that she was less than nothing to 
those about her clothed itself in happiness. 

The beginning again was not wholly easy. She found that 
she was better known than she had supposed ; but in the end 
this did not militate against her. She threw herself heartily 
into her class work, and was surprised to find that she was 
really interested, and that, apart from the appreciation shown 
by her instructors, there was an inspiration in it. At first she 
felt that Elizabeth deserved the entire credit for pulling her out 
of her Slough of Despond ; later, when she studied psychology. 


she began to meditate upon the matter from an impersonal 
standpoint, and to realize that from the time of her arrival the 
college spirit had been working upon her, and that she had 
merely not recognized it until it presented itself visibly and 
tangibly in the form of Elizabeth Hodges. Seeing what the 
prize was, she had desired it. Seeing that the starting-point 
was not Hamilton, but the campus, she had sc^t her feet upon 
the right path. 

Eatherine never achieved college fame. She redeemed her- 
self wholly in the eyes of those who had known her at first, 
and she made many friends. But she was not captain of her 
class team, or editor of the Monthly, or even senior president ; 
in short, she was not the typical college heroine. Yet, as the 
college had opened her eyes, and had given her the chance to 
develop from an importunate child into the woman she was 
meant to be, so, in the fullest sense of the words, she was a 
college success. Ellen Gray Barbour. 



When Natnre'8 tears have made the whole world sad, 

And all her creatures with her monm her sorrow, 

Each blade of grass seems eager to be glad 

In joy that cometh with a radiant morrow. 

Although her tear-drope glisten everywhere, 

The Snn, defiant from his long restraint, 

Makes even their unwillingness repair 

To worship him, and give back, without taint 

Of sorrow, all his majesty of light 

Transmuted into loveliness of hue ; 

And every earthly thing doth figure bright 

Against the sky's expanse of cloudless blue. 

The rain has passed ; and in the world's new birth 

A new divinity is given to earth. 

Elisabeth Scribner Brown. 

** Benjamin U. Huff, Fine Confectionery, 

Choice Assortment of Cigars and Tobacco." 

*'Yaa8, thet's sartainly better than 

A Woman's Way the old sign. It's worded neat, an'thet's 

what summer folks apprecirate." Mr. 
Huff smiled contentedly around his little store ; he looked with 
pride at the new glass cases that covered his "choice assort- 
ment.*' " The slides shove back just as handy," he chuckled, 
pushing them open for the fortieth time to adjust a ** 30 cts a 
lb. " sign that was stuck into a pile of chocolates, like a rakish 
tombstone. ** An' it ain't only a terbaccer an' candy store 
nuther ; it's the only place on the beach thet sells pails an' shov- 
els an' noospapers, — an' — bathin'-suits," he added doubtfully, 
looking at the scanty flannel suit that had hung for three sea- 
sons on a hook outside the door. "Thet suit never did sell" — 

His soliloquy was interrupted at this point by the sound of 
his wife's footsteps on the stairs. 



"Dern me if tlipt ain't Nancy comin' down agin !" he ex- 
claimed in surprise. "Must 'a hurried through her chores 
seems if — Want me ? '* as his wife thrust her head through the 
kitchen door. 

"No ; just put in a batch of peanuts to roast an' I'll come in 
an' stir 'era a spell." And the head disappeared. 

"Wall, somethin's goin' to happen," remarked Ben, " an' I'll 
bet it's a row. Her oflferin' to roast my peanuts of a Monday 
momin' looks suspicious; an' then she had on them curl 
papers an' they always mean trouble." He went over to the 
roaster and dropped the peanuts into it one by one. " Like as 
not she's goin' to try to coax me into somethin', — she don't offer 
to roast peanuts for nuthin 1 But I see through her wheedlin', 
an' she can't move me any more'n a rock." 

He settled himself firmly and grasped the handle of the pea- 
nut roaster which was beginning to steam and whistle briskly 
by the time Mrs. Huff returned. 

" Is thet apple puddin' I smell ?" asked Ben, sniffing expect- 
antly as his wife shut the kitchen door. " Ain't expectin' com- 
p'ny, Nancy ? " 

" No, but we ain't had any puddin' for a spell, an' Clemmie 
likes it," replied Nancy apologetically. " Here, let me sit down 
there an' turn ; it ain't good fer your rheumatics to be bent up 

Ben cast a wondering glance at her and obeyed. 

"The sign looks great, don't it?" she went on. "I think 
Clemmie done fine on it, considerin' he didn't hev only thet 
green paint left over from the barn. I'll tell you what Mrs. 
Grant, up to the hotel, says to me yesterday about Clem. Says 
she, * Your son Clem's got themakin' of an artist in him. The 
other day down on the beach,' says she, * he sketched a lan'scape 
on a shell, an' it showed real talent I ' Them was her very 
words ! " 

" Now I know just what you're drivin' at, Nancy," interrupted 
Ben. " An' I tell you right off now it ain't no use. You're 
dead set on hevin' Clem go to the city with thet young noos- 
paper feller thet's offered him a job makin' pictures for the pa- 
per. J say store-keepin's good enough fer any promisin' young 
man, an' Clem ought to be glad to hev 'a hand in a flourishin' 
business like mine. There ain't no need to encourage any of 
them high-flown notions ! " 


"Wall, don't get excited, Ben," said Mrs. Huff, soothingly,. 
"J don't want my Clem to go off no more than you do ; I 
was jest goin' to say it's too bad to disappoint him. He's 
allers been set on makin' pictures. Howsomever, he may like 
sellin' things when he's boss of the store himself, an' thet'll be 
in a few years now. You'll hev to take a back seat then, 
father," she went on, with a sly smile in his direction. ** It 
will be kinder nice hevin' Clem set up for himself. He'll mos*^ 
likely hev an annex put on the store fust thing ; an' you can 
stiay out in the kitchen an' roast peanuts ; it'll be a good rest 
fer you." 

Mr. Huff did not appear to share his wife's enthusiasm at 
this prospect. He looked anxiously around his little store, and 
tried to imagine Clem behind the counter in his place ; he shud- 
dered at the thought of an annex. Sit in the kitchen and roast 
peanuts indeed ! 

" The summer folks is used to seein' me settin' here dealin*^ 
out terbaccer an' candy," he protested feebly. 

" Oh wall, they'd soon get used to Clem, an' he's so pop'lar 
with the hotel folks," returned his wife pitilessly. " He'd get a 
lot of trade. He prob'ly won't sell terbaccer anyhow ; it ain't 
the swell thing nowadays. He might interduce dry goods or 
groc'ries. We'll hev it up to date, anyway, an' I'll talk to 
Clem about it this afternoon. We might's well begin to plan 
'bout it." 

She rose, and emptied the hot peanuts from the roaster, ap- 
parently dismissing the subject as settled. 

Ben's face had been growing longer and longer. He fidgeted 
about in silence for a few minutes ; then he asked suddenly,. 
"When are you goin' to see thet noospaper feller again ?" 

** Oh, I believe he did say he'd be comin' round to-night ta 
find out about it. He's a nice-appearin' feller, an' I'm afraid 
he'll be some put out, but we'll jes' tell him he can't hev Clem. 
I'm glad it's settled, anyhow. I might 'a knowed you knew 
more about it than me. Wall, I guess I might be seein' to thet 
apple-puddin' ; it smells done," and Mrs. Huff went toward 
the kitchen door. 

"Nancy I" called her husband sternly, as she turned the 
knob, "You come back. I've been thinkin', an' I come to the 
conclusion thet Clem ain't jes' suited fer runnin' this store ; he 
ain't got my business abilities. I'll talk to thet young man my- 


self, when he comes this evenin', an' if Clem wants to go, I 
shell let him try f er a spell. Mebbe you'll be disappinted abont 
thet annex, but my mind is set now, an' when Ben Huff has his 
mind set on a thing, it's dern hard to change it." 

Mrs. Huff shut the door softly and smiled again as she took 
out the apple pudding. 

Marguerite Cutler Page. 

St. John's Eve 

There's a shimmer and sheen on the dew, I ween, 

As it beads the blades of gprass ; 
There's a swaying breesse through the tops o' the trees, 

Though the languid lake is glass ; 
There's a tinkling tone i' the harebell's cone, 

For now the fairy-folk pass. 

In a flowery wreath o'er the breathless heath. 

The Elf -king leads the dance ; 
The laughing strains of his lilt's refrain, 

The fairy ears entrance ; 
While his silver sho'on thro' the path o' the moon, 

Enticingly gleam and glance. 

There's a whiz and a whirr in a frightened stir, 

As the fireflies circle the lane ; 
There's death and despair in the shining snare 

Of the fairies' glistening chain ; 
For the captive soul will pay bitter toll 

With his service of seven years' pain. 

Marie Stuabt. 

One can hardly pick up a number of the '' Ladies Home 
Journal/' the "Woman's Home Companion," or of any of the 

thousand and one magazines de- 

The Girl who ** Looks " voted to the interests of the home, 

without finding articles offering 
both advice and sympathy to different types of girls. There 
they are : one for the bashful girl, who must be encouraged 
and brought forward ; or for the tomboy, whose romping ways 
are due merely to her high spirits ; or for the ungainly girl, 
who needs years to round her out, — all these have a helping 
word given them, but no one ever dreams of extending sym- 
pathy to the girl who " looks. 



It may be that the unfortunate side of her possession has uot 
been brought to the notice of people at large. Perhaps she is 
not recognized as a type, and a subject to be tenderly dealt 
with. In truth, she can belong to any type. Be she pretty or 
homely, short or tall, graceful or awkward, if a girl has a mo- 
bile face, and is thrown with critical people who are fond of 
analyzing aloud, her happiness and unconsciousness are forever 
gone. We hear a good deal about the misfortune of having 
great riches, yet the possession of mobile features is a far worse 
fate. The former can be given away, or at least turned over to 
the care of some one else, but this is impossible with the latter. 
Nothing can keep the girl who looks, from looking. 

" One can always tell what you're thinking about, anyway, "^ 
declare her friends. She knows very well that they can not. 
She almost wishes they could, their misinterpretations of her 
expressions are so sad. One of her friends, for instance, a vi- 
vacious, fun-loving girl says, " I'd like to throw a brickbat you 
when you look at me like that. When I'm telling a story and 
every one else is doubling up, you sit there with that super- 
cilious smile on your face, thinking what an idiot I am. The 
minute I catch your eye everything falls flat, you cynical old 
thing I " Now this is very hard when the girl has been thor- 
oughly enjoying the story, and wishing that she could entertain 
a roomful of people as well. There is another friend who will 
never let her smile or move her brows during their conversa- 
tions without teasing her for the idea which is the supposed 
cause of the motion. The girl disclaims the possession of such 
a thing. *' Oh, you'd never look like that if you weren't think- 
ing of something nice," persists the curious individual. So to 
save her reputation as a thinking being, the girl has to evolve 
an idea from the hazy sensations which she has been enjoying, 
and drag it forth, hoping that it will match the expression. 

Then there are faces whose mechanism she understands. 
Faces which in a moment of madness she has "made up" for 
the amusement of a friend. She meets some guests in the 
friend's room. She is trying to combine the right proportions 
of informality and dignity in her manner, when a request is 
made for her please to do her baby or cherub face, or — most ig- 
nominious of all — her pug-dog face, which, the strangers are 
told, she does to perfection ! 

The girl looks meditatively at her neighbor across the table. 


The neglibor begins to squirm. " Ugh ! stop looking at me like 
that/' she commands. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't know I was/' replies the unconscious vie- 
timizer, and drops her eyes to her lap. 

"Well, you needn't look like a martyr," is the criticism. 

What is a girl to do ? Her face is in repose, she looks cross ; 
she is tired, she looks glum. The only look that every one 
recognizes is one of joy, and that does not mean anything. It 
is often diflBcult to find reasons for her smiles, — which perhaps 
explains the remark that she is '* grinning like an idiot." Yet 
even this is better than to be told to cheer up because you look 
like a thunder-cloud. 

Now I beg of you extend your tenderest sympathy to the girl 
who looks, and if you number her among your friends, be kind. 
For once forego the pleasures of criticism, that she may go on 
her way, peacefully unconscious of the fault which she can not 
overcome. Allib Neal Locks. 

Waring was walking jauntily through the bright October 
woods. He seemed to be in a cheerful, even an exalted state of 

mind, and any one observing him would 
In Which the Cow have been far from supposing that he 
Does Not Appear had just gone through the trying ordeal 

of a refusal. Yet such was the case. 
For three long months he had been laying siege to Miss Ains- 
lee's heart, and to-day for the fourth time she had told him that 
she did not love him and never would, and ended by requesting 
him to let her alone. An ordinary mortal would have been dis- 
couraged, especially since Miss Ainslee had always been indif- 
ferent, to say the least. Yet Waring was not even cast down. 
All his life he had been a novel-reader and a theater-goer, and 
from these two sources be had gathered a knowledge of woman- 
nature rarely, if ever, equaled. It was one of the foundation- 
stones of his belief that a woman always says and does the di- 
rect opposite of what she means, — if she says " yes," you may 
at once conclude that she means "no," and vice versa. Nat- 
urally, viewed in the light of this theory, Miss Ainslee's con- 
duct was far from discouraging. Still, Waring felt that this 
fourth refusal had brought matters to a crisis, and he was con- 
scious that his love-story had reached the third chapter from 


the end, in whicli it would be necessary for him to turn the 
course of events, and rescue the plot from a tragic close, by sav- 
ing Miss Ainslee's life. 

Here again the ordinary mortal would have been utterly at a 
loss. Miss Ainslee was not in the habit of rowing in leaky 
boats, and sinking at the proper. distance from the shore ; or of 
riding unmanageable steeds, and being run away with ; or of 
falling over precipices, and getting caught on bushes half-way 
down ; or of getting into any other of the thousand and one 
perilous positions usually resorted to by heroines to give their 
respective heroes a chance to rescue them. And worst of all, 
if she had been in any such position, she probably would have 
been the first to see the way out and take it for herself. The 
case seemed hopeless. Yet here again Waring triumphed 
through his knowledge of woman-nature. He argued that he 
would attain the same result if Miss Ainslee believed he had 
saved her life, as if he really had ; and he meant to bring about 
this belief on her part, by taking advantage of a weakness in 
women which he considered universal ; namely, their dread of 
cows. His plan was very simple. He was going to hire a cow, 
station it in the path through which Miss Ainslee was sure to 
pass, and appear at the proper moment to rescue her from it. 
So confident was he of success, that he was already picturing to 
himself the scene after the dreadful brute had been driven 
away. She would try to express her gratitude, stammering and 
blushing, and he would beg her not to thank him, modestly 
assuring her that he had done only what any man would have 
been glad to do in his place, and gallantly adding that he could 
never thank Fortune enough since she had given to him the 
honor. He would walk home with her, of course, but he would 
not press his advantage then. He thought it much more dra- 
matic to walk in silence, and only sigh a little at parting. But 
he would go to her in the evening, and find her waiting for him, 
dressed in a white gown and playing softly on the banjo, — that 
was the only instrument she could play. She would be startled 
at his approach, and unable to conceal her joy, and he — 

There is no knowing, to what lengths his imagination would 
have carried him, if he had not at this point reached the farm 
where he expected to procure tlie cow. 

Farmer Watkins was in his barn-yard, when Waring appeared 
and preferred his rather singular request. The worthy man 


would no doubt have been surprised and suspicious^ if he had 
not just finished a course in summer boarders, which had pre- 
pared him for anything extraordinary in the way of requests. 
Still, while he did not doubt the young man's sanity, he was not 
going to lend one of his cherished Jerseys without knowing to 
what use she was to be put. 

" Wal now, what fur ? " he inquired dubiously. 

"To— to— to show to a young lady," stammered Waring, 
taken off his guard ; but he added artfully, ''she's down from 
the city, don't you know ; never has seen a live cow, and wants 
to see one on its native heath, and all that. She would have 
come herself, but couldn't get away. So I was sent to fetch 
one. Couldn't refuse, don't you know ; really can't go back 
without it." 

Farmer Watkins considered. 

" Wal now, ain't that too bad ? " he said finally. " The cows 
are all off at the pasture, and I can't say I see my way to 
eendin' any one after 'em at this time of day." 

As his glance wandered around the barn-yard, as though a 
stray cow might be lurking in one of its corners, his face sud- 
denly cleared. 

"Now if you was only lookin' for an animal to show her, 
how'd a goat do?" he ventured. "Goats ain't near as com- 
mon as cows, anyways. They're what you might call a fancy 
animal, so to speak. I'd ruther see a goat than a cow, any day." 

The two men walked over and inspected the " fancy " ani- 
mal, which was engaged in gently butting the barn-door to and 
fro, just to keep its horns in practice. It was not one of those 
pretty, white, long-haired little creatures one often sees tied up 
in blue ribbons, pulling a baby's cart. This specimen was as 
large as a good-sized calf, and the homeliest animal Waring had 
ever seen. It was long and lean, spotted brown and dirty 
white ; and when it turned its head, and blinked at him with 
malicious yellow eyes, Waring saw that its mouth was crooked, 
and that it had a ridiculous, ragged little beard. 

" Willum the Konkerer ! " said the farmer, with a chuckle of 
reminiscence. " There was a lady here last summer who used 
to call him that. She was mighty shy of him, for a fact ; and 
she ain't the only one neither. All women-folks is afraid of 

*'Are they?" asked Waring, eagerly. "Well, I think he 


will do. That is," he added doubtfully, '*if you are sure he ia 
perfectly safe." 

*• Don't you worry," was the encouraging reply. **He's ten 
years old if he's a day, and he's gettin' stiff in his j'ints. He's 
as harmless as a lamb." 

So a rope was brought and tied around the horns of the un- 
suspecting goat, and he was handed over to Waring, with many 
secret misgivings on the part of the latter. 

"I hope he doesn't — a — butt, don't you know ?" he inquired 
nervously, as the farmer bade them good-by at the gate. Billy 
had a way of rolling up his glassy eyes and lovingly twining 
his horns round one's legs, that was horribly suggestive. 

" Oh, he don't often try that game," Billy's owner replied 
cheeringly. '' I guess he wants to have his head scratched^ 
that's what's the matter with him. He'll be all right." 

For a time the two got on very well, — slowly, to be sure, for 
Billy seemed to be inordinately fond of having his head 
scratched ; yet Waring had no fear that they would not reach 
the scene of action before Miss Ainslee returned from the golf- 
links. When they reached the path through the woods, how- 
ever, Billy rebelled. It was not befitting a goat of his age and 
dignity to go trapesing around the country at the heels of an 
inexperienced youth, with no prospect of food and shelter at 
the end of his journey. This nonsense had gone far enough,, 
and he for one was not going to stand it any longer. He stopped 
in the middle of the path and obstinately refused to be per- 
suaded to move. *' Nice William ! Nice old William I Come 
along, there's a good old boy," pleaded Waring, desperately. 
Billy gazed at him with quiet scorn, and then, deciding to waste 
no more valuable time, calmly began to chew his cud. This 
was too exasperating. Waring lost his timidity and his tem- 
per together. "You shall come, confound you!" he shouted, 
and grasped with no gentle hand the patriarch's scanty beard. 
The result was sudden and unexpected. Billy started back as 
though he had been shot, his eyes blazing and every hair on his 
body erect. This stripling had actually dared to lay violent 
hands on his beard, the pride and darling of his old age, the 
apple of his eye ! This was an insult he could not forgive. 
His honor would never be satisfied unless blood were shed. 
Cocking his head on one side and raising one shoulder, he 
hurled himself full at the astonished youth. Just in time,. 


Waring turned and fled, hearing behind him the ominous thud 
of his enemy's hoofs. Considering his age and the stiffness of 
his joints, Billy got over the ground amazingly ; and Waring 
had barely time to draw himself into the low limbs of a friendly 
tree, before the enraged goat brought up underneath. 

Then Waring, though exposed to no immediate danger, found 
himself in a very trying position. After one or two half- 
hearth attempts to butt down the tree, Billy took a com- 
manding position near by, and resumed the occupation which 
had been so rudely interrupted, chewing his cud with half-shut 
eyes, and a general appearance of unconcern. Yet when War- 
ing, encouraged by this seeming indifference, began to descend, 
Billy was always wide awake and ready to receive him. The 
poor young man was just beginning to resign himself to the 
idea of remaining there until night, when help came from an 
miexpected quarter. With alight, firm step, her cheeks flushed 
with exercise and her eyes bright. Miss Ainslee came down the 
path, her golf-bag swinging from her shoulder. To do Waring 
justice he would rather have come down and run all risks than 
have her find him in such a position. But it was too late. 
Miss Ainslee took in the situation at a glance, and stood strug- 
gling hard to keep down her laughter. But Billy also perceived 
the new-comer, and welcomed this opportunity to vent his pent- 
up wrath. He backed off and prepared for action. 

"Miss Ainslee," shouted Waring warningly, **the beast is 
after yon ! Run for your life ! ^' 

She did not deign to reply, but deliberately drawing her 
putter from the bag, she met the on-coming goat with a few 
well-directed blows. William the Conqueror, before whom no 
woman hitherto had dared make a stand, was surprised and dis- 
comfited by this unexpected resistance. And when Miss Ains- 
lee followed up her advantage, and advanced upon him with 
threatening club, he hastily decided that in this case discretion 
was the better part of valor, and saved the remnant of his dig- 
nity by stalking solemnly off through the woods, wagging his 
little tail and muttering low in his beard. Then Miss Ainslee 
turned to Waring. 

**I think you may safely come down now," she said cuttingly. 
" Would you like me to help you ? " and when he stood by her 
side, she added, ** I will walk with you to the edge of the 
woods, if you like." 

Without waiting for his reply, she led the way down the path 


and he followed in silent misery. When they reached the open 
she turned, her lips grave, but her eyes running over with 

^' I think it will be safe for you to go on alone now/' she said. 
'•There are, to be sure, a few cows to pass, but I really think 
they are harmless. And I'm sure you won't meet another goat ; 
such dangerous animals are rarely allowed to run loose." 

" Miss Ainslee, I — " he began wretchedly, but she interrupted 
him hastily. 

" I beg of you not to thank me," she said, ** I assure you I 
did only what any woman would have done in my place. Qood 

It was cruel, but the temptation was great, and after this one 
outbreak she never again mentioned to Waring or any one else 
what took place that afternoon in the woods ; which Waring 
probably thought another proof that she was an extraordinary 

A year later. Waring was one of a group of men who were dis- 
cussing Miss Ainslee's recent engagement to one of their friends. 

** Jack always was a lucky fellow," said one. " Always went 
in for the best, and what's more, always got it. I confess I 
envy him his wife." 

Waring blew a couple of smoke-rings into the air with elab- 
orate unconcern. 

"Do you, now?" he said indifferently. "Well, I don't 
know that I do. Miss Ainslee's a fine girl, an awfully fine girl, 
and I respect and admire her, and all that. But isn't she just 
a little too independent, don't you think ? I rather believe I 
prefer the kind one can take care of and protect, don't you 

Such is the gratitude of man. 

Margaret Hamilton Wagbnhals. 

The Song of the Sea 

The gray old rocks are all aglow 

With the sniiset's crimson gold, 
Foam-crested waves langh soft and low, 
And sing the song of old : — 
We come, we go, 
And none may know 
The secrets of the deep. 
For those we keep— we keep. 


Oat of the glooming gleams a star, 
A far off ship goes drifting slow, 
The dim old sea looms out afar, 
The waves croon soft and low ^— 
We come, we go, 
Bnt none may know 
The secrets of the deep, 
For those we keep— we keep. 

The soft west wind blows o'er the sea, 

Over the world breaks morning's gold. 
The little wares all laugh with glee, 
And sing the song of old : — 
We come, we go. 
And none may know 
The secrets of the deep. 
For those we keep— we keep. 

Maboakbt Bbbsooa Pipbr. 

There has been scarcely any literary man who has not appre- 
ciated his fire and written of it, and there is scarely any one, 

whether literary or not, who has not dreamed be- 

My Fire fore his fire and longed to express his dreams. It 
seems as if others must already have written about 
all the fancies and aspirations with which our fires fill us, yet 
each time the fire crackles and the wind moans, we feel some- 
thing that can never be put into words. We dream our dream 
of love and work and perhaps fame, and hug these visions to 
us lest they should vanish at some interruption. 

There are all sorts of fire-places and all sorts of people. Let 
who can choose one to suit himself. Let it be high and broad, 
with roaring flames, or low, with a cosy warmth. Mine I did 
not choose, but — I love it. It is small and narrow, and no pol- 
ished andirons reflect the flames. They call it a grate,— that 
part which holds my glowing coals. The word would suffice to 
drive away all reverie were the fire less beautiful. 

With care I hoard my pile of ashes and condemn to my 
eternal disfavor the maid who would make my room neat by 
carrying them away. Alas ! Her training has been too good. 
Ashes are to her only dirt which a draft may scatter about to 
the disgrace of chairs and tables. I am afraid she never 
dreams. Tending a fire is too much a business, a science, with 
her. To sit and poke a few sticks with an old Indian-club for a 


poker is, to her mind, as utterly unmeaning as to smile pen- 
sively at a gas log is to mine. She can not realize that, as I 
watch the red and purple flames, I am no longer my insignifi- 
cant self, but become great in my personality and in my achieve- 
ments ; that I am able to do all that I would, and that I would 
do the greatest things. It is as if I had passed into another 
world — a very comfortable, i)eaceful world — in which my plans 
never miscarry and each success leads to a greater. I see my 
every-day self struggling along, making blunders and getting 
over them as best she may, but this only makes the reverie 
sweeter, for my dream-self feels able to help her out of all 
troubles, and sometimes almost sees into her future. Few things 
can make us forget our own pettiness so successfully as the fire 
does. In its light we see only our strength, and feeling strong 
makes us so. 

All this my fire in my poor little grate does for me, and I 
love it. Martha Mblissa Howet. 

A Lullaby 

When angels sing a Inllaby 

The baby sleeps. 
The tired eyelids softly droop, 
The sweet lips part, and angels stoop 

To kiss the brow. 

The baby sleeps. 

When angels sing a Inllaby 

The mother weeps. 
Her arms a bnrden hold no more, 
The cradle that she rocked before 

Is empty now. 

The mother weeps. 

Eda von Lbska BrunA. 


"College spirit" is a term familiar to us all, and one which 
is put to as hard and varied a use as any in our local vocabu- 
lary. It is a term not easily to be defined in its extension and 
intension ; but the quantity that it represents is in no way in* 
definite. One comes to regard this college spirit as a factotum. 
It is an excuse, it is an explanation, it is a quality to be glo- 
ried in for its own merit, it is a powerful spur and motive where 
all others fail. Indeed— and pity 'tis 'tis true — it has become 
indissolubly linked in some minds with importunate exhorta- 
tions to do certain things that one does not feel inclined to do. 
But this is unworthy perversion ; and those who use the term 
should do so with conscientiousness and discretion, lest a pow-* 
erful and sterling element of our college life fall into disrepute 
at their hands. 

For this college spirit of ours is a thing to be proud of ; and 
we have rejoiced at the recent stirring of it by our quarter- 
centenary celebration. Of many elements which unite to 
make it, pride is one ; and it is this element which has been 
strongest during these days filled with the thought of what 
our college has become. Our poet laureate tells us that for our 
boastful moods we have no judge so stern as our Alma Mater ; 
and surely this sternest of our judges will not be hard in con- 
demnation of her children whose pride is all filial and tempered 
by their loyalty and love. 

And if, to those who do not know her, our attitude with re- 
gard to the best and dearest of colleges seems unwarrantable, 
or seeming warrantable yet gives offense, among ourselves we 
know that there is an element in our feeling which justifies and 
counterbalances the rest. This is our respect for the mind 
whose judgment and ability has given our college her growth 
and prosperity ; our love for the spirit that has given her her 
ideals. College pride we can not help feeling as we review our 
history ; an admiration, a respect, and a love deeper than our 
pride, is the tribute we pay in loyal gratitude for all the best 
that our college has given us. 


The most consistently interesting and the most consistently 
disappointing feature of undergraduate literary publications 
are one and the same. The serious articles divide themselves 
distinctly and more or less evenly into the two classes of those 
that are well worth the reading and those into which only the 
devoted friends and family of the author go farther than the 
opening sentence. The good ''heavy'' has a double interest 
for us, from its being written from a point of view approxi- 
mately our own ; but the dull one is dismally and unrelievedly 
dull. A required paper it is for the most part, with the mark 
of the class-room plain upon it ; and it reeks in every sentence 
with its writer's consciousness of virtue and diligence. As for 
college verse, it seldom lacks a certain melody and grace, but 
the large body of it is, if not absolutely meaningless, at least 
absolutely tame, though we are glad to look through it all for 
the sake of the occasional flashes of wit and the yet rarer 
gleams of true poetry that reward our patience. 

But with college fiction, the case is different. Almost never 
of a high degree of excellence, it is with equal infrequency de- 
void of all merit. One story half disgusts us in the reading by its 
inartistic use of language ; but half an hour later, when the 
taste of its English has gone out ot our mouth, we can not but 
realize that the story itself was unusually vigorous and fasci- 
nating. Another bit of narrative leads us along delighted by 
the charm of its phraseology, yet leaves us at the end with a dis- 
tinct sense of disappointment at the weakness or the incom- 
pleteness of its plot. Neither tale is satisfying considered as a 
finished product, but as necessary experiments both are worth 
the while. There is probably more hope of making a good 
story-teller from the writer of the first, since constructive abil- 
ity is the fundamental requirement for success in that line. As 
for us, we may take from them both what enjoyment they have 
to oflfer now, increased by the certain promise of more unmixed 
pleasure from their future work. 



The most obvioas difficulty which beset the chiss of 1900 in presenting 
** Twelfth Night** lay in the necessity of reforming Sir Toby Belch and his 

boon companions. Impartial observers watched the ex- 

Tw^lfth Night periment doubtfully, while the newspapers made merry 

with the idea. By heroic cutting, all references to sack 
and canary might be banished from the lines, all traces of blbulousness from 
the bearing of the jolly knight, but would not the mirth of the scene disap- 
pear with them ? Or if it remained would it not appear forced and causeless ? 

That this difficulty was overcome, and more than overcome, in the presen- 
tation of the play last Jtme, was due to the admirable acting of Sir Toby. 
YQb joviality was so spontaneous, so rich, and so well-sustained that it was 
impossible to think about its source. The man himself as we saw him was 
an ample explanation of any pranks that might be committed on the stage 
while he was there. The best comic scene in the play was the sometime 
"reveling scene/' in which all the actors attained an infectiousness of humor 
at times a little lacking in some of them. In the scene of the forged letter 
the interest flagged somewhat, but this I think was largely due to the 
arrangement which fused several comic s6enes in one without any intermis- 
sion of seriousness. 

If Sir Toby carried off the first honors of the play for originality and 
sheer delightfulness, the second place was well deserved by Viola. Without 
forcing herself into the excess of prominence of the modern star, she left a 
clear, even, and very pleasing impression, of notable delicacy and poetic feel- 
ing. It was hardly in the more famous speeches that she shone so much as 
in small touches of pitying amusement at Olivia's mistake, or wistful love of 
Ondno. The poetic element of the delineation was enhanced throughout by 
a beautiful voice ; indeed, the general excellence of the voices was a marked 
feature of the play. 

Among minor characters, the one who stands out for the most unqualified 
praise is Olivia. Bearing herself with gracious dignity, she did not attempt 
a depth of passion which would only have made the part jarring and dis- 
tasteful, but was throughout the wilful yet lovely great lady. The role of 
Orsino was less delicately interpreted, erring several times on the side of a 
misplaced vehemence ; but in voice, physique, and bearing the Duke of 
Blyria was very satisfactory. It was probably a wise choice which saw in 
the Clown a singer rather than a comedian : his many beautiful songs were 
more than compensation for a lack of breadth in his fooling. 

From the nature of the case, the effort of the senior play is not to show a 



single star against a backgrronnd of minor performers, but to give good 
parts, demanding and repaying sympathetic interpretation, to as many peo- 
ple as possible. We accept the occasional genius with profound thankfol- 
ness, but what we have to depend on is the diffusion throughout the class of 
inteUectual appreciation, unbounded zeal, and some share of real dramatic 
ability. The best play for college purposes, therefore, is one in which the 
greatest variety of interest depends on the greatest number of characters. 
Except in its mobs, which have no particular acting to do, *' Twelfth Night " 
admirably meets this requirement, for the humor and poetry in which it is so 
rich are dealt out generously among a considerable cast. Therefore it is high 
praise of the June performance, both as a college play and as a presentation 
of ** Twelfth Night,*' to say that after all its greatest merit was its eyenness. 
The general level was high : two or three actors — and fortunately those on 
whom most depended— rose above it, but almost none fell below it. 

Rita Creighton Smith '99. 

The collation given to the alumnse by the college was held in the gymna- 
sium immediately after the Commencement Exercises, on June 19th, and was 
largely attended. This collation took the place of the Alumnse Tea, which in 
other years followed the regular business meeting of the Alumnas Associa- 
tion. President Seelye made his usual happy sx>eech, and Mrs. Hill, the new- 
ly elected trustee, gave reminiscences of her college days. 

At three o'clock the Association held its annual meeting in the Chemistry 
Lecture Room, Mrs. Lucia Clapp Noyes '81, presiding. This was the largest 
alumnsB meeting ever held. Mrs. Clarke '88, reported for the alumnas trus- 
tees that the sum of $1000 from the L. Clarke Seelye Fund had been distribu- 
ted to fourteen departments for the purchase of books. 

Announcement was made, through Miss lies '95, of a gift of $86 to the li- 
brary, a memorial to Laura G. Bigelow from her classmates. It was voted 
that the Association work for the Students' Building Fimd during the com- 
ing year, and a committee was appointed to take charge of the work. The 
election of Mrs. Justinia Robinson Hill '80, as alumna trustee, was an- 

The newly elected officers of the Association are : — ^Mrs. Mary Frost Saw- 
yer '94, First Vice President ; Ellen Holt '90, Second Vice President ; Eleanor 
H. Nichols '95, Secretary ; Mrs. Lucia Clapp Noyes '81, retains the office of 
President, and S. Alice Brown '81, the office of Treasurer. Votes of thanks 
were given to the retiring trustee, Mrs. Clarke, and to Miss Covel, Secretary, 
for their efficient and faithful services. 

Eleanor H. Nichols '95, Secretary. 

[The following is a condensed report of Mrs. Hill's address, given by request 
at the collation :] 

Madam President, Smith Alumnee : — 

The class of 1880 greets its sister alumnse and returns after 
twenty years to renew its loyalty and pledge its future devotion to our dear 
and honored Alma Mater. You, Madam President, have asked for a ** jovial 
and statistical " report from our class, and most gladly would we comply 


'With Toar request, but alas ! we never were jolly girls and Professor Adams 
taught that dates and figures were nsef nl only as hooks npou which to hang 
facts. We were the second of the two classes to which a professor referred, 
when aeked how matters were getting on at Smith College, in saying: — 
** Since the first two classes left we have done very well, but they thought 
they conld nm the trustees, the faculty, and the whole outfit/* There used 
to be a tradition that every other class was brainy and every other class was 
pretty. As there was no question of the intellectuality of the first class, that 
of 1879, and we had no beauty individually or collectively, we alwa3r8 consid- 
ered ourselves comfortably classified between the brains and the beauties of 
our nearest classes. 

We graduated the number of the Muses— nine. We are all living and not 
over a widely scattered territory :— our own Massachusetts claims three, New 
York State three, Philadelphia one, and Washington, D. C. , two. 

Five of the nine are married. I can not say that all our children are likely 
to be candidates for degrees at Smith College, for the President has ever em- 
phasized the womanliness of Smith College. The six year old daughter of 
one of this class was so impressed with the idea that only women went to 
college that when she heard college men mentioned, she exclaimed, ** Why, 
mamma, do boys go to college ? I thought only young ladies went t " One of 
onr number blessed with no children of her own finds her mission in caring 
for other people*8 children. 

The members of our class have, as a rule, faithfully observed a x^omise 
made as we parted, to write an annual letter the first Sunday in October, giv- 
ing an account of themselves for the year. Of the nine, eight started out as 
teachers and two remain in the work. Wherever our class have had influ- 
ence as teachers, we have always remembered and upheld the advantages of 
Smith College. One of our class was for several years assistant in our col- 
lege and many of you are glad to acknowledge your indebtedness to her. 
Seven have carried on advanced work at Smith, Radcliffe, Boston University, 
Cornell, and the New York School of Library Economy. Four have the de- 
gree of A. M. Two are trained librarians. One is in the state library and 
home education department at Albany. She was one of the first class in the 
first school in the world for training librarians, and occupies a place in its 
faculty. She also holds it a great privilege to have shared in the work and 
councils resulting in systemizing and raising the standards of secondary, 
higher, and professional education and degrees which have given the Empire 
State in recent years wide fame. Another is assistant librarian in one 
of the large scientific departments of Washington, D. C, where she is 
occupied with editorial, reference, and bibliographic work. In addition, she 
has published a card index which has the distinction of being the first index 
issued in this form and successfully continued as a periodical publication. 
It is need in the principal American and several foreign universities. One of 
our number has ready for publication a monograph — the result of earnest re- 
search — ^npon *' Anti-Slavery Sentiment before 1808." 

We may consider ourselves the mother of the Smith College Alumnse As- 
sociation, which we organized in 18S1 upon the occasion of our first reunion. 
To one of our class is also due the Non-Graduate Association, for which a 
member of 1880 drew up its first constitution. 


Although the first classes were small and the eqaipment of the college waa 
incomplete, there were many compensations, among which we would like to 
mention the opxwrtnnity to know the residents of Northampton. We look 
back with gratitude to what Smith College did for us and we look forward ta 
our twenty-fifth reunion, hoping to return then with our old numbers and 
with even deeper affection for Smith College. 

The class of 1880 thanks the classes of 1900 and '94 for the flowers so 
thoughtfully presented at their class dinner. 

Addresses given at the Alumns Meeting, October second. 

Mr. President, Members of the Alumnse : — 

I congratulate you that we are assembled in such full numbers 
on this interesting occasion. We have left our busy homes and occupations 
to revisit our academic seat and here to pay homage to the college of our love 
and through it to all colleges and universities throughout the land ; " because 
in them truth is sought, knowledge increased and stored, literature, art, and 
science are fostered, and honor, duty, and piety are cherished." The spirit 
in which we come is one of profound thankfulness for the past, and well- 
grounded hope for the future. At this time we are entitled to enjoy together 
the history and the memories of the past twenty-five years, during which our 
cherished college has had its life, and hopefully to anticipate for it an ever 
widening sphere of usefulness and infiuence. 

On your behalf I welcome most cordially the delegates from other colleges 
and universities ; and all other distinguished guests who honor us by their 

This morning with our undergraduate sisters we have looked at the 
ideals and condition of the college from their point of view. To-morrow 
it will be our privilege to hear the history of its origin and creation from him 
who first suggested to the founder the idea of this college, and who was her 
confidential ad^dser in the execution of the gift. To Dr. Greene as well as to 
Sophia Smith herself, our debt of gratitude will ever be due. To-morrow 
also we shall hear of the early years of the college from that able, energetic » 
single-minded, and yet fair-minded man who has presided over this institu- 
tion during the entire period of its existence. His long term of service testi- 
fies to a steadfastness and a devotion unexampled in the history of the higher 
education of women. Other men and women have been called upon to deal 
with the difficulties of one period or another in the life of any given school. 
But President Seelye alone has met the problems of a college from the mo- 
ment when its corner stone was laid to the day when it has taken an unassail- 
able place among the great educational institutions of oar country. Such, 
then, being the character of the exercises of this morning and of those in 
store to-morrow, it is fitting for us to devote a short time this afternoon to a 
consideration of the meaning of this college in the world at large ; and of the 
positions its alumnae are filling in the various walks of life. 

We are now a body of nineteen hundred graduates. Surely the infiuence 
of so large a number of educated women is too far-reaching to be fully ex- 
pressed to-day. But I shall ask you to listen for a brief time to the testi- 
mony of a few of our representatives who can speak with illumination of the 


iraj in which the alxmuia is applying the inteUigence and power which she 
has acquired. The speakers will need no formal introdnction. We have no 
^' oldest living graduate," and may the day be far distant when that honorary 
designation may be appled to a single representative of any class ! I shall, 
however, begin by calling npon one of that immortal eleven who were the 
first to leave their homes and enter these academic halls to subject them- 
selves to a strange " exi>eriment,'* which would undoubtedly deprive them 
of all future interest in home life and all ability in practical affairs. Re- 
markable has been the result t As she can testify who has not only been a 
valued member of the Board of College Trustees, but has survived the varied 
experiences in philanthropic and intellectual pursuits without losing one of 
the privOeges or foregoing any of the enjoyments of the domestic life. I 
will call on Mrs. Eate Morris Cone of the class of '70 to respond to the senti- 
ment, " The Alumna and the Home." 

In speaking to you of the home as a sphere of influence, I feel very much 
as some worker behind the scenes might feel if called upon to criticise the 

play. Some one else would do it 

The Home as a Sphere of Influence better. Looked at from the inside, 
for College Women which is necessarily my point of 

view, the home does not apx>ear so 
much a sphere of influence as an opportunity for satisfying the higher de- 
mands of one's nature. If you will permit me, therefore, I will leave you to 
imagine the influence, while I myself present the side of which I can speak ; 
namely, the home as a satisfaction to a college woman's demand for a full 
and active life, in which mind and heart and hand shall have about equal 
play ; and since less doubt exists as to the full employment of heart and hand 
In home-making, I shall confine myself chiefly to the intellectual satisfaction 
which a college-bred woman may get out of a home. 

Let me get over the most debateable region to begin with, and show how 
college-bred brains may be exercised in housekeeping. House work is no 
longer a thing in which intelligent women need be bound by tradition and 
foreign models. Contrary to expectation it has been found to offer a field for 
research, for experiment, and for the application of science to common things 
of the very first importance. Already the work done by college women in 
domestic science, as, for instance, by Dean Talbot of Chicago University, 
Mrs. Ellen H. Richards of the Institute of Technology, and Miss Salmon of 
Vassar, is said to be the best fruit so far of the higher education of women ; 
at least, the most original and the most needed by the world at large. One 
of the recent topics of discussion by the Association of Collegiate AlumnsB is 
bow to make college courses more practical, that is, how to interest college 
girls in housekeeping. College women have been largely instrumental in es- 
tablishing a school of Domestic Science in Boston. Certain colleges and 
many schools offer courses on household subjects. This week a National 
Household fksonomic Association holds its eighth annual meeting at Toronto. 
To the college girl about to marry and keep house, opportunities for intellect- 
ual satisfaction o^n ; first, in the direction of acquainting herself with the 
theories of houeehold economics already put forth ; second, in placing her 


own menage npon a business and scientific basis and seeing the household 
machinery yield under her hand ; and third, in inventing or discovering or 
reforming something along domestic lines on her own account. 

The whole subject of food, its choice, its preparation, its adulteration, and 
its adaptation to different sorts of efficiency, has been raised to the plane of 
science. The same is true of household sanitation. The housekeeper has 
the health of the household in her hands, and with the health, to a very great 
degree, the business and social success, the standing in school, and the moral 
value in the community of its different members. The cost of living, with 
intelligent people, is no longer a matter of guess-work. The family necessi-^ 
ties and their relative importance are thoroughly understood. Whatever the 
size of the family income, the college-bred housekeeper has every incentive 
for being a good business woman, with the many satisfactions and dignities 
acoruing thereto. The servant problem is part of yet greater problems of 
labor and capital, women's wages, the foreign element, and the elevation of 
the poor, and calls for sociological knowledge of the clearest and ezactest 
sott. The procession of women which passes through our kitchens affords 
no mean chance for looking into the heart of the workaday world and light- 
ening its burdens and brightening its dullness ; as good a chance, if one chose 
to improve it, perhaps, as going to live in a college settlement in the neigh- 
borhood where these women make their homes. How to get the work of the 
house done, the cooking, the cleaning, the tidying, and the serving, and how 
to get it done well and cheerfully with satisfaction to all concerned, — ^this 
ought not to fret but to interest the woman of trained intelligence ; it is her 
oyster which she ought to be glad to open. 

Even the house work itself, when one must do it, becomes to the educated 
woman a revelation of the labor-saving capabilities of brains plus machine 
ery ; and the methods and appliances of housework are said to be still far 
behind the times. It also enlightens us as nothing else does as to what we 
ask others to do for us, and as to what the great majority of womankind do 
daily. The final satisfaction is, by being mistress of the situation, to put the 
housekeeping in its proper place, that is, to make it serve an end instead of 
being an end in itself. 

When more women have been to college and more college women have be<> 
come wives and mothers, we shall begin to see develop the ideal American 
home. Mrs. Richards in her '*Cost of Living," a little book, by the way, 
which does more to make a domestic career seem worth while than all that 
has been said on the subject in poetry and fiction combined, gives the practi- 
cal basis of this ideal household as follows : — ** The twentieth century house- 
hold demands of its managers, first of all, a scientific understanding of the 
sanitary requirements of a human habitation ; second, a knowledge of the 
values, absolute and relative, of the various articles which are used in the 
home, including food ; third, a system of aqcount-keeping that shall make pos- 
sible a close watch upon expenses ; fourth, an ability to secure from others 
the best they have to give, and to maintain a high standard of honest work." 

The bearing and rearing of children is the cap-stone of a liberal education. 
Motherhood is an experience which means much or little according as the 
woman to whom it comes is educated or ignorant. To the college-bred 


mother it shonld bring not merely a revelation of her own natnre, but in- 
sight into the meaning of all maternity. In the training of \^r children, the 
striking thing for snch a mother to see is the working of law, the law of life, 
the law in onr members, the moral law, the laws of thought, in obedience to 
which children, like the rest of ns, prosper and in breaking which they die. 
The growing child is an object lesson in biology, ethnology, history, and psy- 
chology rolled into one, so wonderful, so beantifnl, always so interesting and 
instmctive, that it is worth going to college jnst to learn how to appreciate 
the spectacle. The attitude of learner and observer is particularly a charac- 
teristic of the educated mother. While it is her high privilege to interpret 
and apply law, she is too wise, or too humble, to dogmatize about that impos- 
sible entity, *' the child." A large part of her business is simply to look on 
and understand her children ; it is her chance as well as theirs ; and scientific 
patience is the new factor which a college education contributes to mother- 

Several side issues connected with bringing up children contribute to the 
mother's intellectual status, if so she wills. One of these is the chance to 
know intimately the beet literature, old stories, noble poetry, and the best of 
modem writing. Children are keen and unprejudiced critics, and the 
mother's pleasure is about equally divided between trying anew the old magio 
and seeing the fresh young minds respond. A child, a good book, and a 
mother who loves both, — ^there is no bitterness or world -weariness in that 
combination ! The very repetitions and explanations which children demand 
are good for the mother. Some stories and real poetry never wear out, and 
yield new beauties with each rehearsal. Told and retold, or read and re- 
read, the mature mind sees into the method of their construction and the rea- 
scm for their vitality as never before, while, consciously or unconsciously, 
with this constant practice on the best models, the mother's own style as 
raconteur, reader, and writer improves. Another opportunity is in the out- 
door world. Normal children love animals and flowers, butterflies and birds, 
stones and stars. If the mother has cared for any of these things in college, 
her taste and her duty will of course go hand in hand and one of the deepest 
satiaCactions in life is in store for her. If she has been wholly literary or 
classical, then her children will open her eyes to new interests and possibili- 
ties ; she will owe to them something no mental equipment is complete with- 
out ; namely, an acquaintance with nature in one or more of its myriad 
forms. And with children one sees the happier side of nature, its joy, its 
poetry, its harmony, its ministry for man. Something ails grown-up taste 
both in literature and science. Children bring us back to a truer and purer 
state, for, as they prefer books without self-consciousness, so they like living 
things alive and the woods and fields better than laboratories and muHenm s. 

Again, the whole subject of education is of special interest to college- 
educated mothers ; — education in the abstract, as a theory, on whicti a world 
of delightful books are to be read, both old and new ; education br an ex- 
perience which, whether good or bad, one always loves to remember; and 
education as an experiment, to be tried on one's own children. If tlie collej^e- 
bred mother does not, in all this, find a good use for her brains. es}*pciall y in 
steering a rational course for her young people through the mazey of kimh^r- 


gartning, child-study, pedagogy, and manual venns mental training, it will 
not be for lack of opportunity. 

Kitchen and nursery are not, after all, the spheres of highest activity in 
the home. The evocation of the home-spirit is the best part of what the mis- 
tress of the house may do. Home-making is a fine art and, like most other 
forms of artistic expression, it is technique plus something spiritual. I do 
not know why it is not as fine a thing to make a happy home as to paint a 
beautiful picture, or write a book, or be an educator or musician. It has the 
same effect on other minds as human-wrought beauty and truth in any form, 
while out of it true artistic satisfaction is derivable ; namely, pleasure in 
creating something beautiful. Moreover, somebody must do the thing which 
other people try to express, and be the mother with the child, and live the 
story and the song, and practise the theories which the pedagogs preach. 
The man of the house furnishes the material necessities of the household ; 
his money, which represents his time and energy, goes mainly for the physi- 
cal support of his family. All this coal and food, clothing and service, the 
house-mother may transmute into peace and harmony, rest and comfort, and 
the other physical and spiritual amenities we associate with home. It is for 
her to make it worth while that father and husband and son should bear the 
burden and heat of the day outside in the world. Her privilege is to spiritual- 
ize and idealize daily duties, and domesticate the higher life. Even her ser- 
vants should get from her the incentive of working for a high ideal, in the 
realizing of which no labor is menial and no trouble too great. 

Or to view her mission in another light, as a rale, unless her lot is excep- 
tionally cast, she will find that many of her neighbors have better houses 
than they know how to live in, and put more stress on dress than on behavior. 
The woman of culture and disciplined mind should control both wealth 
and poverty alike in the interests of home-making, and prove that the really 
beautiful and desirable thing is to have such a domestic menage as may serve 
the end of harmonious family life, father and mother, children and friends 
all together. The beauty of hospitality, the elegance of simplicity, the charm 
of sincerity and sympathy, the superiority of fine manners over fine furni- 
ture and fine clothes, — this is the gracious task set the college-bred mistress of 
a house. In it she will find, beside the charm of serving nobly those she 
loves, an uncommon opportunity for the development of her own character 
and the use of all her powers. 

In choosing home-making aRone*s business in life, there could be no greater 
mistake than for the college-bred woman to fancy that she must sacrifice all 
her favorite intellectual pursuits. I do not think it is profitable for married 
women to be wage-earners. But for the house-mistress to love books and 
study, even to the extent of specializing in some department, is a blessing to 
everybody. The whole circle is enriched by the accomplishments of each 
member, of the mother as truly as of any other. An hour's daily study of 
Greek, if it is Greek she cares for, is a positive help in baby-tending, and the 
house work is better done if the mistress comes to it with a mind refreshed aud 
stimulated. Intellectual interests keep the balance between the multitude of 
claims on strength and time which assail the house-mother, and give her that 
sense of proportion, in the various functions of a busy life, which is neces- 


sarj to its sncoess. On the other hand, it is the busy woman with brains 
who knows how to valne and employ the little leisnre that she gets. Instead 
of fretting for more leisnre, she shonld be thankfnl for the lesson of concen- 
tration to which she is forced, and comfort herself with the opinion and ex- 
perience of no less a person than John Stnart Mill who believed that it was 
the duty of life to reconcile the active and the specnlative, and declared that 
he conld himself do more in two honrs after a bnsy day, than when he sat 
down to write with time at his own command. Moreover, children grow np 
and the domestic machinery rnns easier the longer one has it in hand. In 
later life the college-bred matron has all the chance she wants for the par- 
suit of her individual tastes. Happy is she, then as always, to have some- 
thing abiding and outside herself to help her to withstand the shocks and 
changes of life and time. 


In estimating the chances which a domestic career offers for mental growth, 
the contribution of heart and hand should not he omitted. The mind can not 
say to the affections ** I have no need of thee," nor to the nimble fingers ** I 
have no need of thee,*' for the one a<lds to knowledge, experience : and the 
other stands for muscular and nervous control. All three work together to 
produce a precious sense of fulness of life satisfying to the last degree. The 
final satisfaction trespasses on that sphere of infiueiice which I asked you to 
imagine ; it is in using one's education to fill full the content of the word 
mother, and so in seeing oneself become an earthly providence to eager little 
minds and souLs as well as hearts and bodies. Froebel says that, at first, 
parents stand in the place of Grod to their children. To be conscious of that 
relation is to see at a glance both the consummation and the reason of all 
one*s previous life and education. 

It is a mistake to set up the home as the exclusive sphere for the educated 
woman. Yet it may fairly be claimed that, in the present state of society, 
the home offers to women a chance for broader development than any other 
career, while at the same time it may include another career. I myself am 
convinced that the kingdom of home is like the kingdom of heaven ; sought 
first and with all one's heart, all else shall be added unto it. 

Kate Morris Cone '79. 

We appreciate the compliment implied in the frequent invitations that 
Smith receives from other institutions of learning for her graduates to serve 
on their staffs of instruction. And we are especially proud of the contribu- 
tions we have made to our near-by sister, Wellesley, on whose faculty, I be- 
lieve, our alumnae outnumber those of any other single college, her own, j)er- 
haps, excepted. It seems fitting, therefore, that in proposing our next 
theme, " The Alumna and Scholarship," I should ask to respond to it Miss 
Mary Whiton Calkins, Professor of Philosophy at Wellesley. 

[Miss Calkins did not speak from notes, so that the following is only in 
outline and in substance what '* was said."] 



It is a pleasant duty to express the loyal regard of the alnmneB of Smith 
College to the president, trustees, and faculty and to the gracious memory of 

the far-seeing and devoted woman to whom 

The Alumna and Scholarship we owe all that Smith Ck)llege has given 

to us. We acknowledge with especial 
gratitude the impulse toward scholarship and the training in scholarly habits 
of study received from our Alma Mater, whose service of the scholarly ideal 
we gladly recall to-day. 

By scholarship we mean, I suppose, a thorough and extended acquaintance 
with the results of investigation in a given subject, supplemented by inde- 
pendent study which is accurate and detailed in observation, vivid and crea- 
tive in imagination, selective and logical in thought. Scholarship, in other 
words, is the fusion of erudition and originality, and requires both elements, 
though people are always mistaking bare erudition or empty spontaneity for 
scholarship. But neither the summary, however complete, of other people*a 
results and conclusions, nor the outburst, however lofty, of creative imagina- 
tion, constitutes scholarphip. Neither the pedants of the dry-as-dust school, 
to whom information is an end in itself, nor the tumultuous thinkers of a 
storm and stress period, are the scholars of an age. The true scholar has 
learning, but his learning is the incentive of his spontaneity; he reaches 
original results but relates them always with the intellectual achieve- 
ments of the past ; in truth, his learning and his spontaneity are organic 
parts of the living unity of his scholarship. 

This makes clear the part which the college has in the growth of scholar* 
ship. It may give to its students, first of all, the true conception of scholar- 
ship in its dual nature, manifesting to them the dignity of learning and the 
beauty of inspiration. It distinctly fails to attain its own purpose if it doea 
not lay adequate emphasis both on acquisition and on originality, if it does 
not insist upon accurate information aud incite to indei)endent thought and 
individual expression. The Oxford of John Locke's day which characterized 
him as a ** man of turbulent spirit, clamorous, discontented," comparing 
him very unfavorably with the other students who *'took notes defer- 
entially," had no place for the spontaneity of scholarship ; and it is to 
be feared that the spirit of seventeenth century Oxford often dominates 
the modern lecture room. The great distinction, on the other hand, of 
the philosophical faculties in Jena and Berlin during the early decades 
of the century, is precisely that rare combination of erudition and sig- 
nificant novelty which makes scholarship. The great masters of philosophy 
in those years, Fichte, and especially Hegel, were possessed of the spirit of 
philosoi)hical insight and were also acquainted with historic systems of 
thought. The glory of modern universities, American as well as European, 
is their preservation of these two great traditions, their apprehension of the 
dual aim of scholarship. In a word, then, the college sots before its students 
an ideal of scholarship, and provides for them an environment .suited not 
only to patient discipline in observation, imagination, and thought, but to in- 
dependence and spontaneity. We can not ask more of the college. Life it- 
self is too short to attain learning. t;ncl uriginality is endowment, not 
achievement. Evidently, therefore, the four undergraduate years, and even 


tbe graduate years of study, can not create scholarship, but they serre a 
lifty eod when they make scholarship possible. 

This relation to scholarship at once appears an obvions one when we re- 
tict upon the fundamental purpose of a college. President Seelye clearly 
formulated it, twenty-five years ago, in his inaugural address. The ** chief 
work" of the college, he said, "is intellectual perfection." In the pressing 
administrstiye problems of a large community and in the excitements, 
}oj8, and disappointments of its personal intercourse and its social relations, 
great edncators and tmdergraduate students alike have seemed to lose sight 
oi the tnith that the underlying pur];)08e of school and college education is 
ictellectnal discipline. This assertion Is, it will be observed, a guarded one. 
In the first place, it applies only to the formal education of school and col- 
1^ ; and this is a part only of that larger education whose purpose is as 
wide as that of life itself and whose ultimate aim is the establishment of 
personal relations, individual and social. And, in the second place, only the 
primary aim. and not the complete purpose of the college is an intellectual 
one. The college is in fact a community as well as a school, and the ends of 
the community have therefore to be gained by the wise ordering of domestic 
and social life. But in the historic and the logical sequence alike, the com- 
mimity exists for the sake of the school of learning, whose interests, there- 
fore, yield only to the supreme interests of life. To lose sight of this princi- 
ple and to regard the intellectual training of its students not as the basal 
porpoeeof the college, but as an incidental purpose, subordinate to other 
laudable ends — ^the growth, for example, of social graces or the spread of 
pMlanthropic movements — is to see the whole in a false light, background for 
for^ound, high light for shadow. 

Neither this basal purpose of the college, to afford intellectual training to 
its students, nor the narrower aim of the scholar is in any conflict with the 
fnpreme end of life : character, the attainment of right personal relations or 
-^B onr college motto has it — virtue. For the life of the scholar is not, as is 
often Drged, incompatible with rich and adequate human living. It entails, 
to be sore, the sacrifice of many occupations and interests, to its own inexo- 
rable demand for time ; and one can not, therefore, be at the same time 
a scholar and a society woman ; one can not well combine the rdles of scholar 
and mother of a family or woman of affairs ; in a word, one can not amass 
Icvning without devoting to the task long stretches of time and strenuous 
concentration of one's power. In enforcing these claims, moreover, scholar- 
sliip may also make one oblivious of human relationship and unmindful of 
bnman needs. Tbe refusal of a great historian to witness suffering in any 
form and even to visit his friends in illness, was merely the deliberate adop- 
tion of a policy of selfish isolation, which many scholars have unconsciously 
followed. Bat this is not an inevitable result of scholarly living. For schol- 
anhip neither forbids nor excludes the emotional and volitional relations of 
^f^. It is an absorbing profession shutting ont other occupations, but it 
a*€»l not be an exclusive enthusiasm. It may rather be subordinate to even 
'i?*'per and more vital i»88ions. 

Certain characteristics of scholarship, indeed, so far from being merely 
compatible with ethical interests, actually further them. For scholarship de- 


mands not only mental endowment — observation, memory, imagination, 
thonght — bnt seriouB moral qualities as well. Accuracy and independence, 
the absolute essentials of the scholar, are merely the old-fashioned virtues of 
honesty and courage, in specific application to the intellectual life. The pas- 
sionate devotion to truth in each detail, the untiring repetition of every ex- 
perimental result, the verification of every minutest figure, the unsparing re- 
jection of testimony, however confirmatory of one's theory, when tainted 
with the least suspicion of inaccuracy — this is the stuff of which scholarship 
is made, and it is nothing more nor less than the virtue of truth. And to the 
cardinal virtue of truth the scholar adds, not merely the grace of patience, 
but the heroic virtue of courage, moral equivalent of originality, and, last of 
all, the virtue of humility— bom of a love for the truth so intense that one 
does not over-rate one's own share in it. Truth, courage, and humility are 
certainly, therefore, not the adornments, but the very material of scholar- 
ship and they are also the qualities which ennoble and enlarge all living. 
Truth in the details of research facilitates truth between man and man, 
fearless thought is a discipline for fearless living ; patience and humility are 
not unlearned in the transition from the study to the living-room. Thus the 
virtues necessary to one's scholarship are also the qualities absolutely essen- 
tial to one's manhood. 

May I apply this doctrine in a very practical way to the opportunities of col- 
lege-bred women in our secondary schools? I suppose we are all agreed that 
the most serious educational problems of modern times are those of the 
schools, rather than those of the colleges, but we are probably much divided 
as to the nature of the needed reforms, some of us railing at the time spent 
over the ** common branches," while others deplore the decay of spelling: 
some of us, again, calling for a wider range of subjects, and others depre- 
cating the dissipation of energy on too many topics. Bnt deeiier than any 
one of these causes for complaint and more urgent than any of these needs 
is another, clearly set forth by Professor Mtinsterberg in a recent paper. It 
is the crying need for scholarly teachers, for teachers who both know and 
love the subjects which they teach, whose enthusiasm is so great that it is 
an inspiration, whose learning is so large that the correction of errors is a 
habit, not a painstaking achievement. Such teachers will not sit up half the 
night to keep one declension, two botanical specimens or three historical 
reigns '* ahead" of their pupils. Their Latin, their algebra, or their geog- 
raphy will so possess their minds that stimulating methods of teaching will 
be naturally evolved. Under such teachers, aflame with interest alike in their 
pupils and in their subject, if they are not fettered and shackled with absurd 
limitations, courses of study may be widened precisely because all subjects 
vdll of necessity be thoroughly and vigorously taught. 

The serious charges, made by Dr. Mtinsterberg, of unscholarly teaching in 
American schools are clearly justified. In great degree, to be sure, the re- 
sponsibility is that of our vulgar, penny-wise, municipal governments, which 
spend our money on boulevards and artistic hydrants and pavements taken 
up for the apparant satisfaction of being laid again, while they require of 
one poorly-paid young woman, twenty-five recitations x)©r week in a high 
school class-room, the reading of a hundred themes and the oversight of two 


hondred pupils, and assign to another some sncb gronp of subjects as Greek, 
geometry, mineralogy, Egyptian history, and moral philosophy. But we are 
not concerned just now with the evils of the city-governments. Have not 
we. the college graduates, into whose hAnds more and more the school rooms 
of America are drifting — have not we at times disregarded the scholarly ideal 
of the teacher's profession ? Have we not too lightly held our duty done 
when we have heard the requisite recitations and corrected our full quota of 
papers? have we not supposed ourselves simply responsible for knowing per- 
fectly the paradigms, or demonstrations required of our pupils? In a word, 
have we not failed to comprehend that the ideal teacher is always— I will not 
aj a scholar — but scholarly ? The salaries usually i>aid to teachers make it 
impossible, it is true, for many of us to come to our work equipped by grad- 
utte study. And the burdens imposed on many eager young teachers make 
it doubtful if they can ever attain to scholarly methods. There remain, how- 
erer. a goodly number of us, who have time if we will use it, for the schol- 
arly treatment of some one of our subjects, who may withdraw from some 
of onr clubs, cnt down our attendance upon the afternoon rehearsals, resist 
the temptation of desultory reading and set ourselves resolutely to the long 
and difficult, jet inspiring task, of thoroughly investigating some topic of 
stndv. Such 8 purpose can not fail of its fulfilment. Scholarship, in its 
highest sense, we may not attain ; time may fail us for complete acquisition, 
or we may not possess the flavor of originality. But the pursuit of schol- 
mhip is, in a senae, its own reward, invigorating one's work in the class- 
room, enlarging one's whole intellectual life and lending one the secret of 
eternal youth — since no one can grow old while there is always something 
left which one eagerly seeks to know. 

This is the great opportunity, I think, of the college graduate who turns to 
teaching. Positions on college faculties are few, after all. More and more, 
the college and university-bred woman who denies herself the luxury of the 
merely scholarly life will devote herself to what is very inadequately called 
" secondary" teaching. Let her hasten by her own activity the millenial 
dsy when the faculties of American high schools, like those of German 
grnuttsia, shall include authoritative and recognized scholars ; let her firmly 
grasp the truth that the perfect teacher has a scholarly passion for truth as 
weD as a human interest in his pupils, uniting in himself those great quali- 
tiei which make the Platonic Sokrates a prince among teachers ; the sympa- 
Uietic understanding of his students, that ** gentle and approving manner,'* 
19 Plato calls it, and the devotion to truth, the quick sense of a *' wound in- 
dicted on the argument." 

Tet even as I speak I realize the vanity of my words, where exhortation is 
^ futile as warning. No angel of toil, with flaming sword, can bar 
the true scholar from his paradise, and he needs no spoken command to 
sQaomon him, for he obeys an inner voice, esteeming all the monotony, the 
toil, and the drudgery of scholarly work, as a light thing beside the overmas- 
tering relief which comes with the solution of his problem, the keen exhiler- 
ation which accompanies discovery, the exceeding joy of even a fleeting vis- 
ioQ of the truth. Mary Whiton Cai^ins '85. 


[Miss Vida Scndder '84 spoke next on " The College Woman in Philan- 
thropy,'* but as her address was not written, it is impossible to print \t.-~Edi' 
tor's Note,] 

The last of the subjects I shall ask yon to consider tliis afternoon is " The 
Alnmna and her Relation to the College.'* Ui)on this Mrs. Elizabeth Law- 
rence Clarke, by her long and intimate association with the college as tms- 
tee, benefactor, and ever earnest worker for its welfare, is most fitted to speak. 

In response to the sentiment **The relation of the Alnmna to her Alma 
Mater," I have been asked to gpive rather a detailed account of the Alnmnse 

Association and its work. If, as a -pttxt of these altmmee 

Alma Mater exercises, this should seem a little like *' blowing our own 

trumpet," we must reply that it was asked for by President 
Seelye, and the alumnae never fail to respond to anything he asks of them. 

The college opened in the fall of 1875 with fourteen students, but it took 
four years to make these into alumnae ; so, while the college is twenty-five 
years old, the alumnae are only twenty-one, and though we boast of many 
things we do not yet boast of our ** oldest living alumna." Not too much 
must be expected of a body only twenty-one years old. On June 18, 1879, the 
first diplomas were awarded and the alumnae, eleven in number, went forth 
to leaven. They did not scatter so very far : six were from Massachusetts, 
two more from other New England States, two from New York, and one from 
Delaware, but wherever they went it is apparent that they took a knowledge 
and a love of their Alma Mater. With the class of 1880, nine more alumnte 
were sent forth, and in Jtme 1881, a class of twenty-eight were looking for- 
ward to their commencement and the resx>onsibilities to follow. Feeling a 
desire to keep in touch with one another, as well as to help their Alma Mater, 
the members of the class of '81, and those of '80 who were present for their 
first reunion, had an informal meeting on the afternoon of Monday, Jime 20, 
1881, looking to the formation of an Alumnae Association. The next morn- 
ing a formal meeting was held, a constitution adopted, and the Alumnae As- 
sociation was bom ; its object, to quote from the constitution, being : — *' to 
further the well being of the college and its graduates by increasing the in- 
terest of members in the college and in each other." The members of the 
class of '79 — the eleven Immortals — were at once asked to join. 

Met on every side by the critici.««m that girls could not stand the strain of 
college life, it is not surprising that the first work of the Association should 
have been in the line of increasing the equipment in the PhysicAl Department 
at the college. Raising funds for purchasing Sargent apparatus for the gym- 
nasium was therefore the work undertaken by the few alumnae, and was car- 
ried on with the help of the increasing number, until over $1000 had been ex- 
pended and the committee reported in June 1885, that as much apparatus 
had been supplied as could profitably be used in the small building then 
occupied as a gymnasium. 

In the meantime, however, another call had come. In the summer of 1883, 
the alumnae heard the sad news of the death of Professor Phelps. At once they 
wished to take some action to show their appreciation of his service to the 
college as well as their personal feeling of loss. It was decided to present a 


portrait of Professor Phelps to the college and to raise funds for increasing 
the philosophical library. As it was felt that all the students who had been 
Tuider Professor Phelt)8's instruction, as well as all the alnmnfle, wonld with 
to Gontribnte to this memorial, the Phelps Memorial Library Association was 
formed. Greatly aided by the gift from Professor Austin Phelps of 
tlOOO, and the private library of Professor Phelps, the Association was 
soon able to accomplish its object. A sufficient sum was raised to give a 
small yearly income for philosophical books and these were placed in a sepa- 
rate alcove in which was hung the portrait. The leaven was working, the 
alumnsD now numbered a few more than two hundred, and while gathering 
force for some big work, one or two side efforts resulted in the cataloguing 
of the College Library, the fitting up as a Reading Boom of the old Chemi- 
cal Laboratory, now abandoned for Lilly Hall, and the organization of the 
Boston Branch of the Association. 

The college was rapidly growing, and in the year 1886-1887, there were 
tiiree hundred and twenty-one students instead of one hundred and thirty- 
eight, the number enrolled from 1878-1879, the first year when there were 
fonxr classes. When the needs of the college were discussed by the alumnte, 
the physical side still appealed most to them, though the old criticism was 
beard much less frequently. In June 1887, it was ** decided " to raise money 
for a new gymnasium, adequate to the growing needs of the college, and a 
committee was appointed. Observe that it was decided to ** raise'' the 
money ; not to think about it, not to try, but to do it ; and ** a sum not less 
than $20,000," because we had been told that the new Vassar Qymuaaium 
had cost that, and we could not be outdone. With only about three hundred 
alumnse or former 8X>ecial students, and practically an equal number of 
undergraduates, who were by no means to be overlooked in a money raising 
scheme, the outlook was a little appalling. Those were the days of the alpha- 
bet system of raising money, it was almost new then, fortunately for the 
committee ; but even so, the prospect of finding ten A*s, two hundred B*b, 
two thousand C's, and twenty thousand D*8 out of six hundred people was 
something of a mathematical problem. It makes us smile now, but there 
were many of us who got hopelessly confused in our alphabet and while A*s 
or B's ourselves, were C's or D*s for some one else ; and the intricacies of that 
committee book with its numerous cross references, where all sums and 
names were entered, were only to be followed by the most initiated. I can 
not further sketch the workings of the committee and the alumnae during the 
raising of the sum. a lump of the original leaven was on the committee and 
so the sum was raised ; but in many cases it meant honest, hard work and 
personal self-denial, and no means that Buggef«ted itself to the individual 
alumna as her chance was allowed to go by. At the end of the first year the 
committee rex>orted a little over $4000 on hand ; at the end of the second year 
the sum had increased to $11.000 ; in the spring of the third year the sum 
had so increased that it was deemed best to begin the building. When this 
fact was communicated to the President, two members of the gymnasium 
committee were elected by the trustees to serve with three of the trustees on 
the building committee. In June of the third year the $20,000 had been 
raised, indeed $21,500 ; but the ideas of the committee had grown as the 


bnilding had grown, and so work was continued another year. In Jnne 1891 » 
the end of the fonrth year, the bnilding was finished and given to the college, 
and used by the alnmnse, perhaps with some pride, at the Alumnae Tea. The 
whole cost had been nearly $28,000 ; and a separate snm had been raised by 
one of the committee for Swedish apparatus and for fitting up the directors' 
room. The last sums were not paid in and the accoxmts closed and the com- 
mittee disbanded for two years more, but practically the gymnasium stands 
as the work of the AlumnsB Association during five years. 

But during these five years other things had taken place. In June 1888, 
theAlumnffi Tea was inaugurated. In the inaugural ''talk'* which Presi- 
dent Seelye gave to his *' beloved Alumnse " on that occasion, he announced 
the vote of the Board of Trustees asking the ** Associated AlumnsB to make 
nominations for three trustees, to serve for one, two, and three years respec- 
tively, and to report these nominations to the trustees the next June. At that 
date the alumnse would be ten years old, and to ask a person of ten to take 
part in the government of the family, indeed to make laws for her mother, 
would seem to imply a precocious American child. Possibly with some feel- 
ing of the offspring's youth and inexperience, the trustees had not said *' from 
among their own number," but left perfect freedom for the nominations to 
be made from prominent persons of either sex or from their own alumnae. 
Of the many names sent in for the first suggestions it is interesting to note 
that among the nine names standing highest on the list, there was one of a 
Yassar alumna, one of a Cornell, and one of a woman representing no col- 
lege but the br6ader general education gained in her busy, helpful, outside 
life : thus showing the modesty of the offspring to assume responsibility and 
the willingness of the alumna to profit by the training and experience of 
other women's colleges. As the Vassar and Cornell alumnae felt it impossi- 
ble to assume the position of trustee of another college, the three names fi- 
nally submitted to the trustees were those of two of your own alumnae and 
Miss Anna L. Dawes, and in June 1889, the Board of Trustees formally voted 
these three into membership in their Board. (Again we had drawn from the 
original leaven for this.) During these five years, too, the growth of the 
alumnae was shown by the organization of branch associations in Chicago 
(Feb. 1889), in Springfield (1890), and in New York. The Alumnae Register 
was instituted to keep track of the widely scattering graduates and to help 
keep them in touch with each other. In June 1891, the Alumnae Association 
numbered three hundred and eighty-five. Miss Dawes, who was serving us so 
efficiently and faithfully as alumna trustee, was made an honorary member of 
the association. — the first adopted daughter. 

On the completion of the gymnasium accounts in 1893, a new committee 
was appointed to consider the special needs of the college library, and how 
best to meet them, and to report the next year ; thus giving the alumnae a 
year to recuperate and gain new force. In June 1894, it was voted to raise 
$20,000, the income to be used for the library. It was harder to find money 
the second time than the first, and although the num])er of the alumnae was 
increasing, their vMmey making capacity was not correspondingly increasing. 
After two years of work the committee reported a little over §5000 and were 
ready to keep on until the whole sum was raised, although it seemed that it 


would take some years. About $2000 more was added during the third year, 
bat meantiine the trustees had agreed to receive the money collected and give 
the alninn® five per cent on the fund ; so that already the benefit of the effort 
was being felt A like increase in the fmid was being made the fourth year, 
and this slow but sure progress was being accex>ted, as it seemed that the 
aliLcma, though very loyal, was unable to do any more, when an added spur 
was given in the middle of May 1898, by the attention of the committee be- 
ing called to the fact that the coming June wotdd mark the twenty-fifth year 
of President Seelye*s service to the college. Certainly the alumnsB would 
want to recognize this in some way. The notice of the anniversary was sent 
oat, and it needed but this added stimulus to bring the money ; for what the 
alnnma would like to do for her college, but feels she can not, she wiU do for 
her President. But there was only (9000 collected. How could it be brought 
ap to $20,000 in six weeks ? No wonder President Seelye looked incredulous, 
when told what the alumnsd were trying to do, but he did not know the ef- 
fect of his name. In the following six weeks money and pledges came flow- 
ing into the hands of the committee, so that at Commencement $14,000 was 
reported and pledges of $3000 more which had not reached the committee. 
That the entire sum was not secured was due only to the brevity of time be- 
tween the annoxmcement of the coming anniversary and the actual date, as 
was shown by the fact that the remainder of the sum came in through the 
smnmer and faU of the next year, and in June 1899, the fund of $20,000 was 
completed and presented to the college by the alumnae as the '* L. Clark See- 
lye Library Fund." 

The undergraduates had for some years felt the need of a Students* Build- 
ing and had been collecting money for this purpose. When the si)ecial call 
came for completing the library fund in time for an anniversary gift to Presi- 
dent Seelye, the undergraduates entirely set aside their object and most en- 
thnaasticall J and effectively helped the alumnee. Now the alumne want to 
show their appreciation of this help and their sympathy for the undergradu- 
ate aim, and will devote themselves to the Students' Building Fund until that 
is completed. 

Though this was to be a sketch of the Alumnse Association, 1 do not want 
to close it without mention of the Non-Graduate Association. Such is the 
infinence of these college halls, apparently, that those here only for a short 
time and so unable to enroll themselves as alumnse are yet desirous of show- 
ing their love for the college and their wish to work for her. The Non-Grad- 
nate Association was organized about the fall of 1889, and a year or two 
later started a fund to equip a Teachers* Room, or a Reception Room in Col- 
lege Hall. In June 1894, this had been accomplished, the few but enthusias- 
tic members having secured about $500. They at once started to organize a 
Students* Aid Association, seeing the need for the help which such a society 
oonid give the undergraduates. Three years later this was accomplished, and 
the Smith Students* Aid Association is now doing helpful work for two or 
three students each year. The present membership consists of both non- 
graduates and alumnsB, but the alxmrnae are glad to record that the credit 
both of the original idea and of the initiatory work belongs to the non- 


With the graduation of the class of 1900 the alnmnsd nnmber just nine- 
teen hundred, and are widely scattered, with branch associations in Boston, 
Chicago, Springfield, Worcester, Syracuse, Hartford, and Indianapolis ; the 
eleven have grown. 

President Seelye has always said that the alumnsB are the advertisement of 
the college ; if the advertisement of 1900 differs somewhat from that of 1879 
there is no disrespect— to either. A progressive firm must change its form 
of advertisement to keep abreast of existing conditions, and with the growth 
of population must enlarge its advertising medium. I have spoken of the 
AlumnsB Association and its work and, have made no mention of any personal 
gifts of alumnsB to the college. The association includes nearly all of the 
nineteen hundred alumn® ; it would be glad to include the rest, for by the 
greater number working together will the greater good be accomplished. 

The Smith alumna is always loyal and always ready to speak a good word 
for her Alma Mater, but let not that loyalty be a blind love of a thing be- 
cause it is our8. Let us keep in touch with our college as much as possible, 
investigate the criticisms we hear made before we accept them or deny them. 
We may be sure that oar queries, if honestly made, will be gladly answered, 
and we will find that the problems we did not see are many, and the deficien- 
cies we did see are known to others than ourselves, and are being overcome 
by the President, the trustees, and the faculty, as fast as it is in their power 
to do so. It is for us to increase that power by loyal sympathy and supxx)rt. 
All honest investigation will but lead to more intelligent loyalty. This then 
is one side of the relation of the alumna to her Alma Mater, a little account 
of what she has done, of the debt of love which she is glad to pay her col- 
lege. What she might do, is only to go forward even more courageously and 
more closely united to the college. 

But there is the other greater side, what the Alma Mater has done for the 
alumna. We can not tell that. It means a different thing to each one of us — 
but always a growth— -a broadening of our lives— a stimulus given to make 
of our lives a record that the Mother shaU not be ashamed of, whether that 
record is made in the home, in society, in scholarship, in philanthropy, or in 
literature. It is all for our Alma Idater. 

Elizabeth Lawrence Clarke '83. 

[President Seelye then spoke and Mrs. Noyes closed with the following : ] 

When twenty-five years hence the graduates of Smith College assemble for 
the semi-centennial celebration may they as we do to-day look backward with 
exultation and thanksgiving, and forward with confidence and high resolve. 

LucLA Clapp Notes '89. 


Smith freshmen are nsnally to be recognized, dming the first few days after 
their arrival, by their apparant sense of bondage to their pamphlets of in- 
formation, and from the freshman point of view 

The New Curriculum one of the distinctive marks of members of the 

three upper classes has been, heretofore, that sense 
of familiarity and ease with which they have handled and despatched the 
pamphlet, using it merely as a means of rapid transit to an arranged course 
of study. On the appearance of the catalog for the year 1899-1900, however, 
it was foreseen, that at the opening of the present college year, no such 
means of mntual identification would exist, for freshmen and seniors alike 
would be obliged to give closest attention to the regulations incident to the 
change in curriculum, definitely described and discnssed in detail by Miss 
Jordan in the Monthly for March, 1900. 

For a long time students, pursuing work along the lines of the scientific 
and literary courses, have considered their position a x)eculiar one with regard 
to those outside the college to whom the degrees of B. S. and B. L. meant 
less than the degree of A. B. Those receiving the degrees felt convinced that 
the work demanded of them was in every way as difficult and profitable as 
that reqnired in the classical conrse, and naturally they received with rejoic- 
ing the announcement that, after 190>1, Smith College would confer only the 
degree A. B. for underg^duate work, thns coming into agreement with the 
custom of other coDeges. 

Since the change, however, made necessary certain conditions preliminary 
to obtaining the one degree, some caref id planning was called for on the stn- 
dents' part, by way of adjustment to the new regime. As a result, during 
the confusion attendant on the arranging and returning of course cards, it 
did not take long for the Impulsive to pronoxmce the change a ** grand nui- 
sance," and to regard the new requirements as unnecessarily severe. Never- 
theless, when the machinery was once set in motion, and the state of affairs 
could be judged from a calmer point of view, it became apparent that ad- 
justment to one*8 course of study was a jirocess much like settling one's 
room. In spite of first experiments, which prove that all the furnishings 
dash with the wall paper, and that the furniture will not fit into convenient 
spaces, in the course of a week things seem homelike and comfortable, and 
the present arrangements in the academic line have, with increasing famil- 
iarity, brought less of friction, reconciling us to our small disappointment in 
courses of study, just as we eventually became resigned to hanging our pic- 
tures from the molding instead of using the coveted tacks. 



We recognize without practical demonstration the wisdom in the require- 
ments that students shall follow a main study dming junior and senior years 
"based on preliminary work of the earlier years,"* and that another three 
hour course must be chosen in a subject distinctly different from the main 
study,— on the one hand bringing about centralization in work, and on the 
other warding off the danger of pursuing a one-sided course. The "rub" 
comes in the demand for three three-hour courses, making the election of 
more than one of the valuable two-hour courses impossible within the mini- 
mum, and in cases forcing one to elect work in less desirable subjects for the 
sake of choosing what will constitute a three-hour course. Thus we see stu- 
dents obliged to take a three-hour course in which they have little interest, 
going without two very desirable two-hour courses, which they have antici- 
pated perhaps for several years. To be sure one does not have to keep within 
the minimum, and there are some students who can carry a large nuihber of 
hours satisfactorily, but the average student does not do herself justice with 
a course heavy in hours, and for many the ideal seems still to be that ex- 
pressed by a member of our faculty, as "minimum hours and gilt-edged 
work." But it is surely impossible to judge of the curriculum from the pres- 
ent point of view, and one must even hesitate to express opinion of a system 
in the stages when it is avowedly experimental. Things are now in a " state 
of becoming," of becoming better and not worse we are constrained to believe. 

The object of the new provisions as stated by Miss Jordan in the article re- 
ferred to is as follows : — * * To secure emphasis for some continuity in study, 

some limitation in the number of studies carried on at the same time, defi- 
nite recognition of the needs of pronounced specialists, a reasonable freedom 
for the student desiring general culture, and a demand for responsibility in 
making elections and independence of judgment on the part of the student." 
This object is one which we must recognize to be for our welfare as students, 
and whatever personal inconvenience or disappointment in individual plana 
has arisen through acceptance of the new provisions will be lost sight of in 
our desire to cooperate with those who have spent so much time and thought 
for our best advantage, and our willingness to give the new scheme the thor- 
ough trial and test of exx)erience which is essential to further development 
and advance in our educational interests. 

Frances Crosby Buffingtox 1901. 

The two anniversary days through which we have passed this month were 
full of sigfnificance and interest. They were days which brought us inspira- 
tion and encouragement from men and women distinguished in many walks 
of life, days which taught us the efficiency and loyalty of our alumnse, and 
the dignity and ability of the uadergi*a<luate students. We realize that 
Smith College is not a class, nor even four classes, but an influence, a move- 
ment, potent, irresistible, and earnest. 

This earnestness was the key-note of all the exercises. We felt that our 
guests had not come to patronize, but to offer hearty congi*atulation8 and to 
render us whatever service lay in their power. Nor was it a mere occasion 
for vain-glory on the part of the students and alumuae. To all of us, as we 
heard from President Seelye and Dr. Greene the origin and growth of Smith 


College, from the day-dreams of its founder to the present collegiate body of 
over eleven hnndred students and nineteen hnndred alnmnsd, there came a 
feeling of new reverence and loyalty for the college that calls ns her own. 
With it and indistingnishable from it indeed, there is a pride in those who 
have gnided this influence, this movement, and helped to develop and make 
what it is that which we are fond of calling the *' Smith Spiric "—which be- 
ing interpreted meaneth the energy and sincerity and friendly earnestness 
which touches every student who jiasses throui^h thes*> hiills. 

The historic ** fourteen " who fought their way through prejudice and dis- 
couragement to the position of altmmaB of Smith College, felt a bm*den of 
responsibility upon them of justifying to onlookers the jxii^sibility and prac- 
ticability of an independent woman's college. It is for us with most of these 
prejudices removed, with constantly intTeaning encomagemeiit and practical 
aid from outside benefactors, from faculty and ffllow-studoiits, to testify in 
lives ordered by faithful, steady scholar ship, earnest and sincere democracy 
and love of truth, the " conveniency,'' to (juote Dean Bri ergs' allusion at the 
Educational Conference, *'of the She-Institution.'' 

JcLiA Post Mitchell 1901. 

The Smith College Association for Christian Work — commonly known as 
the "S. C. A. C. W." — is an organization which one often hears mentioned 

in college life, but of which many girls have 

S. C. A. C. W. Notes rather vague and indefinite ideas. The S. C. A. 

C. W. is simply this: — an asscx^iation which 
aims to unite into one body the various religious and philanthroinc societies 
of the college and whose purpose is '* to promote, in the name of Christ, the 
develoximent of a broad and intelligent activity in the cause of humanity." 
Founded as it is upon a broad, Christian basis, the association takes for 
granted the interest of all, and makes every member of the college a member 
also of this general organization. The association comprises the Missionary 
Society, Christian Union, College Settlements Association, Needle Work 
Guild, Home Culture Clubs, and Students' Exchange. The Missionary So- 
ciety, Needle Work Guild, and College Settlements Association are not 
organizations pectdiar to Smith College, but speak for themselves. The 
Christian Union is the special religious society of the college and takes 
charge of the Bible classes and of the religious meetings held by the stu- 
dents. The executive board, or "Cabinet," of the S. C. A. C. W. meets 
every week to transact the business of the association. It is made up of the 
officers of the general association and various sub-organizations and of two 
representatives from each class in college. The value of these board meet- 
ings can not be overestimated, Jor it is here that the aim of the S. C. A. C. 
W. becomes practical. The *' Cabinet" not only transacts business ; it brings 
together in one body those who, though they may be carrying on different 
branches of Christian work, are nevertheless bound together by the deepest 
sympathy and by devotion to one common end. 

Helen West Kitchbll 1901. 


Among the improvements in the college, completed and m progress this 
fall, the addition to the observatory is perhaps the most conspicuous. The 
size of the building has been more than doubled and many of the inconven- 
iences removed which the students and instructors have known in past 
years. Formerly, all the students observing on a fine evening had to pasa 
through the one hall and door with their books and instruments and lamps. 
By the new arrangement, iMurt of the instruments are kept in the new room 
to the north of the old recitation room, and from there the students can pass 
out by the new entrance. Across the hall from this room is a sitting-room 
for the use of the instructors. A short flight of steps leads down to the larg- 
est of the new rooms, which is used both for laboratory and for class work. 
It is lighted by large windows on three sides, is well 8upi)lied with black- 
boards and with tables where students can work separately and keep their 
materials. From here there is a door to an outside staircase which leads to 
the roof. This is flat over about half of the new part of the building, and 
from its comparatively dight elevation the horizon is wonderfully bettered 
for constellation work. There has also been an entirely new heating appara- 
tus put in, and this, together with the electricity which was new last j^ear, and 
the carefully-planned additional space add immensely to the comfort, conven- 
ience, and possibilities of the astronomical department. 

Edith Burbank 1901. 

Several new courses have been offered the students this year, among which 
are two courses by Mr. Pratt on the study of music and musicians 
and the art of listening to music, a course in the reconstruction period of 
American History by Dr. Hazen, and courses in archaeology and in modem 
Greek by Miss Boyd, A. B. '92, who has been for some time in Athens at the 
American School of Archaeology. 

The associate professorship in philosophy, left vacant by Mr. Smith, is now 
filled by Mr. Arthur H. Pierce, Ph. D., Harvard, who has taught for some 
time in Amherst CJollege. Mr. Ralph B. Perry, Ph. D., Harvard, who has 
been teaching at Williams College, has been made instructor in ethics. 

The assistants this year in zoology, English, and botany include Miss 
Louisa S. Cheever, A. B., Smith *90, A. M., Columbia '97, who is assisting in 
rhetoric, and Miss Annah P. Hazen, B. L., Smith '95, who assists in zoology. 
Miss Alice Knox, A. B., Smith '99, and Miss Emily Locke 1900, are assisting 
in botany. 

Miss Mary B. Puller has been appointed assistant in history, and the place 
of reader in this department is filled by Miss Helen B. Kuhn, B. L,, Smith '97. 





Presdentt EUen Tucker Emerson 
rioe-Pmident, Methyl (Gertrude Oakes 
Secretary, Shirley May Hant 
Treasurer, Agues Fatten 
Historian. Jolia Post Mitchell 
Coancilors : 

EBcn Tncker Boierton 

Lsara Woolsey Lord 

Julia Agni^ Bolster 

Anne Louise Sanborn 


President, Marion Evans 
Vice-President, Isabel Poland Rankin 
Secretary, Elizabeth Catherine Stiles 
Treasurer, Oertrude Hoxana Beecher 
Coancilors : 

Marion Erans 

Clara Louise Bradford 


Prssident, Ethel Hale Freeman 
Viea-President, Carol Helf enstein Childs 
Stella Elisabeth Goes 
. Flaith Potter 
Historian, Sybil LaTlnia Cox 
Councilors : 
Ethel Hale Freeman 
Eloife Mabury 
Bmma Hejrwood Otis 


Pmident, Mary Comer 
Vioe-President, Winifred Lombard 
Secretary, Mary Kimberly 
Treasurer, Mary Kinney 
Councilor : 
Mary Comer 


Pnsident» Martha Melissa Howey 1901 
Viee-P»eaident, Virginia Elizabeth 

Moore 1902 
Beoording Secretary, Orace Whiting 

Mason 1902 
Corresponding Secretary, Edla Lansing 

Stout 1902 
Trsasnrer, Laura Jerauld Paxton 1902 
Editor, Sarah Lydia DeForest 1901 
Chairman of the Executire Committee, 

Miriam Titcomb 1901 


P^esident^ Amy Ferris 1901 
^ice-President, Helen Shoemaker, 1901 
Secretary pro tem, Laura Jerauld Pax- 
ton 1902 
Treasurer, Grace Blair Watkinson 1902 
Chairman of the Executive Committee, 
Florence Hinkley 1901 


Chairman of the Executive Committee, 

£tbeUnd Thorpe Childs 1901 
Se<Tetary and Treasurer, Mary Alice 

Allen 1901 


President, Laura Woolsey Lord 1901 
Vice-President, Louise Knapp 1903 
Secretary, Rath Hawthorne French 1902 
Treasurer, May Wallace Barta 1902 
Editor, Persis Eastman Rowell 1901 
Chairman of the Executive Committee, 
Julia Agnes Bolster 1901 


President, Mildred Ford 1901 
Vice-President, Helen Witmer 1901 
Secretary, Frances Stettauer 1901 
Treasurer, Edith DeBlois Laskey 1901 


First Vice-President, Katherine Wheeler 

Holmes 1902 
Second Vice-President, Janet Somerville 

Sheldon 1901 
Secretary, Jessie Stuart Carter 1903 
Treasurer, Susan Pratt Kennedy, 1908 


Secretary, Florence Laura Byles 1901 
Treasurer, Grace Rarey Peters 1901 




Vice-President, Nina Louise Almirall 

Secretary and Treasurer, Alice Edith 

Egbert 1902 


Leader, Ethel Lane 1901 

Assistant Leader, Dorothy Amy Young 

Manager, Lucy Morris Ellsworth 1901 
Treasurer, Florence Emeline Clexton 


8. O. ▲. O. W. 

President, Helen West Kitchel 1901 
Vice-President, Bertha June Richardson 

Recording Secretary, Jean Gertrude 

Jouett 1902 
Corresptinding Secretary, Henrietta 

Prentiss 1902 
Treasurer, Helen Florinda McAfee 1908 


President, Alice Duryee 1901 
Vice-Pi-esident, Katherine Fiske Berry 

Secretary, Edith Eustace Souther 1902 
Treasurer, Bertha Haynes Holden 1902 
Assistant Treasurer, Maude Barrows 

Dutton 1908 


Elector, Annie Holbrook Duncan 1901 
Secretary, Caroline Saunders 1901 


Chairman, Agnes Hastings Gilchnst 1901 


Leader, Marion Brooks Bwasey 1901 
Manager, Mabel Louise Fitcgerald 1901 


Leader, Mary Louise Caldwell 1901 
Manager, Busan Watkins 1902 




















OpeniDg of College. 
Reception of the Christian Association. 
Phi Kappa Psi Society. 
Quarter-Centenary Exercises. 




Biological Society. 
Alpha Society. 
Sophomore Reception. 
Mountain Day. 
Biological Society. 
Phi Kappa Psi Society. 
Colloquium . 
Alpha Society. 
Biological Society. 
Phi Kappa Psi Society. 
Biological Society. 


Smftb CoUeae 


DcvemDer ^ t900. 
Con^ucte^ In tbe Senior CUaa, 

HARVARD COI E'/.£ i.i.^w> 

6lfT 0^ TUt 


'^NOV 7 1923 



Sarah Lydia DtForest 1901 

Water Music 

Sunset on the Mesa 

The Point of Honor 

Omar Kbayyav 

LOYB . . . .« 

In the Time of Otto the Second 

Oerirude Emma Knox 1901 

Ruth Louue Oaines 1901 

Tirzah SneU Smith, A. B. 

Virginia Elizabeth Moore 190$ 

Edith DeBloi9 LaOsey 1901 

Caroline Thomas Bumboid 1901 


How THE Wind Found the Light 

A Twosome 

D ifficul ties of a Sophomore 


Her Dress 

Shoes That Pass in the Night 





The Smith College Monthly is 



JvUa Pogt MitcheU 1901 88 

On the Disadvantages of Gk>OD Ancestry 

Amy Stoughton Pope 1901 88 

A Romance of the Links Ethd WaUace Hatchina 1901 90 

Margaret Eebecca Piper 1901 96 

Fanny Hastings 1903 97 

Ruth Stephens Baker 1903 98 

SybU Lavinia Cox 1903 99 

Hannah Qould Johnson 1901 102 

Marguerite Fdlows 1901 108 

. 104 


published at Northampton, Massachn- 
setts, on the 15th of each month, dnring the year from October to Jane, indn- 
siye. Terms, $1.60 a year, in advance. Single numbers, 20 cents. Contri- 
butions may be left at 8 Gymnasium Hall. Subscriptions may be sent to 
E. M. deLong, 58 High Street, Northampton. 

Saterod at the Post Offloe at Northampton, Massaohosetts, at seoond class mattsr. 


Smith College Monthly 


Ethel Wallace Hawkins, 
Charlotte Burois Deforest, Ruth Louise Gaines, 

Ethel Barstow Howard, Marguerite Cutler Page, 

Jean Shaw Wilson, Laura Woolsey Lord. 

business manager, 
Ethel Marguerite deLong. 

Vol. YIU. NOVEMBER, 1900. No. 2. 


The time has passed when thoughtful people regard the great 
Orient as inhabited by savages ; and yet when the lands of this 
same East are termed '^mission fields," a grotesque atmosphere 
gathers over them, their culture vanishes into thin air, and 
behold, the natives become bona fide heathen, untaught and 
unrestrained ! It is astonishing that in spite of years of con- 
tact with the East and of enjoyment of Oriental art, Europeans 
still regard Asiatics in general as heathen ; and these so-called 
heathen are at least intelligent enough to recognize in the 
appellation the implication of inferiority in both religion and 
civilization, and to resent being designated thus by '^red-haired 
barbarians," whose ancestors were roving in the forests of 
Europe when theirs'had already for thousands of years enjoyed 
a cultured society. 

Of course, the inhabitants of the eastern hemisphere vary 
infinitely in the degree of their development, from the Bush- 
men of Australia to the sages of India ; but by far the greater 
number of mission lands are peopled by men who have great 
religious and philosophies behind them, and whose mental 


acuteness is not inferior to that of the white man. In spite of 
this fact, why will people say, as a young woman did upon 
hearing that a Smith College friend had decided to be a mission- 
ary, "Don't you feel as if you had wasted your education?'^ 
Those who talk thus of wasting talents must have a somewhat 
material view of life. Even then, can it be considered a waste 
to invest one's college-acquired talents in a community of alien 
race where one occupies a unique place of incalculable influ- 
ence and opportunity, where every talent from an aptitude for 
philosophy to a gift for millinery has room for multiplying as 
far as time and physical limitation will permit, rather than to 
invest them in a few scholars and associates of one's own race, 
filling a place which dozens of others could fill ? 

In view of the intellectual demands made by the peoples of 
the East on those who go among them as teachers of a new 
Way, it is well tOjConsider in what particulars a college educa- 
tion helps or hinders both the missionary and his work. 

It is evident that an intellectual education of some breadth is 
an absolute necessity. In general, it is the men and women of 
knowledge who make the greatest mark in mission lands ; for 
Oriental peoples are as quick as we are in discovering intellectual 
ability in a missionary, and it would hardly be exaggerating to 
say that they revere it more than we. Unfortunately, there 
have been instances of missionaries not intellectually equipped,, 
men of general ignorance ; but the importance of intellectual 
qualification can not be too strongly insisted upon, and it is a 
fact that fewer and fewer men and women without a college 
diploma are being sent out. Soon it will be an impossibility to 
find throughout mission lands a missionary like one who in 
recent years was virtually expelled from his chosen work be-^ 
cause of the fact that, in spite of devotion and zeal, he was 
manifestly too ignorant to gain the respect of an intellect- 
loving people. Knowledge acquired in some way, whether at 
college or not, is indispensable. There is, however, a decided 
advantage in having a college diploma. The respect with 
which Western colleges are regarded by men of Eastern culture 
is indeed gratifying to Western pride. It is not uncommon to 
hear the question, *'0f what institution is he a graduate?" and 
the name of one of our great universities acts like a charm in 
opening up opportunities for work and influence. Such was 
the case lately, when a veteran missionary was introduced to 


one of the leading Japanese philosophers, a man who had 
studied in Europe and who now holds a chair in the Imperial 
Unirersity in Tokyo. The latter looked at the foreigner doubt- 
fully until the introducer added hastily, ** He is a graduate of 
Yale/' and the cordial welcome at once extended was a testi- 
mony to the weight carried by a name. 

It is often an astonishment to a new missionary to see how he 
ftt some time or other has occasion to use the studies which he 
took in college. Of course, in mission school or college work, 
one may be called upon to teach the very subjects studied while 
here at college; but aside from the direct use of such courses 
which, it is obvious, become invaluable then, there is the indi- 
rect use, much more interesting and perhaps even more far- 
reaching in its influence. One is reminded of the native student 
in India, whose inherited faith in woman's brain as comparable 
to that of a cow was severely shaken on the occasion of receiv- 
ing assistance from an American woman who knew a French 
word which he had been unable to find in the dictionary, and 
who could solve a problem in solid geometry which had puzzled 
him, a man. Who would not say that it was worth a college 
education to be able in such a country to affect man's view of 
woman so as to change, though gradually, the social position 
of a whole nation of dark-skinned sisters ? 

In taking up any college catalogue and running over the 
courses, a special, practical use for each will suggest itself at 
once to the experienced in mission affairs. There are the mod- 
em languages. The practical advantages of an ability to speak 
continental languages are great in countries like Turkey and 
Egypt, where they are a commercial medium. Not only does 
personal convenience come into consideration, but the ability 
gained in a college language course to look at things in other 
than an American light is invaluable among a people whoso 
habitual mental attitude is the reverse of our own. 

Then the sciences, — not enough can be said of the importance 
of a knowledge of science. A thorough acquaintance with the 
world in which one lives keeps one free from falling under any 
influence from the superstitions of the country to which one 
hasgone, the very air of which seems heavy with contortions 
of nature. The superstition that a spirit always blew out the 
candle carried into a certain cave in China, would have no 
cowering effect on one who could give a scientific explanation 


of the phenomenon, and an apparent indifference to the whole 
realm of spirits, good and evil, followed by no injurious results, 
could not but have a desirable effect on the superstitious mind 
of a native. For purely hygienic purposes in countries where 
the very word hygiene has no equivalent, to say nothing of the 
lack of the condition suggested to a European by that term,— 
forpurely hygienic purposes, scientific acquaintance cannot be 
overestimated. In the more progressive of mission lands, as in 
Japan, science is the means of attaining an astonishing influ- 
ence, though not through any superstition of the natives. One 
missionary, for instance, was asked to meet with a number of 
leading men, with the special stipulation that he was not to talk 
Christianity. After asking him questions on a wide range of 
subjects, from the geology of the hills about them, to education 
in the United States and farming methods in the West, his 
listeners, impressed with his breadth of culture, finally asked 
voluntarily about the religion of the country which could show 
such wonderful advance in things secular. 

So much missionary work is done through lectures and 
addresses that the advantage of knowing how to use the voice 
80 that it will not tire with hours of consecutive use, is evident. 
In some countries long addresses are much in demand, and 
when the long address is over there may be an hour or two of 
conversation with some who were interested in special points 
or who want to hear about the West. Not only public talks, 
often in theaters for lack of larger halls, but also private inter- 
views with these Orientals who have no sense of time, are a 
test for any voice. 

The physical strain, however, is not to be compared with the 
greater intellectual strain of debating with an acute and alert 
Eastern mind. And here, what in college might bo termed 
'Hact courses,*' studies in argument and in various branches 
of philosophy, are directly or indirectly invaluable. Philoso- 
phy is truly indispensable to any one who goes to teach a new 
religion to those whose own religions and philosophies contain 
so much that is true but incomplete. Closely connected with 
philosophy is the modern theology. No missionary is well 
equipped who is afraid to follow modern Biblical thought. An 
experienced missionary has written : "Evolutionary philosophy, 
new historical knowledge, with higher criticism, advances in 
psychology, are necessitating a restatement of theological 


troths. The missionary can not aflford to ignore these facts. 
His library should keep abreast of the times. He should, of 
course, — and I can not say it too emphatically, — know the fun- 
damental truths in such a way that no changes of thought can 
rob him of their power and glory. Nay, he should make every 
advance of knowledge contribute to the richness and inspira- 
tion of his message. . . .Movements in the religious world have 
come to be world movements, and people of intelligence out 
here feel their force almost as soon as they are felt at home." 

Of all college studies perhaps greater stress is being laid upon 
literary work than ever before. The man or woman of literary 
tastes and ability has a grand opportunity in the East. English 
books and treatises, especially perhaps those on religious and 
philosophic topics, are often unfit for the Oriental student, and 
should he read them, might do more harm than good. "They 
either approach the Hindoo from a European standpoint, or 
contain incidents and illustrations which he could not possibly 
appreciate, owing to his education and environment." Because 
of a recognition of this fact, the opportunity for literary ability 
is opening up as never before. A literary missionary who has 
lived among the people and who is able to see things from the 
native point of view, has in his hand one of the mightiest 
instraments of evangelization. It must not be said that he has 
thrown away his greatest gift because with all his facility in 
writing English he has gone to live among the Japanese or the 
Hindoos. The educated in India and in Japan read English 
fluently, and an English book may have as much to do in bring- 
ing the educated classes to a knowledge of truth as any work 
in the vernacular. 

The college course puts, as it were, so much into the future 
missionary, that his capital is infinitely increased. Self- 
resource is absolutely necessary to one who will live compara- 
tively isolated and often surrounded by conditions far from 
stimulating. The college studies have been called in to the 
assistance of the foreign missionary ; but as a preparation for 
foreign missionary life, the academic part of college is only a 
part. — how large or how small we may not know. 

College social life, though in many ways not ideal, is emi- 
nently fitted in certain particulars for precisely the life which 
one going to an Asiatic country must live. In the first place, 
though a missionary may be isolated from others of his nation- 


ality, he has few opportunities to be alone. He is continually 
subject to interruptions, and when people do not come to him, 
his work takes him to them. College life accustoms one to the 
continual presence of others. It also teaches one who is in 
earnest how moments spent alone can be made to yield the most. 
With social engagements of every description, one is continually 
thrown in with fellow-men of many degrees of refinement and 
of varying tastes, congenial and uncongenial. How invaluable 
such experiences can be made in broadening the interests and 
in cultivating adaptability can be readily seen when the situa- 
tion abroad is fully realized. Those among whom the mission- 
ary works will have a different education, if any, a different 
etiquette, and different interests from his own. If the mission- 
ary is adaptable, he prejudices the natives much less than one 
who cares nothing for social rules. Aside from this negative 
way of gaining influence and respect, if his interests are broad 
he can positively sympathize with his neighbors, and, from 
going over first to their ways of thought, can lead them to an 
interest in his all-important message. So much for work and 
life among the natives. 

Few missionaries, however, are left absolutely single-handed 
among thousands of natives. Generally small missionary cen- 
ters are formed, and here it is that some of the severest testing 
of this quality of adaptability comes. ** In a small party of men 
and women, each possessed of considerable individuality and 
force of character, and most of them associated in the work 
without any previous knowledge of each other or any personal 
choice, it is obvious that those whose habits and temperaments 
are mutually uncongenial must often be thrown into close and 
prolonged contact." Sometimes, in a great Eastern metropolis, 
these fellow-workers are numbered by the score. They meet in 
social and spiritual ways, and here are the opportunities for 
some missionaries unconsciously to do their greatest work. 
Many — and these are usually the college graduates — accom- 
plish much more by their stimulating influence on other 
missionaries than by their direct work. This is due to the 
breadth of their interests and to the resources which a college 
education has developed in them. It is also due to their social 
ease and polish. These last-named qualities are usually consid- 
ered superfluous in a missionary; they are accidentia, not essen- 
tia, of his genus. A very great misunderstanding in regard to 


what missionary work consists of is responsible for such a belief. 
More and more stress is being laid upon ability to deport one- 
self in polished society, as more and more the missionary is 
gaining the respect of the nobility and of the ofBcial classes. 
When transplanted among a critical people like the Japanese, a 
woman careless of European etiquette would inevitably arouse 
the prejudice of the wives of Japanese professors or officials, or 
of the parents of some of her pupils. The wife, for instance, 
of the governor of an important Asiatic province was called 
upon by a missionary who wore a bonnet which, though neat, 
would hardly have been deemed presentable in America because 
of the remote date of its compilation. Such an incident was 
not to be overlooked, and the governor's wife took the next 
opportunity to ask another missionary if that kind of head-gear 
was in style. In many cities the missionaries are obliged to 
send out and to accept invitations to banquets, which are given 
in the nearest approach to European style, and at which every 
action of the missionary, even to his use of knife and fork, 
is watched minutely that it may be imitated. Though a try- 
ing ordeal, that of attending a banquet, it is one of the 
effective waj'S of showing a kindly spirit toward, and of getting 
acquainted with, the upper classes, and is often a most influen- 
tial and far-reaching missionary work. 

No one will deny that conversational powers are an immeas- 
urable help in getting along in the world. The missionary 
needs them as much as the society woman. In fact, the woman 
who in one day must talk with the peasant, the school-girl, the 
Bible woman, and the governor's wife, needs more of a talent 
for talking well than the woman whose sphere is limited to one 
class. College life, especially perhaps in the dining-room, 
where one sits beside different kinds of personalities for a set 
time every day, is a maker of conversationalists — that is, when 
those who are being made rule out shop-talk. It takes a good 
deal of originality to talk on subjects interesting enough to keep 
one's neighbor from recurring ever to lessons and teachers, and 
it takes perseverance, too. How beneficial to health and to 
nerves, when on the mission field one can divert tired minds, 
and here again keep clear of the subject of routine work ! 

I have spoken mostly of the advantage which a college edu- 
cation is to a missionary in his influence on natives and on 
fellow-naissionaries. I have only touched upon the advantage 


it is to himself in giving a wealth of resource. This latter 
point might be much elaborated, but suffice it to give one par- 
ticular in which a college course is an invaluable precursor of 
missionary life. One missionary, who taught for eight years in 
a girls' school in Turkey, remarked that one of the great sources 
of refreshment to her during the monotonous years of being 
shut away from companionship, was the thought of her college 
experiences, her good times and her friendships. This is one of 
the things that all college graduates feel, but especially those 
who.are far away from accustomed surroundings. If one should 
ask many missionaries individually what the special advantage 
of a college course was to each, the answer would be approx- 
imately that of a Wellesley graduate now teaching in Spain. 
She said : "My college life — training, studies, recreation, every- 
thing — has been of the utmost help to me in introducing Chris- 
tian methods and Christian education to women in Spain." 

In this brief survey of the things which are essential to the 
missionary and which he finds in a college course, emphasis has 
been laid on intellectual and social development. I would not 
exclude or depreciate the one most essential quality, spiritual 
vitality, without which other qualifications are reduced to the 
level of a mere machine without motive power. And yet it 
would not take much experience to enable an observer of mod- 
ern missions to say, with one who had studied them : "It seems 
as if every occupation that is not wrong in itself has a bearing 

on missionary work." 

Sarah Lydia DeForbst. 


There* s music calls 
Where the water falls, — 
Hark thou, sitting alone, 
Hushing a low heart moan. 
Look where the sunbeams glance, 
Look where the bubbles dance. 
And the misty water trembles by. 

There shalt thou see 
The merry, the free, 
The careless of whither and whence and why 
That cloud the blueness of mortal's sky. 



What is pain and what is a sigh I 

One flash of breathless joy, 
Swept by the strong, da^ flow 
Oyer the ronnded rock, — 
This is the life we know, 
Dropping one by one 
To Inrk in the cool gloom,— then 
Flying into the sun 
With a wild, glad whirl again ; 
Pausing in eddies of glee 
To spatter the leaves in play, 
Who shadow our smiles with their dripping green, 
Ere we dreamily, happily drift on oar way. 

Sancy and free. 

Immortal are we. 

And we slide and spring 

And tnm and fling 
Drops of rainbow brightness through sunny air. 
See, where the sunbeams glance. 
See, where the babbles dance, 
Visions of white waving arms. 
Visions of bright streaming hair. 
We have no fears to distress. 
And we have no cares to annoy. 

Merrily sing it out ! 

Ring it out I — 

Joy! Joyl Joy! 

This is the voice that calls 

Where the trembling water falls. 
I listen and look as I sit alone, 
TiU with its music that low heart moan 

Murmurs in quiet harmony: 

Sing on, gay spirits, as ye float by. 

Your ripples of merry melody. 
To me the whither and whence and why 

Whisx)er a nobler destiny. 

Gertrude Emma Knox. 


All day the broad mesa had bathed in the light and 
warmth of the sun. And all day the myriad life of the treeless 
plains had rejoiced ; and the fragile flowers, nestled close to the 
sand, or hidden in the windings of some arroyo, shed abroad 


the incense of their gratitude. But now the sun was sinking 
towards the great sweep of the Volcanoes. The cacti and 
Spanish bayonets cast long black shadows upon the white sand ; 
and the rugged mountains to eastward stood revealed in all 
their naked grandeur. The little prairie-dogs no longer called 
to each other ; the scolding owls were silent in their stolen 
nests ; and the horned toads, that bask all day in the sun, scur- 
ried away to find shelter for the night. From the parched 
earth still rose the fragrance of the flowers. 

The sun rested an instant full on the long slope of the Volca- 
noes, transfiguring with a sheen of crimson the walls of the 
eastern cliffs. Between lay the bowl of the viesa, cold and gray, 
save where the thread-like gold of the river wound. Lower 
sank the sun ; the crimson mountains deepened into purple. A 
halo of glory flamed on the western horizon, and from it rays 
of broadening light shot far up into the zenith, while all the 
sky glowed with translucent pink. The river flushed in unison. 

The sun was gone. The purple robe of the mountains melted 
into a toneless gray. Behind them the dove-colored shadow of 
night stole up the sky. More sombre grew the lonely plain ; it 
seemed to cower before the chill approach of night. But the river 
still reflected the pageant of the closing day. Gradually the 
long rays of light receded before the encroaching gloom, and 
the sky faded from azure to turquoise, from turquoise to apple 
green. At last only a faint glow above the Volcanoes told of 
the sunset that had been. Away into the darkness the river 
traced its silver thread. The sighing wind was laden with the 
warm fragrance of violets. Towards the black wall of the 
mountains shone the camp-fire of some lonely herdsman ; and 
the stars, kindred spirits of that vast solitude, stole softly forth 
to watch above it. 

Ruth Louise Oaines. 


In these days of psychological theories, it would be suggestive, 
if not positively illuminating, to make a classification of books 
which reveal personality on the basis of gender. The hum- 
drum experimental psychologist would scout the possibility of 


separating the masculine book from the feminine ; but to the 
free-minded follower of James the proposition might have 
some significance. It is conceivable that behind a protective 
nom de plume there may lurk characteristic tendencies which 
betray the man or woman. Despite his "delicacy of feeling'* 
or her " virile strength/' there are loopholes through which es- 
sentially masculine or feminine qualities assert themselves, 
** Lilian Leslie Lamb" to the contrary. 

Henry James, whose novels are an entertaining complement 
to his brother's theories, has a feminine cast to his mind which 
enables him to portray that intricate creation, the feminine in- 
tellect, with admirable exactness. But he betrays his mascu- 
line personality by his attitude : it is that of the keen-sighted 
but flippant observer. He may fully appreciate the qualities of 
the woman he portrays, but there is a reserve corner in his 
mind which jeers. Hence his most conscientious manner lacks 
sympathy. There is the same lurking mockery in Meredith's 
attitude. Meredith appreciates and respects the duplex charac- 
tarof the feminine mind, as no other masculine writer except 
Shakespeare has done. Diana of the Crossways is a glorious 
woman, but she makes ignominious mistakes. Why ? Because 
she is a woman, and is therefore unable to harmonize her self of 
feeling and intuition with her intellect. Shakespeare tran- 
scends the distinctions of sex as he does all other limitations. 
Rosalind is a perfect example of the woman of strong feeling 
and intellect kept in stable equilibrium by an equally strong 
will, and that in the face of her experimental spirit. But Cleo- 
patra overindulges to an infinitesimal degree her delight in 
torturing her lover. Her experimental instinct sweeps her be- 
yond the limits set by reason. Antony believes in her pretext 
of treachery, and the splendid game is lost. These three are the 
elect, who see the possibilities of harmony in feminine nature. 
To other men who have written of woman she is incomplete, 

Hardy's woman is an elemental being who acts on impulse in 
response to the stress of circumstance or environment. Thack- 
eray and his following create women who are either common- 
place saints or entertaining fiends. Ethel Newcome is the single 
notable exception. She has many failings, and she is moreover 
a good woman and not commonplace. But Thackeray need not 
have emphasized her silliness. Kipling, latest and most intol- 


erant of this group, gives a case in poiut of the entertaining 
fiend in Mrs. Haukesbee, queen of Simla revelings. She is the 
direct but more complex descendant of Becky Sharp and 
Beatrix Castlewood. 

Kipling brings us to men who know men. Here again Shakes- 
peare is incommensurable with other creators ; for he makea 
every conceivable type of man who is great enough to be hum- 
bled by his recognition of the force of fate, or to meet his de- 
struction nobly when he opposes it. Every other writer must 
content himself with creating one or two masterpieces. Jean 
Valjean, Athos, Peter Ibbetson, Sidney Carton, are all men's, 
men, examples of that nature compounded of firmness, tender- 
ness, and honor, which a woman may love and reverence, or 
play havoc with, but never appreciate. 

Occasionally a woman masters one or the other of the first 
two characteristics ; but she invariably fails when she tampers 
with the third. Mary Cholraondoley fails accordingly in her 
characterization of Lord Newhaven. His final letter to his 
wife is not in keeping with his character. It is the deed of a 
woman in her most feminine and feline mood. Feminine writ- 
ers are apt to weave too much complexity into masculine action. 
Themselves versed in the tortuous path of conflicting motives 
and double meanings, they miss the splendid simplicity and di-^ 
rectness of masculine thought. Consequently their creations 
lack force, or that quality best expressed in the slang term 
"sand.** The men of Mrs. Humphrey Ward and George Eliot 
owe their weakness to this source. In contrast to the subtle 
man, is the hero of Jane Austen and Charlotte Bront6. Roches- 
ter and Darcy are splendid brutes, a type more successful in its 
dealings with woman than either of the preceding types. They 
appeal to the primitive feminine instinct, and ride roughshod 
to the consummation of their desire where the finer nature 
would have hesitated and lost his throw. 

The question of differentiation of novels on a sex basis re- 
solves itself ultimately into the standpoint of honor taken by 
the novelist. The hero of ^*The Market Place" does many 
things which should trouble the soul of a high-minded woman. 
On the other hand, the actions of Maggie Tulliver are inconse- 
quent and senseless. The two types present extremes which 
can not be viewed from the same standpoint. They have no 
common denominator; for they are intriusically different, and 


one is either foolish or preternatiirally wicked in the presence 
of the other. It is by the application of this principle of diflfer- 
encethat the masculine or feminine tone may be most often 

TiKZAH Snkll Smith. 


A gay and easy cynic penned these lines, 

• And lightly, with a certain daring charm, 
Names as Gk>d's highest gift the mddy vines. 

His gracef nl insolence does not seem harm ; 
Instead, a banquet where one gladly dines. 

On deaf ears falls the underlying strain, 

Which sounds like distant echoes of a bell 
That near some feast rings qnivering notes of pain, 

And tolls amid the music a soul's knell. 
Unknown, untold his tragedy has lain. 

ViRoiNiA Elizabeth Moore. 


For me at last the solemn depths of mystery are stirred. 

The waiting silence of my life is broken with a word. 

The floods that in the aeons past have gathered, passion-strong, 

Sweep down the fragile barriers and bear my soul along. 

Above a hushed but breathing calm, dream-voices call to me. 

The spirit-love that Sappho sang beside the Grecian sea, 

The pang of Dante's ecstasy and Petrarch's grief divine 

Are risen from their buried hearts to fill the cup of mine. 

loves of vanished centuries, who come all rapture- white 

To bend the shadows of your eyes above me in the night, 

Onr souls are one, — and from your lips I drink my glorious fate : 

"To Love's high heritage of woe thee, too, we consecrate t '* 

Edith DbBlois Laskbt. 



It was in the autumn of 850. A hot, breathless quiet lay 
upon the Rhine valley in the province of Lower Lorraine. Not 
a weed stirred, not an insect buzzed. Great black and white 
clouds were sweeping up the valley, threatening the cowed earth 
with their rain and lightening. 

Two horsemen rode along the trail that wound in and out the 
western bank of the river. The chug, chug of the steps of the 
horses, their labored breathing, the slash of an urging whip, 
were the only sounds that broke the stillness. The men were 
of good presence and rode their horses with ease. The foremost 
rider was the leader of the small party. He was a middle-sized 
man, lithe, courtly, a little bent. His head was small but finely 
sculptured. His straight nose joined a pair of strong black 
eyebrows ; mouth and eyes were surrounded by delicate mark- 
ings. The face was framed with curly auburn hair and based 
on a thick beard, cut square and most carefully arranged. It 
was a noble face, perhaps made more refined by its pallor and 
the lines of suffering deepening in it with each passing moment. 
His dress also showed great care. His tunic and doublet were 
of brown velvet slashed with silk ; his only weapon, a short 
sword, hung in a scabbard most beautifully chased. It cer« 
tainly was not the dress for a man riding with but one compan- 
ion along the Rhine. Nor was the man fit for such a journey. 
He swayed in his saddle with weariness. 

Yet his eyes twinkled with merriment whenever he looked at 
his companion, a youth of about twenty years, whose broad, 
honest face expressed the utmost dismay. The afternoon was 
beginning to wane and not a hut or a living being was in sight; 
a storm was at hand. The boy glanced at his clothes, orange 
and peacock-blue, then at his weapons ; they were Roman, more 
showy than useful. After a loud sigh from the youth, the lord 
turned in his saddle and regarded the boy's clothes with his 
head on one side. 

"What color do you think they will be after the rain gets at 
them?" he asked, in an interested voice. 



"I don't know. That was just what I was trying to think/* 
was the doleful answer. 

"I think we shall find shelter soon," said the elder man. 

Just at the turn of the road they saw on a steep hill overlook* 
ing the river a rude castle and its outlying huts. 

"May all the saints be praised !'' cried the boy; "we shall 
just have time to reach shelter before the storm comes.*' 

"Slowly, slowly, Hildebold. Let us find out first whose 
castle it is. A very dear enemy may live there, you know." 

Hildebold's face fell. 

"Well, at least we can find out soon, for there is the goose- 

He rode briskly forward to question him. But if he hoped 
to hurry the lad he was disappointed. The boy turned an 
expressionless face toward him. Long, dirty white hair dropped 
over his dull, round eyes, and his mouth hung open as though 
his organ of hearing were situated in his throat. Even the 
dirty skins in which he was clothed seemed dropping from him. 
He received Hildebold's questions and the sword taps with which 
they were punctuated, without even blinking. Finally his eyes 
closed, his mouth half shut, and from somewhere within him a 
husky voice said : **Hardberd the Redhead." 

"Why didn't you speak a little sooner?" impatiently asked 
Hildebold ; and thrusting his sword in its sheath, he turned to 
his master with a questioning look. The wind was now blowing 

"Hardberd, Hardberd the Redhead. He left court very sud- 
denly. No, I have done nothing to him, — nor to his relatives, 
either," with a laugh. "I think we may go there safely." 

So they turned their horses toward the castle, and gained the 
shelter of its courtyard just as the rain began to fall. There 
was no doubt that the name Rikulf of Miinster was welcome to 
the castle's master. Hardberd was so pleased with the honor 
of Rikulf's visit that he himself came out to help the guest 
from his horse and lead him into the house. Rikulf was in sore 
need of help. He was so weak that Hildebold carried him to 
the couch that was prepared for him. A kindly, bustling old 
Prau held to his lips a cup of warm wine, which immediately 
put him to sleep. 

In the meantime, in the hall into which Rikulf's bedroom 
opened, the supper table was being prepared. The house serv- 


ants, hurrying to and fro to furnish the table, ran into the men 
and dogs, who, having been driven indoors by the storm, gath- 
ered in the hall and made the roof ring with laughter and bark- 
ing. As the supper hour approached, the noise grew louder 
until it roused Rikulf. He sat up, feeling much refreshed, and 
shook his follower who lay sleeping at his feet. 

"Wake up, Hildebold, or you will lose your supper!" 

This quickly roused the lad, and he soon had his lord*s and 
his own dress in order. Then taking his master by the arm, 
Hildebold led him into the hall, a large, oblong room built of 
oak, well blackened by smoke and dirt. A rude balcony, which 
ran around one end, at present served as a drying-room. Sun- 
dry pieces of wearing apparel were spread over the railing, 
looking in the dusk like gaily colored banners. 

The corners of the hall were heaped with weapons and farm- 
in;^ implements. Ponderous wooden benches ran around the 
walls, on which were men, dogs, and tankards. The middle of 
the hall was filled by the long dining-table, the upper end of 
which was higher than the lower and set with more care. At 
the dividing line stood a large wooden bowl full of salt. 

Hardberd was seated by the fire. On his right an empty 
chair awaited the guest. The host's form and face showed 
plainly in the strong, ruddy glow of the fire. Hardberd was a 
man long past the prime of life. His huge frame was still pos- 
sessed of great strength, though he was corpulent from self- 
indulgence. A red beard covered his large face up to the eyes. 
His skin was covered with a network of congested veins, giving 
it a purplish tinge. His head was bald. Between his bushy 
eyebrows and fat cheeks his small, stupid eyes seemed in danger 
of disappearing. It was a face that reminded one sharply of a 
boar ; stupidity, wickedness, and strength were combined in it. 

On seeing his guest, Hardberd came forward to greet him 
with much dignity, and led him to a seat before the huge stone 
fireplace, which was the chief center of attraction in the hall. 
It was the size of a small room ; around its sides ran a bench. 
Here some of Hardberd's favored followers sat and watched 
with deep interest the finishing touches a cook-boy was giving 
a roasting deer. Now and then a blast of wind came down the 
chimney, blowing smoke and ashes over everything about the 
hearth and out into the room. But with the smoke came the 
smell of the cooking venison, and gradually the attention of 


men and dogs was turned toward the fire. The dogs gathered 
around just out of Hardberd's reach ; the men lounged about 
the fire as near as they dared, and in the warmest, cleanest cor- 
ner dozed a tabby -cat. The loud talking gradually stopped ; 
even Hardberd forgot his guest in his interest; the servants 
ceased their hurrying. The sizzling of the meat sounded 
plainly in the hall. 

With a smile of importance, the boy gave the spit its last turn. 
The cook hurried in with a large knife, and soon the deer was 
hacked into pieces. The choice pieces of meat went above the 
salt; the rest was placed below. Supper was ready. The roar 
of laughter and talking filled the hall again until all were 
seated. The knight sat at the head of the table with Rikulf on 
his right, his sister, the Hausfrau, and her two stolid serving- 
women on his left. His followers, among whom Hildebold sat, 
were above the salt; his confessor, a little monk, sat at the 
dividing line. Below the salt sat the rest of the household. 

The monk muttered a hasty blessing, and the attack on the 
food began. At first there was no talking ; only the noise of 
eating and the whining of the dogs were heard in the hall. 
Sikulf, not having the appetite of his companions, finished 
long before the rest thought of turning their attention from 
their food. As he watched them he thought with amusement 
of the dismay with which they would regard his customary 
supper of wheat cakes, fruit, and wine. But now the Frau, who 
sat opposite Rikulf, and so far had done as vigorous trencher 
duty as the men, noticed that he was not eating. Quickly 
rising, she went to the kitchen and presently came back with a 
cup of mulled wine and some apples. These she placed before 
the guest, and, laying her hand upon his shoulder, smiled 
kindly in his face. 

Rikulf was more touched and pleased than he cared to show. 
His face burned with shame when he thought of the scornful 
amusement with which he had been regarding his host's house- 

"You fool,'' he said to himself, "this ugly old man is doubt- 
less as good a gentleman as you have ever dined with ; but you 
thought him a boor. That dear old lady may be the kindest 
woman who has spoken to you in your life, and yet you laughed 
at her manner of eating." 

Qratitude warmed the guest's heart. The feeling of distrust 


and disgust with which he first regarded his host vanished, and 
he drew toward him to talk with a feeling of pleasure which 
before he would not have thought himself capable of. 

Hardberd also was in a sociable mood ; so after the supper tablo 
was cleared, their chairs were placed next each other on one side 
of the hearth, while the household clustered about the other 
side to hear the stories of an old soldier. The interest soon 
failed, however ; for the knight and his guest paid no attention 
to the stories, and the retainers were soon asleep. 

''You have been sick a long time, Rikulf," began Hardberd. 
''I heard in the spring time that you had the fever. You do not 
look well yet, not at all as you looked at Ravenna. '^ He gave a 
short, disagreeable laugh that for a moment startled Rikulf. 

"News travels fast. Yes, I was sick last winter with fever ; 
I nearly died from it." Rikulf laughed a little sadly. ''And 
now, though the winter is coming again, still I am not well." 

"You were in Mainz ?" 

"Yes, at St. Albans. Now I am going home. I have not 
been there since I was seven. Then, too, the emperor's business 
takes me." 

"On business for Emperor Otto!" exclaimed Hardberd; 
"and with one man only?" 

"Oh, I started with enough. I left them, though, a village 
or two above here. I couldn't stand the noise of their talking 
and jingling, and — and their clothes," shamefacedly. "Why> 
that boy," pointing to the sleeping orange and blue Hildebold, 
"was about the most quiet combination of colors in the lot." 

Hardberd stared at his guest with uncomprehending eyes. 

"I know it was dangerous, but I should have gone mad if I 
had stayed with them much longer." 

" But how would your men find out if anything happened to 
you?" The host leaned forward with great interest. 

"They would not find out at all, for I shall not see them until 
I reach Cologne. I should not have separated from them. It 
happen efl because I was riding too soon after the fever. I shall 
not do so again." 

Hardberd looked at the fire in deep thought. Rikulf con- 
tinued talking without looking up. The firelight flickered out 
into the room, throwing huge shadows of Hardberd and Rikulf 
on the wall and lighting up the men and dogs sleeping on 
benches and floor. A chorus of snores rose and mingled with 


the squeaking and scampering of the rats who had ventured 
into the dark corners of the hall in search of bones. The wind 
moaned and howled in the chimney, now and then scattering 
the ashes with a little hiss. Rikulf 's quiet voice rose and fell 
with a pathos that made the loneliness of the two men doubly 

"Ko, I shall not do so again. I would not have minded being 
kifled before I had the fever. But I do mind now, for I want 
to live to make straight some things I've done ; and then, I 
have discovered the value of life/' with a half laugh. '* I did 
not know life had any particular value then. I never learned 
that with all my learning. 

"When I was seven years old, my father sent me to St. Gall, 
where I learned Latin until I forgot my German words and 
manners. Next I went to Rome ; there I learned Greek, more 
Latin and — many things about life," with a half- glance at 
Hardberd, "but about its value or use, nothing. The life in 
Rome and Byzantium soon tired me, but the old king Otto 
came to Italy and showed me that there were more things in 
life than I suspected. I, too, wanted power, and I got it. It 
isn't so hard to get if you work steadily. You keep your own 
feelings to yourself and wait for the other man to act. He 
always shows his hand sooner or later. Germans are like 
children ; you can tell exactly what they are going to do if you 
know the women behind them. That is the secret, — you must 
know the woman. Through her you can work the man ; or if 
you can't, you can direct her attention to some one else or get 
her out of the way. It isn't easy always to find the riglit 
woman. Still that is the surest way of getting power. I know 
that; I learned it in Rome." Rikulf laughed heartily. 

"At St. Albans my nurse was an old monk who had taught 
me at St. Gall. He gave me one of his copies of the Gospel of 
holy St. Mark. We used to talk a great deal. He was fond of 
animals. Once the cat caught her tail in a door, and he tied 
the tail to a stick until it grew stiff again. He would go to my 
window and call to the birds. They came to him in such a flock 
that they darkened the cell. After a while they came to me, 
too. We gave them seed. A little bird broke its leg ; good old 
Grinawald caught it and cut the leg off. His caring for animals 
started me thinking, I suppose, — that and looking out of my 
window at the sunrise. It seemed to me that I could do more 


with my life, do somethiug for the emperor, — I have no son 
to fight for him, as you have ; so I, the last of my family, must 
do something. The emperor's plan is the right one, Hardberd." 
His voice rose with earnestness. '*There must be one head over 
us. The sooner the kingdoms and duchies realise this, the bet- 
ter for our race. If only all the people would unite and act as 
one, we should rule the world. We should be as great a race as 
the Romans were. Isn't that something to work for, Hard- 
berd ?" He turned with sparkling eyes to his host. 

Hardberd sat staring at the fire, his face puckered with 

•*You said," he began slowly, **that there was a woman 
behind every man. Well, once there was a woman that I loved. 
Do you know Ekkehard of Zeitz ?" 

"No, I never heard of him," answered Rikulf. 
"Of course you haven't," said Hardberd, hastily; "he was at 
the court before the old king first went to Italy. He was a 
powerful man, so he tortured that innocent girl because she 
would not love him." Hardberd's face grew purple and his 
voice husky. "And then, not getting what he wanted, he sent 
her to Gandersheim, where she died. He 8aid she conspired 
against the queen. Listen, I have him now, in this castle ! '' 
He turned to Rikulf with a look of exultation so horrible, that 
the guest could hardly restrain an exclamation of disgust. ^^I 
want you to come with me and see him. He's below. He," 
nodding his head at the monk sleeping in the corner of the fire- 
place, "and I take him food." He rose briskly from his seat 
and looked down at Rikulf with an eager chuckle. 

" Why does the old blockhead want to tell me about his quar- 
rels ? " Rikulf thought impatiently. " Why should he show me 
his half-dead man ? He ought to know I have seen such shows 
before. I will not go into his loathsome dungeon. Perhaps I 
might help this Ekkehard, though, — get enough gold to bribe 
old Hardberd to forego his vengeance. That would please 

So, silently nodding, he waited until the monk had been 
roused and told to bring some bread and water. Hardberd 
lighted at the fire a stick of fir-wood which he had picked out 
of the woodpile. Then everything being ready, the host led 
the way, the monk with the bread and butter bringing up the 


So quietly did the little procession leave the hall that not a 
man or a dog stirred in his sleep. There crept into Rikulf s 
heart a feeling of fear, which he tried to shake off with a laugh. 

•* I am glad I never interfered with any of your affairs, Hard- 
berd/' he said gaily, as they paused before passing through the 
rough hole that was the entrance to tbe dungeon. 

The dungeon was a rude passageway cut into the rock. 
Though it had an appearance of great age, it had been cut out 
only in Hardberd's youth ; for it was one of the few Roman 
ideas the knight had brought home with him. 

The gust of air that greeted tliem in the passageway sickened 
Rikulf. The close, damp atmosphere was heavy with the stench 
of decaying animal matter, but more powerful tlian this was 
the smell of rats. Sure enough, they had not gone far before 
they were surrounded by a swarm of rodents. Before, at the 
sides, behind, they ran, squeaking and gliding over one another, 
always at a distance but terrible in their persistence. 

A shudder of horror went through Rikulf's marrow. 

** We had better hasten, or we shall not see even the bones of 
Ekkehard,'' he said, glancing at the rats. 

Hardberd noticed his look and laughed. 

"Never fear, he will be there all right. We are nearly at the 

He walked on rapidly, chuckling to himself, holding the torch 
high in the air. The fever danced in RikulTs veins. He could 
think of nothing but the effort of moving. The monk who 
clnt^^hed his arm in terror seemed to be pulling him back with 
the strength of a giant. 

A large, rusty rack loomed in the distance. As the light grew 
brighter, Rikulf noticed the festoons of cobwebs with which it 
was draped. The grave-like desolation of the place filled him 
with dread. Shaking off the monk, he ran forward to greet the 
prisoner, half fearing to find him crazy with the darkness and 
loneliness. An iron ring was fastened to the wall about the 
height of a man's neck ; the chains and rings for his feet lay on 
the floor ; but there was no man. 

*'He is gone ! " exclaimed Rikulf. Suddenly Hardberd sprang 
forward, pushed Rikulf against the ring, and held him there. 
Then turning to the monk he said, '* Chain him." The monk 
without a word set down the bread and water and, kneeling 
before Rikulf, began fastening the chains. 


Blank amazement paralyzed the man and he looked at his 
host dumbly ; the next moment anger quickened him and he 
struggled with all his might. But after a feeble twist he stopped, 
panting with exhaustion. Hardberd laughed until the passage- 
way rang with his mirth. 

" So you have forgotten my lady Hildegard the White-armed, 
eh ?'' shaking Rikulf as a terrier does a rat. '' But I remember, 
I have always remembered. I tried to kill you at Ravenna ; 
but you were too well protected, so I came home. I have 
thought and thought how to get at you, and here you come 
right into my hands. Now you remember her ? " And he 
laughed again. 

"Hildegard the White-armed ! You fool,'* cried Rikulf, "she 
had nothing to do with you. That woman was one of Prince 
Ludolf's mistresses. She worked her way into court to kill 
Queen Adelaide, of whom she was jealous. I tortured her sim- 
ply to find out what she knew, and sent her to the nunnery be- 
cause it was the best place for her. A nun killed her there, — 
for some woman's reason. *' 

" rilnot believe your talk,'' sneered Hardberd. 

"Of course you won't," said Rikulf calmly, though inwardly 
he was now cold with fear for Hildebold, now hot with wrath at 
the fate of his mission. "I might know you couldn't com- 
prehend it. I didn't think you had sense enough to trap mo 
like this, but I see you have been thinking of it for years. 
But let Hildebold go. Give him an oath. He will keep it for 
the emperor's sake. Otto's business must be carried out. Do 
it for Otto's sake. My mission must not be delayed." Rikulf's 
voice broke with his earnestness. 

" Hildebold shall tell no tales. I do not need to serve the 

"Start your rack, then. I've often watched men on it and 
wondered how I should behave. Now I shall know." Rikulf 

Hardberd also laughed, and turned away. " Oh, I shall not 
touch you. I'll let the rats do that." 

The torch spun round before Rikulf's eyes. To be eaten by 
rats in a cellar I He thought of his life, the better half of his 
work not done ; all the plans he and Grimwald had made; all 
the good he had wanted to do. The utter uselessness of the old 
man's vengeance and of his own death filled him with mute 


wrath. Tears of rage stood in his eyes ; but not for life itself 
would he have wept before Hardberd. 

"Perhaps yon would like to confess/' suggested Hardberd, 
and, walking back to Rikulf, held the torch so that it lighted 
up his face. Rikulf turned his head quickly for fear his tears 
should be seen. 

The monk came forward holding out his crucifix. But Rikulf 
held back his head. " I'll not confess to a coward and a mur- 
derer/' he said, with such fierce scorn that the priest shrank 

"You had better do it/' advised Hardberd; "if you don't 
you'll spend more years in hell." 
"I'd rather spend the years in hell." 

The monk came forward again. He thrust the crucifix into 
Rikulf's face so that he could not choose but see. The rude fig- 
ure on the cross somehow reminded him of Qrimwald. He 
thought of the kind-faced old man, of the one-legged bird, the 
cat with her tail tied to a stick, of their quiet talks, of St. 
Mark's Gospel ; Qrimwald loved him, he would want him to 

A sudden burst of sobs shook the man. The little monk had 
to support him to keep him from strangling in the iron ring. 
The sobs and confession were so mixed that the priest heard not 
half the words, and comprehended very little of what he heard. 
But he gave him absolution and blessing. When he had fin- 
ished he walked silently to his lord's side. 

For a moment they paused to look at the man. His violent 
burst of emotion had left him unconscious. He hung limply in 
his chains, his head resting on the iron ring into which his neck 
had been thrust. His eyes were shut, his face white ; the tears 
still sparkled on his eyelashes and beard. 

The men turned and walked away. The rats squealed as they 
gathered. The men quickened their footsteps. The rats did 
not follow them this time. 

Caroline Thomas Rumbold. 



How THE Wind Found the Light 

Swoop and roar wild wind ! 

Skirl away high in the dead of the night, 

In the blind darkness feeling for light ; 

Yon will not find it. 
Grasp and batter the tree-tops high, 
Pound the wide heights where the star-beds lie ; 

Not there the light is. 
Bave through the hollow night, 
Search in vain for the long-gone light ; 

It is midnight. 
The tumult and the warring cease, 
The frayed and tattered trees have peace, 

It is still ; 
For far on the eastern line of night. 
Out from the blackness grows a light, 

A silver gleam, 
A faint flush, a golden glow 
Cleaving the darkness, yellow and rose, — 

Dawn ! 
The mad, wild wind springs up with a shout. 
Despair with the grim, black night goes out. 

The day comes I 

Over the hills where the sky grows bright. 

Over the hills to meet the light 

The wind goes. 

JuuA Post Mitchell. 

" What you need," remarked the Doctor, ** is a complete rest. 
If you stay in bed two weeks you will feel like a new creature. 

**But I can't stay in bed two 
On the Disadvantages weeks," I protested, " I would never 
of Good Ancestry be able to get my work made up." 

The Doctor regarded me thought- 
" Do you come of a long line of New England ancestors ? 





she asked, and then added, as I answered in the affirmative, 
"And yon are eligible for most of the societies like the Colonial 
Dames ?" 

"All of them," I answered, not withont some pride, ** from 
the Descendants of the Mayflower down." 

"ffm, I thought as much," she replied, ** you've inherited 
more conscience than you need for everyday use/' 

The foregoing conversation caused me to reflect that this was 
only one of a great number of disadvantages arising from good 
ancestry. Surely the daughter of a hundred earls is not to be 
envied, provided, of course, that they were good earls who 
feared Grod and honored the king. The responsibilities of living 
up to a family reputation are simply enormous, and pride of 
race, like a cruel spur, drives us forward when we are weary 
and fainting, and would far rather fall into "innocuous desue- 
tude'* and consign the family reputation to eternal oblivion. 

And not only have your ancestors left a name behind them 
that dwells in the minds of men, so that it is always held up like 
a mirror to reflect the imperfections of the present generation, 
but the very blood which they bequeathed to their posterity 
teems with reminders of those who made it what it is. Perhaps 
a button comes off your glove just as you are starting for church. 
"Sew it on, there is time enough," says your room-mate whose 
ancestors appeared in Kansas two generations ago, and gave no 
account of their former dwelling or pursuits. But although, 
theoretically, you are sure it is not half as bad to sew on that 
button as it is to go into the house of the Lord with an empty 
buttonhole, somehow as you thread the needle you do not feel 
quite comfortable. The spirit of some staunch old Puritan an- 
cestor seems to be whispering, " Six days shalt thou labor and 
do all thy work,'' and — well, all the rest of the day you can not 
help wishing you had not sewed on that button. 

This is only one of a thousand ways that the ideas and preju- 
dices of our forefathers creep in and tincture all our thoughts 
and actions, until sometimes it is hard to believe that we are 
anything at all of ourselves, but only that which preceding 
generations have bequeathed to us. Yet at times we are bitter- 
ly reminded that this is not the case. 

"It is strange," your relatives say, " that you should have 
such a frightful temper. Both your father's family and your 
mother's were noted for their good dispositions." And again^ 



How came your hair to be such a carroty color ? Nobody in 
our family ever had red hair before." Alas ! that your ances- 
tors, not content with being good, must also have been beau- 
tiful ! 

Theoretically, good ancestry is a fine thing. With what pride 
can one look back upon a long line of forefathers who were prom- 
inent in church and state, who stepped upon Plymouth Rock to 
face the dangers and privations of the wilderness for the sake of 
freedom of conscience, who, armed with a sword and the fear 
of God, advanced upon the fortifications of Quebec and died 
covered with blood and glory, who stood behind the breastworks 
upon Bunker Hill and lived not only to tell the tale, but to rep- 
resent their state in the first assembly of Congress; to say noth- 
ing of the less valiant ones who invented things, and traveled, 
and wrote books, or took part in the social life of different peri- 
ods in company with their wives and daughters, all paragons of 
wit and beauty. But of what use is it to recall that your grand- 
father was a close friend of Emerson, if you get up in the morn- 
ing and do not know your Logic ? To your natural chagrin at 
*' flunking" is added the awful consciousness that you are not 
living up to the family reputation; and when you go home and 
confess to a condition, to be met with the announcement that 
all your uncles were Phi Beta Kappa men who took a valedic- 
tory rank in college is almost more than human fortitude can 

The castaway or the foundling has still something to be thank- 
ful for, in that however low he may fall, or however ugly and 
stupid he may be, no one is able to tell him that he is a degen- 
erate son of worthy sires. 

Amy Stoughton Pope. 

The golf craze invaded the county seat of Thornton like a 
plague, and swept it from end to end, sparing no one. From 

the Methodist parson, an elderly, 
A Romance of the Links sedate man with a bald head, to 

children below the age of fifteen, 
who were admitted to the links only on Tuesday and Saturday 
mornings, the inhabitants fell victims to this most malignant 
fever. At all hours of the day the high road leading to the 
club-house flamed with pink coats ; and sordid small boys, who 


could forego the delights of the swimming-pool and the baseball 
diamond when it came to a question of turning a penny or two, 
did a tremendous business as caddies. 

Foremost among the enthusiasts was Miss Marion Allen, only 
daughter of one of the oldest and wealthiest families in the 
town of Thornton. Miss Allen was an athletic young lady, tall 
and graceful, with a very pretty face that was also somewhat 
wilful and perhaps a trifle haughty. There was nothing snob- 
bish about Miss Allen. Nevertheless, lack of refinement grated 
upon her nerves like the grating of a file, and she was exceed- 
ingly fastidious in her choice of friends. Imagine then the 
consternation that invaded her spirit as she began to realize 
that she was taking no common interest in the golf instructor ! 
She, Marion Allen, enamoured of a golf instructor, a pro- 
fessional I In one of her friends she never could have forgiven 
such madn^ess. She buried the secret deep in her bosom, and 
even tried, but unavailiugly, to shut her own eyes to it. 

Physically no fault could be found in the golf instructor. 
He was blonde and smooth-faced, with the profile and physique 
that call up vague thoughts of the Greeks of old. It was his 
good looks that attracted Miss Allen from the first, and she took 
an unalloyed delight in them until one day she happened to 
wonder how he would look in a dress suit. Then arose in her 
mind the question whether or no he probably owned a dress 
suit, and this insidious doubt became at last so insistent as to 
arise whenever she looked at him, and materially to affect her 
satisfaction in the neat golf costume that he always wore. To 
add to her discomfort. Miss Allen found herself involved in 
the diflBculty that proverbially besets high-born girls whose 
affections have been unfortunatelj' bestowed. In short, she 
had a suitor, highly eligible in every respect, and regarded with 
favor by her friends and family. She herself was by no means 
blind to his good qualities. Still, she never could look at his 
handsome, refined face without mentally comparing it with the 
golf instructor's classic profile ; while as for the gallant speeches 
that "he sometimes made her, and he knew how to say a nice 
thing- in the nicest possible way, the slight gratification to her 
vanity never approached the thrill that she felt on the proud 
day when John Parker told her that she was beginning to play 
in first-rate form. 

On a beautiful day in late October, when the golf fever had 


somewhat abated its force aud true devotees of the game could 
enjoy it unhampered by dilettantes, Miss Allen mounted her 
wheel and rode to the links. She was considering the situation 
seriously. In one direction the matter was coming to a crisis. 
She knew from Mr. Templeton's bearing toward her as well as 
from his attentions, daily becoming more assiduous, that very 
soon he would ask her to be his wife. She knew that she would 
refuse him, and that she would do it solely on account of a man 
with whom she had never exchanged a word, except in his pro- 
fessional capacity ; and she admitted that she was cutting a 
rather undignified figure in her own eyes. She closed the door 
of her locker with a vicious snap, and with her clubs in her 
hands turned to find herself face to face with Mr. Templeton. 

"Are you through for the afternoon ?" she asked. 

"I thought so," he replied, **but now I hope that you will let 
me play around with you." 

"I shall be very glad to have you," she said, with more cor- 
diality than she felt. 

As they left the house and walked toward the first teeing 
ground, she cast her eyes over the links. John Parker was not 
in sight. She stepped up on the teeing ground and drove off. 
Mr. Templeton made the next stroke. They both played well,, 
and the ball covered ground rapidly. Much to Miss Allen 'a 
relief Mr. Templeton talked of nothing but the game, but when 
she holed out on the last green there came a pause. She started 
briskly toward the house, discussing rather fast and with great 
fervor the true province of the cleek and its misuse by begin- 
ners. But this subject, which at the outset had seemed so 
fertile, was soon exhausted. They had reached the little 
orchard which lay between the club-house and the links. Mr,. 
Templeton turned suddenly toward her and she knew 
that the dreaded moment had come. She felt a helpless desire 
to gain time. Her heart sank within her, then suddenly 
bounded with joy as she heard close behind a welcome sound, 
the thud of foet on the grass and the rattling of clubs in tho 
caddie-bag. The caddie, who had fallen behind, was at their 
heels again. There is no more inexorable duenna than a caddie. 
Mr. Templeton frowned, but he was a man of determination, 
and was not to be baffled. 

*'We seem to succeed very well together," he began, tenta- 


"I don't know — do you think so ?'* replied Miss Allen. "It 
vas fifty-six, you know. I did it in forty-nine day before 
yesterday. I think that I do better alone." 

Mr. Templeton understood. 

"I meant to ask you to play around again," he said, **but I 
do not wish to hinder you in raising your score, so I will leave 
you here." 

"I should like to try it again," replied Miss Allen, '*but I 
think that it would be better for me to practice drives." 

So she left him, and with her caddie walked toward the first 
teeing ground. That was over, and as for the future, it was 
not necessary to think of it, and she preferred not to do so. As 
she passed the house she saw John Parker examining the prac- 
tice putting green beside it. 

The teeing ground was in sight of the house. As she stood 
addressing the ball, she could not help stealing a furtive glance 
at the golf instructor. He ha*d turned his head and was watch- 
ing her. With a strong, free swing of her driver she hit the 
ball fair and clean. Her heart beat quickly as she jumped down 
from the teeing ground and ran after the caddie. He was her 
favorite caddie and a privileged being. 

**Say," he began impressively, "did you hear about Mr. 
Parker ? " 

She was taken off her guard and was somewhat startled, but 
she replied calmly. 

** No, what do you mean ?" 

"Why, he's going to leave at the end of the week," said the 
caddie with cruel directness. " He's going to leave for good." 

Miss Allen felt that his round eyes fixed upon her face were 
probing her very soul. She merely said, 

"Indeed ? Why is he going ?" 

"Got a better place," said the caddie. "Look here, you don't 
want your lofter there. Take the cleek." 

"Wliy, of course. How very absurd," said Miss Allen. 

She took the club blindly and made two futile sweeps. Setting 
her teeth, she brought it back for the third time and swung it 
with all her force. It drove deep into the turf behind the ball. 
Her wrists ached, and she felt jarred from head to foot. 

"Did you ever see anything quite so bad as that ?" she cried 

"No, mum," replied the caddie. 


"You are having a hard time," said a voice behind her. It 
was John Parker. 

She turned, trying to smile calmly . 

"I don't know what is the matter with me to-day/' she said. 
" This reminds me of that horrible first week." 

John looked at her gravely. 

**It isn't as bad as that," he said. "Think of your first 

" I shall never forget it," said Miss Allen, taking stern pleas- 
ure in a bit of irony at her own exi>ense. 

"I haven't anything to do this afternoon," said John with 
some hesitation. " I will go around with you once more if you 
want me to. It will be the last time, as I am going Saturday. 
I don't think there will be much for me to tell you this time^ 

It would have been easy for Miss Allen to say that it was too 
late and that she must go in, and it would have been better^ 
she knew. She took out her watch. 

*' It is almost " — she began. Then swept over her with crush- 
ing force the thought that she was with him probably for the 
last time. She put back her watch. 

"Thank you," she said, "I should like very much to have 
some more advice." 

She played rather badly, but that is hardly to be wondered 
at, when her mind was filled with thoughts of so distressing a 
nature. Whenever she made a poor stroke she fell a degree in 
John's opinion ; whenever she made a good one she lessened all 
too fast the distance that lay between her and the ninth hole. 
There at the ninth hole all would end. She had known before, 
of course, that it must end sometime, but slie had never thought 
definitely of it. She tried to persuade herself that the situation 
was humorous, but she could not feel amused. 

The dreaded moment came at last, when, after a somewhat 
prolonged struggle on the green, the ball dropped with a dry 
little rattle into the hole. Miss Allen looked up. The sun was 
just setting behind the hills. It seemed an omen. She looked 
at John and waited for him to speak. 

"That wasn't so bad," he said encouragingly, "what you 
want now is practice in putting. You 're all right except on the 
green. Try it for a little while now." 

Miss Allen glanced again at the western hills. The upper- 


most rim of the san was disappearing, and deep shadows were 
already folding down over the valleys. The links were deserted. 

"I will practice for a few minutes/' said she. 

"You won't need the caddie any longer, will you?" suggested 

Miss Allen heard behind her a sound that unquestionably was 
like a chuckle. She turned quickly and gave the caddie a look 
both penetrating and severe. There was an inscrutable gravity 
npon his face. With great dignity she counted out a handful of 
change from her pocket-book. As she did so a piece of paper 
fluttered to the ground. John stooped to pick it up. At the 
same moment she saw it and sprang for it with a gasp of hor- 
ror, hut already it was in his hand and he had seen it. It was a 
newspaper cut of himself which had appeared in the Thornton 
Evening Journal early in the summer, adorning an enthusiastic 
article on the new country club and its excellent links. 

Miss Allen took it with a stifled ** Thank you." She dared 
not look at his face to see whether he had recognized the picture 
or not. She gave the caddie his pay without a word, and he 
turned and walked away from them. There was a horrible 
silence. She took up her putter and placed the ball at the edge 
of the green. 

" Miss Allen," began John, with a portentous solemnity in his 
voice, " I am going away Saturday. I am going to the Savoy 

"Oh," said Miss Allen, with icy calmness. She took very 
deliberate aim and struck at the ball. It rolled past the hole, 
a yard to one side. She followed it and bent over it again. 
John came to her side and stood looking down at her. 

"The Savoy links are better than these," he said. 

She made another stroke. The ball rolled still farther away. 
Then her composure suddenly forsook her. She gave one help- 
less glance at his face. The earnestness in it appalled her. Slie 
looked over her shoulder at the club-house, and then at John 
again, and then down at her putter. He came nearer. 

•'Will you come with me and play on them ?'' he said. 

A vision of her family and her friends rose up before lur, 
but she was not daunted. There was a ring of pride and defi- 
ance in her voice as she answered. 

^*Yes, John, I will." 


As they 'Were walking slowly up the hill toward the clnh- 
bouse, he saw that she was looking at him with a very dreamy 
light in her eyt^s. 

"Well, what is it ?'* he asked with a smile. 

" I was just thinking how classic your profile is, dear," she 

"Was you ? " said John. 

Ethel Wallace Hawkins. 

A Twosome 

Under the snzmy Augnst skj 

We played at golf, 

Jeannette and I, — 

*Twa8 just a twosome. 

With deeyes rolled np and head all bare, 

She placed her ball and drove it fair ; 

A-playing for a record she, 

And I — I watched Jeannette, yon aee. 

Down in the thick and aedgy grass 

We sought her ball, 

Bnt there, — alas I 

We fonnd it not. 

We hnnted high, we hnnted low, 

*Twas gone, — they always are, yon know. 

'* A ball does lose so easily, 

Yon should have watched it fall,** qnoth she. 

Under the sunny August sky 

We sought her ball, 

Jeannette and I, — 

'Twas just a twosome. 

Our hands met in the search somehow, 

Alas, for me the hazard now, — 

" I watched my heart and saw it fly 

Straight to your feet, Jeannette/* qnoth I. 

*' A heart does lose so easily, 

1*11 give you mine instead,*' quoth she. 

Margaret Rebecca Pipbb. 


How much is written and said about the trials and trinmphs 
of a freshman while she is adjusting herself to her surround- 
ings after her arrival in college! 

Difficulties of a Sophomore Her problems are well known 

in college life and college 
thought, but what about those other problems equally difficult 
to solve which the sophomore has to grapple with in the first 
few weeks of her second year ? Think of her position when she 
£rst comes back ! When she went away she was part of the 
class which received most attention in college. Every one had 
beeu watching that class, comparing it with its predecessors, 
prophecying its future, patronizing it, giving it parties, helping 
it out of trouble, and allowing it to waste its time and money 
in adulation of its superiors ; in short it had been the spoiled 
darling of Smith. It had had, too, the priceless privilege of 
indulging in any infantine tricks or amusements tliat it liked. 
The joy of being naughty was its special and most cherished 
possession. This lasts for a year. Then follow a few short 
weeks of vacation, surely not conducive to mental growth, and 
lo ! the freshman returns to college a sophomore. This is no 
trifling change. To put it briefly, she has changed from subor- 
dination to the upper classes to equality with them, and from 
the adorer, she has become the adored. And the mortifying 
di.scovery she makes on her arrival is that really she has de- 
scended from a pedestal and become nobody. 

It shortly develops that this new position is not a sinecure 
either. Instead of regally waiting until advances are made to 
her, she has to make all the advances herself. The terrible re- 
S|)OQsibiIity of being nice to the freshmen has fallen upon her. 
Surely such a complete change of attitude might jar and be- 
wilder any one. 

And then if, like a large part of the entering class, she spent 
her first year off the campus and gets an assignment for her 
second year, she is as green in campus ways as any freshman 
and yet must hide her greenness. The first night of her arrival 
she is seated at dinner at a table full of girls she has never seen 
before. From their conversation she presently gathers that 
they are all seniors. On her left is a tall, handsome girl with 
au appalling society manner, who turns a very stately, cold 
shoulder on our poor sophomore. Evidently she thinks she is 
sitting next a freshman. This pleasant consciousness makes the 


sophomore anxious to make remarks about "'last year'' and 
'^ generally here at Smith we do this or that/' and she does this 
rather awkwardly. After dinner the senior on her right says 
chillingly, "I don't think you were very cordial to that poor 

"What freshman?" 

" Why the girl on your left. You didn't speak to her once ! '^ 

This causes the conscience-stricken sophomore more nervous- 
ness, and she spends the time until half-past seven vainly try- 
ing to get up courage enough to ask her stately neighbor to 
dance with her. As time goes on most of the girls she stands 
in awe of turn out to be freshmen, and she spends her days try- 
ing to treat them with proper dignity. The result of this is 
that her attitude is one of distant patronage, and they all set 
her down as a snob. 

Nor are her troubles confined to her own house. Perhaps she 
gets into difficulties over making out her schedule. As she has 
done this terrible task but once before, she forgets a few minor 
points, and seeing her looking puzzled, an S. C. A. C. W. girl 
comes up with, *' Can I help you ?" 

** Will you tell me please— '* 

But at this point the representative of the S. C. A. C. W., 
seeing her card says, "Oh, you are a sophomore, I beg your 
pardon," and departs, leaving our poor girl stranded and fairly 
ashamed to ask her question. 

These, in brief, are some of the troubles which await the 
sophomore. Let her beware of the snares and entanglements 
her own pride will surely lay for her. And let the rest of the 
college turn aside occasionally from its preoccupation with the 
freshman class to spend a little pity on the unheeded, strug- 
gling, ignominious sophomore. 

Fanny Hastings. 


A beantifnl face, and a longing 
To see what lies below, 

To find and to fathom the treasures 
That make it so. 


A beantifnl voice and a striving 

To be in sympathy 
With all that its tones are revealing 

So tenderly. 

A beantifnl life and a hoping 

Its blessedness to share, 
To learn and to live the Gk>d4if e 

Reflected there. 

Ruth Stephens Baker. 

It was a very warm day. The woodbine over the porch 
looked hot and languid, and its leaves hung heavy and 

exhausted. Betty was sitting in their shadow 
Her Dress shelling peas. Her small face was flushed, and 

her hair clung to her forehead in little, damp 
rings. Inside she could hear the thump thump of a flat-iron. 
She wondered idly how her mother could be so energetic. She 

*'I just hate to shell peas," she said, ''and I hate to be hot, 
and I know mother won't let me have a new dress for Flora 
Lee's party. And Jane has such a pretty white one. I want a 
white dress. Shan't get it though." 

"Betsy," came a voice from the darkened kitchen, "aren't 
those peas most done ? " 

^Tes'm," answered Betty, "they're all done," and she got 
up and came into the kitchen with them. Her mother stood by 
the ironing-board. On a table near her stood a row of stiffly 
starched pant-alettes, like little towers. 

"I've been thinking," said her mother, as she added another 
pantalette to the row, " that you may have to have a new dress. 
There's Flora Lee's party, and you haven't anything real nice 
to wear." 
Betty's moist little face beamed. 
"Oh, mother !" 

"So we'll get you a pretty new print. It will be fresh for the 
party, and then it won't be too nice for you to wear common 
afterwards. Mr. Pease had some very pretty print with little 
roses on it." 
The face fell. 
"Mother, couldn't I have a white dress ?" 



Mercy, no, child. It wouldn't keep clean any time at all. 
White pantalettes are bad enough without white dresses. If 
you want, you can go down to the store and pick it out yourself 
this afternoon. It's pretty hot though. Maybe you better wait 
until to-morrow. '' 

She wanted a white dress, but to be allowed to pick out any 
dress at all was an event that might occur but once in a life- 

" I don't mind if it is hot," she said. 

Thus it happened that the afternoon found a hot little girl 
toiling over the dusty road toward the store. Along the sides 
of the road the burdock leaves were covered with fine white 
dust. Even the leaves of the scrub-apple drooped. Not a 
breath of air stirred them. The goldenrod held up its gay head 
bravely, but its plumes hung heavily against the sturdy stalk. 
From hidden places came long, hot, stinging sounds. 

Betty plodded on. She felt cross. Even the prospect of the 
new dress was not comforting. She wanted it, yes, of course 
she wanted it, but she didn't want any horrid little roses or stiff 
little figures on it. 

At last she was climbing the steps of the village store. The 
storekeeper sat behind the counter, a big red handkerchief in 
his hand, a pitcher near him, with little drops of moisture out- 
side and a clinking noise within. 

** Hello," he said in surprise, " pretty hot day for little girls, 
isn't it?" 

**Yes, sir," said Betty, pushing back the damp little curls. 

"Well, what can I do for you ?" he asked. 

** Mother sent me here to get some print for a dress." She 
was resigned to her fate, but interested in it nevertheless. 

He got off his stool slowly. 

"I've got some real pretty print," he said, as he pulled down 
a piece. " Little pink roses on it. You'll like that, won't you ? " 

Betty was silent. She had been brought up to tell the truth. 

He spread it out on the counter. 

"It washes beautiful," he went on. "Mirandy Snow had a 
dress off it, and it did up beautiful. It's wash goods." 

Betty had an idea,— such an audacious one that it frightened 

"What — what happens if it isn't ?" she asked timidly. 

The storekeeper wrinkled his forehead in masculine per- 


plexity. "Well, I don't exactly know. I guess all them little 
roses would wash out ; it would be an awful shame, they're so 
pretty. Bot you needn't be afraid. This'U wash all right." 

Betty was trembling, but her resolve was made. 

''Have you any prints that won't wash ?" she said. 

Mr. Pease looked over his spectacles at her in great astonish- 

"You don't want anything that won't wash, missy. Your 
ma wouldn't want you to get anything that won't wash." 

"But have you ?" persisted Betty. 

"Well, I don't know but I have," he admitted reluctantly, 
and pulled down a second piece. 

"You see it's not half so pretty," he said, **it can't come up 
to them pink roses." 

Bat Betty did not care. 

" I'll take it," she said decisively. 

The astonished man made a few last objections. 

" I don't like to let you have it. It ain't first-class goods. It 
ain't warranted to wash. Your ma — " 

" Five yards, please," said Betty, firmly. 

He cut them off slowly and with obvious reluctance, and 
stood looking after her as she went out into the heat again. 

"Well I swan! "he said. 

Daring the long, hot summer afternoons that followed Betty 
satin the shade of the woodbine and sewed — with hope. She 
forgot the heat and the seams she hated, and remembered only 
that her dress with the ugly little blue spots on it now would 
be white after it was washed. 

"He said the figures would wash out," she thought. 

It was her secret. Mother did not even suspect it. She won- 
dered what mother would say when her dress turned out white 
instead of with the little blue dots on it. 

"I guess she'll be surprised," thought Betty, not without 
misgivings that she might be something else too. 

And so it happened that one morning she sat under the wood- 
bine shelling peas, for the dress was done. And inside she 
heard not the thump of the flat-iron, but the sound of the 
scrubbing-board. She listened and waited. At last she heard 
her mother's voice. It was quiet, but there were foreboding 
notes in it. 

" Betsy, come here/' it said. 


Betty went. She was afraid mother did not like it. She 
almost wished— 

" See here, Betty," said her mother, — ^and yes, she did sound 
surprised and angry. 

Betty looked. 

Why, what had happened? The blue was still there. It 

looked aJl blue, only it was not pretty,— it was not right. Some 

places the blue was in blotches, and some places you could 

hardly see it. And there was not any white at all. 

She began to cry. 

Sybil Layinia Cox. 

Warm, moist air breathing the odor of sweet flag and spear- 
mint ; a country road with hot, dusty surface cooled by the 

eYening dew ; the frogs 

Shoes That Pass in the Night croaking arguments from 

the mist-hidden swamp ; 
the fireflies dancing here and there in the darkness ; softly from 
the distance comes the regular sound of footfalls approaching. 
Soon a turn in the road makes the sound more distinct, and a 
light, now eclipsed, now swinging clear, half suggests in out- 
line the cause of the rhythmic tread. Gradually the dis- 
turbers of the peace are more distinctly seen. They are four 
feet ; but eYidently not those of a quadruped as they are clearly 
dlYided into two pairs, which are in a row, or as much in a row 
as the uneYenness of the ground permits. 

Two of these traYelers are clad in dark russet leather witL 
exceedingly heaYy soles somewhat muddy and rather damp. 
Nothing Yery extensiYe appears above the bobbing loops of the 
shoe strings except the beginning of what must be thick 
brown woolen golf stockings. The other pair are a good deal 
smaller and take shorter, more irregular steps with evident 
care for picking their way. They are a most dainty display of 
patent leather with toes that go up a bit at the end as if used to 
this tramp, but hardly bearing the strain gracefully. The lit- 
tle ties stop at the ankle, and the uncertain rise and fall of white 
lace around these now hides and now reveals a bit of the bright- 
est plaid. Just in front extends a line of a stiff white hem 
which appears to be caught up at the sides as only starched 
scallops show here and there, while the embroidered ruffles 


l)e]ow hang limp and rather dirty where they have touched the 
moist ground. With resolute steps the four boots have ap- 
proached and passed. Now the swaying lantern reveals 
in its yellow light only the russets, and the golf stockings cast 
their shadow on the white duck and the lace. A low monotone 
of conversation was wafted on the air as they passed, but it is 
soon lost in the distance. The feet fall into step more evenly 
now, but after a little space, the patent leathers suddenly turn 
right around and a moment later continue their march on the 
other side of the road— where the walking is much worse ! The 
way seems hard and the little black shoes trip occasionally. 
Soon the brown ones come to the rescue and the lock step is 
continued, but presently it slackens and finally stops. The lan- 
tern is set down — hard, not carefully. One side of the skirt is 
dropped, then the other. Then suddenly both little patent 
leathers go right off the ground, a muffled cry sounds on the 
air and the lantern, jarred by the movement, slips from its crit- 
ical position and the light goes out ; but on the summer night 
sounds a glad, little laugh and the fireflies dance more giddily 
and the last, sleepy croak of the frogs is hushed. 

Hannah Gould Johnson. 


A scent of wild roses, a river's flow, 
Green grasses that bend and sway ; — 

And a half-formed wish that I hardly know 
Comes into my mind to-day. 

A face that means all the world to me, 

Dark eyes now tender, now gay ; — 
And a dear ideal of what I would be 

Comes into my heart to-day. 

Mabouxbitb Fellows. 


One doctrine of the modern psychology of crowds emphasizes 
the loss of a sense of responsibility suffered more or less com- 
pletely by the individual in a large assemblage. This principle 
doubtless contains the explanation of that most unpleasant phe- 
nomenon of our composite life, — the discourtesy of the college 
audience. Happily this discourtesy is by no means the habit- 
ual attitude ; on the contrary, no other audience is more enthu- 
siastic, more sensitively appreciative, when the right appeal ia 
made ; but woe to the orator or to the lecturer who fails to make 
this appeal ! He may perhaps offend by the too ingratiating^ 
tone of his preamble. Then will the roses ranged before him. 
prove to have thorns, and the sweet and gentle femininity that 
he so gracefully lauded vent its outraged feelings in a retribu- 
tion quite incongruous with his metaphors. Again, he may be 
guilty of a grammatical slip, or of a peculiar style of enuncia- 
tion, or of any mannerism in speech or gesture. Whatever the 
case, the result will be the same. The speaker will find himself 
looking down upon a sea of smiles of every variety,— the supe- 
rior, the frankly amused, the furtive, the sneering, the tolerant 
because utterly scornful. It is a mistaken idea that an audience 
is helpless in the hands of the speaker to whose remarks it must 
listen for one hour or two without the liberty of reply ; it has a 
variety of ways in which it may show its ennui, its disapproba- 
tion, or its superiority ; and of these ways none is so effective 
as the smile. Confronted by this smile, the lecturer must feel 
as despairing as the vanquished ancients in the arena who 
looked up to the benches for their fate and saw every thumb 
turned down. The speaker is condemned ; endeavor as he may, 
his cause is lost ; and the audience has settled itself to enjoy 
the contemplation of his struggles. The man in the arena pre- 
sumably has done his best. He can not be blamed for feeling 
somewhat harshly toward those who condemn him. In our day 

1 04 


of ciyilization and amenity, is not the speaker justified in har- 
boring a like feeling ? But this is perhaps irrelevant as a mat- 
ter of indifference to the audience. 

One demonstration, however, suffered by those who speak to 
ns daily in the class room, is generally spared to the visiting 
lecturer; but for this immunity he has only the force of cir« 
camstance to thank. The public lecture, as a rule, is not 
scheduled to close at a given hour ; the recitation or class room 
lecture is. Tlie striking of the hour is the signal for us to pass 
on to fresh fields of occupation ; and, faithful daughters of sys- 
tem that we are, we respond immediately to the signal. With 
each added moment that detains us, our desire to go is more 
emphatically manifested. Here again our sense of personal re- 
sponsibility has been lost ; we are no longer rude individuals, 
but integral parts of an outraged whole. Undoubtedly our 
righteous indignation is not ungrounded, and we may bring a 
counter-charge of inconsiderateuess as an almost adequate ex- 
tenuation. But the question of the trespass of one recitation 
period upon another must be debated in another tribunal than 
that of the undergraduate. 

But where are we to find justification for that other discour- 
tesy before mentioned, — the attitude of carping and petty criti- 
cism ? It seems to spring from a two-fold source ; partly from 
the haunting fear of our generation that we may fail to see 
"the funny side" of a thing; and partly from that other 
haunting fear that we may accept as good that which common 
consent condemns. But is the laugh worth while that must be 
obtained at the cost of so incessant a vigilance ? And who in 
reality presents the more ignominious spectacle,— he who erra 
on the side of a taste too little fastidious, or he who in his over- 
mastering dread of being cheated rejects pure gold ? 


In a long .editorial in this month's issue, the Yale Literary 
Monthly protests against the opinion current throughout the 
college, that there is a certain way of saying things, vaguely 
known as "the Lit. style," to which all would-be contributors 
to its pages must conform. That such a belief is unfounded, 
not only in the case of the Yale magazine, but in the case of 
college periodicals everywhere, we may well be convinced. 
Even supposing the existence of an .editorial board of such sur- 
prising unanimity as to agree in all matters of literary taste, 
and so left to itself as to long for a deadly monotony in its pa- 
per, — even then half a dozen undergraduates would scarcely 
presume to proclaim themselves literary dictators over their 
college. That there is a sharp and clear distinction between 
college magazine and college magazine is undoubtedly true. 
But this distinction is not fundamentally one of style ; it lies 
rather in tone, in scales of value, in general attitude, — in the 
things that constitute the spirit of the college at large, and give 
it individuality. 

" Seen and Heard at the Summer School," in the Cornell Era 
for this month, is a capital bit of writing of a type that we meet 
very seldom in college magazines— or indeed, in any others 
nowadays— half narrative, half essay, altogether charming. 
It does not represent the highest type of literary genius ? What 
of that I Comparatively few of us lay claim to literary genius 
of the highest type. What was it that Caesar said about being 
second in Rome ? If some of the fruitless, hopeless labor that 
is put into the writing of stories that are pointless and verses 
that will not scan, were devoted to informal, epistolary word- 
sketching of this sort; if college writers would realize their 
limitations and not force that realization upon their readers, the 
readers at least would find more joy in life. But, on the other 
hand, it might be gloomy for the writers ! 



Library Work as a Profession for College Women 

Scene in a Libbary. Visitor : How many books have yon in the library? 
Librarian : Between one hundred and sixty and one hundred and seventy 
thousand volames. 
Visitor (with visible admiration) : And I snppose yon have read them all ! 

Snch was the popnlar notion : — that library work consisted of reading the 
hbrary books in one*s charge, and that the chief requisite of a librarian was 
to be a lover of books. When libraries were merely collections or storehonses 
of books, and librarians simply keepers, this idea may not have been so far 
amiss. But to-day when a library in its true sense is a living organism with 
the librarian as its moving spirit, such s conception can no longer be held by 
intelligent people. 

That library facilities have been considered an important aid to education 
at Smith College is evidenced by the official circular, which for years has 
counted the Clarke and Forbes libraries among its advantages. But the 
library is now felt to be more than a prop or a buttress ; it is an essential 
part of the structure of our educational system. For years our wisest men 
have put their best thought on the problem of the public schools, the educa- 
tion of the masses. Much must be accomplished in a time all too short, 
since the larger number of children become workers at the earliest age the 
law allows, and often before they are able to grasp the meaning of a printed 
page. Under the best conditions children can get from the public schools 
not much information and culture ; but if taught to read intelligently, they 
are jirepared to educate themselves by reading. The school starts the educa- 
tion, but the library must carry it on. This doctrine is being accepted by 
onr best educators. The states are passing new library laws, and state 
library commissions are formed to encourage the founding and maintenance 
of public libraries and more recently of traveling libraries. Wealthy indi- 
viduals, inspired by the work already accomplished, are giving of their 
means for its further development, as witnessed by many cities in our land. 

Assuming that the Smith College student understands the importance of 
the library, she may still wonder what is the attraction which has led so 
many college graduates of varying capacities into this profession. What to 
do when college days are over is a question hard for many girls to answer. 
Teaching is most frequently adopted, and many find here their real vocation. 
Even to those with the instincts of a teacher, the library offers a field equal 
to that of the public school. The modem *' children's room" is as good 



ground as the kindergarten. The librarian, however, has an advantage over 
the teacher in that, once they form a habit of reading, her pnpils are hers 
for a lifetime. Yonng and old alike come to her for help. The teacher in 
the public school, on the other hand, has her constituency mainly in their 
earlier years and only for the brief time of the school session. She but gets 
interested in one set of children when it is replaced by another. But there 
is another side of the library as distinct from what we have been considering* 
as the university is from the common school. The library is the real univer- 
sity not only for the people but for scholars. In the leading colleges to-day 
the library is raised to a distinct university department, and the librarian is 
ranked as a member of the faculty. The colleges have wakened to the fact 
that the work of every department is based ux)on the library. Professors no 
longer depend upon text-books, but send their classes to the library, teaching 
them bow to investigate for themselves and how to use books. With im- 
proved methods of administration and the reference librarian to gruide, the 
library itself may become the real university. Librarian ship then in a 
college library or in the reference department of a large library affords to 
the Smith graduate an opportunity to teach just as if given the title of 
inrofessor. In either the popular or scholarly library one must have a knowl- 
edge of books and of men, and must be animated with an earnest desire 
to help. 

Before really deciding that library work in its educational phases is better 
than teaching in the schools, the conditions under which the work must be 
done should be considered. The teacher at the most has forty weeks* work, 
five hours a day, five days in the week. Long vacations and short hours are 
an inducement ; yet what teacher worthy the name ends work when the five 
required hours of the day are over? Papers to be corrected, reports to be 
made, and lessons to be prapared take many an hour, while the long vacation 
must be used for the teacher's own growth in knowledge. Add to this the 
nervous strain of controlling many children and of imparting knowledge 
which is not wanted, and the teacher's life is not an easy one. On the other 
hand, the attendant in a public library has at the most but four weeks* vaca- 
tion and more often but two, and the time of service each day ranges from 
six to nine hours. To counterbalance this the nervous strain is much less, 
because the readers come for love of what they can get and not from compul- 
sion. The salary of the public school teacher and the public library attend- 
ant is about the same. Salaries for the higher grades of reference work are 
considerably more and often are equivalent to the salary of the professor in 
the college. 

To the student with an interest in sociological subjects and a longing to 
give some social service to her kind, the library offers an opportunity better 
in some ways than that offered by the social settlement in that the people 
feel no touch of philanthropy. The library belongs to the people as do the 
public schools. The work with children and the home libraries make open- 
ings for an acquaintance not only with the reader but with the reader's 
family and home conditions. Mimy a friendly visit may be paid under cover 
of library interests. What is more natural than to call upon a mother to 
inquire if she is willing to have her boy or girl use the library? This begin- 


mng of a friendly relationship may resnlt in drawing the whole family to 
use the library and in giving them a glimpse of higher and better living. 

Yet all this work of helping readers can not be done easily nnless the books 
are properly classified and cataloged. Tlie economic side is an important 
one. To gain the best reunite with the least work at the least expenditure of 
time and money is the problem. All the modern methods are carefully 
adjusted to this end. To put these methods in practice requires both clerical 
and scholarly work, thus giving opportunity for the employment of varying 
degrees of ability. To those without missionary aspirations or administrative 
power, the routine part may furnish congenial occupation. Accuracy and 
order are the important qualifications for this technical part of library work. 
Consideration of the administrative side of the library has been purposely 
left nntil the last. This generally falls upon the head librarian. Leaders 
are wanted and there is plenty of room at the top for the college-bred woman. 
The natural qualities most important are executive ability, enthusiasm, and 
that indefinable quality, the power to influence people in a large and fine 
way. Planning buildings, locating branches, making regidations for readers 
and staff of assistants, presenting to trustees administrative problems, such 
as proposed changes, needed improvements, or reasons for additional ex- 
penses, sometimes influencing city councils with a view to increased appropri- 
ations, and above all making oneself felt to be a force in the community, 
affords ample scope for all one's power. 

To those who not looking for positions may have '* received their salary in 
advance,'* and who wish to use their abilities for the betterment of the com- 
mnnities in which they live, a word may here be said. A woman of education 
has a much better chance of election to the office of trustee in the case of a 
public library than has man}* a scholarly man, because there is no partisan 
prejudice of a political sort likely to interfere in her case. Then if she has 
prepared herself for such work by a course of training, she can render ser- 
vice of great value, since she will know whether the functions of the library 
which she may serve are beiug as adequately carried out as its funds will per- 
mit. In any case, whether entitled to official position or not. she can by the 
Qse of a little tact be of great aid to the librarian of her community, if she 
live anywhere but in the largest cities. This aid can be given not only in the 
selection of books, but in furthering all the modem methods for making 
these books useful. With a definite knowledge of means and of ends, a wide 
field of usefulness is open to her ; without this definite knowledge she may 
find herself, even with the bent of intentions, only a meddlesome intruder. 
Positions of honor and usefulness are also open to women on the state library 
commissions already alluded to, and much can be done by the woman who is 
willing to inform herself in the matter of starting or furthering a wise sys- 
tem of traveling libraries. Here just as in the case with settlement work, 
those who take it up as a temx)orary diversion hinder rather than help. A 
willingness to master details and to endure drudgery is quite as necessary as 
enthusiasm in both cases. 

Here in merest outline are presented the chief sides of the library pro- 
fession. All these functions, especially in the smaller libraries, are often 
combined in one person, and to x>6rform these functions all the virtues are 


required. Mr. Melvil Dewey, state librarian of Now York, in speaking of 
the qaalifications of an ideal librarian says : — "When we have covered the 
whole field of scholarship and historical knowledge and training, we mnst 
confess that overshadowing all are the qualities of the man. To my think- 
ing a great librarian must have a clear head, a strong hand, and above all a 
great heart. He must have a head as clear as the master in diplomacy ; a 
hand as strong as he who quells the raging mob or leads great armies to vic- 
tory ; and a heart as great as he who, to save others, will if need be lay down 
his life. Such shall be the greatest among librarians ; and when I look into 
the future, I am inclined to think that most of the men who will achieve thia 
greatness will be women.** This ideal may appeal to one perhaps out of two 
hundred and then will come the question, How shall one attempt to realize it? 
The quickest way is to take a technicid course at a library school. There the 
underlying principles are taught and also the application of those principles 

in the leading libraries. 
The work m a library is so much more diversified than that of teaching- 

that the all-round view of the situation given by the training school is per- 
haps more imi)ortant to the would-be librarian than is the normal school 
course to an embryo teacher. Suppose, however, that an aspirant for library- 
honors enters, let us say, a large library and is given work in one department. 
She may learn her special work thoroughly, and perhaps pick up a few hints, 
of the work in other departments. It is for the library's interest, however, 
to retain her where she has become skilful rather than advance her to un- 
tried duties and replace her by a raw recruit. If she transfers her services 
to another library she may have the chagrin of finding that its methods in 
her own department are quite unlike those to which she has been accustomed. 
She may, on the contrary, have taken a humble position in a small library, 
but here, even with a superior able and willing to teach, the resources at 
hand will be insufficient to furnish a training conducive to future advance- 
ment. If herself given' charge even of a small village library, it is well 
nigh needless to add that a dozen times a day she will meet with vexing^ 
problems which will make her sigh for such training as would have enabled 
her to foresee and provide for them. 

The question frequently arises. What is there to learn that a two years' 
course is required ? One has but to look over the curriculum of any one of 
the library schools to realize that the question should be, How can it all be 
learned in two years? The course covers a wide field broadly divided into 
the bibliographic, or more scholarly side, and the economic ; the division per- 
taining to methods and accessories which facilitate the use of large collections 
of books. Again, both of these divisions may be studied from the historical 
or from the immediately practical point of view. Hence we have on one 
hand such topics as the history of manuscripts, their production, distribution, 
and preservation ; the history of the printed book, followed by bibliographies 
of different countries and of different subjects,— bibliographies which furnish 
information as to choice of editions and such as give prices of rare and out- 
of-print books ; and on the other hand the history of libraries in the past, 
how founded, and by what means carried on ; beginnings of the modern 
library movement and resulting legislation in our own and in other countries ; 

ALUMNjE department 111 

followed by practical coneideTationB of best methods of ronsing interest and 
raiang funds ; proper housing of libraries, including heating, lighting, ven- 
tflatioD, and furnishing of buildings ; best organization of the working force 
of the hbrarr ; how to choose and buy books, involTing a knowledge of 
prices, discounts, duties or free importation, auction sales, exchanges, bills 
and Touchers, as well as a knowledge of current bibliography. Then comes 
the still more technical side of recording accessions, claRsif ying, including a 
knowledge of the different systems of classification ; cataloging, again involv- 
ing comparative study ; proper shelving and arrangement of books on the 
shelves ; best systems of notation and labeling ; arrangement and preserva- 
tion of pablic documents, pamphlets, manuscripts, maps, music, prints etc., 
with comparative study of the mechanical accessories applicable in each case ; 
Imowledge of correct forms of blank books, cards, catalogs, sbelf-lists, guides 
and labels, as well as an insight into the practical work of preparing mate- 
rial for the press, proof-reading, and last but by no means least, knowledge 
of the detail work of book-binding. All this must of course but lead up to 
the great aim of all library administration, — the public and how best to serve 
its interests : the topics hei'e considered are not only of the practical order, 
like those concerning regulations for readers, records of books loaned and 
acconnts of fines due, shelves thrown open or barred off, and the advisability 
of establishing branch reading-rooms, delivery stations, or libraries ; but also 
of the more bookish order, how to attract patrons to the library, to stimulate 
and increase the interest of the timid reader, how best to solve the question 
of reading for the young, how to prove helpful in reference work with the 
stndent, in short, how to make the whole library contribute, if necessary, to 
answer a single question. 

The parent school was opened at Columbia College Library in January 
1^7. in response to a demand for trained librarians. In April 1889, it was 
transferred to Albany to become a part of the University of the State under 
the name of the New York State Library School. Only a limited number of 
students are admitted. The preference is given to college graduates who are 
admitted without examination, but only when of recognized fitness and char- 
acter. The course is two years, though not all who finish the firHt year are 
pennitted to take the second year. The student during the first year must 
show evidence of special ability to be admitted to the second year work. 
College graduates may obtain the degree of B. L. S. (Bachelor of Library 
Science) upon completing the course with an examination standing of ninety 
per cent or over. Detailed information may be obtained from the Vice- 
Director, Mrs. S. C. Fairchild, Albany, New York. 

This school could not supply the demand for trained librarians and assist- 
ants, and other schools were started of which three, conducted by graduates 
of the original school, are worthy of consideration. The first to be started 
was that connected with Pratt Institute, Brooklyn (1890). Miss Mary W. 
Plummer, a graduate of the Columbia College Library School in the first 
class, is the director. In 1891, Drezel Institute, Philadelphia, opened a 
library school under the direction of Miss Alice B. Kroeger, graduate of the 
New York State Library School, class of 1891. In 1898, at Armour Institute, 
Chicago, the third school was opened under the direction of Miss Katherine 


L. Sharp, B. L .S. *92 of the New York State Library School. In these Insti- 
tute schools a college education is not required for admission, but exami- 
nations are given in literature, history, and general information. In 1897, 
the Library School at Armour Institute was transferred to the University of 
Illinois at Champaign, and the course is only open to those presenting two 
years of college work. 

There are various summer schools carried on in connection with certain 
libraries, mainly for those already engaged in library work who can not 
spare the time to take a longer course. To the novice they furnish but a 
birdseye view of the field. In a few large libraries training classes have been 
formed to furnish assistants for the service of the library giving the instruc- 
tion. All of this provision for technical library traiuiug makes it easy for 
one now wishing to take up librarianship as a jirofession. The schools do not 
guarantee positions for their gpraduates, but no student who has done good 
work and is not hampered by personal peculiarities is long without some 
opportunity to try her Rkill. 

Notwithstanding the importance of technical training, that alone without 

the foundation of a wide and deep knowledge of books is of as little avail as 

a normal course to a teacher who has no knowledge to impart. To be sure, 

the librarian does not spend his time in reading the books in his charge, yet 

an acquaintance with their contents he must have. The college graduate 

then is the one most likely to have the widest knowledge of books and so 

may be the one best fitted for the technical training which leads to the ever 

widening library profession. 

Nina E. Browne, '82. 

Six months ago none of our Club had more than barely heard of the Na- 
tional Consumers* League, but an interest in social problems is a natural 

heritage of the girls who go out from 
A Recent Lecture on the Smith, and while the chief aims of our 

National Consumers' League society have been to raise money for the 

college and to become better acquainted 
Among ourselves, a chance to learn the details of a work lately taken up in 
behalf of the laboring classes was welcome. 

The National Consumers' League is the outgrowth of the local work of Con- 
sumers* Leagues in four different states : New York, Massachusetts, Illinois, 
and Pennsylvania. The New York League is the oldest, and its services in 
white listing stores are well known. For ten years a band of patient workers 
in New York City have treated with the shopkeepers at whose mercy are the 
clerks, and hnve pleaded with the buyers at whose mercy are the shopkeep- 
ers. They have planted themselves on the firm economic basis that the world 
of labor is hyx>er8ensitive to the wants of the shopi)er and responds almost 
immediately to the fiats of his purse, and their appeal is addressed to the 
people who buy, in the hope that intelligent organization among them may 
convince those who sell that their customers really care how the clerks be- 
hind the counter are treated and how the factory hands and sewing women 
out of sight are paid. The New York League led the way, and the other 
state Leagues followed. The work in its beginning was of strictly local 


character, but when it came to the problem of dealing with long factory 
hours and sweat shop labor, disunion was weakness and the fonr Leagnes co- 
operated and adopted a nniform label by which garments made nnder proper 
conditions may be known wherever they are sold. 

This is only a hasty sketch of the history of the National League. It has 
been in existence a little over a year ; its headquarters are in New York, its 
president is Mr. John Graham Brooks, and its secretary is Mrs. Florence 
Eelley, who was once a factory inspector in Illinois and is therefore peculiarly 
fitted to investigate the factories which ask to use the League label. 

Mrs. Eelley lectured to us here in Hartford on the evening of March 20, 
in the Park Congregational Church, before an unusually attentive audience. 
She is a clear, forceful speaker, possessed of that coveted gift vaguely called 
magnetism, which might be defined as a faculty for making the rest of the 
people list-en to what you have to say. She described to us the great need for 
a hearty and effective effoit in behalf of the " sewing classes" by telling of 
Bights she had herself seen, and she made clear many important points in the 
aim and working of the League. 

It is a very common idea that paying a good, fair price for a garment, while 
it does not guarantee the amount of wages earned by its maker, at least 
makes it likely that a reasonable sum is received and acquits the conscience 
of the buyer. Mrs. Kelley disabused her audience of that comfortable no- 
tion. Many of the garments which bear the League label, made in good fac- 
tories where the hands are well paid and a day*s labor is not over ten hours, 
are of the cheapest sort, labor saving machinery has made their production 
possible at almost absurd prices, while at the name time thousands of gar- 
ments of a better class, the medium quality which most of us buy, are 
fanned out, and the comparatively low prices they bear are made possible by 
the unfair wage paid to the worker. According to Mrs. Eelley, price is abso- 
lutely no clue to the conditions under which goods are made. She has seen 
a little girl working on garments of the very cheapest, meanest sort in a 
dirty kitchen where no one had had time to clear away the dinner dishes, 
while in a little, dark room off the kitchen the man of the family was stitch- 
ing by artificial light on a handsome coat destined to fill the order of a cus- 
tom tailor up town. The report Mr. Brooks gives of the relation between 
final prices and the wages of the workers is more encouraging ; still the sum 
and substance of all the argument is that there is no guarantee that what we 
buy is made as it should be and where it should be, unless it bears some mark 
given only when strictly deserved. 

There are some people who are easily convinced that a long pull and a 
strong pull and a pull all together on the part of buyers who really care, might 
go far to stamp out the practice of sweating labor, because if the people call 
for goods rightly made the storekeepers will echo their demand, but they are 
not convinced that it is a sane and kindly thing to do. ** What," they say, 
•' is to become of the poor woman who, to be sure, is ground down by the 
middleman, but who still ekes out the scanty living of the family by making 

a little something by her needle ? Will you not crush altogether the very 

weaklings whom you profess to pity ?" Mrs. Kelley shed considerable light 

on this most difficult part of a difficult subject, and it must be remembered 



that she has been a resident of Hull House and knows very well what she is 
talking abont. The tenement honse labor as she has seen it is far from being 
a blessing in any, even a disgnised, form. It gives the husband or father of 
the family a chance to drink and to be idle. The woman slaves at what is 
properly his business, the support of the family, and the man is less eager to 
find a job when he is out of work, and more free to sx^^nd his wages for 
whiskey. According to Mrs. Kelley, it is sentimentalism pure and simple, — 
a sentimentalism- of which we must rid ourselves,— to cry out that the poor 
woman who sews long hours of the day and night would starve if her work 
were taken from her in the course of fine economic plans for her class. 
When the women become what they ought to be, home-keepers, and the men 
are forced to work and be sober to support the homes for their wives and 
children, a great deal of the misery in crowded tenement districts will dis- 
appear of its own accord. 

Another point which Mrs. Kelley touched upon is of general interest to na 
all, this time for more selfish reasons. It is the matter of contagion. Where 
the state insjiection laws are inadequate or tend to be a dead letter, there is 
nothing to vouch for healthful conditions of manufacturing. Mrs. Kelley 
found in Chicago hundreds of trousers for little boys being made in a district 
where scarlet fever was rife, — ^in the very rooms where children were lying 
sick with it, the mother sewing and nursing her little patients by turns. 
These trousers were not for the most part to be sold in Chicago, but in other 
places ; they were not even supposed to be made in Chicago, — so tar as the 
knowledge of their future purchasers went they had nothing to do with 
Chicago. Stitched in each pair was a label which said "New York.'* It is 
against outrages which cut both ways that the work of the League is aimed. 
Its label is protected by law and is given only after investigation. The more 
call there is for garments bearing it, the more desire for it there will be 
among manufacturers. The abuse is guarded against by a penalty. Any 
manufacturer agreeing to conform to the standard adopted by the League and 
not living up to his agreement is liable to a fine of one hundred dollars. 

There is a field of work here for alumnae, who can help on the League all 
over the country, and for undergraduates, who can advertise it by asking for 
goods bearing its label wherever they may be, in Northampton, Springfield, 
the large centers, or in their own homes. The Massachusetts branch of the 
League is strong and flourishing and deserves support for the sake of its work 
in the past and because of what it bids fair to do in the future. Its presi- 
dent is Mias Edith M. ^owes, 416 Marlboro Street, Boston. Several interest- 
ing experiments in details of management have been successfully tried in 
Massachusetts. Since the annual membership fee of one dollar is burden- 
some, where it bears a familiar likeness to the annual dues of a dozen other 
societies that beset the philanthropically minded, Massachusetts has set going 
a system of group memberships, so that four or sometimes even ten shares 
may be held in a single dollar, and one may find oneself a fraction of a mem- 
ber. Then too, there is a valuable section of the Massachusetts branch at 
Wellesley College. The story goes, and it came from headquarters, that a 
number of Boston stores had been vainly begged to keep in stock goods 
marked with the label. Wellesley became interested, and many of the girls 


took the cards the Leagne has issued with a cut of the label on them, and 
arranged to ask at a given number of stores within fifteen days for garments 
clamped with it. The response was immediate, the goods appeared at once 
on the counters. 

Smith College has not of course a Boston to labor in, but there are few of 
US who would not say that its influence may be fully as wide. It is not a 
neat thing to ask of " those who care *' that they learn to know the label and 
remember to ask for it. 

Mary A. Goodman *96. 

The class of *98 held its second reunion last June, following the example of 
many of the other classes, which also had votetl to have reunions in 1900. 
Tne headquarters of the class in the upper story of Arnold Hall made a 
pleasant rendezvous?. Here too was the class register, in which fifty names 
arc entered, and there were several here besides who did not register. Not 
more than thirty-five, however, were at the class supper, Tuesday evening. 
This also was in Arnold Hall. The evening was spent with a happy mixture 
of humor and seriousness from our toast mi stress and from the girls who 
r^ponded, telling us what they had been accomplishing in ** the wide, wide 
world *" since graduation. After the toasts the tables were cleared away and 
we finished the evening with dancing and alng^g. On the following morn- 
ing the business meeting was held. At the beginning of the meeting the 
mother of Esther Clapp, whose death last spring so shocked us, came in and 
vM simply and touchingly of her daughter's love and devotion to the class, 
and how she had hoped to live until this reunion. The shadow which this 
cast over the meeting was relieved by the presence of Mrs. Jennie Bingham 
Dowlin's little one year old boy, whom she had brought with her to our great 
delight. Florence M. Reed was elected president of the class till the next re- 
vaosm ; Georgia W. Coyle, vice-president ; and Anna H. Hall was reelected 
secretary, and Winifred Knight treasurer. The class voted to have the next 
rennioQ in 1903, which will be the quinquennial. 

Henrietta S. Seelte '98. 

The Western Massachusetts Association of Smith College Alunmae held 
ita adjourned annual meeting in Northampton, October 2. The following 
oflScers were chosen for the coming year : President, Mrs. Caroline Hunger- 
ford Mills *82, Northampton ; Vice-President, Mrs. Elizabeth L. Clarke '83, 
William stown ; Secretary and Treasurer, Miss Ysabei Swan '98, Northamp- 
ton. The future work of the Association is now under consideration. Its 
cooperation with the Students' Aid Society has been suggested as one desira- 
ble line of work. All alumnsB residing in western Massachusetts who do not 
belong to the Association are earnestly solicited to add their names to its list 
<^ members. 



A book has been placed in the Reading Room in which all alnninad visiting: 
the college ai-e asked to sign their names. The list of visitors for October is 
as follows: 


Ophelia S. Brown, . . . , 


DA A. 



Josephine Devereux Sewall, 



Mary R. Joslin, . . . . 



Carrolle Barber, . . . . 


Mary C. Childs, 


Helen K. Demond, . 


Mary E. Goodnow, . . , . 


Frances E. Rice, 


Mary Alice Smith, . 


Lonise Barber, . . . , 




Contribntions to this department are desired by the second of the month in 
order to appear in that month's issue, and are to be sent to Ruth L. Gaines, 
Morris House. 

•88. Carrie A. Marsh is teaching in Somerville again this year. Her address 
is 179 School Street, Somerville, Massachusetts. 

Professor E. S. Shumway has been appointed a member of the Law Fac- 
ulty of the University of Pennsylvania to teach Roman law, and will 
enter upon his duties at once. The Shumway s will for the present con- 
tinue to make their home in New Brunswick, New Jersey. 

Sarah P. Browning is now at Rozbury House as Head- worker. 

Zulema A. Ruble is Principal of the Academic Department of Graham 
Hall, a school for girls, Minneapolis, Minnesota. 

Helen Winifred Shute was married June 21, to Mr. Warren Joseph 
Moulton. Her address for the coming year, as well as that of her sis- 
ter, Mary Appleton Shute '87, will be 191 Bradley Street, New Haven, 

•88. Mrs. Martin J. Hutchins, Jr. has moved from New York to Chicago, 

Mary L. Bufkin was married October 8, at Chicago, to Mr. Wilmot B. 
Jones. Address, Stamford, Connecticut. 

'90. Pauline G. Wiggin is studying at the Albany Library School. 

'91. Lillian M. Skinner is to si)end the year studying economics in London. 

•98. Frances Darling was married September 27, to Reverend Edward Niles 
of Brooklyn, New York. 

Jessie C. Grant of Syracuse, New York, was married October 8, to Mr. 
William Adams MacKenzie. 

Of the class graduating from the Johns Hopkins Medical School in June, 
Florence Sabin received the first hospital appointment, and Dorothy 
Reed '95 the third. 

Frances M. Bancroft was married September 5, to Dr. William J. Long 
of Stamford, Connecticut. 



The engagement is announced of Mary B. Clark to Mr. Charles Pntnam. 

Snsan E. Coyle is teaching in the Portland Academy, Portland, Oregon. 

Gertrade Gane and Una McMahon are spending the winter together at 
Knrfnrsten Strasse 48, Berlin, (Germany. 

Cornelia Trowhridge does not retnm from abroad nntil November. 

"95. In correction of a mistake made by the class secretarj' in Jnne, it is an- 
nonnced that the class baby is Katherine, the daughter of Pearl Qimn 
Winchester, bom July 29, 1898. Mrs. Winchester's home is now in 
Portland, Or^on. 

Anna E. Allen was married September 6, to Mr. Seaver Buck. Her ad- 
dress is Hackley Hall School, Tarrytown, New York. 

Bertha Allen was married October 25, at San Juan, Porto Rico, to Lien- 
tenant George Wood Logan, U. S. N. 

Kate Deane, a former member of the class, was married Augnst 29, to 
Mr. Alfred £. Steames of Andover, Massachusetts. 

Ethel M. Fi field has taken the degree of S. B. at the Massachusetts In- 
stitute of Technology, and has already begnn a series of lectures on 
domestic architecture at the School of Hou/9ekeeping in Boston. 

Bebecca Kinney is teacliing in Miss Windsor's School, Boston. 

3£argaret Long is spending the winter in Colorado. 

Sara B. Marsh was married September 27, to Mr. John Mustard. Ad- 
dre-is, 35 PhUellena Street, Germantown, Pennsylvania. 

Adelaide Preston is teaching at the Leache- Wood School, Norfolk, Va. 

Enuly Washburn was married in Augnst to Mr. Alvin W. Bancroft of 
Gudner, Massachnsetts. 

Frances Ward was married September 13, to Dr. Henry E. Hale of New 
York City. 

Anna S. Wells was married September 26, to Dr. Horace Bigelow of New 
York City. 

*96. Isabella H. Bartlett is teaching in Chicago. 

Eleanor H. Bnsh is agent of the South Boston District of the Associated 
Charities of Boston. Address, 366 Broadway. 

Maude Carpenter Mnrphy is living in Chicago. 

Flora C. Clark is now Mrs. George Wesley Winchester, and is living in 
Cambridge, Massachusetts. 

Anna B. Day was married September 27, to Mr. Per Lee Hunt. Address, 
Massillon, Ohio. 

Isabella S. Foote was married in July to Mr. Walter S. Pinkham, and is 
living in Wollaston. 

Jnha £. Oilman has announced her engagement to Mr. Walter Clark of 

Helen Irons is taking postgraduate work at Radcliffe in English litera- 
tore, French, and German. 


'96. Era L. Hills took her Master's degree at Radcliffe in June, and with one 
other girl was the first to receive honors in philosophy. 

Nancy Hoising^ton's home is now in Port Kennedy, Pennsylvania. 

Mrs. Walter Mooers (Maria Keyes) has moved to Arlington, Mass. 

Elizabeth King will stndy singing again in London this winter. She and 
G^rgia Pope were together at the Ober-Ammergan Festival this 

Hannah G. Myrick was graduated from the Johns Hopkins Medical 
School in Jnne, and is now interne at the New England Hospital for 
Women and Children, Roxbnry, Massachusetts. 

Mary Poland announces her engagement to Mr. Robert Gushman of Bos- 
ton, Massachusetts. 

Georgia W. Pope is keeping house this winter with her mother in Berlin, 

Anna Thatcher is teaching at Mount Holyoke College. 

'97. Mary Barrows is assisting Miss ^Luce in the English Department of 

Emma Lootz and Alice W. Tallant had an article on *'The Relation of 
the Electrical Conductivity of Blood-Serum to its Alleged BacteriddAl 
Power" in the Johns Hopkins Bulletin for September. The article 
has since been printed in pamphlet form. 

Julia B. Sturtevant was married September 5, to Mr. Charles W. Mer- 
riam, Springfield, Massachusetts. Address, 111 York Street, New 
Haven, Connecticut. 
'98. Mr. and Mrs. Edward Beattie will spend the winter in Springfield. 

The marriage of Mary F. Banks to Mr. Herbert Marples was annomiced 
during the summer. Address, 201 Warren Street, Brooklyn, N. Y. 

Annie Brooks is spending the winter at home. 

lola Clark has announced her engagement to Mr. Albert Brown of North- 
bridge, Massachusetts. 

Josephine M. Clarke is again teaching in an evening school at Waltham. 

Rejoyce B. Collins is teaching in a boys' private school in San Antonio, 
Texas. Address, 300 West Crockett Place. 

Georgia W. Coyle is living in the Nurses' Settlement, New York City, 
and teaching in one of the public schools. 

Louise C. Hazen is taking graduate courses in astronomy and physics in 
the University of Pennsylvania. 

Leila Holmes was married in June to Mr. Dudley Vaill. Mr. and Mrs. 
Vaill spent the summer in Europe. They are living in Winsted, Conn. 

Alice Gibson studied embryology at Woods Holl last summer. 

Mary Josl3m is tutoring and studying French. 

Mabel Rice is teaching in the Pittsfield High School. 

Ysabel Swan will spend the winter with her uncle in Chicago. 

Vera Scott has just returned from Europe. 


^. Henrietta Seelje will sail for Italy in December. 

Harriet Winsor is in the Springfield Library. 

'99. Mary D. Adams will Bpend the winter in Rome. Address, Care of 
Brown, Shipley and Company, London* E. C. 

Ethel Darling is to enter the Presbyterian Hospital of New York for a 
tbree years' course. 

CUrace Eaton is studying Englinh at Radcliffe. 

Carol in EtMy has announced her engagement to Mr. Walter Hosley of 
Springfield. Massachusetts. 

Alice M. Foster was married June 21, at Leominster, MaHsachuBetts, to 
Mr. Edward W. Blodgett. They live in South Framingbam, Mass. 

Virginia Frame's address is now 2727 California Street, San Francisco, 

Amanda Harter has announced her engagement to Mr. James Fogel. 

Caroline C. Hills announced her engagement in June to Mr. J. Weston 
Allen of Boston. 

Ruth Louise Homer was married September 20, to Mr. George F. Allen 
of St. Louis. 

Rnth M. Huntington is doing scientific drawing for the Anatomical De- 
partment of the Johns Hopkins Medical School. 

Edith Kelley is studying geology and mineralogy at Radcliffe. 

Alice A. Knoz*s address is now 36 Green Street, Northampton. 

Grace E. Mossman was married June 27, to Dr. Walter F. Sawyer. Ad- 
dress, 17 Pleasant Street, Fitchburg, Massachusetts. 

Mary Alice Smith is teaching in the High School of Brookfield, Mass. 

1900. The members of the " Lark" spent two weeks at Christmas Cove 
after Commencement. 

Ruth Albright was in the Adiroudacks during the summer, and will 
spend the winter at her home in Buffalo. 

Agnes M. Armstrong is teaching Latin and German in the High School 
in Ontario, New York. 

Harriet Barnes spent the summer abroad, where she will probably remain 
until next summer. 

Stella Barse was on the Maine coast and at Lake Miltona in Minnesota 
during the summer, and will spend part of the winter in the South. 

Alice Earle Barrows was married May 24, to Mr. Robert True Fowler. 
In Jnne they sailed for their future home, Auckland, New Zealand. 

Elsie Bates is teaching in the academy, Woodstock, Connecticut. 

Marguerite Bigelow spent the summer in France and England. 

Edith Imogene Brown is teaching mathematics and science in the High 
School at Rutland, Massachusetts. 

Sara Maude Brown spent the summer abroad in Paris and London, 
and is now working as an assistant in the High School at Nahant, 


1900. Otelia Cromwell is teaching mathematicB and English in the Washing- 
ton High School. 

Mary L. Dean is teaching in the preparatory class of the East Hartford 
(Connecticnt) High School. 

Adelaide Dwight is teaching in the academy at Morrisville, Vermont. 

Harriet Dillon is teaching in Epping, New Hampshire. 

Charlotte Eggleston expects to stndy mathematics at Colmnbia this 

Faith Fischer is teaching mathematics and advanced Latin in the Brooks 
School, 251 Ashland Boulevard, Chicago . 

Ethel Norcross Fish expects to study in Boston this winter. 

Catherine Ogden Fletcher is teaching Latin and Greek in the high school 
department of the State Normal School in Plymouth, New Hampshire » 

Julia Fay is teaching piano playing in St. Paul's School at Walla Walla, 

Mabel Hartsuff will leave New York the last of November for a trip 
around the world. 


*85. Mrs. A. L. Van Osdel (Grace Mercereau) a daughter, Esther, bom July 4. 
*88. Mrs. George L. Amerman (Harriet E. Duguid) a son, Henry Duguid, 

bom August 24. 
'91. Mrs. Blanche Bowman Watkins a daughter, Helen Bowman, bom 

August 2. 
'96. Mrs. J. E. Blunt (C. M. Curtis) a son, bom in September. 
'97. Mrs. L. P. Guion (Ellen F. Lormore) a daughter, Adelaide Lormore, 

bom August 25, in Kenwood, Chicago. 
'99. Mrs. Andrew Henshaw Ward, Jr. (Margaret E. May) a daughter, Mar- 

g^aret Henshaw, bom August 11, in Milton, Massachusetts. 


'99. Allace Cbrbett Chase died June 5, at her home in Randolph, Vermont. 

Lucie F. Heath died September 8, at St. Paul, Minnesota. 

1900. Madalene Marie Byrne died of tuberculosis August 2, at her home in 
Syracuse, New York. 



As eyery tmdergradnate has her own view about alumnffi and what their 

place at college is, it seems only fair to take up this subject partially from 

'nt. n f X. ^ .. . . the standpoint of the alumna who is not 

The Relation of Undergrraduates ^^^^ ^ ^^^ ^^^ ^^^^^^^ ^^^ ^ ^ ^^^ 

o amnae ^^ ^^^ ^^^ attitudes agree. There are 

two main classes of alunmad, those who have friends still in college and those 
iriio have not. It is fortunate that the latter is the smaller class, as there 
mnst inevitably be bitter preponderating over the sweet in their visits here. 
At least that is the testimony given by some who have said, '*Yes indeed, it 
is a perfect nightmare going back and not knowing any one. I'll never do it 
again." For such as these, it is bard to know what to do. All that lies in the 
power of the undergraduate is perhaps to modify our attitude of aggressive 
and ezduatve ownership which has been remarked on by the few who seemed 
to feel particularly un welcomed and out of place on their return. The others, 
who come back with, or to, their friends present easier problems. Many of 
them come all through the year for longer or shorter visits and their contin- 
wd presence here argues the fullest enjoyment. They find the college in the 
usual running order, with everything awaiting their inspection : they take 
pieasm^ in criticising and admiring the improvements, though there is a 
secret feeling that while this is all very fine and up-to-date, still '*it can 
never be quite as nice as when we were here." They find their friends vying 
with each other in attempts to make it pleasant for them to such an extent 
that the few days of their stay seem to combine the social events of four 
college years. With alumnte like these the pleasure is mutual and the appre- 
ciation evident on both sides is proof of the perfect good fellowship and 
loving spirit existing between them. 

It is at Commencement time, however, that we must perforce come in con- 
tact with the enthusiastic bands who come back for their reimions. Between 
these companies a certain restraint sometimes exists which is most deplor- 
able and is chiefly due to mere thoughtlessness. This feeling arises frequently 
in reference to functions from which alumnse are shut out because of under- 
graduates, and vice versa. Take for example Senior Dramatics. The alumna 
comes back feeling that if any one has a right to see Senior Dramatics, 
it is herself. The undergraduate looks upon everything done by the college 
as for her special benefit, and grumbles because she is not welcome to all 
three performances ; as a matter of fact, is not this demand unreasonable ? 
Senior Dramatics is the mode taken by the senior class to entertain their 
guests and those of the college during Commencement. So that privileges 



ftccorded to the gnests will come to the nndergradtiate if she will but wait 
for time to take its course. 

But while those who come back to us from the "wide, wide world" may 
sometimes seem uimecessarily self-assertive, we undergraduates perhaps 
forget that, especially at the Commencement season, they are the first to be 
considered, and that it is our place to remain in the background. We ought 
certainly to have a warm place in our hearts for all those with whom we 
have one of the strongest of common bonds, in that we are all alike sharers 
in the spirit of our. college. Nor should we forget the large debt we owe to 
the alumnffi for their never ceasing interest and their extensive and most 
liberal gifts to the college, in the alumnse gymnasium and the library fund, 
evidences of their unceasing and tireless energy on behalf of the alma mater 
that they love. Especially now we owe our heartiest thanks to them for hav- 
ing resolved to bend their energies toward enlarging the Students' Building 
fund. One of the great advantages of waiting until we can combine in one 
building our student rooms with rooms for the alumnsB, and the needed 
assembly haU, seems to be that in this way we might as a body show to our 
elder sisters that there is a sure welcome always waiting for them when 
they choose to come to us. And though that is uncertain and must be left 
to the future, there is something we can all do now in cnltivating a feeling 
of gratefnl appreciation and sincere welcome which will need no change 
when we step from our present life into their wider one. 

Constance Charnley, 1901. 

We hear of religious revivals and revivals of learning, but this fall in col- 
lege we have experienced a new revival, — ^that of good, wholesome exercise. 

Unusual enthusiasm has been displayed in every line of ath- 

Athletics letics. Early in the autumn every tennis court on the campus 
was constantly in use and an unusual number of girls entered 
the fall tournaments. The old walking club has been revived and several 
long walks have already been taken. The golf club is flourishing with the 
membership roll full and a long waiting list. More enthusiasm than ever 
has been shown for basket ball. One hundred and fifty girls of the freshman 
class are playing in organized teams, and six scrub teams have been formed 
in the sophomore class. The new game has been adopted and meets the 
approval of all. Even the seniors and juniors in the campus houses who 
have never played before have suddenly begun to organize teams and chal- 
lenge each other to games. 

New opportunities are offered for general gymnasium work since the " old 
gym" has been transformed from a recitation room into a regular gym- 
nasium, provided with complete new apparatus of the most approved make. 
The small rooms on the lower floor contain new lockers and all the rooms in 
the building are provided with electric lights. The increasing size of the 
classes and the constantly conflicting demands for the regular gymnasium 
have formerly made it necessary for many of the classes to meet at unfavor- 
able houris, and these difficulties are partially relieved by the smaller hall 
which is a necessary and welcome addition. 

The success of the competitive drill which was held last year for the first 


tiiiie should inspire every girl to take some kind of gymnasinin work and to 
do her part toward its repetition this year. The drill is not one in which the 
girls perform acrobatic feats, but simply shows the good regular work done 
through the year. A challenge cup for this drill has been prest^nted to the 
college by Mrs. S. F. Clarke, to stimulate the girls in their gymnasium work. 
Since the cup can not be awarded at all unless thirty girls from each class 
promise to take part, we should all feel a certain respouhibility in this matter 
and should show our appreciation of the gift by making the content a promi- 
nent feature of the college life. 

As to the exercise requirement for the two upper claspes made this year for 
the first time, the new system must, on careful and candid consideration, 
commend itself to all and will undoubtedly produce great r^Kults. If we 
want to preser^'e the proper equilibrium between mental and iihysiral devel- 
opment, to possess active minds and energetic bodies, we must exercise. Let 
us then grasp with appreciation every opportunity which the college and its 

surroundings offer us for this purpose. 

AoNES Patton, 1901. 

There arc a number of trifling annoyances resulting from the freedom of 
Smith College life and from American energy, and one of these is the increas- 
injc tendency to embroider in analysis class. If the young women who take 
this liberty wonld think of the jwsition in which they place themselves they 
would mend their ways. In the first place, this custom is discourteous to the 
musician and to the music. In calling one would not sew while the hostess 
entertains by conversation, muj-ic. or any other form of amusement ; it would 
he unheard of to take needlework to a large concert ; 3'et here is precisely the 
same situation. A student who does fancy work during analysis class virtu- 
ally says that she considers the rendering of the music unworthy, but will 
accept it as an accompaniment to the movements of her needle. It is dis- 
courteous to the music, because it admits that one does not think the compo- 
sition needs undivided attention. Yet many geniuj^es have said that music is 
the highest form of art, containing more revelation than all wisdom and 
philosophy. And certainly the music played at analysis class belongs to this 
high rank. 

Such is the impression the energetic worker makes upon those about her. 
Her lahor can not pos.sibly make the music more acceptable to herself. When 
the interpreter is rendering a story of great passion, or when the music in a 
suddtn flight lifts itself far above all known things, how exalted one must be 
to find the edge of a violet uneven or the padding in the calyx too high. 
How can one forget time and place, breathe a newer, fuller life, and gain 
inspiration for nobler endeavors when threading a needle? Besides all these 
objections it is exceedingly anno3nng to the people round about, who are 
devoting all their energy to understand the music. When a needle has a long 
thread in it, it comes constantly very close to the neck of the neighbor. At 
such a time it is as hard to concentrate onee mind as when a fly is buzzing 
around one's face. Then the noble result, — to have the satisfaction of com- 
pleting a dozen doyliet; which nobody wants ! 

Ethel K. Betts, 1902. 


Last year, in order to insure sufficient exercise to the members of the 
jnnior and senior classes from whom the regnlar gymnasinm work is not 

required, the system of exercise cards was introduced. 
Exercise Cards The keeping of these daily records was purely volun- 
tary, but it was hoped that the students would be 
conscientious in passing them in, and that the records might also serve as 
data for valuable scientific statistics. The statistics actually obtained proved 
to be of merely local interest, being as follows : in October, about twenty- 
nine per cent of the whole number passed in their cards ; in November, 
twenty per cent ; and in December, thirteen per cent. After this the system 
was abandoned for the re^t of the year as a failure. The necessity for a 
change this year was obvious. The juniors and seniors need exercise as 
much us ever, and the only alternative has been adopted ; this year the 
keeping of the exercise cards has been made a regular requirement, and 
the amotmt of exercise required is four hours a week. And what could be 
more reasonable? The proportion of four hours exercise to forty hours 
study during the week can surely not be criticised by the most extreme 
type of indoor girl. It is i^ainful to hear of a senior who actually did not go 
off the campus grounds for three consecutive weeks last year ; and there are 
others of this same over-con Bcientious type who regard exercise as a most 
unimportant part of their college life. For these it is necessary to put exer- 
cise on a par with the regular recitations ; for those who take exercise with- 
out urging, the only possible inconvenience of the new requirement lies in 
remembering to keep the daily records and to pass them in promptly at the 
end of every month ; and this is undoubtedly good mental training. 

Miss Berenson has been at great pains to make the requirement as easy 
and simple as possible, giving the girls free choice of any kind of exercise 
and making the required number of hours as small as any one could wish. 
But in order to insure xiromptness in securing cards and in returning them, 
the students are reminded that the faculty have voted this a regular require- 
ment and that it is now an actual imrt of the college curriculum. 

The Student Volunteer Union of Western Massachusetts held its fall meet- 
ing in the Edwards Church, on Saturday afternoon and evening, October 20, 

being entertained by the Smith band. The 

S. C. A. C. W. Notes general subject of the meeting was "The Place 

of the Holy Spirit in Missions,*' and short talks 
were given by representatives of the different bands ujwn various aspects of 
the Holy Spirit's work. An open discussion followed, after which the 
speaker of the afternoon, Arthur B. Williams, Jr., Yale '98, gave a most help- 
ful talk upon the necessity of consecration in missionar}' work, laying 
especial emphasis on the faithful observance of the morning watch as a 
gauge of spiritual life. At the evening session which was short and very 
informal, there was a general interchange of helpful thoughts gained from 
the afternoon. There were about forty volunteers present, and each one felt 
a new and deeper inspiration from meeting so many others, all gtdded by 
one common aim. The spring meeting of the Union will probably be held 
at Mount Hermon. Aucs L. Batchelder, 1001. 


The work earned on at the Home Ctiltxire Club in Korthampton under the 

ftuspiceB of Mr. George W. Cable and the immediate direction of Miss 

Adeline Moffat is nevertheless in some degree dex)endent upon the students 

of Smith College, and should therefore be of peculiar interest to them. The 

basis of all work at the club house is the small class,— small enough to allow 

the leader free scope in dealing with individual needs. The majority of the 

leaders have always been college girls. The work re<iuired of them is not 

exacting ; it takes but one hour a week, and so far as poM^Hible they are urged 

to consult their own tastes in selecting classes. The choice is large, ranging 

from spelling to English Literature. 

ThiB work is not charity, it is mutually helpful, the leader is benefited no 
less than the class. Not only is there well recognized mental gain from the 
mere effort of self-exi)res8ion ; the horizon is likewise broadened by the 
active realization of the essential oneness of each individual with his kind. 
The whole work of the Home Culture Club hinges on the idea of fellowship. 
It is impossible to show in a few words more than one side of this work. 
But simply to mention the classes in dressmaking and gymnastics, the Satur- 
day evening receptions, and the flower garden competitions, is enough to 
convince those interested that the work is being conducted on the broadest 
possible lines. Any more definite information will \\e gladly given by the 
General Secretary, Miss Moffat, or by the secretary of the College Chapter. 
All interested will be cordially welcomed at the club house and their services 
warmly appreciated. There is especial need for teachers of muhic, both 
vocal and instrumental. Alice E. Egdekt, 1902. 

Owing to the kind consent of Miss Lyon and the Library Committee, to 
whom we would express our thanks, the Missionary Library has been placed 
in one of the upstairs alcoves of the College Library. There are some of us 
who read even amid the multiplicity of college events. The books in the 
Missionary Library are there to be looked over, taken out, and read. Dr. 
Lawrence's "Modem Missions in the East," *'The Life and Letters of Joseph 
Hardy Neesima," ''Chinese Characteristics," and **Village Life in China,' 
need no recommendation. The Missionary Library is now in a central place 
and is ready for personal investigation. Alice Duryee, 1901. 

In connection with the S. C. A. C. W. work one must keep in mind the 
Students* Exchange. Its purxx)so is the mutual benefit of those who wish to 
do work to help pay their college expenses and of those who have work to be 
done. Sewing, painting, reading aloud, and dusting are some of the many 
kinds of work to be had. Office hours are held in the new gymnasium in 
Dr. Brewster's office on Thursday and Saturday mornings from nine to ten, 
and applications may be made there. The house address is 30 Washburn. 
This department will be of great value if the students will keep it in mind. 

Mary R. Howe, 1902. 

Extract frovi a letter of Dr. Meyers, dated Amoy, Sept, 13th, 

My stock of Smith blue prints has had two nice additions this snmmer. 

Ton don't know how I enjoy them all and how interested every one else is in 

seeing them too, e8X>ecially Dr. Paton, an English girl who came out just 

ahead of me. She came to see me one afternoon and was so pleased with my 


room. "It's 80 like a home room," she said, and then I went around k1i ow- 
ing her what a share of its hominess was due to a certain Smith box. Before 
long I'm hoping to have a picture taken of it to show you. During the sum- 
mer it is too hot to do much photography for the gelatine has a most objec- 
tionable way of melting. 

Just now I (and every one else, for that matter, who owns a camera) want 
to gat some good shots at the Chinese soldiers who are all about. They are 
most unsoldierly looking according to our idea. For instance, I saw some 
on Sunday who were resting in the shade of a big banyan. There were four 
of th('m and all their guns were leaning up against the tree trunk. Two of 
the men were awake find sitting on a bench, but whether the other two were 
awake or not I couldn't tell. At any rate they were stretched out at full 
length most comfoi*tably on a mat. They are such a contrast to the Japanese 
marines who have been here t(X). These little men have a natty uniform and 
stand up straight with their gnns in hand. 

I suppose you have wondered whether the present troubles in China are at 
all threatening Amoy. It seems as though they would all blow over as far 
as one can tell at present. But then all summer long we have been living in 
the most absurd alternations of hope and fear,— hope that we could stay ou 
here peacefully, and foar tint we should be obliged to leave unceremoniously 
for Japan in a gunboat. Most of us packed the most valuable of our posses- 
sions together with a very few clothes and necessaries into a small compass 
so that we could grab them and run at short notice. And there they have 
stayed and here we stay, too, and now I hope very much we shall not have 
to go at all. To-day is a day that was set — ^according to rumor — for a general 
massacre of all foreigners, but it has been as peaceful as other days. Prob- 
ably the rumor w.vs unfoun'led, but perhaps the Chinese really meant it but 
do not dare to attempt any violence because of the warships in the harbor. 
There are seven of them just now — four Japanese, one American, one 
English, one French — and we feel very well protected. We did have a 
Russian gunboat and a German, but they have gone. That was just after 
our latest scare when the Japanese claimed that the Chinese burned one of 
their temples and landed marines on Amoy island and on Kolongsu. As the 
Japanese are very much hated here we did not know what the excitement 
among the Chinese would amount to, but it came to nothing. 

In my next letter I hope to be able to tell you of my beginning work. A 
very small beginning it will be at first, — only a clinic a week for the women. 
But I assure you it seems large enough to me, for how I shall talk to them 
and understand what thev sav to me Tm sure I can not tell. But I have 
offers of help and I suppose I shall survive it. 

The College Clef Club held its first meeting Tuesday evening, Octol)er the 
twenty-third. Dr. Blodgett explained the purpose of the organization and 
suggested in general the plans for this year. It is the object of the club to 
do, in an informal way, work which none of the actual music courses cover. 
The membership, therefore, is not confined to those who are studying music, 
but is open to all who are interested in it. The program for the meetings of 
this term includes a talk by Dr. Blodgett on Student Life in Germany 



Twenty-five Years Ago, a Students' Recital, and for the last meeting before 
the Christmas vacation a talk on the History of Christmas Mnsic by Dr. 
Blodgett. Clara M. Knowlton, 1901. 

The first round of the third inter-class golf tonmament was played on the 

Warner Meadow Golf Links, October 17, when the two upper and the two 

under classes played against each other. According to the general 

Golf cnstom. the teams were composed of the fonr best players from each 

class, and the resnlt was decided by the aggregate number of holes 

won by each side. In the first round, the seniors won from the juniors, and 

the first class from the second class, making the following scores : — 


Miss Sheldon, . 


Miss Gardiner, . 



Miss Bissell, 



Miss Kidder, 

MissChilds, . 


Miss Holmes, 




Miss Hastings, . 


Miss Boynton, 


Miss Hotchkiss, 


Miss Leavens, 

Miss Buck, . 

. 12 

MissTmll, . 

Miss Covel, 


1 23 

The final ronnd was played October 20, when the seniors won from the first 
class, making the following score :— 

1901 1904 

7 Miss Buck, ... 

Miss Covel, ... 

7 Miss EUingwood, . . 

2 Miss Peabody, ... 

Miss Sheldon, 
Miss Droste, 
Miss Childs, 


Janet S. Sheldon, 1901. 

On Monday evening, November 5, at an open meeting of the Philosophical 
Society, Dr. Perry gave a very interesting lecture on the '* Moral Value of 

Owing to an omission, the Monthly neglected to state in the October num- 
ber that the last three articles in the Literary Department, **An Under- 
graduate View of Smith College Ideals." the poem, "To Smith College," and 
the story, "One" College Success," comprised the students' contribution to 
the Qnarter-Centenary exercises. 

On Tuesday, October 30, the Adamowski String Quai-tette gave a concert 
in Assemhly Hall, which was free to all members of the college. 



At the meetiBg of Telescopinm, held on Wednesday, October 10, the 
following officers were elected : — ^Vice-President and Chairman of EzecntiTe 
Committee, Nona Bnmett Mills 1901 ; Secretary and Treasurer, Edith Lilian 
Claflin 1902 ; third member of Ezecntive Committee, Antoinette Putnam- 
Cramer 1901. 

On Thursday evening, October 11, at an open meeting of the Biological 
Society, Professor Emerson gave a lecture on Alaska. He spoke of his travels 
in this country and illustrated his lecture by interesting stereopticon views. 

The class of nineteen hundred and one wishes to announce that the senior 
play for this year will be Tennyson's ** Foresters." No doubt some surprise 
will be felt at the decision of the senior class to depart from Shakespeare ; 
but it has seemed inexpedient to allow the precedent for giving Shakesx)eare'8 
plays to become too deeply rooted in the college. Further, the best Shakes- 
pearian comedies have already been presented by preceding classes, those 
that are left being either impossible for women to present or unworthy of 
the large amount of time usually spent here on Senior Dramatics. **The 
Foresters," which meets with the faculty's approval, seems to combine many 
advantages, having a great variety of characters and scenes, a large cast and 
beautiful scenic effects, while the lines are certainly worth the study that the 
actors must put upon them. The play has therefore seemed to the class its 
best choice and one that will prove interesting and delightful to its Com- 
mencement guests. 

Ellen T. Emerson, President of the Class of 1901. 


Nov. 15, Biological Society. 

Concert. In a Persian Garden. 

17, Alpha Society. 

19, Philosophical Society. 

20, Colloquium. 

21, Albright House Dance. 
23, Socidt^ Frangaise. 

29, Thanksgiving. 

Dec. 1, Phi Kappa Psi Society. 

3, Philosophical Society. 

5, Tyler House Dramatics. 

7, Socidt^ Frangaise. 

8, Alpha Society. 

12, Dewey, Hatfield, and Haven House Dance, 

13, Biological Society. 

EbuL n OUT gravS 


Smitb College 


December « t900. 
<IonM}cte& lyi tbe Senior Claes. 


6IF1 Of THE 


. NOV 7 1923 


TnE Present Status of Mabes in Culleob Life and Opinion 

Ali4X Duryee J902 129 

The Holt Grail . Ellen Gray Barbour 190S 188 

The House of Shovei^ . . 
Sgyld*8 Death Ship 
The Idyllic Patchwork Quilt 
Among Virginia's Hills 
The Passing of the Century 

. N(ma Burnett MUU 1901 185 

Helen Isabel WcObridge 1902 146 

Ethel Marguerite jdeLong 1901 147 

Edith Burbank 1901 150 

Charlotte Burgis DeForest 1901 152 

A Tragedy 
Dorothy . 

Ethel Wallace Hawkins 1901 154 

Alioe MercJuint 1904 154 

Helen Zabriakie Howes 1901 157 

As THE Shadows Lengthened Josephine Sanderson 1904 l^*? 

Peace . . Margaret Hamilton Wagenhals 1903 158 

The Chesterton Bane Robbery Marguerite Cutler Page 1901 159 

Forward .... Edith Eustace Souther 1902 163 

The PRfcE of Luxury 


LUlian Preston Hull 1902 163 
Et:iel Barstow Howard 1901 168 


The Smith College Monthly is published at Northampton, Maasacbn- 
setts, on the 15th of each month, during the year from October to June, inclu- 
sive. Terms, f 1.50 a year, in advance. Single numbers, 20 cents. Contri- 
butions may be left at 8 Gymnasium Hall. Subscriptions may be sent to 
E. M. deLong, 58 High Street, Northampton. 

Entered at the Post OSoe at Northampton, Maaflaohasetta, as seoond olaaa matter. 


Smith College Monthly 


Ethel Wallace Hawkins, 
Chablotte Burgis Deforest, Buth Louise Gaines, 

Ethel Babstow Howard, Marguebite Cutler Paoe, 

Jean Shaw Wilson, Laura Woolset Lord. 

business hanager, 
Ethel Marguerite deLong. 

YoL nil. DECEMBER, 1900. No. 8. 



The statement that Smith is a college without marks is quite 
true as far as the students' knowledge of the marking system is 
concerned. We know that such a thing exists, and that each 
student's grade is kept carefully recorded in the registrar's office 
for members of the faculty to inspect at will. Moreover, we 
know that if our work falls below a certain standard, we shall 
be notified of the fact ; first, by the professor in whose class it 
occurs, and then, if the certain amount of improvement does 
not take place, by a notice from the office, after examinations, 
of a low grade or even a condition in that subject. These we 
are told lower our standard ; and popular opinion, while believ- 
ing that a low grade has the greater effect in that direction, 
nevertheless declares in its favor, as there is nothing to be done 
about it, while in the case of a condition a second examination 
is required. 

On account of the size of the college the scientific student, it 
seems to me, has the advantage over the literary or classical one 
in the matter of feeling in touch with the department ; for her 
laboratory work is under constant supervision and her note book 


must be passed in at certain stated intervals and is returned 
with criticism. Superlatively good work in any department is 
usually awarded a public recognition in the shape of election to 
membership in the society connected with the department ; and 
this recognition is considered more or less official. In general, 
the students believe that to be a member of a department so- 
ciety means real worth, while they are often skeptical and a 
great deal more critical towards the elections of the two literary 
societies, because in the former case they suppose that one who 
is in a position to do so has passed judgment upon a student's 
work, while in the latter case they know that the decision has 
devolved upon those who have no definite knowledge beyond 
a certain point and are therefore liable to make mistakes. For 
the average student, excessively bad work seems to be the only ' 
way in which she may gain official recognition of any sort ; for 
her recitations and written lessons are neither good enough to 
call forth commendation, nor poor enough to call forth expostu- 

But notwithstanding the existence of official warnings and 
department societies, the fact remains that responsibility for 
work done is shifted between the professor and the student, any 
definite knowledge as to quality being left to the discretion of 
each according as conscience or curiosity may dictate ; in other 
words, there is no consisteut,definite recognition by the various 
departments of each student's work which she is permitted to 
know except by indirect means. However, we all adapt our- 
selves to the present state of things,— the majority of students,. 
I think, being in full sympathy with it, since they declare that 
a knowledge of marks would tend to create an unfriendly spirit 
of rivalry which would lead to bad feeling. They say that they 
have no desire to know their standing, though whether this un- 
selfish suppression of curiosity is in the interests of learning or 
in the interests of the individual, it is sometimes difficult to de- 
termine. On the other hand, there are some students to whom 
this imposed ignorance is a daily trial ; they do not dispute the 
merits of the marking system, they know nothing about sys- 
tems ; they simply ask that the privilege now accorded to the 
faculty alone may be extended to the students, that each one 
may know from time to time in every department what the pro- 
fessor's estimate of her work is ; and they believe that the posi- 
tive good resulting from this knowledge would far outweigh the 
predicted evils. 


In tlie first place, to the student who does her work well and 
knows that her standard is high, marks would at least be a sat- 
isfaction. It is without doubt true that close study always 
brings its own rewards and that scholarly work is sure to 
call forth commendation ; but occasional praise is by no means 
the same thing as scientific knowledge of well-doing set down 
in black and white, which would enable the student to compare 
her work in different studies, and would afford her real satis- 

In the second place, to the student who does very average 
work, marks would be an inducement to study harder ; and real 
stndy, it seems to me, is what we need more than anything else, 
for I think that a large proportion of the poor work that is done 
in recitations and examinations is due, not to lack of ability, 
bnt to lack of application. In a good many subjects we think 
that reading over a lesson twice at the most is quite sufScient : 
bnt unfortunately, if our minds grasp the salient points, our 
Tocabularies are inadequate to extemporaneous elaboration ; or 
we fail to grasp anything and go to class with a supersaturated 
solution of ideas in our heads, hoping that it will be crystallized 
by the professor's question. But chemical laws can not be de- 
pended upon in such cases, and instead of even decent answers 
a very groping recitation is usually the result. It must be 
discouraging for the professor and it is certainly very bad for 
the class, encouraging those who are in a like condition and en- 
raging those who have really studied. 

And how would marks better this state of affairs ? If the 
''half-baked" students actually could see what the long- 
suffering professors now keep to themselves, I think they would 
pnt more time on their work, for the pride of getting good marks 
if for nothing else ; and I do not see how harder study can help 
leading to more interest in the subject itself, so that in the long 
run marks would after all come to be a subordinate incentive to 
work. I grant that if a student lacks application the only 
thing that can ever help her permanently is her own will ; but 
yoQ have only four years in which to educate that, and even if 
the lesson is learned in the end and she really studies in her se- 
nior year, it seems to me that there has been time wasted in the 
process and that the same result might have been gained earlier, 
if she had known definitely from the very first of all her fail- 
ures and successes. 


And then in the third place, for the student who does just as 
little work as possible, a knowledge of marks would throw the 
entire weight of responsibility as to her position on her own 
shoulders. She would have a constant knowledge of her stand- 
ing, and could plead no previous ignorance when called to ac- 
count for poor work. But there is an objection which some 
students urge against a knowledge of marks, which is that even 
if a student is doing her very best she sometimes fails to grasp 
a subject, and the discouragement which positively knowing 
this brings is very disheartening. I can not see, however, that 
it is a disgrace not to be able to do some things, since there are 
sure to be others in which we excel ; and the sooner we realize 
the fact the better, for then much time and strength spent on 
the subject we can not grasp may be utilized in those subjects 
which we can comprehend, and much friction of vain adjust- 
ment will be saved. 

As regards the college in the aggregate, I think that a knowl- 
edge of marks would remove much of the tension which exists 
from the time that the examination schedule is posted until 
after the notices of low grades and conditions have been sent 
out. Even the most sensible occasionally succumb to the gen- 
eral excitement and declare that they are going to get a low 
grade in— well, anywhere from one to three subjects, though 
whether they always believe it, or offer the suggestion in sym- 
pathy to others who really stand in danger, I can not say. It is 
almost pathetic to see how the students depend on each other 
for reassurance. Perhaps one has failed in a previous examina- 
tion and the dread of doing so again hangs over her, although 
she is certain that her work has improved. She hopelessly tries 
to remember the number of good and poor recitations she has 
made throughout the term, the quality of her written lessons, 
and ends despairingly to a reassuring friend, ** Well, I may get 
a low grade, but I don't see how I can get a condition." Of 
course a student will always worry over examinations to a cer- 
tain extent, either from the desire to pass brilliant ones or from 
the fear of failures ; but it seems to me that a great deal of the 
strain would be removed if we were accustomed to think of 
the teacher's estimate of our work rather than our own or that 
of our friends. 

Many of the students think that in their relations with one 
another a knowledge of marks would be unfortunate, as it 


would lead to competition and criticism. But as to competition, 
if it is carried on in the proper spirit nothing is more desirable ; 
and as to the critical faculty, it is not wholly undeveloped with- 
in our midst, even now. The present system has its merits, 
without doubt, and may accomplish the same ends as a system 
in which a definite knowledge of marks is the predominant fea- 
tare; but the former seems to me very much slower and at- 
tended with far more waste energy than the latter. The fail- 
ure or success of this last would depend to some extent, I sup- 
poseyupon the temperament of the majority of the students, 
upon whether a knowledge of marks acted as a favorable stim- 
ulus to their work ; but beyond that, I should like to see the 
system tried, on the principle that in the case of anything defi- 
nite enough to be estimated at all, knowledge is always more 
desirable than ignorance. 



It was the Dight ; my Master's hand 

I could no longer find ; 
Alone was lin a strange, strange land, 

Weary in heart and mind. 

And Faith and Tmst, that once wonld bless, 

Were gone from me apart, 
And loneliness and bittemeHS 

Took hold upon my heart. 

A sudden voice to me was sped 

That bade my doubts to cease. 
*'Lo, he who seeks not Me," it said, 

" Hath far to seek for peace." 

I sent my soul up through the night 

To seek my Master's face ; 
My stricken soul could imd no light, 

My dove no resting-place. 

Once more unto my Lord I cried, 

Who was most dear to me : 
"Were I to fall by the dark wayside, 

Could I lay hold on Thee ? 


'* My Savionr Lord, were I to die, 
Should I now find Thee near ? " 

There came no light and no reply, 
And mv heart shrank for fear. 

'* My Lord, I can not let Thee go," 

In sorrow then I said, 
'* Who for my sins, 'mid shame and woe. 

Seven times Thy blood didst shed t 

*' By those last roseate drops, I pray, 

Let not Thy mercy fail I " 
Then to my heart did something say, 

** Go, seek the Holy Grail ! " 

My restless heart with joy nprose, 
And fared forth on the wild ; 

Welcome were wind and drifting snows ; 
Had not the Master smiled? 

For many a day we wandered on, 

My heart and I, in hope ; 
And many a night, when light was gone. 

All undismayed would grope. 

But never a voice and never a form 

Unto our wandering came. 
And the cold white whirl of the shifting storm 

Was evermore the same. 

'* 'Twas but Hell's mockery," then I sighed, 
*' That urged us on our way ! " 

Yet smote upon my breast and cried, 
<* I trust, although He slay I " 

Weary to death, uxx)n the ground 

I sank, and could no more. 
The Holy Grail I had not found, 

And all was as before. 

** I was not worthy, Lord, of Thee 

Who yet art still my All ; 
My Lord, Thou hast done righteously 

That Thou hast let me fall ." 

There came a brightness through the night, 

A glory through the snow, 
A radiance strange, that human sight 

Hath not the power to know. 


I bowed myeelf ; I hid my eyes ; 

I oonld not speak for fear. 
There came a Voice ont of the skies, — 

And yet that Voice was near, — 

" Lo, ail the sorrow thon dost bring 

Ascendeth np above ; 
The Lord hath seen thy wandering, 

The Lord hath known thy loye. 

" And for that thou hast craved to see 

That cnp, that stayed the flood, 
The holy tide on Calvary 

Of water and of blood, 

" And for that thon through all these years 

Of pain the Faith hast kept, 
Think not He hath not seen thy tears, — 
The Lord with thee hath wept. 

** Ah, far more blest art thon than all 

On whom He hath but smiled 1 
Fear not ; it is thy Master's call, — 

' Lift np thy heart, my child \ ' 

"Yea, lift it np, that pain and woe 

Did to a chalice hew ; 
Into thy heart, npholden so, 

His tears shall fall like dew ; 

"And blood is mingled with the tears. 

And nations cry, * All hail I ' 
Heart, hast thon donbts ? Heart, hast thon fears ? 

Thon art the Holy Grail I " 

Ellen Gray Babboxtb. 


If Jimmie Tyler and Shovels had not both attached them- 
wlves so firmly to Roberta Vibert, this story would never have 
come to be written ; but they had. Jimmie was what girls call 
a man, meaning a young man of pleasing exterior and suffi- 
ciently entertaining interior ; to judge, that is, from that 
portion of his inner nature revealed in ordinary social inter- 


course. Shovels was not quite a dog. He was a cur, and a 
small, half -grown, mangy yellow cur at that. 

Shovels had been wont to spend his days in hanging around 
the railroad station among the cab drivers ; but one day Boberta 
stopped to order a carriage to be sent up next morning, and 
Shovels saw her. He sat down and looked at her while she 
gave her order to the cab driver. Certainly she was the prettier 
of the two. Perhaps life held better things than cabmen. 
Shovels winked a pink eyelid, rose, walked over, and began to 
sniff feebly at Roberta's skirt, while he moved up and down 
what looked like a very much worn and soiled, dun-colored 
ostrich tip. Roberta's brown eyes looked down at him and 
Roberta's voice exclaimed, "Oh, you poor little thing!** 
Roberta stooped over him, and he felt her hand on his mangy 
back. He pumped the downtrodden ostrich tip harder. Then 
she turned to go. Shovels watched her another minute, winked 
the pink eyelid again, and followed. 

About a month before, Jimmie Tyler had met Roberta at a 
whist party, whither he had grumblingly gone to waste an 
evening playing whist "with girls." After it was over, he had 
set Shovels the example of going home with Roberta. Then he 
had returned to his own home, to devote himself to the pursuit 
which is the nineteenth century equivalent of Benedict's "brush- 
ing his hat of a morning"; to wit, parting his hair with extreme 
nicety every evening, influenced by a half-conscious conviction 
that the chances were as nine to ten that Roberta would see 
that part. 

At the end of the first week, Jimmie had called on Boberta 
twice, had discovered that she adored Richard Harding Davis, 
that she detested Kipling, that she thought Cyrano de Bergerac 
the noblest effort of the modern drama, that she didn't care for 
the German Opera or tennis, but was " perfectly daffy on golf." 

At the end of the second week, Jimmie had called six times 
and taken Roberta out twice. He had found out that she pre- 
ferred violets to roses, that chocolate peppermints were her 
favorites in the line of confectionery, that she danced well, that 
she thought Julia Marlowe affected, that she always wore pretty 
clothes and carried dainty lace handkerchiefs, and that her hair 
curled naturally. 

With the end of the third week, Jimmie had become con- 
firmed in a habit of dropping into a certain chair on the Vibert 


Teranda on every evening when he did not take Roberta some- 
where else, and remaining a fixture there until some more or 
less advanced hour. Not content with this, he had taken 
Roberta up to the golf links on Saturday afternoon. He had 
discovered that his golf was about equal to hers, he having 
played only twice before ; also that she did not like snakes. 
But this, he reflected, he might have guessed anyway. 

At the end of the fourtli week, he was introduced to Shovels, 
who, having once followed Roberta home, had refused to leave 
at any hour, however late. Jimmie and Shovels looked at each 
other. Both sniffed disdainfully, and Shovels retreated to 
sneeze pitifully under the shelter of Roberta's skirts. 

"Poor little thing! ''said Roberta, stroking Shovels' mangy 
back with a little brown hand. ''He was so sick I couldn't 
help feeling sorry for him, and now he is so trustful I am 
beginning to love him. Just see how he comes and snuggles 
up; isn't it fairly touching?" 

Jimmie looked on with gloomy envy for a minute. Then he 
made a noble effort to stifle his contempt for a dog without a 

"Well," he said slowly, "he certainly isn't pretty to look at, 
but I reckon there are plenty of good points about him," and 
he held out his hand to Shovels. 

Shovels looked around Roberta's skirts, sniffed again, and 
winked the pink eyelid. Jimmie drew back his hand. 

From that day, Jimmie felt that he had a rival in Roberta's 
good graces. When he dropped into his usual chair on the 
Vibert veranda, Shovels was always opposite him, nestled in 
the shadow of Roberta's skirt. And Roberta's affection for 
him seemed to increase daily. This was the first discovery con- 
cerning Roberta's likes and dislikes which had given Jimmie 
serious trouble. Her talk was now chiefly of the time she had 
spent during the day in washing, combing, and feeding the 
small forlornity, with requests for advice as to lotions to be 
poured over his mangy back or syrups to strengthen his weak 
throat. Jimmie smothered his feelings outwardly, but inwardly 
indulged them for another week. Then it struck him as ridicu- 
lous that he should allow himself to become jealous of a dog, 
and of such a pitiful little cur as Shovels at that. lie resolved 
to like Shovels, for Roberta's sake and because, as before said, 
it was beneath his dignity to hate him ; and he renewed his 


overtures of friendship. But it proved impossible to make 
friends with Shovels. The utmost return he would ever make 
would be to walk up, sniff once at Jimmie's boots, and retreat 
again to Roberta. To like him for himself and in spite of his 
coldness proved equally impossible. Jimmie tried his best, but 
there were qualities about Shovels, such as his prevailing 
manginess, the continual wheezing which shook his poor little 
body, and a disposition to flee before the toy terriers at the 
corner, which could hardly appeal to the masculine tempera- 
ment of Jimmie as they did to the womanly compassion of 
Roberta. Jimmie decided that the most that he could do would 
be to tolerate Shovels, promising himself that if at any^ future 
time he found himself able conscientiously to do so, he would 
like him. 

So Jimmie settled down to tolerating Shovels, and Shovels 
continued to despise Jimmie, but clave ever closer to Roberta, 
who patted and petted and talked to him, and between whiles 
threw in a word or two to the man sitting opposite her. For 
Jimmie continued to drop into his appointed place on the 
veranda as regularly as ever. He had tried staying away for 
two nights, but it did not work. Roberta's company had 
become a daily necessity to him, until even a Roberta with a 
Shovels in her lap was better than no Roberta at all. 

Jimmie looked on and tolerated Shovels for teu days, and 
then decided that he could tolerate him no longer. But neither 
could he hate him. He had agreed that that was beneath his 
dignity, and besides, Roberta would never endure it. Clearly, 
there was but one way out. Jimmie gathered himself together 
and swore to like and gain the good will of Shovels or perish in 
the attempt. He did not dare approach Shovels directly, for 
fear of the chilling influence of another rebuff. The only way 
to him was through Roberta. Jimmie bethought him of a bot- 
tle of medicine bought when his own high-bred setter developed 
a slight case of mange. He resolved to bring it out and take it 
to Shovels, or rather to Roberta, that very evening. It might 
do the little beggar some good, and if he only looked a little 
more — well, like a dog, perhaps. 

Jimmie opened the door of the medicine closet, to find him- 
self staring squarely at a large bottle adorned with a scarlet 
skull aad cross-bones and bearing the word ** Poison!" printed 
in staring red letters underneath that gaudy emblem. He stood 


with the closet door in his hand^ his eyes fixed on the bottle 
with the red label. The stare grew first thoughtful, then joyful. 
He stretched out his hand. It had nearly reached the bottle 
when the stare changed to one of horror, and he hastily 
slammed the door and fled the spot. 

A little later, Jimmie, still penitent at the thought of what 
he had for an instant meditated, came up the walk toward 
Roberta's house. She met him at the veranda step, Shovels as 
usual wheezing behind her. 

**Good evening, Mr. Tyler," said Roberta, holding out her 

"Good evening, Miss Vibort," returned Jimmie, and then 
added with guilty cordiality, ''And how's Shovels to-night?" 

"Well," said Roberta slowly, seating herself in the hammock 
and lifting Shovels up beside her, *'I'm afraid he isn't very 
well to-day. He catches cold so easily, you know. And the 
cook said yesterday she wouldn't let him sleep in the kitchen 
any more, so I put him out in the woodshed, and he caught an 
awful one. He nearly strangled with it this morning. And that 
horrid old thing won't let him come back into the kitchen to- 
night to get over it. I was going to take him up into my room 
then, but mamma wouldn't let me ; she said he'd keep the whole 
house awake coughing, poor little thing ; and he snores, too. So 
I didn't know what to do. But Mr. Weston was in this after- 
noon, and he said there was an old dog-house down in the cellar 
of his empty house down the street there, and I might have it 
if I could get somebody to go and get it for me. And I thought 
that perhaps if I put Shovels in it with some flannel, and turned 
it away from the woodshed door, he wouldn't be in a draught; 
and so I thought when you came up to-night — that is, I — I 
thought you might come up to-night, and if you should, I 
thought I'd ask you, if you wouldn't mind very much, — that is, 
if you'd just go down there with nie and carry the dog-house 
home for me." 

Anxious in all things to oblige Roberta as he was, Jimmie 
hesitated. It was not yet dark on a summer evening, and to a 
man who had the day before obstinately refused to carry home 
a bonnet box for his sister, the thought of walking past those 
two blocks of densely populated piazzas and shortly retracing 
his steps, his arms squarely filled by a dog-house of unknown 
dimensions, had little of the charm of adventure. But on the 


other hand, he was still guiltily conscious of the wrong he had 
meditated toward Shovels, and of the much greater wrong 
toward Shovels' mistress implied in the contemplated crime. It 
seemed that here might be a way of atonement. After all, it 
wouldn't last so very long, and it wasn't such an awfully hard 
thing to do ; and after all — and more than all — it was Roberta 
who asked it. 

**0f course, if you'd rather not — " began Roberta. 

Jimmie rose hastily. ''Oh, no indeed. Miss Roberta, — that is, 
I mean yes, of course. When shall we go ? " 

"Why, I think we'd better go now, before it gets any darker 
down in that cellar," responded Roberta, promptly. "That is, 
if you 're sure it won't be too much trouble ?" 

" Not a bit, I'll be only too glad to do anything for you — and 
Shovels." Jimmie was still penitent, but the last part of the 
sentence would divide with a little jerk. 

"All right then, let's go." And Roberta shut Shovels inside 
the screen door, where he immediately began to scratch and 
whine until interrupted by a violent fit of coughing ; and she 
started down the walk. 

Jimmie followed resolutely, lifting his hat to an acquaintance 
on this or that veranda, and in spirit hearing their comments 
as he passed on the return journey. 

They reached the house they sought and went around to a 
side door. Roberta produced a key from some mysterious 
receptacle which was not a pocket, Jimmie opened the door, 
and they found themselves standing in a small passageway 
with a door in every one of its four walls. After trying two 
doors and finding entrance into the kitchen and the front hall, 
Jimmie opened a third and looked down into a well of darkness. 

"I guess this must be the place. Miss Roberta," he announced 
confidently. "You'd better stay up here where it's light ; I'll 
go down and get it." And he advanced bravely, feeling with 
his foot for the edge of the step— to bring up with a sounding 
thud against the shelves of a small, dark closet. 

"Oh, did you hurt yourself?" exclaimed Roberta, behind 
him. "What is the matter ? " 

"Oh, nothing much," returned Jimmie, removing a hand 
from his head. "It turns out to be a closet or something, 
that's all. I guess the cellar way must open into the kitchen, 
after all." 


laspection of the kitchen revealed three doors. Jimmie 
opened the most probable, and, mindful of former experiences, 
thrast an inquiring arm into the darkness until he nearly 
lost his balance. He recovered himself in time, however, and 
stumbled cautiously down. He reached the cellar floor without 
further mishap, and by the feeble liglit of the cellar windows 
obtained some faint idea bf direction. He decided, however, 
that for a systematic search of the premises more light would 
be required, and so struck a match. Holding it carefully in 
front of him he advanced, peering forward into nooks and cor- 
ners for the first glimpse of that which he sought. 

The match burned down to his fingers, and he started to kindle 
another one as he walked. The second light flared up into 
his eyes, and even as it did so, Jimmie felt his foot strike vio- 
lently against something. He staggered forward and thrust 
out his arms to restore his balance, but too late. The flame of 
the match seemed to multiply before his dizzy eyes into a myriad 
of flashing stars, and he felt something shaking in the hands 
that had convulsively closed upon it. The next instant the 
shaking something toppled and fell on top of him, and he felt 
the grime and soot of the cellar floor rubbing its way up his 
sleeves and down his neck. At the same time, the air was filled 
with a noise as if all pandemonium ha<l broken loose in the 
deserted cellar, — a noise as of flapping wings, shrill cries, and 
rattling of cymbals and castinets. Shrill, inexplicable, dis- 
cordant, deafening, it rang and echoed from pillar to post 
through unknown deeps of shadow. Jimmie struggled wildly 
to regain a few fundamental conceptions of the universe, and 
finally so far succeeded as to remember that the position most 
natural for his species is an erect one. He lifted up an arm 
and with some difficulty rolled off the weight encumbering him. 
Then he slowly rose to his feet. The inexplicable noises still 
continued, and now they were assuming a weirdly familiar tone 
more exasperating than the wildest uproar. 

**It's like it for all the world," muttered Jimmie, **but how 
in creation — " 

He raised one foot and struck another match, thereby pro- 
ducing an increase of the clamor around, if such a thing were 
possible. But as the cause of the disturbance rushed wildly 
across the cellar, the feeble light fell full upon it. He also 
caught a side glance at the obstacle over which he had fallen. 


Jimmie resignedly sank back against a convenient furnace. 
The case was beyond swearing. That was played out, he had 
sworn when he first fell down. For a moment he was too 
whitely angry for words. Then speech returned to him, and 
he slowly and solemnly voiced his feelings to the blackness 

" People who keep hens in dog-houses down cellar ought to — 
to be put in the pillory and pelted with rotten eggs." 

The sound of his voice seemed to add the finishing touch to 
the terror of the unfortunate biped. She dashed wildly to and 
fro across the cellar three or four times, like a figure cast on a 
screen by a magic lantern and immediately withdrawn. Then, 
her good luck guiding her toward her accustomed loophole of 
ingress and egress, she fled screaming off, and Jimmie heard 
her excited tones die away on the outer air. 

As the noise in the cellar diminished, Roberta's voice became 
audible from the head of the stairs. 

" Oh, what is the matter ? What has happened ? Did you 
hurt yourself, Mr. Tyler ? Shall I come down and help you ? 
Can't you find it?'' 

"No," roared Jimmie, desperately, "stay where you are ! 
It's all right. I've found it and I'll bring it up in a minute. 
I just stumbled over it, that's all. There was a hen in it." 

"A hen ! " There was a sound as if Roberta had started to 
come down. 

"Don't come down," called Jimmie, "you'll only stumble 
over things ; it's awfully dark. I'll bring it up in a minute." 

"The hen ? — what for ?" asked Roberta, innocently. 

" JVo.' The dog-house ! The hen's gone," and Jimmie, under 
his breath, added some very uncomplimentary remarks about 
the intelligence of girls. 

"Gone? Where? What did you say ? What was it all, 
anyway ?" came down the stairway. 

Jimmie did not answer. He stooped and resolutely lifted the 
dog-house in both arms and cautiously made his way toward 
the stairs. Just by the door of the kitchen stood Roberta. 
Jimmie had always admired the daintiness of her dress, but this 
time he found it a trifle exasperating. To be confronted with 
such immaculate white duck prettiness was less agreeable when 
it formed such a lively contrast with his own soot-stained ducks, 
crushed collar, tumbled hair, and shirt bearing visible traces of 


the furnace against which he had leaned. His answers to her 
eager questions were somewhat of the briefest. As soon as 
possible he walked out into the passage. 

**rm afraid Y\\ have to ask you to open the door for me," he 
here remarked ; it's either that or carrying this thing." 

"Oh, certainly. *' Roberta threw the door open and stepped 
aside to allow him to pass. 

Jimmie stepped out into the open air, and instantly felt him- 
self grasped by a sturdy arm. 

"Come, none o' that now," said a voice to match the arm ; 
and the bearer of the dog-house turned to find himself in the 
grip of a stalwart man who held him with one hand, while the 
other grasped the club of a night watchman. 

"What's the matter?" came Roberta's voice once more, as 
she too stepped out. "Oh, it's all right, Mr. Bassett. Mr. 
Weston said I might have that dog-house if Mr. Tyler would 
come and take it away for me. And he gave me the key, you 
see. And you know me, don't you — Miss Vibert?" 

"Oh, yes, miss, then it's all right," returned the watchman, 
releasing his victim. ** Beg pardon, sir, but— I guess you've 
fell down, haven't you ? So I didn't notice the difference at 
first. You see, I've found out they's been some tramps got 
into this house a day or two ago, so I came up early to lay for 
'em. An' when you came out, I thought you was one sure, and 
nabbed onto you." 

"Tramps!" Roberta's eyes were big with terror. **Why, 
they might have come when I was all alone up there and Mr. 
Tyler was down cellar." 

"They might have clubbed me dead, when I fell down and 
knocke<l that infernal hen out of the dog-house," muttered 
Jimmie to himself, but aloud he merely said, 

" Well, it's lucky they weren't there. Let's go home." 

The darkness had come on faster than Jimmie had dared to 
hope, or else his adventures in the cellar had taken longer than 
he thought. So their homeward journey attracted less notice 
than he had feared. To be sure, they did run square into Billy 
Davenport, who asked if Jimmie was moving, and if the van 
followed with the rest of his furniture. But with this exception 
the first block was passed in safety. They were nearing the 
electric light at the head of the second and could almost see 
the veranda of Roberta's house, when two figures struck into 


the circle of light just in front of them. The figures were both 
those of young men, and the light revealed the fact that they 
were in the most immaculate of summer attire. Jimmie shrank 
back further into the shadow, but Roberta went forward with- 
out noticing. Just as she was well within the light, some un- 
known cause impelled one of the men in front to turn. At 
sight of her he immediately lifted his hat and advanced with 
outstretched hand, exclaiming, 

" Why, how do you do, Miss Vibert ? Halley and I are just 
on our way to your house." 

** Why, I'm so glad I came back in time," said Roberta cor- 
dially, as she shook hands. ** Mr. Tyler and I — But I forgot, 
you don't know Mr. Tyler. Mr. Halley, this is Mr. — Why, 
where are you, Mr. Tyler ?" 

There was nothing else for it. Jimmie set his teeth, strode 
into the light, and stood there, his tumbled head rising above 
the dog-house clasped to his bosom, to confront the amused 
eyes of the stranger youths. 

"Mr. Tyler is just being good enough to carry a dog-house 
home for me," explained Roberta calmly, and went on with the 
introductions. Jimmie twice nodded his head stiffly over the 
ridge-pole of the dog-house, and then Roberta turned and 
started up the street between the two men. Jimmie followed, 
bearing, with the load that filled his outstretched arms, a gro- 
tesque resemblance to an irate locomotive, with a yawning void 
where the headlight should have been. 

They reached the house at last, and Shovels, wheezing as 
usual, came feebly out to meet them. Roberta assigned the 
strangers chairs on the veranda, but commanded Jimmie to 
carry the dog-house around to the woodshed, and followed her- 
self to put Shovels to bed. 

" Now," she said briskly, when the house was finally disposed 
to her satisfaction, "you just go out there and entertain those 
fellows till I get Shovels settled for the night. No, I don't want 
any help, you just go and tell them I'll be out presently." 

Jimmie stalked moodily around the house and up the steps 
toward his usual chair, to find a dark figure already in posses- 
sion. He dropped angrily into the corner farthest removed 
from the hammock, and sat there, bolt upright and silent. 

" It's an awfully warm evening," remarked one of the men, 
after a minute or two. 


"Very," returned Jimmie savagely, conscioiiB of a stream of 
perspiration trickling down his nose. The subject fell to the 
ground and a silence ensued. 

'• Miss Vibert is a very attractive girl," at length remarked 
the second man. This man, as exasperated friends sometimes 
told him, had a genius for ** putting his foot in it." 

"Very," snapped Jimmie, and that subject fell on top of the 
first, and the three sat in gloomy silence until Roberta appeared. 

The evening was not a pleasant one. Roberta classed it after- 
ward as one of the hardest in the course of her entire social ex- 
perience. She tried her best to make conversation, and two of 
her guests tried hard to respond. But the efforts of all three 
were powerless to dispel the gloomy atmosphere which over- 
hung the occasion. And this atmosphere emanated from a 
disheveled figure sitting bolt upright, silent, persistent, and de- 
fiant in a shadowy corner, — a figure which refused to unbend, 
or to remove the baleful shadow of its presence, but stayed on, 
mutely insisting that in spite of soot or crumpled collar or 
tumbled hair ^^ a man's a man for a' that," and, if he choose to 
do so, has an inalienable right to overstay any other man whom 
he can tire out. In the end, the determined patience of this 
moody onlooker proved too strong, and his opponents retired 
from the field. 

As they turned down the walk, Roberta, in a desperate 
attempt to appear uaconscioas of the sulleuuess of her remain- 
ing guest, leaned forward from her hammock and began 
vivaciously, **0h, Mr. Tyler, Shovels was — " 

Jimmie's self-control gave way. He leaned forward suddenly 
in his turn. 

** See here. Miss Roberta, which do you care most for, me or 
Shovels ? " 

His tone was masterful. Against the glare of the nearest 
electric light he could see the outline of Roberta's head. The 
chin went up in a defiant little tilt which he knew only too well, 
and her voice was mockingly sweet as she answered, "You or 
Shovels? Why— Shovels, of course." 

"All right, good night," and Jimmie picked up his hat, real- 
izing that further discussion was useless just then. 

He had reached the end of the little lawn and was turning 

into the sidewalk, when he heard Roberta's voice call, " Mr. 

Tyler ! " 


He turned, saw her standing at the top of the step, and 
went slowly back. Roberta was picking a honeysuckle leaf to 
pieces. Jimtnie stood expectant at the foot of the steps. 

<<Er — good night!'' said Roberta, still looking at the leaf 
she was tearing into bits. 

Jimmie could not have told how, but he suddenly realized 
that the moment was critical and called for decisive measures. 
He bent toward her. 

''Roberta Vibert, look me in the face, and tell me that was 
what you called me back to say to me ! " 

Roberta hesitated, picked at the leaf again, and then — looked 
up. As their eyes met, Jimmie made a curious, sudden move- 
ment forward, with arms outstretched, then drew hastily back. 

''Oh, I forgot, — I'm all soot," and he laughed a little foolishly. 

But as Jimmie had started, Roberta had started too. She 
had not stopped, and that is the reason why, before the words 
were well out of Jimmie's mouth, the soot from the cellar was 
sprinkled impartially over himself and Roberta. 

It was some time later, at an hour which it is better not to 
mention, that Jimmie took his final departure for that night. 
As he once more reached the edge of the lawn, he turned and 
looked back at the house, while a whimsical smile gradually^ 
spread itself over his face. 

"Well," he remarked, as he turned away, "I hope Shovels is 

The abounding peace and good will in his heart had grown 
great enough to include even one mangy little cur. Despite 
crushed collar, bruised shoulders, and blackened cuffs, he liked 
Shovels at last. 

Nona Burnett Mills. 


Ont of the damp of the mist it oome8*drifting, 
Specter ship in the shadowy mom, — 

Seen, bnt half seen, 

Qray with the ice sheen, 

Seeldng the haven ; 


Headed for port that is known by no sailor, ' 

Solemnly bearing the dead to his resting,— 

On each billow lifting, 

Adrift, bnt not drifting, 

Seeking the haven ; 

Bearing the warrior as he had willed it, ! 

Laid on its hard breast nnder his standard,— 

On each billow lifting. 

Adrift, but not drifting, 

Seeking the haven. 

Into the heart of the mist it goes drifting, 
Never shall song be sung of the landing; — 

Seen, but half seen, 

Gray with the ice sheen. 

Seeking the haven. 

Helen Isabel Walbridob. 


The patchwork quilt, product of loug, slow winter days, relic 
of the time when provident mothers set their little maids of 
seven or eight to taking small patient stitches in blocks of calico 
that were designed for the wedding chest, is fast disappearing 
from among us, well-nigh exterminated since the arrival of the 
"bonghten,'^ machine-made comfortable. We have societies 
for the preservation of ''our feathered songsters,'' societies to 
guard against the destruction of the forests ; we have game 
laws and lobster laws, but where is the club or the statute to 
prevent the disappearance of the patchwork quilt ? To be sure, 
its relative, the blue and white knitted quilt, has found tem- 
porary favor as a door hanging or a couch cover, but the patch- 
work quilt is given neither respect nor admiration ; stowed 
away in some remote corner of the attic, it waits with the bis- 
cait pillow and the rag rug for the day when a house cleaning 
or a moving shall cast out such useless truck to the scrub 
woman or the furnace man. 

Tet it is not for the patchwork quilt that I am pleading, but 
for us, if we fail to appreciate it. Those many-patterned blocks 
of calico should meet with tender regard from us and be given 
a goodly place in our affections. Who of us can forget the 


stories our grandmother has told us, as she pointed out the tiny- 
pink scrap in her ** fox and geese " quilt that was a piece of our 
mother's first little colored dress ? Mysterious time when our 
mother was a little girl ! The dead days are alive before us in 
their sweet, homely commonplaceness, as we listen to the his- 
tory of the buff-colored calico, the first dress that grandfather 
ever bought for grandmother ; of the little brown apron that 
little girl grandmother sewed for herself when she was seven ; 
and of the blue-sprigged cambric that grandmother wore when 
grandfather told her that he loved her. We find genuine grat- 
ification for our affections in picturing "our family " of a gen- 
eration or two ago going to missionary sewing-circles in the 
brown and buff calicoes they were so fond of in those days, the 
like of which can not be bought now ; or taking its place in 
church with a modest consciousness of the new white lawn, 
sprinkled with violet, squash-shaped figures, that graced the 
delicate form of its oldest daughter. There are romances in 
patchwork quilts. 

Even if we have no grandmother to tell us musingly the sto- 
ries of the quilt, and to smooth the little blocks lovingly as she 
tells, the oddly shaped pieces themselves will bring back the 
life of other generations and the e very-day interests of grand- 
aunts and cousins who lived so long ago that their names are 
only myths to us now, around which we group all qualities of 
gentleness and beauty and charm. That one tiny bit of white 
with the queer, prim little rosebuds strewed over it, which has 
no mate anywhere in all this expanse of quilt, surely that was 
put in because of some tender association. Perhaps an Eliza- 
beth of the past saved it because her sweetheart began his long 
Sunday evening visits when the dress was fresh and new ; or 
perhaps some mother one day found it at the bottom of her 
remnant bag, and remembered how her little dead child had 
patted the rosebuds and had cried, ** Pitty, pitty ! " as she was 
fashioning the little frock for her. And all these blocks with 
the intricate pattern and the fascinating combinations of name- 
less shades of orange and red and brown, — we can see them, 
those quaint ladies with their many-flounced skirts and their 
India shawls, as they gravely inquired over the counter if this 
would keep its color well, and assured each other that it was 
a very handsome pattern and certainly would make an '^ elegant 
dress '^ for Martha, with her black eyes and hair. One almost 


likes better the quilt that has come down with uo ready-made 
stories, so absorbing is it to construct them and imagine always 
beautiful, always interesting dames and maidens to figure 
in them. 

The very patterns suggest remoteness and another civilization, 
so quaint and curious are their colors and designs. Stiff little 
thistles of lavender and red set off against dull, dark brown, 
nnaualyzable intricacies of terra-cotta blocks and orange scrolls 
with blue leaf -stripes wandering aimlessly hither and thither 
over all, and lifelike squashes, big or little, of every shade 
known to man, imprinted startlingly on nicely contrasted back- 
grounds, — these are familiar and honored contributors to the 
pitch work quilt. 

Bat you say, with a polite little shrug, that they wasted hours 
over their quilts, those grandmothers of ours, — that they spent 
their time snipping up good whole cloth and then sewing the 
pieces together again. What if they did cut up their extra 
quarters of a yard ? There was ample reward for the time 
spent, in the pleasure of carefully arranging the blocks and the 
contrasts of color. Who, with any bump of order or appreci- 
ation of "effect," would like his quilts made of the odds and 
ends from his wife's remnant bag, sewed together hit-or-miss ? 
And what a satisfaction they had iu piecing them, in the lonely 
farm-houses while the twilight crept up over the white fields 
aad the rose of sunset shone fair on the snow ! Quilts for the 
daughter's housekeeping and hair rings for the far-away son 
are the progenitors of the sofa cushions we make for brothers' 
college rooms and the lace handkerchiefs we bestow at Com- 
mencement time. 

Nowadays we have books of our baby sayings ; somewhere, 
in some secure corner, our mothers have yxxt away the shining, 
fine golden curls that once belonged to us; our christening 
dresses and our first shoes they keep to remember their babies 
by. Why should we nut each of us own a quilt ma<le from 
pieces of all the gingham dresses and the lawns we had before 
we were eighteen ? It would be a faithful record of other 
days, — as interesting as an old diary. The scraps of cambric 
and lawn that our mothers have treasured up, remnants of our 
little girl dresses, of our first long ** young lady" gown, of the 
frocks we romped in, and of those we proudly wore to parties, — 
they all bring back to us the merry, questioning, strange little 


beings we once were. And who of us does not love ourselves 
of the past with tender affectionateness ? 

For me, I like the patchwork quilt before the " boughten *' 
comfortable. The beauty of my comfortable pales when I have 
seen five or six others just like it displayed in the shop-windows 
for two weeks at a time. Yes, the comfortable is lighter than 
its ancestor, but I will gladly suffer the few extra pounds avoir- 
dupois for the sake of the individuality and the stories I find in 

the patchwork quilt. 

Ethel Marqubritb deLong. 


The homestead stood on the top of a low hill just above the 
town. Below were the old, tumble-down, squalid huts at whose 
doors the mammies smoked their pipes. There the only street 
wound its tortuous way among shops of the poorest, meanest 
kind, and the mule-car made leisurely trips from one end of 
town to the other. No, the poor place had no beauty of its 
own ; it was justified only by its surroundings. 

A rough, stony road led up to the hilltop ; and after the sum- 
mit was rounded, the town was lost to view, its squalor was 
forgotten. Out, out, out, beyond yellow and green fields, 
beneath the deep blue sky and the skimming clouds, lie the 
Blue Ridge Mountains. They are shrouded in misty, vaporous 
haze, or they are overhung with tremendous thunderheads. 
They are shadowy in the morning sunlight or they are black 
against the evening's gold sky. They are ever changing, — now 
sublime, now beautiful, now fearful. But lying nearer and 
encircling the town, looking down upon it with their great, 
wonderful faces, are the nearer hills. They do not tire of with- 
standing wind and storm to shelter the village ; and each seems 
to have a peculiar message of truth to give it. 

Yonder on the east is the dark, grim old mountain. On its 
bleak slopes the shadows are heavy and mournful, clouds rest 
on its rugged summit, and its lines are heavily drawn against 
the sky. It is a somber, solemn old guardian, and its message 
is of toil, stress, and sorrow. But by its side stands a hill over 
which the sunlight plays joyously or the cloud shadows rest 



but lightly. It is green and beautiful ; its slopes are soft and 
gentle. Laurel blooms among its rocks. Its message is of joy, 
peace, and loveliness. To the west lies a hill that seems always 
wrapped in haze ; its outlines are vague, its slopes shadowy, 
silver maples crown its summit, its rocks are mossy. At even- 
ing time its misty head rests on the sunset clouds, reflecting 
their glow rather than darkening it, blending its own silvery 
green with the golds and the reds. Does not this fair, hazy hill 
speak of dreams and visions, of mystery and wonders ? 

But there to the north stands an ugly mountain, whose sharp 
top is clear-cut against the sky. Shadows rest upon its bare 
slopes, shunned by the sunlight, naked of any grassy covering, 
broken here and there by grim boulders. The lines of this 
sinister mountain are sharp and distinct and unrelieved by 
pleasant curves. Qreat pines raise their bristling heads above 
its crest and stretch out their gaunt arms. Can this unpleasing 
hill have any message of truth to give the little town at its feet, 
upon which it seems to glower in obstinate anger ? Yes, but 
its message must be sought for, like all most precious things. 
Through the heart of the dark pine woods that lie on the 
further side of the mountain, there is a little, sandy path. 
After wandering a long way over rough rocks and beneath 
solemn pines this path suddenly stops. And where ? On the 
pebbly shore of an exquisite little lake. The beautiful sheet of 
water is bordered on one side by a grassy slope, dotted with 
daisies and buttercups. Close to the water's edge the cardinals 
shake their scarlet bells and the forget-me-nots smile at the 
reflection of their own daintiness. On the other side the shore 
rises sharply to a ridge sentineled by great and mighty pines, 
majestic keepers of the mountain*s heart secret. Here the 
bright lake lies misty in the morning sun, glorious in the noon- 
day, mirroring the myriad colors of the sunset sky upon its 
crystal surface. Here to the heart of the seeker the mountain's 
message is whispered by the clear, silver white waves as they 
ripple on the white pebbly shore. Surely it is the message 

of purity. 

Edith Burbank. 


The years pile up beneath my pilgrim feet, 
Ab stiU amid the softened, star-pierced shade 
Of these declining honrs, I monnt the steps 
Which lead me on where stands awaiting me 
A child bom of the loves and purposes 
Of nineteen centuries, a spirit sent 
To take from me the future's heritage, 
And bear the message of the mighty past 
Up to the summit of the rising years. 

The mighty past I — Ah, once before I rest 
My love would fain recall the memories 
Of those still living deeds my scribe has writ 
Upon the world's remembrance. Much he used 
The bloody ink of war ; therewith at times 
He needless stained the parchment. Fairer far 
The colors where the quiet pen of peace 
Has traced a nation's progress, signed decrees 
That fostered art and commerce, freed the slave, 
Awoke from centuries of sloth and sleep 
The Orient world, or formed of petty states 
One glorious empire. — Look ! In vision now 
Methinks I see once more the passing forms 
Of those whom I have used above their fellows 
To be my active agents. Theirs are names 
Renowned for courage and for strategy ; 
For skill in making light man's dally toil. 
Or finding him new pleasures, stretching out 
The limits of his small, self -centered sphere 
To hold more of God's boundless universe ; 
For power to sway with pen or brush or tongue 
The heart and will, that they may exercise 
Their Gk)d-bom right to joy and pain and love. 

And still there rise before my inward eye, 
Thronging the hillsides far into the night, 
The souls that traveled where my foot-steps led. 
Upon their waxen tablets life has stamped 
Its marks of joy and care and labor done ; 
Its scars of noble sorrows long lived down, 
Temptations put to flight, or sins atoned ; 
The unhesded wounds of many a soul's defeat. 
Whence bleeds the unresisting life away. 



The souls are gone ; the midnight shadow casta 
Obliyion o*er them, till I see alone 
The Fntore shining throngh the dark in robes 
Of nntried innocence. O fair and strong, 
Whose is the promise of the great world*s past, 
Still bndding brave amid the blighting winds,— 
Alone by ceaseless struggle shalt thon keep 
Its tender bloom nnsnllied by the storm ; 
Life never grants a charajnonship unf ought for. 
I leave thee now the blessing and the curse 
Which I received to guide my pilgrimage. 
The blessing seize, and hold it fast ; it is 
Thy heavenly charter to thy life and (jk>d. 
The curse seize too, and grapple it with might, 
And it shall be thy bondslave. Living thus. 
Thy life shall be at once its own reward 
And hope*s fulfilling unto us who wait 
Within the chambers of the past until 
Thou come, and many more, to bring the day 
When sdon after aeon shall have bmlt 
The consummation of the time-bom age. 
Till then we wait, nor do we grieve to see 
That others reap where we have hardly sown. 
Our service is not ours ; we are but blest 
If in the palace-halls of Time our toil 
Has carved one fretted scroll the more, or set 
One x>illar firmer on its noble base, 
Or polished brighter one prophetic gem. 

The open portals now invite my feet 
To rest, while thou pursue the upward path. 
Yet shall my spirit be alert, and keen 
My ear to catch the first faint trumpetings 
Of that great, conquering Eternity 
That shall set free the servants of the years. 
And shape their jmlace to the grander mold 
Of tabernacles fashioned not with hands. 
Sometimes as in a dream I thought to hear 
The distant echo of the victor*s tread. 
It may be thine to greet his hosts afar. 
But gone or still to come, our passing years 
Have been or are to be, only to serve 
The splendor of the coming of the iSIing. 

Chablottb Burqis DbForbot. 



Times are changed ; and to me it*s sad, — 

This watching the good old ways decline. 
Tm wiUing to have what my fathers had, 

And grant that their needs were the same as mine. 
Old things sorely are still the best; 

Why shonld onr centnry let them go ? 
And a negligence worse than all the rest 

Is the desnetnde of the mistletoe. 

Look at Bess, with the magic spray 

Nestling sly in her snnny curls, 
Langhing np in her teasing way. 

(Oh, the wiles of these wicked girls I) 
I silently curse in a helpless rage 

The desuetude of the mistletoe. 
Fie on the bonds of our modem age I 

Oh for the days of long ago ! 

Ethel Wallace Hawkiivs. 

The Poster Man stood in front of his little dwelling, singing 
to his guitar and gazing at the rising moon and the Poster Girl. 

He could look in no other direction for indeed 

A Tragedy he had been so painted ; however it was a pleas- 
ant way to face, and he would not have objected 
even had he been able. Surely he was well situated. Behind 
his little house stretched a greenish jiurplish sea from which 
rose a round orange moon into a sunset sky of rose pink and 
yellow. On the left stood a grove of deep magenta pines from 
whose tops flowed a little blue stream, winding across the lawn 
until it ran plump into the lavender mountains on the right, 
where it wisely stopped its course. In front of the house lay a 
gravel path, and here stood the Poster Man, clad in gay vermil- 



Hon, his eyes amorously gazing over the top of his tiny dwelling 
at the rising moon and the Poster Oirl. 

Ah, she was fair, was the Poster Girl ! Her features were 
somewhat irregular, in truth, but what cared he if her nose was 
decidedly "pug," one eye crooked and her hair an impossible 
shade of red ? Love is blind, and he loved her. Even though 
she always bowed and smiled sweetly at the passers-by, did she 
not always look at him from the corners of her eyes ? Poor 
fellow, he never once dreamed that like him she could look no 
other way. 

And when the night came what happy, happy times they 
had ; for he used to sing her little serenades all about the purple 
sea and the magenta pines, how they would walk some time 
under their shade by the blue river and the purple sea. He 
sang about himself, how hard it was to live all alone ; and he 
sang about her, how sweet she was and how happy she was ; 
and he asked her, Was she always happy ? Didn't she ever feel 
lonesome and want to walk with him under the pines? The 
Poster Oirl said she was always happy, and smiled into 
vacancy. But the Poster Man knew that sometime it would all 
be well, for "everything comes to him who waits." 

And so the happy days passed on, while the streets became 
more and more crowded and the air more crisp. At last, 
one day, the curtain of the Poster Man's window was drawn 
down, the walls cleared, and everything decked with ever- 
green and holly. Alas ! the next day found a great pile of 
books between the Man and the Girl. What a dreary existence 
he now lived! The day was very long to the Poster Man, but 
he busied himself with thoughts of how surprised the passers- 
by would be when the Girl no longer smiled at them. For of 
course she could not smile when he was not there ! And the 
passers-by would feel sad too, but he did not care, for they 
could look at her and he could not. Yet at night he might sing 
to her, though it was not half so nice, for he could not see her 

On the day that the clerk began to unpile the books, the 
Poster Man's little heart gave a terrible thump. Such a thump 
that it hurt him and he cried out, "Oh I " for he knew that he 
should now catch a glimpse of the Poster Girl ! Then his heart 
fell suddenly down, down, down at the sight that met his eyes. 
The Poster Girl was still bowing and smiling at the passers-by, 


but she was looking — yes, actually looking from the corners of 
her eyes at a new Poster Man in a smart yellow dog-cart. 

He looked longingly at the purple sea, but he could not 
reach it. 

Yet more was to come, for the clerk who had disclosed this 
treachery had a particular friend across the way, and to him he 
presented the Poster Man, who was hung upon the wall oppo- 
site a window and there, seeing but unseen, he looked upon the 
outrageous flirtations of the Poster Girl. All day he gazed 
upon her and all night he reflected upon the cruelty of fate and 
the vanity of mankind. Indeed he became quite a philosopher, 
but the strain told upon him and his beautiful colors began to 
fade until he became in very truth the mere shade of himself. 

One night he sang a little song to himself, all about a man 
who had loved a beautiful girl, and how happy they were ; how 
another man had told her falsehoods about her lover, and she, 
because she was innocent and knew naught of the world's ways, 
had believed in him and hia yellow dog-cart ; and how the hero 
of the song had saved the life of the man with the dog-cart, who 
had confessed all ; how the hero had forgiven him and the Girl 
had come back to the hero and then — then — then — . But the 
friend put an extra pin in the poster to stop its rattling. So 
time went on and the Poster Man was growing paler and paler, 
when one day he was taken from the wall to be shown to a 

The window stood open and a gust of wind came through the 
room. The Poster Man writhed and twisted about until at last 
he leaped, free from the hand that held him, upon the breeze, and 
it bore him out through the window, across the street, and for 
one instant flattened him against the glass in front of the 
Poster Girl. 

For that one instant the smile on the Poster Girl's face 
changed to a look of horror and dismay. For that one instant 
her eyes left the dog-cart Man and stared fixedly before her. 
Then the wind swept the Poster Man down into the street and 
he was crushed into the mud by the wheels of a passing dray. 

The Poster Girl bowed and smiled sweetly to the passers-by, 

but she looked from the corners of her eyes at the Man in the 

smart yellow dog-cart. 

Alice Merchant. 



Her long, soft lashes darkly veiling 
The mischief of her etching eyes. 
Her sancy nose, her frock a-trailing. 
Dainty and blue as sammer^s skies, — 
The essence of frirolity 
Is Dorothy. 

'Twere wise for me well to consider 

Her disposition and her mind. 

Her tastes, her sonl, before I bid her 

Be to my aspirations kind. 

Too late I she's stoVn the heart from me — 

Has Dorothy ! 

Hklen Zabriskib Howes. 

Upon the hot, dusty road to the Pier there stands a small, old- 
fashioned house, covered with a rank profusion of cinnamon 

roses. As is usual in old yards, lilacs 

As The Shadows bloom everywhere ns though trying to 
Lengthened hide the shabbiness of the exterior with 

th^ir sweet-scented beauty. In the gar- 
den a little old lady knelt, known to all the rude fisher-folk as 
"Miss Phoebe." She was the daughter of a former minister, 
and had spent her quiet life within a stone's throw of the gar- 
den. And now she was caressing the soft, velvety faces of the 
pansies, while she whispered shyly to them lest the haughty 
larkspurs should hear. With loving fingers she gathered a 
bunch of her favorites and turned back to the house. 

As she walked down the garden path, her old heart, beneath 
the blue and white sprigged muslin gown, beat as high as 
when — but that was all past, leaving no token save a few 
finely pencilled lines about her mouth, and a pressed pansy or 
two in the family Bible. At present, her steps seemed youth- 
ful, and her eyes shone with unwonted happiness, for was not 
he, her only nephew, going to stop over a train to see his old 

She hummed a tune of her childhood as she lifted the latch 
and entered the cottage. Passing through the dining-room, 
where her best preserves and pound cake awaited the arival of 
her guest, she gazed with satisfaction upon the spotless linen 


and shiny blue china. Then she crossed the threshold of tho 
living room. Here all the shells and curios brought from over 
the seas by her sailor brother were arranged, and pictures of 
the nephew from childhood up adorned table and mantel in new 
seaweed frames. As she stood there thinking of all the visit 
would mean to her, the first in twenty years, a neighbor's boy 
burst rudely in upon her reverie. He brought a telegram that 
had come on the evening boat, and the novelty of it all filled 
him with open-mouthed interest so that he was bitterly disap- 
pointed when the usually hospitable Miss Phoebe dismissed him 
with an impatient and excited wave of her trembling old hand. 
She tore the ominous yellow envelope open, and this is what 
greeted her hungry eyes : 

''Train delayed, so must go straight on. Awfully sorry. 

She sank back into a chair. Her greatest pleasure was not to 
be. From without came the roar of the exultant surf rising 
and falling as the east wind shifted. The laughter of happy 
wives and girls came up the road, as the evening boats sailed 
safely into port. But she heard them not, and sat quietly gaz- 
ing on the opened telegram. 

A breeze softly bent the lilacs toward the window, as though 
to comfort her with their dear, familiar faces, and the cat 
rubbed his face against the hem of her gown. She arose with 
a start, and taking the kettle from the stove, made her solitary 
cup of tea. 

JosBPHiNB Sanderson. 


In the solemn hush of the evening, 
When the world lays its work away, 
And waits for the night to bring it strength 
tot the toil of another day ; 

When the tired snn is hurrying 
Toward his welcome bed in the West, 
When the wind and his playmate flowers 
Have gone together to rest ; 


When oyer the eastern monntainB, 
Hiding them from our view, 
The spirits of night come stealing, 
Carrying their jars of dew ; 

When the cool, damp smells of evening 
On every side arise. 
The vesper song of the sleepy earth 
Sent with incense to the sides ; 

Then the peace past understanding, 
Like a flock of snowy doves. 
Descends for a few sweet moments 
On the earth Gk>d has made and loves. 

Maboabst Hamilton Waobnhals. 

It was after banking hours, but the Chesterton bank was still 
open. The President and Board of Trustees, all vested in the 

small person of Lawrence 

The Chesterton Bank Robbery Chesterton, sat on the nurs- 
ery floor, Turk fashion, 
prying off the bottom of the bank with a nail file. The Chester- 
ton bank was an imposing iron structure, painted green, and in 
the shape of a frog which swallowed all deposits with suspicious 
readiness but refused to cash any checks unless prodded with a 
screw driver or the aforesaid nail file. No matter how hard the 
bank was shaken upside down or how diligently the President 
fished down its throat with a crochet hook, he could never ex- 
tract a penny until he resorted to violence ; and as he did this 
very often the bank frequently had to suspend payment while 
the President's father was screwing it together. 

On the present occasion the President was merely counting 
the deposits and registering them in the ledger. This consisted 
in identifying certain well-known coins and then making some 
mysterious scrawl in an old diary of his mother's. To-day's 
entry would have been unintelligible to the average bank 
cashier — it looked like the word "dog" spelled with two o's and 
written in an up-hill and very uncertain hand — ^but it happened 
to be the only word that the President could spell, and it meant 
that the cash on hand was correct : seven shiny pennies, four 
nickels, and two dimes that his grandfather had given him the 


week before. It was all there, and he was very glad on the 
whole that he had not really spent it on a gas balloon for his 
little baby sister, as a noble but fleeting impulse had lately 
tempted him to do. Pretty soon he would have enough to buy 
that best of earthly joys, a cap pistol. He had wanted one ever 
since Nelson Hawley had lent him his ; it was such fun to scare 
the baby by firing the pistol into her ear. Only mamma did 
not like it when he left powder caps scattered on the front stairs 
for people to step on when they came down — but it made such a 
lovely snap ! 

Here his soliloquy was interrupted by a voice from down- 

* '' Lawrence, Lawrence, let Lizzie wash your face and hands 
and then come down and see Aunt Ellen.'' 

Lawrence knew who Aunt Ellen was. She was the deaf lady 
with the big spectacles, and you had to talk to her through a 
long rubber tube with a kind of horn on the end of it like a 
telephone. She frightened him very much by calling him 
**thee" or *'thou,'' which he vaguely felt to be terms of re- 
proach, and then he often added to his confusion by calling her 
** thee "and "thou." But his mother always called him into 
the parlor and said, ''Here's your little namesake." And after 
Aunt Ellen had gone, mamma always looked to see if his nails 
were clean, and reproved him if he had been chewing the cor- 
ners of his sailor collar. Yet it was fun to talk through the 
rubber tube when he could think of anything to say. So after 
making a hurried circuit of his face with the sponge and 
washing his hands up to a clearly defined wrist mark, he put 
his money back into the bank, turned it upside down because 
the bottom of it was half unscrewed, and then with the Chester- 
ton Bank tucked under one arm the President went downstairs. 

Aunt Ellen was not in the parlor when he went in but he heard 
her in the hall taking off her wraps. Suddenly he remembered 
that mamma did not like to have him bring his toys into the 
parlor ; he was firmly convinced that Aunt Ellen would be 
much displeased when she saw him with a green frog bank in 
the parlor, but surely mamma could not object if he stuffed it 
between the cushions of the Morris chair. 

** Here's Lawrence already waiting for you. Kiss your Aunt 
Ellen, dear," said his mother, and Lawrence dutifully kissed 
her. Then he went and hung on the back of his mother's rock- 


ing chair until she reproved him. He was not comfortable, 
because Aunt Ellen had taken the Morris chair and was sitting 
on the Chesterton Bank. Aunt Ellen had settled down so 
heayily that he was a little sorry for the frog, and then perhaps 
Aunt Ellen herself might not be quite comfortable. 

To add to his discomfort, his mother was suddenly called out 
of the room, leaving him to the mercies of Aunt Ellen and the 
mbber tube, which suddenly seemed to assume gigantic propor- 
tions. But he went and sat down beside his aunt and she put 
the tube in his hand. In his embarrassment he held it to his 
ear instead of his mouth and consequently did not hear or 
answer any of the questions his aunt was asking him. Sud- 
denly Aunt Ellen herself perceived the difSculty. 

"Thy mouth, child, to thy mouth! ''she screamed, as if he 
were the deaf one. "I say, how many little boys are there in 
thy school?" 

Lawrence was too confused to know what he was saying, 
but be murmured something into the tube, and Aunt Ellen 
interpreted it to suit herself. 
"Thirteen ! and canst thou write thy name ?" she inquired. 
"No, I canst !" said Lawrence, much ashamed. " But I made 
a blue book mark in school once '' ; and after hunting desper- 
ately in a small trousers pocket and producing several grimy 
handkerchiefs, he succeeded in extracting the crumpled book- 

"Just one moment till I get my glasses," said Aunt Ellen, 
searching for her pocket. "It seems to be a very pretty neck- 
tie. Why— what did I put in my pocket ! It seems to be quite 
heavy ! " She was still fumbling with the back of her skirt. 

Lawrence gasped ; she had evidently discovered the Chester- 
ton Bank. But he summoned all his courage and grasped the 
rubber tube. 

"Please, would thous't mind getting off my bank ?" he stam- 

"What ! Off a bank 1 And when dids't thou do it ? " asked 
Aunt Ellen sympathetically, forgetting to search for her spec- 

Lawrence took a long breath and spoke as loud as he could. 
"I guess you're sitting on my green frog hank ! " 

" Sitting on what I Landy me I where is it ? " screamed the 
old lady, jumping up. 


But Lawrence did not wait to answer; he dreaded to see- 
Aunt Ellen's face when she found that she had been sitting on 
a green frog of any description, so he fled upstairs to tha 
nursery and staid there until he heard the front door close. 
Then he came down and tiptoed into the parlor to get his bank. 
He was sure that Aunt Ellen had taken it in her wrath, so he 
heaved a sigh of relief when he saw it on the mantel. H& 
dragged up a chair to stand on and then reached cautiously up 
for it. It was suspiciously light. He turned it upside down ^ 
the bottom was still hanging loosely by two screws, but there 
was no welcome rattle. His worst fears were realized ; the 
Chesterton Bank had been robbed — and of course Aunt Ellen 
had done it ! He clasped the bank wildly to his heart and fled 
to the kitchen where his mother was talking to the cook. 

'^ Mamma, Aunt Ellen, she robbed my bank !" he announced 
with a great lump rising in his throat. 

"What — Aunt Ellen take your money ! Why of course she 
didn't," replied his mother. "Let me see— she was looking at 
it when I came back, and I told her all about it, and then we 
put it on the mantel.'' 

"But it's all empty! She did it to punish me, I know she 
did. I guess she had never sitten on any banks before," sobbed 
the President, wretchedly conscious that Aunt Ellen had a right 
to inflict some punishment on him. 

The bank was certainly empty, and though the parlor wa& 
thoroughly searched, there was no trace of thief or booty. 
Lawrence was inconsolable all during supper time and insisted 
on keeping his beloved frog beside his tray. 

"And I can't buy any cap pistol," he moaned. " I guess she 
knew that if I had one I'd fire it right into her ear and make 
her hear better'n that old rubber thing," he went on indig- 
nantly, feeding the poor frog with a spoonful of pudding that 
immediately dropped through onto the tablecloth below. 

"Never mind. Aunt Ellen must have taken it in a fit of 
absent-mindedness," said his mother, "but we will look for it 
again this evening— it will surely turn up somewhere." 

And after the President had gone to bed and his mother had 
searched again in the jardiniere and even under the buttons of 
the Morris chair, it did turn up in the shape of a box from 
Aunt Ellen with capital enough to set the bank on a firmer^ 
financial basis than before. The President sat up in bed and 


hugged the Chesterton bank sleepily. ''He rattles jnot the 
same as he did/' he said. ''I guess frogs don't mind being sitten 
on very much; and p'raps/' he went on drowsily, "p'raps — if 
Aunt Ellen's good— we won't fire it oflf in her ear very hard." 

Marguerite Cutler Page. 


The fleeting cloud 

And the distant hills 

And the clear cold air and the snn ; — 

The restless life 

And the far-off goal 

And the race that I must run ; — 

The will to do 

And the Light that leads, 

By these shall the crown be won. 

Edith Eustace Southeb. 

It certainly was the steam heater that brought my weight to 
bear upon the decision. And when mother liked the view from 

the windows and the arrangement of 

The Price of Luxury the kitchen and pantries, and I liked 

the part of town and the steam 
heater, there was really no reason why we should not have the 
house. So we took it, we bought it — we never do things by 

In our old house on Union Street, we had had a hot air fur- 
nace and although we had always beeD warm and comfortable 
^th our furuace, yet I always had a feeling of inferiority when 
I was with friends who could boast a house heated by steam. 
The inoffensive and decidedly inconspicuous register took on a 
sordid look when compared with the luxurious, gilded and 
painted radiators of my more fortunate friends. The old 
feeling was not entirely gone when mother and I went to look 
at the James Street house. Even at my mature age I was prej- 
udiced in favor of the imposing radiators. Hot air was of 
course respectable, but steam was much more elegant. 


September found us settled in our uew domicile. Mother and 
I took great pride in regulating it all, from the third floor with 
its row of tiny gabled windows, framing bluish purple pictures 
of the mountains, to the cellar where our gigantic heater stood. 
I was thrilled as I looked at the great, square structure of white 
brick with its oven-like doors. It took up fully one third of the 
cellar and was very different from the skeleton hot air furnace 
I had been used to. Surely that was only a stove on a large 
scale. Mother was delighted with the cellar, too ; it was so 
airy and dry. Alas ! how little did she know of the capabili- 
ties of that cellar for moisture. So we were settled and con- 
tented. The September days were like August ones, and the 
October weather was wonderful in its mellowness. Never had 
Indian summer been so long. The cold would not come. I 
could only pry into the corners and crannies of my machine 
below stairs and wait patiently for the practical use of it. 

One of the last days in October was gloomy ; a chill wind 
sprang up. mother shivered, and I was off to the cellar. Rosa 
and I filled the boiler or water tank, I should say, until the 
water rose to the right mark in the water gauge. We started 
a fire in the fire box and when it was going well, we began to 
put in coal, and we put in coal for nearly an hour I should say. 
Then we waited. The drafts were all on. Slowly the pointer 
on the dial crept up. One pound, two pounds, three pounds, 
my eyes were glued to the spot. Slowly it moved and I watched. 
When the pointer reached six pounds I heard a shrill call of 
** Harriet" from above. I ran up stairs to find mother in a vio- 
lent perspiration, windows up« doors open, and the house suffo- 
cating. We jerked the drafts off and shut up the whole things, 
but the pointer clung to the six pound mark. The heat was 
almost unbearable, but we had to be patient, and gradually the 
energy spent itself and the fire went out. 

The next day I interviewed the plumbers and they informed 
me that it was impossible to regulate a steam heater to mild, 
weather, at least such a one as we had. Perhaps I could have 
used less coal and fire ; still one had to have a pretty good fire 
to get steam up. If the steam was not up one did not get any 
heat, and when one got it up it was hard work to get it down. 

After that, as the cool days came on, we toasted our faces and 
cooled our backs at the open fires, reserving the heater for 
emergencies. My ardor was slightly cooled, yet I thought ho^w^ 


nice it would be when the very cold weather came. In Novem- 
ber we had brisk, sharp days and we managed to be comfortable 
by getting st«am up night and morning and letting it down be- 

One or two of the radiators seemed to have a peculiar circu- 
lation of water instead of steam, and although we let quarts of 
it oflf through the cock, yet there always seemed to be plenty 
more to surge up and down like the waves on the shore. Others 
snapped and clicked like the sounder in a telegraph office, which 
was rather annoying, and of course we frequently left the cocks 
unscrewed and water and steam came out on the floor ; but the 
damage was small and we really got along very well until 
Thanksgiving. Then mother and I went to Springfield for 
three days, and the thermometer went clown below zero. " Now,*' 
thought I, as we came back, ''is the time to steam up." Rosa, 
not fully understanding the heater, had let the fire go out, so I 
found great need of steaming up. Just as we were beginning 
to get warm. Professor Morse came in for a little chat. He is 
the adviser and friend of our family in all emergencies and he 
drops in regularly every day. He had not stayed long when he 
jumped up with ahowl of pain, rubbing his bald head furiously, 
and we discovered scalding water streaming from the ceiling. 
We made a wild dash for upstairs and found boiling water 
a foot deep all over mother's room. In the cold snap the water 
in the radiator pipes had frozen and cracked them so the hot 
water found an outlet into the room. I roused Rosa from her 
favorite occupation of ''lingering," and armed with mops and 
pails we hastened to the scene of calamity. Professor Morse 
was on his knees on the threshold sopping up the water with 
towels, and we soon succeeded in getting through to the radia- 
tor, shutting it oflF, and drawing off the water. The room 
was saturated, the plaster below was hanging from the ceiling, 
and it took days of work from plasterers, paperers, and painters 
to set it, right again. I was beginning to lose faith in the steam 

In December we had a new series of mishaps, connected with 
the grate this time. The grate was old, and the weight and heat 
of the coals were such that the slats broke at intervals. Then 
we had to let the fire go out for a day and have the iron soldered. 
The weather was freezing so we lived in the kitchen the off 
days. I was desperate by this time, because I found that even 


when the heater was running we could not keep warm ; some 
times I could hardly get up steam ; the exuberance of heat we 
experienced on that October day was never repeated, or if it 
was, it made very little impression on our zero weather. We 
had already tried three kinds of coal and I was beginning to 
turn over ways and means of obtaining a heater of different 
capacity, when the crisis in our misfortunes came. 

I went down about ten o'clock one night to see that everything 
was all right. Rosa was at my heels. I found to my dismay 
that the water gauge was empty ; at least I could not see the 
water mark anywhere, not even at the very bottom. The tank, 
I thought, must be very low, yet I could not understand it as it 
had been filled only the day before. We got pails and com- 
menced a series of journeys from the laundry to the tank. 
Pailful after pailful we put in, yet the water did not rise in the 
gauge. Suddenly there was a gurgle and a gush from some- 
where, and water was pouring out into the cellar. It came like 
a flood and paralyzed us with fright at first. Then I hurried up 
stairs for some rubber boots and sent Rosa up the hill after Pro- 
fessor Morse. He told me afterward that they had all gone to 
bed and that Rosa stood on the lawn and screamed as hard as 
she could until he came to the window and asked what the 
matter was. Then she said in agonized tones, '* Come down to 
our house quick ! Something awful has happened,'' and turned 
and ran back. The poor professor got into some clothes and 
hurried down in a most agitated state of mind. He found me 
floundering about the cellar, the water nearly to my knees, my 
skirts pinned high, and pail and mop in hand. But they were 
small weapons for such a flood. Rosa and the professor were 
soon deep in it too, and I felt like Alice and her friends in the 
pool of tears. I was about ready to shed as many myself either 
from vexation or laughter. We baled and baled, mops were of 
no account and pails were ridiculously small. Of course the 
reason for this outburst was now evident. The water gaug'e 
had been over full so the water mark had disappeared entirely, 
and we had probably been pouring water through every part of 
the mechanism until it surged back upon us. Gradually the 
waters subsided, running out partly through the grooves at the 
sides of the cellar. The boiler, the tank, and the water gauge 
were now heaving up and down as if in a state of convulsion. 
The whole internal mechanism seemed injured, and we had to 


work until twelve o'clock putting in water and drawing it oflE 
alternately until quiet was restored and the water mark re- 
samed its position on the gauge. Wet and bedraggled and tired 
ve went to bed. 

My cup was full. I hesitated no longer. The next morning's 
mail carried a somewhat brusque and severe letter to the Oumey 
heating company and in answer I received a communication 
that "Our Mr. Barrett will take pleasure in calling on you 
Wednesday to adjust matters." '*Our Mr. Barrett" proved to 
he a dapper, officious little man who smiled and tried to be very 
plausible and to agree with everything, but who knew nothing — 
of that I was confident. His manner irritated me beyond meas- 
ure, but I did not tell him so, and therefore he established him- 
self at the hotel and superintended putting in the new heater. 
My cherished pile of white masonry and the apparatus within 
were removed amid clouds of dust, terrific noise, and smiling, 
chuckling interviews between Mr. Barrett and myself. Satur- 
day night found the new, shining heater in its place and Mr. 
Barrett gone on to superintend other heaters and adjust other 

The weather was January's coldest. We had shivered for a 
week over the kitchen stove, but now with the new heater we 
were going to have comfort. I started a huge fire, it raged, but 
I got no steam. We shoveled coal until the fire box would 
hold no more. The cellar was like a big foundry, so hot we could 
not stay in it, but not a bit of steam went up stairs. I tele- 
graphed to the Heater Company. " Can't generate steam, send 
man at once, not Mr. Barrett." Mr. Wilson, who arrived shortly, 
knew his business, I was glad to find out, and he quickly dis- 
covered that Mr. Barrett had left all the inside of the boiler 
covered with varnish, and for some reason the water would not 
steam under those conditions; and before he left us we were 
really warm and comfortable, although it took still another day 
to effect the change. Since then, our difficulties have been 
fewer, yet Rosa and I find the creature (the heater) is a great 
feeder, and many are the hours we spend in the luxury of put- 
ting in coal. There are some times when I secretly long for the 
modest respectability of a hot air furnace. 

Lillian Preston Hull. 



Hear the wind, little child, hash low, 
Hoflh low, hear the wind, hear the sea. 

The wind and the waves are harrying on. 

And night comes fast when the snn is gone. 

Nestle close, little one, to me, 
And hark t — Hear the wind, hear the sea. 

In my arms, little one, hush low. 
Hush low in my arms and be still. 

Away in the forest the were-wolf howls, 

And over the ocean a great storm growls, 

Little one, let them roar at will. 
Hnsh low, in my arms— «nd be still. 

Fear not, little one, hnsh low, 
Hnsh low, pretty one, go to sleep. 

For mother is singing thy slnmber song, 

And mother is watching the whole night long, 

Her own little babe to keep. 
Hnsh low, little one— and sleep. 

Ethbl Barstow Howabd. 


"I put you on your honor to do this" is a phrase which one 
often hears and generally rebels at. Is this feeling merely an 
impotent revolt under an obligation which is in reality just and 
binding; or is it a warrantable state of indignation, based upon 
ft real weakness and unfairness in the injunction ? 

Properly every requirement offers an alternative. The very 
name requirement implies a possible contrary course. We may 
violate the natural laws of health, although we suffer for it. A 
man must not steal unless he is willing to forfeit his liberty, or 
murder unless he is willing to forfeit his 'life ; but he may steal 
and he may murder. Excepting the impossible, there is noth- 
ing from which we are absolutely debarred, if we are ready to 
accept the consequences. But supposing it possible for one 
man to put another on his honor to do a thing, then there is no 
alternative. If he can do the thing, he must. Here there is 
no option of violation and penalty; it is a case of absolute 
necessity. The man without honor, of course, is not under 
discussion. In the nature of things he can have nothing to do 
with this question. But as for the honorable man, he is utterly 
defenseless in such a position. There is no limit to the arbi- 
trary control which another may thus establish over him. It 
might be suggested that the power to put a man on his honor 
has with those who have authority over him and with them 
alone; but this again is open to objection. There is nothing 
more intimately and entirely a man's own than his honor ; and 
to demand this on the ground of authority is as absurd as to 
demand his affection. 

No one surely would deny that there is such a thing as put- 
ting a man on his honor ; but it is not done by the mere saying 
it It never can be done without his consent. When you say, 
"I put you on your honor," you tacitly say, "I know that you 
would not do this otherwise, so I tell you that I rely upon you 



to do it, and you are under moral obligation not to fail me/' 
You have no right to demand obedience of the stranger that 
you meet in the street ; neither have you the right to force the 
loyalty, if the word may be used, of one who owes none to you. 
A compact, tacit or otherwise, is a thing not to be imposed, but 
agreed upon. 

Since a man can not be put upon his honor without some 
mutual agreement, it is above all an empty thing as well as an 
unwarrantable one, to try to bind an assemblage, in the nature 
of things defenseless, by the mere statement that you have put 
them on their honor. As much as any other, the person in a 
position of authority who attempts to do this demands a rela- 
tion which he has no right to exact. He assumes the existence 
of a compact that has not been made, and does not offer the 
essential opportunity for refusal. Surely the honor of one man 
pledged to another is too sacred a thing to be forced into a posi- 
tion so artificial and false. 


There are many kinds of snobbery ; but the newest variety, 
and that to which our day and generation is particularly 
addicted, is the snobbery of poverty. The snobs of this order 
have passed by easy stages from crying shame upon the coward 
slave who hangs liis head for honest poverty, to a point where 
they will scarcely sufifer any one who is richer than themselves 
to hold up his head, and will far less allow that he is in any 
point their superior. In ** Unleavened Bread" Judge Grant 
held up the glass to the public ; and although no member of 
that public is willing to lay claim to the features mirrored 
there, we all admit that they bear a close resemblance to certain 
of our neighbors. In the current number of The Yale Literary 
Magazine there is reassuring proof that one, at least, of our 
neighbors is free from the taint of snobbery even in this, its 
most insidious form. ''The Handicap" is the title of a discus- 
sion of the advantages and disadvantages of working one's way 
through college. The fullest recognition is given to the moral 
and spiritual gain of those who fight their way through success- 
fully. But we are reminded that there are some for whom the 
struggle is too severe, not only physically, but spiritually. And 
a man is better fitted to cope with life armed with a stout heart 
and a pickaxe than with an A. B. and a broken spirit. Neither 
the physical exertion necessary, however, nor the spiritual 
struggle is the chief diflBculty in the way of the self-supporting 
student at Yale. They are more or less the same thing that he 
would have to meet in the world at large. But courage of heart 
and strength of body are not sufScient to overcome the disad- 
vantage at which he is placed by the fact that art, literature, 
and music are as yet unrecognized by the curriculum. True, 
there are undergraduate institutions which have met with the 
encouragement and the cooperation of the faculty, and which 

purport to supplement the college course and to cultivate the 



field unoccupied by the curriculum. But these means of im- 
provement are available only to such students as are unem- 
barassed by outside demands on their time. It is this difficulty, 
of which we, with our liberal curriculum, can know little or 
nothing, that complicates the problem of self-support at college 
by bringing in the question as to whether that for which so 
many sacrifices are being made is really what we need and 
care for, after all. 

In the line of literary criticism, the Harvard Monthly con- 
tains an appreciation of '' The Qenius of Stephen Crane," which 
places his greatness in the keenness and the sympathetic quality 
of his observation, and in his exactness and sincerity in setting 
down what he saw, and gives as the cause of his limitation; his 
stern adherence to the realism that forbade him to look beyond 
or behind the physical phenomena of the moment. In the 
Columbia Literary Monthly, ** The American Rejection of Poe'* 
is an interesting and enthusiastic, though far from a complete 
or logical plea for the recognition of Poe as ^^ the greatest bard 
of America." 

The best verse of the month is "The Calling of the River** 
in the Tale Literary Magazine. It is the revery of the Lady of 
Shallott, reincarnated as a young monk, and is interesting both 
in its similarity to and its difference from its prototype. 

**What lies beyond, whither the fishes swim, 
Whither the rashes nod and ripples flow, 
EiVen the meadow lark has seen — and sings, 
~Ah, to be eager twenty and not know!*' 


National League of Womea Workers. 

Address given at Vesper Service, Smith College, October 28, 1900. 

To-day as never before, we are beset with problems and difficulties. The 
qnestion mark may well be called the characteristic symbol of onr generation. 
Dean Briggs has named the sphinx our patron saint. These problems are a 
result of the increased complexity of modern life induced by the new discov- 
eries and inventions, the new ideals and opportunities which have come to us 
u a legacy from the last three centuries. To one who is a a worker in philan- 
thropic fields no class of problems seems of more imi)ortance than the indus- 
trial difficulties which confront us to-day, and with each month and year of 
work comes the realization that no change can be brought about, no reform 
can be effected without coming into vital, human relations with working men 
and women. 

It is my desire to present to you to-day the club movement among working 
women as one form of organization which has brought together women of 
widely different social opportunities. Will you turn back with me some 
twenty years to a small room in the heart of busy New York, where were 
gathered thirteen people, three of them women to whom life had meant every- 
tidng that wealth, education, and travel could give, the remaining ten, girls 
who bad gone to work in store or factory at fourteen and sixteen years of age, — 
girls who had faced the hardships and difficulties of our present industrial 
tife. This club was to be a self-governing and self-supporting organization. 
It was to be a non-sectarian club, where Jews, Catholics, and Protestants 
were alike welcome. 

Since that first club formed in New York City many other clubs have been 
organized throughout the country. From time to time they have united them- 
selves into state or city associations, of which there are now five: Brooklyn, 
ORinecticut, Massachusetts, New York, and Pennsylvania. The great value 
of these associations is the knowledge which they bring to club members of 
other clubs, and the realization that their own club is part of a larger and more 
important organization. Each association has undertaken some practical line 
of work for the benefit of its club members. The Brooklyn, Connecticut, New 
York, and Pennsvlvania Associations have each conducted successful vacation 
honses. The New York Association has an excellently managed mutual ben- 
efit fmid, which in return for a monthly payment of fifteen or twenty-five 

cents insures to a member in case of illness the payment of three or five dol- 

^ for six weeks, and in case of death the i)ayment of thirty or fifty dollars. 

In one case a member who had paid her initiation fee of one dollar and had 



belonged to both classes of the mntnal benefit ftind, paying forty cents for two 
months, fell ill and received forty-eight dollars at the end of a fax weeks* ill- 
ness. Forty-eight dollars is an excellent return for an original investment of 
one dollar and eighty cents. 

Three years ago these several associations decided to form themselves into a 
national Icagne, to be known as the National League of Women Workers, to 
stand as a central bureau of information for club work, to give help and sug- 
gestion to clubs already organized and to assist in starting new clubs. 

As secretary of the National League of Women Workers. I desire to 
present \A you to-day the distinctive characteristicB of the typical working 
woman's club. As already stated it is a self-governing org^anization, where 
all have been on an equal footing, where no single voice has been authorita- 
tive and where no one vote has carried undue weight. The dubs have been 
governed not from without by a board of *' lady managers/* but by the mem- 
bers for the members. How successful this method has proved is best testi- 
fied to by the originator of a most flourishing club : ''Again and again the 
vote has gone contrary to my best judgment, and I have come away from the 
club rooms feeling that a serious mistake has been made. Never once has 
subsequent experience proved that the vote of the majority had been at fault. 
Every year of our club life shows to me that in a club of one hundred and fif- 
ty members no one member, no matter how broad her outlook upon life, can 
decide what is best for the club as a whole.** 

Self-support or more correctly the attempt at self-support has been the sec- 
ond principle of our clubs. The expenses are met by membership dues and 
entertainments, where a small admission fee is required. Oftentimes a dub 
sublets its rooms to kindergartens or day nurseries or clubs meeting in tlie 
day time, so that its entire rent is paid for in this way. It would be difficult 
to imagine a self-supporting club, which was not at the same time self-gov- 
erning, for no body of club members would struggle to meet the expenses of 
their club if they were not to have in charge its complete control. There are, 
however, many self-governing clubs which are not wholly self-supporting. A 
club member whose means permit often takes ui)on herself the payment of 
half the rent of the club rooms (the largest item in club expenses), but this la 
a wholly different matter from asking for public aid, and although a club tm- 
der such circumstances can not claim to be self-supporting, it could not be 
termed a charity. In starting a new club, it would be well to have the loan 
of money necessary for the furnishing of the club rooms come from an alum- 
nsB association or a woman*B club. In this way the danger of having the club 
indebted to one particular person would be avoided. There must be no sug- 
gestion of patronage in the organization of a club. The Lady Bountiful was 
a beautiful ideal of her time, but she is mediseval and not for us to-day. She 
has gone with her vassals and her broad lands. 

In the practical application of our principles, the social and educational 
objects of the clubs must be governed purely by the desires of the members. 
Since all members of the dub are on an equal footing, it would not be wise 
for any one member to force upon the others any form of educational 
work contrary to their wishes. I have seen many clubs where the originators 
felt that girls who are later to become wives of laboring men and mechanics 


should faaye a knowledge of cooking and home-keeping. No one conld disa- 
gree with snch a view, but when I find in onr clnbs that two thirds of 
fhem consider the embroidery class the most popnlar, I am led to question 
whether there are not other needs which we may meet. The embroidery sat- 
isfies a craving for the SBsthetic in the heart of many a girl. The inappropri- 
ate gowns of the shop girl are evidences of this same desire. Yon or I might 
not bay a velvet hat with long ostrich plnmes becoming more draggled with 
eyery damp morning, jyarticnlarly if we were to have bat one hat from Octo- 
ber ontil Blaster morning. We woold not carl onr hair in a large banch over 
each ear, and we woold not fasten a pink bow coyly at one side with a large 
oonl heart Bat to many a girl these things, ngly and inappropriate as they 
may appear, are an expression of her love of the beantif al. In oar club 
work we most appreciate and respect the desires of the members. 

Too often do I hear clab leaders complain that the travel classes and art 
talks and literary stadiee are not what the working girls most need. Do not 
these critics, whose own lives have been so carefally protected and gnarded, 
fail to appreciate the real valae of sach class work ? Do they not fail to nn- 
derstand that anything which trains the mind and refines the taste tends to 
ennoble and develop the character ? Many of yon know that beantifal little 
essay by Walter Pftter entitled "The Child in the Hoose," and yon will remem- 
ber how one beantifal morning '* the child'* Florien walked in the garden 
with his mother and noticed for the first time a hawthorn bash in gorgeous 
red bloom. The child nature was peculiarly sensitive to beauty, and he long 
remembered the wonderful glow of the hawthorn fiowers. Perhaps later in 
life, when Florien grown to manhood met his first temptation, something in 
the brilliant light of the room recalled that fair morning in the garden with his 
mother, and he shrank away from the evil not because it was wicked but be- 
cause it was hideous and ugly. We must not forget that all forms of educa- 
tion which refine the taste tend also to refine the character. In this respect 
the working girl is not different from her sister, the college student. 

The tentative attitude of self-restraint is, I believe, the right attitude for 
the successful club leader. You can not in an instant understand the lives of 
persons who have lived amid very different surroundings from your own, you 
must understand before you can give, you must become the friend before you 
can share with others whatever opportunities or experience life has brought 
to you. 

From what has been said you will readily see that our clubs have nothing 
in them in the light of a mission or a charity. We do not for a moment over- 
look the dangers and temptations to which many a girl is subjected, but our 
work is preventive in character. It can never take upon itself the work of the 
mission ; that must be done by an entirely different agency. Nor are our 
dabs in any sense charities ; they bring together women of widely different 
aocial opiwrtunities between whom a bond of mutual understanding is estab- 
lished. Our clnbs illustrate the great principle of social exchange, that to 
HMnein life have come opportunities for education, for travel, for contact with 
much that makes life beautiful and attractive ; but to others has come exx)eri- 
enoe with hardships and difficulties and the development which work and 
contact with the world bring. They meet with the realization that both have 


Bomething to g^ve and both hAve much to learn. The principles of onr clnbs 
are based on the great tmth that differences in ecomomic conditions do not 
involye differences in fundamental hnman characteristics. Unless this truth 
is appreciated by the originator of a dub, there will be a lack of sympathy 
and the possible danger of patronage. Mntnal understanding and confidence 
will accompany its full realization. I would not overestimate the value of our 
principles. A club may be self-governing and self-supporting and yet not be 
a success. A framework is not a completed structure. Enthusiasm, persist- 
ence, and devotion are necessary to the success of any undertaking no matter 
what its principles are, but a realization of the great truth of social exchange 
must come before any constructive, humanitarian work can be accomplished. 
Will not those of you who go back to your own homes in various industrial 
centers remember that life has brought you much which would be of great 
value to many a working girl and will you not consider that yon hold in 
trust for others the rich dowry of your college education ? 

Cha&lottb Coffyn Wilkinson '94. 

The annual meeting of the Association of Collegiate AlumnsB was held in 
New York this year, at the invitation of the New York branch, on November 

8, 9, and 10. On Thursday, Novem- 

Annual Meeting of the Association ber 8, the Executive Committee of 

of Collegiate Alumnae the Association met at the Hotel 

Emxnre at ten o'clock. The first 
general meeting was held at the Veltin School at half past two that after- 
noon. Miss Ruth Putnam, the President of the New York branch, made the 
address of welcome. The business meeting that followed was presided over 
by Miss Abby Leach of Vassar, the President of the Association. The fiirst 
business that was taken up was the report of the Secretary-Treasurer, Miss 
Kate Holladay Claghom. Miss Claghom discussed the advisability of main- 
taining the present arrangement of having one salaried official to fill both po- 
sitions, stating as the result of her two years* experience, that the advantages 
of the office were not as g^reat as had been expected. It had been hoped that 
the Secretary-Treasurer could be of great use in suggesting and advising in 
the work of the branches, and in issuing a uniform series of publications to 
meet the needs of the Association. It has been found that the central office 
is not of much use to the branches, since but few of them ask for sugges- 
tions, and it is difficult to advise those that do, since the Secretary-Treasurer 
is of necessity less well informed of the possibilities open to any branch than 
are the members of that branch themselves. The work of issuing the pe- 
riodicals has been hampered by the lack of money and of material. It was 
supposed that the members of the Association woxdd be glad of an opportu- 
nity of making known their views and theories on questions of genenJ and 
BX>ecial educational interest, and it was hoped that these periodicals might 
eventually lead up to the publication of a quarterly which should be the 
recognized organ for the publication of all material relating to the higher 
education of women ; but it is found that very little material is presented, as 
aridcles on special questions are sent to specialist journals, where the writer 
can be sure of her audience, and articles on general topics are sent to the 


magazines, where they are paid for. The present number of members is 
3207, and the balance in the treasury is (84*5.70. The Secretary's report was 
accepted, and the Treasurer's report referred to the Auditing Committee. 
A Yofce of sympathy was then sent to Miss Talbot, the Dean of Chicago Uni- 
yersity, whose mother died recently. 

The Committee on the Admission of New Branches reported three applica- 
tions for membership, — one body to be called the Southern New York branch 
with headquarters at Bingham ton, N. T., one to be called the Western Mass- 
achusetts branch, whose secretary is Miss Anna Thatcher, Mt. Hoi yoke Col- 
lege, and the third to be caUed the Nebraska branch, with headquarters at 
Lincoln. The first two were admitted to membership ; the papers with ref- 
erence to the Nebraska branch haying gone astray, the matter was referred 
to the Executiye Committee with power to act. 

The report of the Committee on Finance and Publication was giyen by 
3fi8s M. Carey Thomas, the President of Bryn Mawr. The committee has 
published the pamphlet about scholarships and the magazine containing the 
records of the last meeting. The statistics with reference to the health, oc- 
cupation, and marriage rate of college graduates which this committee tried 
to collect and tabulate for the Paris Exposition are now being completed, and 
will soon be published. The commitee sent schedules to all the graduates 
since 1869 of twenty-two colleges for women. Replies were receiyed from 
6323 of the 10,400 schedules that were sent out. The questions were in most 
cases answered in great detail, and a large amount of yaluable information 
was secured. Great difficulty was experienced in tabulating the returns. In 
general it may be said that the college women are in better health and yigor 
than non-coUege women. After the tabulation and editorial work are fin- 
ished, the results will be submitted to expert statisticians, and then published 
in Dewey*s statistical magazine. 

Notice was giyen of a proposition to amend the constitution, to be yoted on 
next year, by which a head treasurer should be appointed, to act without 
salary with the Secretary-Treasurer in managing the funds of the Associa- 

The report of the Fellowship Committee was giyen by Mrs. Helen Hiscock 
Backus. The present fellow of the Association is Miss Helen Bradford 
Thompson, who did her undergraduate work at Chicago, and has since been 
fellow in philosophy there. Miss Thompson's work and attainments are most 
highly praised by her professors. She is making inyestigations in experimen- 
tal psychology and neurology, and will study in Paris and Berlin. The com- 
mittee did not act with the Women's Educational Association this year. All 
applications for the fellowships must be receiyed by February first of each 

The Association for Maintaining the American Women's Table nt the 
Zoological Station at Naples and for Promoting Scientific Research by 
Women announces the offer of a prize of $1000 for the best thesis presented 
by a woman, on a scientific subject, embodying the results of her independent 
laboratory research in any part of the field coyered by the biological, chemi- 
cal, and physical sciences. The theses will be judged by a regularly ap- 
pointed Board of Examiners consisting of twelye specialists in the three sub- 


jects mentioned above. The Association reserves the right to withhold the 
prize, if none of the theses presented is, in the judgment of the Board, of 
adequate merit. The theses most be presented to the Secretary of the Exec- 
ntive Committee, Miss Florence M. Gushing, 8 Walnut Street, Boston, Mass.^ 
before December 81, 1902. The prize will be awarded at the annual meeting 
of the Association in April 1908. Each thesis must \ye accompanied by a. 
sealed envelope containing the writer*s name and address and marked with 
the title of the thesis. 

The report of the Committee to Accredit for Foreign Study was given hy 
Miss Hinsdale. Applications for five certificates were received last year, as- 
against fifteen the year before. The question of continuing the committee* 
and of tlie best methods of imparting the desired information about foreign, 
universities, was referred to the Executive Committee. 

The report of the Committee on Corporate Membership was given by Mrs. 
Annie Howes Bams, who stated that during the last two years there had 
been an encouraging improvement in material progress, and that the prosper- 
ous condition of the country had been reflected in the increased gifts to col- 
leges. The report was based mainly on President Thomases monograph on 
the Education of Women, in which the productive endowment, scientific 
equipment, libraiT' provisions, and teaching forces of the colleges for women 
are stated. The meeting then adjourned. 

The evening session was also held at the Veltin School. President Leach 
made an address on " Some Present Needs iu Education,** in which she em- 
phasized the need of manual training in the public schools, the advisability 
of keeping the public schools free from i)olitical influence, the need for a lar- 
ger percentage of college women in the secondary schools, and the need of 
a larger number of teachers in proportion to the number of students. Mr. 
Walter H. Pago, former editor of the Atlantic Monthly, spoke on the " Study 
of Literature," deploring the present tendency to read books about books in- 
stead of forming judgments at flrst-hand by reading the books themselves. 
Dr. William H. Maxwell, the Superintendent of Schools in New York City, 
made a strong plea to college women to become teachers in the public schools.. 

Friday morning was left free for visits to Columbia University, Teachers* 
College, and other places of interest to the delegates. Lists of the classes 
meeting at Columbia and Barnard on Friday were distributed at the meeting: 
on Thursday. Members of the Barnard Graduate Club acted as guides to the- 
different classes and to the various buildings. The delegates were invited by 
the New York branch to a breakfast at twelve o*clock at Claremont, on 
Riverside Drive, after which the Association met again in the Barnard Col- 
lege theater. President Low, in welcoming the Association to the Univer- 
sity, emphasized the special fitness of women for philanthropical work as> 
well as for teaching, which has long since been recognized as that work for 
which women are best qualified. The first part of the afternoon was taken 
up by reports from the different branches. In general, it may be said that 
the work done by the branches is along three lines. — ^first, that of providing^ 
for the extension of library privileges, especially among the poorer classes, 
and the arranging for lectures, etc. ; second, that of suggesting and enforc> 
ing municipal reforms, such as abolishing the smoke nuisance and having the> 


street cars kept in better condition ; and third, that of aiding the school com- 
mittees in Tarions ways. This is probably the most important part of the 
work. The Washington branch is trying to introduce a housekeeping depart- 
ment into the public schools. The California branch is trying to have schools 
for mannal training for girls, similar to tho5ie already provided for boys, 
opened in the schools. The Eastern New York branch has introduced a bill 
in the Legislature caJling for the establishment of a college in home eco- 
nomics in connection with some New York college, such as Cornell. The Bos- 
ton branch maintains a fellowship in the School of Housekeeping, the holder 
of which is studying the comparative cost and quality of bought and home- 
made foods. 

Mrs. Lucien Howe, in speaking about ventilation in schools, stated that the 
caasesof the unsanitary conditions in the public schools, which are well 
known to the officials, are ignorance and indifference. Some schools were 
still without provision for the entrance of fresh air ; in some cases where in- 
lets had been made, the inlets were boarded up ; and in many schools with 
good and expensive ventilating equipment, the principals do not understand 
tbe system, or the janitors do not take the trouble to make the necessary ad- 
justments. Mrs. A. J. G^rge reported a very satisfactory growth in the 
Public Education Associations during the last two years. The day's meet- 
ings closed with a receirtdon given by President Low and Acting Dean and 
Mrs. Robinson. 

The Saturday meetings were held at Barnard College. The subject for gen • 
eral discussion at the meeting in the morning was that of entrance require- 
ments for colleges. The discussion was opened by President Thomas who 
maintained that the ordinary student is unable to choose the courses that 
would be of greatest benefit. President Thomas upheld the entrance exami- 
nation system, as opposed to admission by certificate. Professor Emma M. 
Perkins, of the Western Reserve University, stated that the requirements 
adopted at tbe meeting of the conunittee on uniform college requirements, at 
Los Angeles, in July 1899, had been adopted on the Pacific coast. Professor 
Perkhis made several recommendations, among them being that teachers in 
secondary schools should be college graduates, that sufficiently large salaries 
be paid to attract such teachers, and that there be a six years' High School 
course, taking in what is now divided into the grammar and the High School 
grades. Dr. Margaret F. Washburn, the Warden of Sage College, empha- 
idxpd the necessity for scientific study for college entrance. Education mnst 
deal with cold, hard facts, and must make man at home in the universe, but 
a man that does not know something of biology can not know his ])lace in the 
universe. Elementary training in biology and physics should be required in 
the secondary schools, since in a college having the elective system, like Cor- 
nell, there is no way of securing such study after entrance. At present Ian- 
i^aasres have an unfair advantage. It is not sufficient that preiiaratory students 
should be allowed to take science ; they must be forced to take it. The High 
School coarse should be an end in itself. Dr. Washburn regrets the complete 
freedom of choice permitted in some colleges, and maintains that a certain 
amount of information, as well as of discipline, is necessary. Professor 
Nicholas Mnrray Butler ended the discussion. Professor Butler, who is him- 


self a believer in the elective system, reminded the aliimnffi that as soon as ex- 
perience showed the inadvisability of that system, those who held it would 
modify their views accordingly. The educational value of such studies as 
Greek and physics can not be compared at present, as the newer subjects have 
not as yet proved their equal value. The solution of the problem of entrance 
requirements lies in cooperation between the college authorities and the head s 
of secondary schools. Professor Butler referred to the meeting to be held 
later in the month, in the hope of securing such cooperation. (It may be noted 
that at the meeting referred to, the annual convention of the Association of 
Colleges and Preparatory Schools of the Middle States and Maryland, which 
was held on November 80 and December 1 at the University of Pennsylvania, 
the plan of cooperation between the colleges and the preparatory schools was 
carried out. A college entrance examination board, ou which are represented 
Columbia, Barnard, Bryn Mawr, Cornell, Johns Hopkins, New York Univer- 
sity, Pennsylvania, Rutgers, Swarthmore, Union, Vassar, the Woman's Col- 
lege of Baltimore, and several secondary schools, has been appointed. A 
board of examiners for 1901 has also been appointed. They will determine 
the examinations to be held at vai-ious points through the country, in accord- 
ance with a schedule to be made public later. By the terms of the agreement, 
the examining lx)ard will issue certificates, showing the result of the exami- 
nations, which will be accepted by all of the colleges that are x>&rtieB to the 
agreement.) • 

In the afternoon the Executive Committee appointed a nominating commit- 
tee to consult the branches about the officers that are to be elected next year. 
Miss Emily Morns, 230 Prospect Street, New Haven, was elected Secretary in 
place of Miss Claghom, resigned. The reports of the remaining committees, 
which had been crowded out on Thursday, were then given. Mrs. Elizabeth 
Lawrence Clarke's report of the Conmiittee on Collegiate Administration was 
read by Mrs. Backus. All of the fourteen members of this committee were 
present at a meeting held in New York last April at which the problem of 
furnishing and serving good food in college halls was discussed. The impor- 
tance of maintaining a high ethical standard of living and of inculcating 
those right habits of eating that are as essential as right habits of thinking was 
dwelt upon in' the report. It was recommended by the committee that a chair 
of sanitary science be established in each college. The report is to be printed. 
The Committee on Educational Legislation reported that it is hoped that the 
bill restraining colleges that are so poor as to be insufficiently maintained 
from conferring degrees, will soon be passed. The improvement of the com- 
pulsory school law was also agitated. The Conmiittee on the Study of the 
Development of Children did not report. The special Committee on the Paris 
Exhibit reported that that part of the United States educational exhibit's 
space which was given up to the A. C. A. was utilized with ingenuity and 
success. The exhibit consisted mainly of a chart showing the increase in en- 
dowment for the higher education of women from $8,000,000 to $50,000,000. 
A gold medal was awarded for this exhibit. It was voted that the Associa- 
tion exhibit at the Pan-American Exhibition in Buffalo, and Mrs. Howe, 
Chairman of the Paris Committee, was put in charge of the work. 
The convention then adjourned sine die, 

Elizabeth Fisheb Read *96. 


Commeiicement day marks an epoch in the life of the college stndent. The 
period of pfrex>aration is finished and life with its resixjnftibilities lies before 

her. What shall I do with my life ? confronts each 

Pofitgradnate Study member of each class. Circumstances in many 

cases assist materially in framing the answer. Some 
students, however, are in no haste to depart from academic walls, and others, 
who have taug^ht for a time, are convinced that they need further training. 
Oftentimes the experience of teaching furnishes most valuable preparation 
for postgraduate study. For, apart from the personality of an attractive in- 
stmctor. the fellowship of one^s intimate friends, the influence of college opin- 
ion, and above all, tested by the touchstone of experience, the individual dis- 
covers where her real power lies. She finds out by actual experiment which 
branch of knowledge promises to yield to her the largest percentage of re- 
tains in the way of satisfaction, attainment, and usefulness for the necessary 
investment of time and energy ; and also which subject will be the most 
agreeable intellectual comjsanion during a period of years and also, probably, 
during life. 

There are thus two classes of students who will undertake postgraduate 
study; those who continue their studying immediately after graduation, and 
those who interrupt their studying for a longer or shorter period. The wider 
range of electlves in the junior and senior years has given the student a notion 
of the pleasure and advantage to be derived from studying along the lines of 
ber choice. Where means and leisure afford the opportunity, the pathway of 
a^lvanced work is very alluring. One is practically sure of intellectual asso- 
ciations and sympathetic companionship at any university. The freedom to 
devote one's entire time and energy to the subject of one's choice, without any 
real or implied obligations to other subjects, is satisfactory. At universities 
where good postgraduate work is offered, the divisions for the seminars are 
email, which ensures a generous measure of c!ontact with the professor. The 
gain to an earnest student in this way is important ; for the opportunity to fol- 
low a trained mind as it does original work and devises various methods of at- 
tack for elusive questions is inspiring. In this way the student learns how 
to investigate a subject for hernelf , — a very different thing from the mere 
acquisition of knowledge from authenticated sources. 

The large, well-equipped libraries with their wealth of treasures and their 
special privileges for graduate students are a never failing Fource of delight. 
The seminar rooms contain duplicates of the most im^iortaut books, and are 
furnished with drawers or lockers where a student may keep her papers. Each 
student is provided with a key to her own seminar room so that interruptions 
come only from peoj^le who are interested in the name line of work. More- 
over, the seminar room furnishes a meeting place for the students of that de- 
partment where they are sure of findng other students, interested in the 
same subject, ready and eager to discuss the all abforbing question of the 
moment. This free discussion and critici^m is one of the most helpful attrib- 
utes of the seminar room, for here many a valuable suggestion is given and 
received. All these things tend to render the student self-reliant and to de- 
velop the abilit}' to search the hidden depths for the nuggets of pure gold in- 
stead of being misled by the guilded baubles which \\*} txijosed on the 8ur- 


face. After all, this power which comes from original investigation is the 
chief aim of graduate stndy. The possession, and the consciousness of the 
possession of this capability, is the abundant reward for the unflagging zeal 
which its attainment has demanded. 

In all of this the assumption is made that the student has a doctorate for 
her goal. Just here the writer is impelled to utter a word of warning. Let 
no one undertake a course of study for the doctor's degree with the idea that 
she is about to join a holiday excursion party, for she will find herself woe- 
fully mistaken. The requirements for the degree are such that she must be 
willing to expend her energies to the utmost ; she must live for one thing 
alone; she must be able to apply her faculties uninterruptedly ; and above all 
she must not lose her enthuriasm when monotonous drudgery is her lot for 
weeks at a time. The attainment is worth the effort. Who would not will- 
ingly, yes gladly, offer all these things for the ability to pass within the veil; 
to be privileged to think Nature's thoughts at first hand; to ferret out one of 
the mighty secrets which she guards with jealous care; to be able to discover 
even some small share of her unchangeable laws which have existed since the 
foundation of the world? Postgraduate study, if rightly undertaken, will 
induct the student into the grandest possibilities open to the human mind in 
the realm of the pure intellect. 

On the other hand, if the student has not these ambitions, but is loath to 
sever her connection with academic life and is desirous of prolonging her col- 
lege course, she may do so with much pleasure and profit. In either case 
there are valid arg^uments to the effect that the student would better select a 
different institution from the one in which her undergraduate course has been 
taken. She will form new student acquaintances more readily in fresh sur- 
roundings than she can when pining for the familiar faces of her classmates 
amidst well-remembered scenes. The stimulus derived from another institu- 
tion is no mean factor. Each institution has individual characteristics ; the 
attitude of each differs somewhat from that of any other. Moreover, the con- 
tact with another faculty is broadening, the instruction may be worse or it 
may be better; but one is bonnd to gain a different view-point, to discern that 
there is another nide to every question, which is a most useful R<1junct in 
keeping one's intellectual life free from ruts. So clearly is the value of this 
brcmdening influence of different faculties and institutions recognized, that a 
few years ago ** The Graduate Students' Club " (an organization to which wo- 
men are ineligible) passed strong resolutions in favor of the introduction of a 
system in this country, by which graduate students might take p<»rtions of 
their courses at different institutions without a shrinkage in the recognition 
for the work so accomplished. The plan outlined was similar to that in vogne 
in G^ermaiiy, where within certain limitations, a student may take one or more 
semesters at several universities. The question of selecting an institution for 
postg^duate study is often perplexing. Each university has peculiar advan- 
tages and it is no easy matter to choose between them. A pamphlet, pr4b- 
lished by "The Gradtiate Students' Club," above referred to, will be found 
very useful. It contains in concise form an account of the courses at each of 
the collogea or univerHities wliich have postfjraduate s:ch«x)ls; states with 
some detail the subjects of the lectures; names the institutions at which each 

ALUMNjB department 183 

lecturer has studied ; and finally, by giving a short list of his piablications, 
indicates his specialty. 

If circnmstances will allow, a year at either an English or a Gherman nni- 
Tsrsity, or better than that, saccesaiye courses aft both, will be most profita- 
ble, and at the same time will greatly increase the pleasure of postgraduate 
study. Indeed a professor at one of our large universities used frequently to 
say to his graduate students : *' My notion of an ideal education would be an 
undergraduate course at one of the very best institutions in this country, 
three years at an English university, and three years at a German university.*' 
Unfortunately most students have neither the time nor the means at their dis- 
posal to attain to this ideal, and the rapid development in postgraduate 
achools in this country renders a sojourn in a foreign land much less impera- 
tive than it was formerly. To any student who is considering the advisabil- 
ity of postgraduate study the writer would say, — Gk> forward in the certainty 
that one of the richest experiences of life is before you. 

Leona Mat Pbibcr '86. 

A business meeting of the Western Massachusetts Association of Alumnse 
and non-graduates of Smith College was held at the house of Mrs. Dana 
Pearson, 10 Henshaw Avenue, Northampton, Saturday, November 17, 
1900. The President, Mrs. Mills, presided. The secretary's report was read 
and accepted, and the constitution was read for the benefit of new members, 
after which there was a general discussion as to the future work of the Asso- 
ciation. At the suggestion of Mrs. Clarke a motion was made and carried 
to appoint a committee to amend the by-laws of the constitution. After fur- 
ther discussion a motion was passed that a committee be appointed by the 
ExBcative Board as a ** News Committee," whose duty shall be to furnish in- 
formation of College affairs to the various alumnsB branches. Miss Caldwell, 
the present chairman of the Students* Building Committee, presented the 
matter of the fair to be held on the fifteenth of December, asking help of the 
alumnffi, since, by a vote of the Faculty Committee having such matters in 
charge, the fair must be abandoned unless it could be under the management 
of the alumnffi. Feeling that a large sum of money must be lost to the Stu- 
dents' Bailding Fund by giving up the fair, a motion was passed that the 
Western Massachusetts Branch assume its management for this year, and a 
conmiittee, consisting of Mrs. Higbee, Mrs. Williams, and Miss Cable, was 
appointed to have general charge. It was also moved that subcommittees be 
appointed by the chair to aid in further arrangements. The matter of the 
a^^pointment of electors was next submitted, and Miss Cavemo and Mrs. 
Dmry were unanimously chosen to serve. 

Mrs. Clarke called attention to the $1000 prize offered by the Association for 
Promoting Scientific Research by Women, and Miss Thatcher explained the 
aim of the Western Massachusetts Branch of the Association of Collegiate 
Alumns9 now being formed. The meeting then adjourned, and a social hour 
followed. Thirty-five were present. 

YSABEL Swan '98, Secretary. 



The Associaticm for Promoting Scientific Research by Women hereby an- 
nounces the offer of a prize of one thoosand dollars for the best thesis pre- 
sented by a woman, on a scientific subject, embodying the results of her in- 
dependent laboratory research in any xMtrt of the field covered by the biologi- 
cal, chemical, and physical sciences. 

The theses presented will be jndged by a regularly appointed Board of Ex- 
aminers, consisting of twelve specialists, representing the departments above 
named. The Association reserves the right to withhold the award of the prize^ 
if the theses presented are not, in the judgment of this Board, of adequate 
merit to deserve the award. 

The theses offered in competition are to be presented to the Executive Com- 
mittee of the Association and must be in the hands of its Secretary before 
December 81, 1902. The prize will be awarded at the annual meeting in 
April 1903. Each thesis must be accompanied by a sealed envelope, enclosing' 
the author's name and address, and superscribed with a title corresponding 
to one borne by the manuscript. 

Executive Committee: — Caroline Hazard, President, Wellesley College; 
Sarah E. Doyle, Women's College in Brown University ; Ellen H. Richards^ 
Massachusetts Institute of Technology; M. Carey Thomas, Bryn Mawr Col- 
lege; Lilian Welsh, Woman's College of Baltimore; Elizabeth L. Clarke, 
Treasurer, William stown, Mass.; Florence M. Cuahing, Secretary jpro tem., 8* 
Walnut Street, Boston, Mass. 

Contributions toward the ''Smith Room" in the Intermediate School for 
Qirls in Spain may be sent by alumnao to Louisa S. Cheever, 21 Prospect St.» 

All members of the college — ^faculty and students — who intend to visit; 
Washington during the holidays are requested to send their Washington ad-> 
dress and the dates of their visit to Mrs. J. A. Clarke, Library of Agricul- 
tural Department, Washington, D. C. 

A book has been placed in the Reading Room in which all alumnse visiting^ 
the college are asked to sign their names. The list of visitors is as follows : 

'83. Elizabeth L. Clarke, 
'89. Martha Austin Hopkins, 
'94. Lucy Inez Lamb, 
'95. Edith Chase, 

Edith M. Hawkes, 
'96. Elizabeth Fisher Read, 
'97. Irma L. Richards, 

Climena L. Judd, 
'98. Marion Pagh Read, 

Adeline Wing, 
'99. Ella P. Merrill, . 
1900. Margaret Hughes, 

Margaret C. Morris, 

Helen Bruce Story, 



November 1 

December 1 


November 10 

December 1 


November. 10 





December 1 



ALUMNjS department 186 

The class of '96 has given two hundred and fifty dollars towards the Stu- 
dents' Bnilding Fnnd. 

Contributions to this department are desired by the second of the month in 
order to appear in that month's issne, and shonld be sent to Ruth L. Gaines, 
Honis House. 

*83. Mrs. A. W. Hitchcock (M. M. Osgood) will move from Newburyport to 
Worcester. Massachusetts, where her husband is to be pastor of the 
Central Church. 

'Si Yida D. Scudder had an article on *' Ill-gotten Gifts to Colleges " in the 
November number of the Atlantic Monthly. 

'SB. Harriet A. Boyd addressed the Connecticut Branch of the American In- 
stitute of Archaeology in New Haven, in November. 

IKL Rose Fairbank sailed October 6 for India, to become the head of the 
Uary Alcerman Hojrt Hospital at Jhansi, Northwest Province, India. 

Florence Bushee was married December 5, to Mr. J. G. Theolmld. 

Edith K. Dunton is teaching English in the High School of Burlington , 

Jean Hough is teaching French and history in the High School at Rut- 
land, Vermont. 

Agnes Hunt is now Assistant Professor of History at the Western Re- 
serve University, and is also doing some college settlement work. 

Grace M. Page has announced her engagement to Mr. M. 8. Bennett. 

1)8. Frances Bridges is traveling through the Southern states as Secretary 
of the Young Women's Christian Association for the Colleges. 

Leila Foster is teaching French and German at the Taconic School, Lake- 
ville, Connecticut. 

Another book of Smith College stories, " Sister's Vocation," by Josephine 
Dodge Daskam, has just been published by Scribners. 

Vera Scott has announced her engagement to Mr. James S. Cushman of 
New York. 

'99. Clara M. Austin is Assistant in Latin and English at Lasell Seminary, 
Aubumdale, Massachusetts. 
Miriam F. Choate is studying history and sociology for a Master's degree 
at Columbia. 

Myrtle L. Kimball was married May 28, to Mr. Allan H. Wilde. Ad- 
dress, 58 Mountain Avenue, Maiden, Massachusetts. 

Edith E. Rand is teaching in the St. Agatha School, New York City. 

1900. Mary S. Conant is teaching at Martha's Vineyard. 

Madeleine M. Chase has taken up the study of Spanish, and will continue 
her other languages and music during the winter. 

Lela Poster is at present taking Iwo literature courses in Northwestern 
XJmvereity, and in January will go to Mexico for the rest of the winter. 


1900. Caroline Grier has annotmced her engagement to Mr. Herbert 
Jameson, Princeton '07. 

Marr Belle Holt is studying medicine at Tafts Ck>llege. 

Carolyn Lanter is attending the Indianapolis Normal School. 

Margaret Lyman is an assistant teacher in the grammar department of 
Miss Brook's private school in Chicago. 

Mina Kerr is the head of the English Department in the Woman's College 
in Frederick, Maryland. 

Ella Kirkley will spend the winter studying mnsic at her home in To- 
ledo, Ohio. 

Clara Kneeland has charge of the English Department at Albert Lea Col- 
lege and Preparatory School, Albert Lea, Minnesota. 

Emily Locke spent the summer at Woods HoU, taking a course in botany 
in the Marine Biological Laboratory, and has returned to college to act 
as an assistant in the Botany Department. 

Dorcas Leese will return to college the second semester to complete the 
work missed during her absence in senior year. 

Olive Mann has entered the State Library School at Albany, N. T., for a 
two years' course. 

Charlotte Marsh is teaching rhetoric and English in Washington Semina- 
ry, Washing^n, Pa. 

Elizabeth Meier is spending the winter in New York City. Her address 
is 258 West 86th Street. 

Mabel Milham has been api)ointed Intercollegiate Secretary of the Student 
Volunteer Movement, and will have hor headquarters in New York 


Helen Ober is teaching English, Latin, and French in the High School at 
Hanover, Mass. 

Helen Story is taking a special course in G(erman literature and history 
at the Bridgewater Normal School. 

Carol Weston 8X)ent the summer in Nova Scotia and Canada, and will 
spend a part of the winter in Kansas City. 

Mary Wiley is principal of the grammar school in Chester, Mass. 

Helen Ward spent the summer in Nova Scotia and Maine. 

Elizabeth Whitney sailed for Europe August 80, to be gone until the end 
of November. 

Mary Sheafer Whitcomb is a member of the staff of workers of the 
Brookline Public Library. Her winter address is 10 Auburn Place, 
Brookline, Mass. 


There is very little which the modem colle$;e girl can not claim and obtain 
at the hands of the world. Fame is freely granted her for study, for athletics, 

for success, social and financial, for nobility, charm, and 

College Loyalty sincerity of character. Yet in the face of thin, one res- 
ervation is often made ; we are seldom credited with a 
spirit of college loyalty. College girls, they say, are all alike outside of col- 
lege; they do not show that devotion and enthusiasm for their own college 
that their brother collegians feel for theirs ; in short, they are remiss in the 
true spirit of college loyalty. "Why is it we are supposed to lack loyalty? 
Steely, no one who has ever attempted to criticise before a college girl any 
feature of her college and its life can boast a satisfactory and dignified victo- 
ry in the discussion that inevitably ensues. ** Have you ever been a student 
there? Well, then, how do you know?" is the first return shot ; and from 
that time on, the assault turns to defense and a lame retreat is the usual out- 
come and, not unfrequently, ignominious retreat. 

Comparison with other colleges ought surely to be allowed, from a spirit of 
fair play. Secretly, each thinks her own college the best possible, and Btiys 
80, courtesy permitting. Yet it is quite possible for a girl of average sense 
to perceive advantages in xK)sses8ions desirable for others, even if not for her- 
self ; And the spirit of petty jealousy plays a small part in her college world. 
The idea of an easy supremacy without a struggle is never particularly attrac- 
tive to girls, and this, apart from considerations of courtesy, may account for 
the very limited extent to which we ** run down " each other's colleges. It is 
indispntably much more satisfactory to feel collectively superior to other very 
fine institutions than to persuade oneself that the others amount to nothing 
anyway, and hardly need enter into our consideration. If we are confident 
of our own strength, why belittle our competitors? Certainly an aggressive 
attitude toward other institutions of learning is not a requisite of college 

The real evidence bearing on the subject is a phase of our life practically 
unknowable to those who have never been college girls. This is the system 
by which girls are given their rank in the college world. Outside, people may 
rank according to family, position, wealth, anything the world pleases. In 
this smaller world, intrinsic worth is the determining power. There is a 
place for the society belle, in which the figures vary slightly from year to 
year, vanishing with scarcely a sound. The athletic girl is idolized, photo- 
gr^hed, applauded; her departure is mourned as an irremediable loss. But 
her place is quickly filled, and to the third subsequent class she is practically 



unknown. It is the scholars, the thinking girls, whose fame endures. Let a 
girl prove her ability to think, to write, or to act (for interpretation is the re- 
verse process of creation), and her name is handed down from class to class 
as a model, an example of success, an honor to the college. It is a refined 
sense of college loyalty that causes us to seek out and encourage and honor 
those who in future time will do credit to the college we love and to which we 
are proud to belong. News from the outside world of some new success, lit- 
erary, philanthropic, or professional, causes an involuntary thrill and a feel- 
ing of personal joy and S3rmpathy, whether or not we have been fortunate 
enough to know the girl during her college career. 

What is it that brings moisture to the eyes and makes our hearts beat hard 
as the college song peals forth in unison from hundreds of throats ? What is 
the secret of our gladness in realizing that we are parts of such a whole, if it 
be not college loyalty ? What could it be but loyalty which prompts college 
girls to bring their dramatics, their glee clubs, their college magazines, to 
such a degree of finish ? These things mean no little extra work on their 
port ; and the courses are made sufficiently formidable to preclude the idea of 
much play along the way. Yet the girls find their recreation and reward in 
the report that goes forth and helps determine the world's opinion of their 

The lack of demonstration of college spirit outside of the college danudns 
can surely be deplored by none. It is impossible that by waving numeroua 
yards of silks, chosen without reference to the most challenging parts of the 
solar spectrum, and by raising up our voices in unified remarks about our- 
selves on all occasions, we would ever impress the world with a larger sense 
of our importance as institutions. We ourselves quite fail to see the relative 
imiwrtance of such display, and are very much alive to the lack of dignity, 
harmony, and general desirability of such public demonstrations. If there 
are those who demand such manifestations of college spirit, let them come to 
the colleges themselves, attend their basket ball games, their celebrations, 
large and small, — give the girls any occasion for it, and there will be no lack of 
banners and enthusiasm and songs and excitement. Yet it is what lies behind 
all this that constitutes true college loyalty ; we are proud of our colleges, 
their standing, their accomplished fame, their fine girls, and their unlimited 
promise, and we will prove it to the complete satisfaction of all at the proper 
time and in the proper places. 

Ethel Withington Chase 1002. 

The problem which confronts the Students' Building Committee every fall 
is the drawing up of the program for the year's work from which the great- 
est amount of money can be raised. To this prob- 
Report of Students' lem has been added this fall the more puzzling one. 
Building Committee of whether we have now reached the point where 

the actual erection of the building can be achieved. 
Before the building can be begun, we must decide whether a building the 
size of the one originally planned by the Committee in 1895 will meet the de- 
mands of the College now. As the Committee is now debating this question, 
and has also reached that period of delay in which plans, actual and ideal. 


must bo followed ont and yiewed from a {iractical standpoint, it neeniB best 
not to lay before the College at large the plans concerning the bnilding itself, 
until they can be given in a det'Hiled and clear form for the College to debate 
and decide upon. We do wish, however, to impress tix>on the College that 
this is the time when the enthusiasm of all is most needed. We are near the 
end in view, and with interest on the j>art of the College and energy on that 
of the Committee, we shonld very soon attain it. 

The pri»gram decided njwn for this winter was ojiened by the reading given 
by Dr. S. Weir Mitchell in College Hall, on Tuesday evening, November 
27th. It may be of interest to state that this reading was given by Dr. 
Mitchell because he considers Smith nearer his ideal than any otber woman's 
college. A small admi8.siou wns charged at the Yale-Harvard basket baU 
game, and it is to the suggestion of some of the players them^elveB that we 
owe the fifty dollars realized from this. 

The future prog^m will consist of a Christmas Fair on December 15th. 
AsthealnmnsB in Northampton have most kindly promised to manage it, 
and the general alumnae to send the donations for it, we hope the College will 
do its part by giving as large an attendance as possible. The hours will bo from 
three thirty to &ve thirty in the afternoon, and from seven to nine thirty in 
the evening. A debate has been planned for the evening of the 2'ind of Feb- 
ruary, between the junior and senior classes. The teams will probably be 
chosen by competition from the two classes represented, and the subject will 
be an historical one. A joint Alpha-Phi Kappa Psi play will be given in the 
second term, for which the date is not yet definitely decided. The knowledge 
of this is all that is necessary to ensure its success. We hope to have Mr. 
Elbert Hubbard lecture here in March or April ; a progressive game party in 
the gymnasium, and possibly a concert by Mr. Proctor, completes the list 
planned for this year. 

Maby Louise Caldwell 1901, 

Chairman of Students* Building Committee. 

Asa result of the visit of Mrs. Alice Gordon Gulick to Northampton, 
Smith College hopes to equip a ** Smith Room'* in the new College Hall of 

the Intemational Institute for Girls in 
Mrs. Gnlick's Work in Spain Spain. This school, founded in 1881 at 

San Sebastian, removed at the beginning 
of the Spanish War to Biarritz, France, followed loyally by all its pupils, is 
to return to Spain and take up quarters at Madrid. Mrs. Gulick has been in 
America for more than a year raising money for a building and endovnnent 
fond. In this she asks the codperation of the women's colleges, especially 
in equipping recitation rooms and laboratories. 

It is an appeal to which college women ought to resix>nd, for, though Spain 
makes no provision for the higher education of girls, the advantages offered 
by an American school have been eagerly appreciated. The conferring of 
the degree of Ph. D., with the Spanish equivalent of gumma cum laude, by 
the conservative University of Madrid upon two Spanish girls trained by 
American college graduates at San Sebastian, was heard of with amazement 
in the university centers of Europe. The creditable work of these girls and 


the other prradnates — ^many of whom have taken the A. 6. degi-ee by exanii- 
nations at the State Infititnte— as teachers of all gn^arles from the kindergartf n 
np. as translators, nurses, and in all departments of Cbriptian activity, has 
won the admiration of many Spaniards. 

Mrs. Gnlick brings to this work an experience of more than twenty-five 
years in Spain, remarkable ability, the charm of a rare personality, and self- 
sacrificing devotion. The two snmmers of her stay in America she gave to the 
visiting of the Spanish prisoners at Portsmouth and to the ardnons charge of 
the Cuban women teachers at Cambridge. The work of this woman who is 
held in high esteem in this country and Europe ought to be placed on a per- 
manent basis by the speedy raising of an endowment fund. The present 
seems a peculiarly fitting time to foster the kindly feeling toward America by 
a generous gift to the work of education in Spain as well as in her former 

Contributions will be gladly received by the following committee :— For the 
faculty. Miss Jordan, Miss Scott, Miss Toung, Miss Cheever : for the stn- 
dents, Mary Bellows, Julia Bolster, Mary Lewis, Eleanor Hotchkiss. Louise 
Meyer, Alice Duryee, Jean Tolar, Ursula Minor, Blanche Bissell, Ethel Barnes, 
Edith Fales, Irene Brown, Jessie Ames, Margaret Porter, Florence Covel. 

Louisa S. Chbevbs. 

Almost immediately after the announcement of the senior play in the last 
Monthly, the dramatics committee received word from the Daly Estate that 
they could not let us have the acting rights of the *' Foresters." The class has 
therefore been forced to make another choice, and announces that the senior 
play will be Shakespeare^s '* Taming of the Shrew.'* This play seems the 
best of those now possible for us to give, and it was chosen by a nearly unan- 
imous vote of the class. And we feel sure that notwithstanding the un- 
exx)ected delays in starting the prexNiration of dramatics, it will prove an 
attractive and pleasing part of our Commencement program. 

Ellen Tucker Ebibrson, President of class of 1901. 

A precedent was established on the twenty-second of November by the 
Smith Volunteer Band. In order to keep in touch with the graduate volun- 
teers of Smith, the Band set apart this day as a 
S. C. A. C. W. Notes ** Past Members* Day," and at the regular weekly 

meeting letters from the graduate volunteers 
were read, telling of themselves, of their work, and of their plans and hopes. 
Among the graduates who will yet be remembered in college, there are six 
who are planning to be foreign missionaries : Florence Anderson *98 ; Alice 
Jackson *98; Mary Fairbank '99; Mabel Milham 1900; Adelaide Dwight 1900; 

Mary Whitcomb 1900. 

Sarah Lydia Deforest 1901. 

It has long been felt by many of the student body that the old scheme for 
the rental and sale of second-hand books through the medium of the blue- 
print room in the Alumnae Gynmasium was altogether precarious and unsat- 
isfactory. Undoubtedly a large proportion of the wants of both '* producer** 
and *' consumer ** has gone needlessly unfulfilled because of the hasty brush 


of apassmg cai)e, a loosened pin, a fallen paper, and the tramp of many feet. 
Id short, a book exchange has been needed. Throngh the kindness and coop- 
eration of President Seelye, room 4 in the old gymnasinm has been offered for 
SDch an exchange. This office is open three times a week for the receipt and 
deHvery of second-hand books. The honrs are Monday and Saturday 11-12. 
10 a.m.; Wednesday, 12-1 p. m. The exchange dedncts 10 per cent from the 
receipts in return for its sendees as exchange agent. The old prices hold for 
those procuring books, and terms are strictly cash. All those who have books 
which they care to sell through the exchange will confer a great favor jxpoa 
all oonoemed if they will promptly bring such books to the exchange office ; 
and those desiring to rent their books through the exchange wiU equally facil- 
itate matters by bringing their lists of books, with the author's name given 
in each case, to the same office as soon as possible. The present plan is to 
have the system in good running order by the opening of the second semester. 
Any inquiries, information, or suggestions will be gladly received. 

Gbbtrudb Oqdem Tubbt 1002. 

The fan tennis tournament is at last over. In consequence of the large 
entry list, increased to a great extent by the class of 1004, the tournament 
lasted until November 16. The finals in singles were played by Miss Walker 
1902 and Miss Evans 1008, Miss Walker winning by the score of three out of 
ihre sets. The finals in doubles were played by Miss Holmes and Miss 
Aldricfa 1902 against Miss Beech er and Miss Evans 1008, Miss Beecher and 
Miss Evans winning by a score of three out of four sets. 

Margery Ferriss 1002. 

On Saturday evening, November 10, at an open meeting of the Phi Kappa 
Psi Society, Mr. Edward Waldo Emerson s];)oke on ** Reminiscences of Henry 
Thorean.'* Mr. Emerson told of Thoreau's manner of life, his pursuits, and 
interests ; but the charm of the lecture lay chiefly in the glimpses that the 
audience got into the x>ersonality of Thorean. The man himself, as he talked 
and worked, seemed to be present to them. Such an impression was doubt- 
less the result of Mr. Emerson* s delightful anecdotes and of his own warm 
appreciation and admiration of his friend. 

For the benefit of the Students* Building, Dr. S. Weir Mitchell gave, on 
Tuesday evening, November 27, a very pleasant reading from his poems and 
from his new book, *< Sir Francis Drake." 

Marion Louise Sharp 1001, is awarded the Fumess prize for the best essay 
on Shakespeare. The subject for the essay this year was *' Shakespeare* s 
Plain People." 

The class of nineteen hundred and one has appointed the following commit- 
tee for the senior play : Chairman, Miriam Titcomb ; costume member, G6ne- 
▼i^e King ; music member, Constance Chamley ; business manager, Ethel 
Presoott Stetson; advisory member, Rosamond Hull. Miss Sanborn was 
obliged to resign the position of business manager on account of ill health. 


Owing to the nnmber of long papers read in English 18 thii Tear, maaj 
excellent short atoriee and poems are t;rowded ont. The editors of the 
Monthly beg that stndentB taking English IS will be very generons in bdV 
mitting work that is not read in claas. The Monthly is dependent for much 
of Its material npon this theme conrse, and a more liberal contribation will 
be of great asaisUuce to the editors. 

The October number of the Monthly for the year 1898 is lacking frran the 
file in the library, and since the bound volnme of the magaeine will not be' 
complete without it, any one who is willing to part with this nnmber for the 
consideration of fifty cents, is n^^ntlj requested to deliver it to the bnanees 
manager of the Monthly. 

On Wednesday evening, KTovember 21, the Albright House gave a very en- 
joyable dance in the gymniisiani. 

All almnns who intend to get copies of the 1901 class book are requested 
to send their names to Miss Dewey, Tyler Honse, as soon as possible, since 
some estimate of the outside applications is necessary in determining the 
nnmber of copies to be printed. 

The class of nineteen hundred and one has appointed for Ivy Orator, Char- 
lotte Bnrgis DeForest, and for toast-mistress, Ellen Tocker Emerson. 

On Thursday, December 6, the Biological Society gave an open meeting, at 
which Professor Tyler of Amherst lectured on " Qrowth." 


Dec. 12, Christmas Concert. 

15, Fair for the Students' Building. 

19, Christmas Holidays begin. 

Jan. 3, Christmas Holidays end. 

7, Philosophical Society. 

8, Colloquiam. 

9, 32 and 36 Bedford Terrace Dance. 
12, Phi Kappa Psi Society. 

17, Biological Society. 


Smitb CoUege 


Banuan? «• t90t. 
Conbucteb b^ tbc Senior CIa99. 


6IF1 Oh THt 


^.NOV 7 1923 


shakbgpeabe*s plain people 


A Study in Analysis 

In Harmony 


Fads in Speech and Conversation 


The Bomhatsuri 


The Trials of the Oppressed 

. Marion Louise STiarp 1901 198 

. Alice Morgan Wright 1904 208 

Florence Evelyn Smith 1902 210 

Edith Turner Newcomb 190B 215 

Maude Barrows Button 1903 216 

Ruth Barbara Canedy 190X 216 

. Ruth Louise Oaines 1901 220 

Fanny Hastings 190S 220 

Anne Harriet Coe 1902 228 

Quatrain .... Elizabeth Hamlin Macniel 1902 225 
Croquet or **The Strenuous Life" JvliaPost Mitchell 1901 226 
The Interloper .... Edith LaJbaree Lewis 1902 228 



The Smith College Monthly is pnblished at Northampton, Massachn- 
setts, on the 15th of each month, dnring the year from October to Jnne, incln- 
sive. Terms, $1.50 a year, in advance. Single numbers, 20 cents. Contri- 
butions may be left at 8 Gymnasium Hall. Subscriptions may be sent to 
E. M. deliong, 58 High Street, Northampton. 

Btitered at the Post Offloe at Northampton, Massaohusetts, as aeoond class matter. 


Smith College Monthly 


Ethel Wallace Hawkins, 
Chablottb Bcrgis DeFobest, Bute Louise Gaines, 

Ethel Barstow Howard, Mabouerite Cutler Page, 

Jean Shaw Wilson, Laura Woolsey Lord. 

business manager, 
Ethel Marguerite dsLono. 

Vol. YHL JANUARY, lOOi. No. * 



There are certain aspects of Shakespeare's poetry in which 
the nineteenth century is especially interested. They are those 
which in every department of philosophy are at present engag- 
ing the attention of thinking people : the practical problems of 
life. Therefore we have volumes written discussing Shakes- 
peare's views on religion, his political theories, and his philoso- 
phy of life for the individual. Another test of Shakespeare's 
usefulness as a guide in modern practical problems ought surely 
to be his teachings on questions of sociology as represented in 
the only aspect of it that can be seen in his works, — his attitude 
towards the plain people. An inquiry into such a question has 
many difficulties, the chief of which is that the poet's opinion 
on this subject must be gathered wholly from an inductive 
study of the characters themselves, without aid from explicit 
or abstract statements. But there is a compensation in the cer- 
tainty of the result when it is found, for the fact that the great 
majority of Shakespeare's plain people are characters entirely 
original with him is a proof that the attitude displayed towards 
them as a whole is a genuine expression of the poet's own 


In looking at the lists of characters of the plays, one is at the 
first struck with the comparatively small number of those that 
can properly be called ** plain people," and a further study 
makes it evident that even of these only a part can be taken as 
representing the poet's serious opinions. For Shakespeare's de- 
lineations of plain people fall naturally into two classes : the 
seriously drawn portraits, and the caricatures. Although in 
general the latter are not so valuable for study as the former, 
yet in many cases they furnish indirect or negative evidence 
that is not found in the serious representations, and which adds 
much to the sum total of our understanding of Shakespeare's 
conception of plain people. Besides these typical plain people, 
shown either in caricature or in their actual proportions, there 
are many characters in the plays that seem on the border-land 
of both the middle and the higher or the middle and the lower 
classes of society. This confusion is due to Shakespeare's ten- 
dency to disregard outward circumstances and position in order 
to lay more emphasis on the development of the mind, and in 
some cases he has carried this so far that the result is a partial 
contradiction. Some of his most original characters are con- 
ceived in this manner, of which Falstaff is a good example. 
How can this notorious drunkard be of the same social class 
with Shakespeare's refined gentlemen ? — and, on the other hand, 
how can the unrivaled humorist and chosen companion of 
Prince Henry belong to the lowest class, with whom he is seen 
in fellowship ? There are many characters such as this, some 
of whom may seem by outward circumstances to belong with 
Shakespeare's plain people, but who have inner qualities sa 
widely different that an immeasurable distance severs them 
from the real plain people. It is tlierefore better to exclude 
these entirely from our study, and to consider only those whom. 
Shakespeare himself unmistakably regarded as of this type. • 

The only plays of Shakespeare in which the principal actors 
are plain people,— ST/ie Merry Wives of Windsor and The Com^ 
edy of Errors, — contain, as we should expect, the most typical 
and the most complete portraits of this class. The charactera 
in these plays are also, for the most part, seriously drawn, and 
it is these rather than the caricatures that give the most com- 
plete portraits. The value of the caricatures in this study is in 
supplementing the general impression by adding minor traits,, 
and in making clear certain characteristics by means of the 


over-emphasis and exaggeratiou in which the caricature con- 

In The Merry Wives of Windsor ^ the atmosphere is unmis- 
takable. We are transported to an English country town, and 
much of the action takes place out of doors. Against this 
background of simple, rural life the characters of the play 
stand out distinctly, themselves the representatives of English 
rustic simplicity. This play gives us the best picture of family 
life that Shakespeare has drawn, and this fact, necessitating as 
it does that each member of the family should be shown in 
many different relations, gives to these country people a certain 
quality of reality and concreteness that is not found even in 
Shakespeare's greatest characters. Here are treated the rela- 
tions of husband and wife, of parents and children, and of 
friends and neighbors, besides the more slightly sketched love 
story of Anne P^ge and Fenton. It is noticeable that the boy 
William Page, incompletely as he is drawn, is Shakespeare's 
only portrait of a child of the middle class. 

Although, contrary to the usual rule, in this play fully as 
much emphasis is laid on the action as on the character] zatiou, 
yet some of the principal actors are drawn with much skill and 
distinctness. The ** merry wives," Mrs. Page and Mrs. Ford, 
are perhaps the least differentiated. They are alike in their 
sturdy common sense, their ingenuity, their high moral princi- 
ples, and their appreciation of the humorous side of life. Mrs. 
Page is shown in more relations than Mrs. Ford, for she is con- 
cerned for the welfare of her daughter and her little son. In 
the scene in which young William appears, we see the ambition 
of the plain woman to give her son a better education than she 
herself enjoyed, and her complacent pride in his rather doubt- 
ful progress. In her relation to her daughter she is shown in a 
less favorable light, for, although she is not so blind to Anne's 
welfare as is Mr. Page, who considers nothing but money, she 
shows her lack of insight and sympathy by attempting to force 
the marriage with Dr. Gains. Mr. Page and Mr. Ford are more 
carefully depicted than their wives. The hospitable, easy- 
going, and jovial Page is contrasted with the suspicious Ford, 
who alone in this merry company has a morbid moral sense. 
This characteristic is emphasized by his corresponding lack of 
humor, which is so important an element in most of the other 
characters. The difference between the two men in this respect 


is well brought out in the scene where Ford shows his utter ina- 
bility to see the proportions of things by making an elaborate 
and high-flown apology to his wife. The impatient interruption 
of Page is characteristic : 

" 'Tis well, 'tis well ; no more : 
Be not as extreme in submission 
As in offence." 

In the host of the Garter Inn there is another contrast to Ford, 
for the most noticeable trait in this jovial fun-maker is a keen 
appreciation of the ludicrous. His sense of humor is more 
complex and refined than that of most of the other characters, 
for he sees material for laughter not only in the palpably comic 
situations from which the merriment ot* the ** wives of Wind- 
sor'' is drawn, but also in the more subtle comedy that is in- 
herent in the characters of some of his companions. He takes 
delight in inveigling the fiery Dr. Caius and the dignified par- 
son Evans into a situation in which the peculiarities of each 
will be shown to the best advantage for the edification of him- 
self and his friends. 

In ** sweet Anne Page" we have decidedly the highest type of 
character in the play. The only ideal element in the action cen- 
ters around her, and it is largely this love idyl, inconspicuous 
though it is, that redeems the play from its otherwise too 
strongly emphasized farcical character. That Shakespeare 
drew this figure, in whom the more ideal traits are prominent, 
with deliberate intent is shown by the care and skill which he 
lavished on the characterization, as if to counterbalance the in- 
conspicuousness of her part in the action of the play. In the 
first place, she is in strong contrast to almost all the other char- 
acters except Fenton. A description of her is put into the 
mouth of another character, a device little used in this play : 
**She has brown hair, and speaks small like a woman." She is 
also shown in many diflferent relations, each of which brings 
out a new side of her nature. Towards the foolish Slender she 
is dignified, but courteous, as becomes the hostess ; in her rela- 
tions with her parents, although she uses some deception, she 
appears entirely excusable under the circumstances. She is en- 
dowed with a quick insight into character, and she has a sense 
of humor that is far more delicate and refined than that of her 
companions. The difference is seen when we compare the rude 
appreciation of somewhat grossly comic situations shown by 


Mrs. Page and Mrs. Ford with the humorous philosophy of 

Anne, when she says, speaking of her father's preference for 

Slender : 

" O, what a world of vile, ill-favored faults 
Looks handfiome in three hundred pounds a year ! " 

But it is in her relations with Fenton that the highest side of 
her nature is emphasized. In her choice of the refined gentle- 
man in preference to the more common people by whom she is 
surrounded, there is an indication of the sympathies and the 
tendency of her mind. Unlike her father and mother, she is 
influenced by no worldly considerations, and her unhesitating 
choice of the poorer man is a proof of the simplicity and truth 
of her nature. Her lover's defence of their deception well ex- 
presses her own attitude towards the most sacred things of life : 

'* The offence is holy that she hath committed : 

And this deceit loses the name of craft, 

Of disohedience, or nndnteons title ; 

Since therein she doth evitate and shon 

A thousand irreligions cnrsM hours 

Which forcM marriage would haye brought upon her." 

These are the seriously depicted characters in The Merry 
Wives of Wirtdsor, and they are the most complete expressions 
that we have in any one play of Shakespeare's conception of 
plain people. The sketches elsewhere drawn, with the exception 
of the characters in The Comedy of Errors, do not pretend to be 
complete portraits, although they are very valuable as giving 
additional traits, for of course the persons in any one play can 
not be complete representatives of a class. The fundamental 
coDception, then, of plain people in Shakespeare's works, 
though not a complete one, is to be found in these country peo- 
ple of Windsor. The characteristic that stands out most clearly 
from a study of these characters is the high morality that be- 
longs to all of them. In Ford this is accompanied by a morbid 
over-anxiety, but in the others it is perfectly natural, and this 
spontaneity proves it to be deep-rooted. But in these men and 
women, with the sole exception of Anne Page, there is no indi- 
cation of a development of the moral into the religious sense ; 
the higher feelings in them seem to have been crushed out by 
the common round of daily duties and pleasures. With Anne 
Page it is different. Her attitude towards life in general is in- 
dicated by her action in regard to her marriage, and, although 


the religious sense in her is not explicitly brought out, it is at 
least suggested from what is shown of her character. In the 
midnight masque in Windsor forest, Mrs. Page and Mrs. Ford 
saw only a comic situation, but we are sure that Anne felt also 
the beauty of the quiet woods. 

A trait common to all these characters (here again Ford is the 
only exception) is the sense of humor that never deserts them. 
In most of them it does not rise above a good-natured jocularity ; 
in Anne Page alone it appears in a more refined form. Not one 
of these men and women is a real humorist. The general char- 
acter of the members of this country community precludes the 
possibility of any strong element of passion in their natures, 
the only suggestion of it being in the love of Anne Page. 
Ford's jealousy is a mere caricature of the passion which Shakes- 
peare has treated so grandly in OtheUo and The Winters Tale. 
In accordance also with the prevailing traits of these people, 
the poet has delineated no change or development of character. 
At the end of the play all the actors are at exactly the same 
point of development as before the events there shown took 
place. The reconciliation of Ford to his wife might be cited as 
an exception ; but after all this is only one of the comic inci- 
dents of the play, and it is impossible that any real revolution 
of character should be brought about by farcical means. This, 
then, is the representation of plain people given in this play ; 
in general, they are typical country people, not over-refined, 
but unimpeachable in the integrity of their morals ; possessing 
a sense of the ludicrous, but lacking the appreciation of the 
beautiful and sublime that almost invariably accompanies the 
subtle and refined humor of Shakespeare's higher characters - 
living their lives in almost unbroken tranquillity, but, on the 
other hand, incapable of rising to any sublime height of passion. 
Anne Pa«^e is a partial exception to these statements in almost 
every respect. It is as if the poet were not satisfied to leave 
the characters in this play on record as his ultimate conception 
of plain people, and therefore introduced in her a character 
containing more of the ideal element. Yet she is not so differ- 
ent from her companions as to be out of place, for it seems 
perfectly natural that she should bid her father's guests welcome 
to the "pip])ins and cheese," and take part in the practical 
joke directed against the fat knight. There is a long distance 
between Anne Page and Beatrice. 


The Comedy of Errors is the play that gives the most com- 
plete portrait of plain people next to that in The Merry Wives 
of Windsor, However, it has not nearly the value of the latter, 
because, being one of Shakespeare's earliest plays, its character- 
ization is imperfect, and interest in the actors is overshadowed 
by interest in the plot. Had the picture here been as well drawn 
and as complete as that in The Merry Wives of Windsor^ we 
should have hacl a companion piece to that, the people of Wind- 
sor representing the plain people of the country, while the 
merchants and their families in Ephesus appeared as the type 
of plain people in the city. But although some of the charac- 
ters here are little more than names, several stand out quite 
clearly, and from them we get new traits to add to the portrait 
of Shakespeare's plain people. 

The difference that is most apparent between this play and 
The Merry Wives of Windsor is the fact that here several of 
the characters have a tragic interest, and, as Gervinus has 
pointed out, the whole action is thus given a tragic background 
which prevents it from being a mere burlesque. Here, then, 
are men and women whose lives are not passes! in uneventful 
tranquillity, and whose higher natures are not allowed to sleep 
undisturbed by sorrow, ^geon is one of Shakespeare's most 
attractive pictures of old men. He is dignified and calm even 
in sorrow and in the face of death, but his most prominent trait 
is a noble and unselfish domestic love. His character is very 
slightly sketched, but Shakespeare's estimate of him may be 
gathered from the fact that he places him in a position exciting 
our deepest sympathy, u^milia, the wife of ^geon, belongs in 
the portrait gallery of the nuns and the friars. She has the com- 
mon qualities of that class,— prudence and superior tact and 
wisdom in judging. The other women of the play, Adriana 
and Luciana, are not so carefully drawn, though their charac- 
ters are more differentiated than those of their husbands. Ex- 
cept that they conspicuously lack any sense of humor, they 
resemble the women of the Windsor play ; but they are not 
shown in so many relations as the latter. The picture of family 
life here is less complete for this very reason ; for instance, there 
is no hint of relations between parents and children in the 
home. On the other hand, the relation between mistress and 
servants is developed at length. 

It is clear that in The Comedy of Errors a very different type 


of plain people is shown from that in The Merry Wives of 
Windsor. The very atmosphere in which they move is more^ 
conventional, and the characters lack the freshness and charm 
of those in the rural surroundiDgs. The sense of humor, which, 
is so prominently shown in the country people, is absolutely 
lacking in these, with the possible exception of -^Emilia. Indeed, 
master and mistress are strongly contrasted with the servants 
by reason of the fact that the latter do have a sense of humor 
to a considerable degree. The moral tone of this play, as of the 
other, is high, but here it is not so spontaneous and healthy, at 
least in the part devoted to the farcical action. In considering 
the other qualities shown by the people in Tlt^ Comedy of 
ErrorSy we must distinguish between the characters belonging 
to the different parts of the action, ^geon and Emilia, whose 
story forms the tragic background, certainly have a religious 
sense, though in both it is implied rather than developed. In 
both, also, there is true passion, although it is much more 
developed in ^geon than in Emilia. The characters of the 
main action, on the other hand, lack both the religious sense 
and the capability of passion, for, although Adriana's jealousy 
is treated in a serious manner in contrast to that of Ford in 
The Merry Wives of Windsor , yet it never rises to the dignity of 
passion. In like manner, the love of Antipholus of Syracuse 
for Luciana can be disposed of as coutributiug mostly to the 
action of the play. This courtship entirely lacks the ideal 
element that marks the love of Anne Page and Fenton. Con- 
sidering the actors in the main part of The Comedy of Errors, 
there is little to add to the conception of plain people already 
gained from The Merry Wives of Windsor. Those in the back- 
ground, however, are of quite a different type ; they add the 
qualities of dignity and elevation of character in humble cir- 
cumstances, and of capacity for genuine passion and religious 

The contribution to our subject of the remaining individual 
characters among Shakespeare's seriously delineated plain peo- 
ple must necessarily be small. Instead of the atmosphere of 
middle-class society we have for the most part that of the court 
or the rich gentleman's house, and the part played by the per- 
sons we are considering, instead of being the most prominent^ 
is often the most insignificant. From this fact it follows that 
these characters can not be drawn with any completeness, and 


sometimes only the merest sketch is given. It follows, also, 
from the fact that they are introduced not for their own sake, 
but for the sake of the action or the theme of the play as a 
whole, that the portraits will not only be fragmentary, but will 
sometimes be distorted by the attempt to adapt them to only 
one function in the drama. We have to beware, therefore, of 
drawing too positive conclusions from characters that appear 
thus in only one aspect, although, of course, this is not true in 
so great a degree as in studying the caricatures, which are pur- 
posely distorted. 

Most of the remaining plain people that are seriously drawn 
fall naturally into three classes : the typical country peasants, 
the friars and the nuns, and those designated as *' citizens.'' Be- 
sides these there are a few characters, which, since they are of 
the same social class as those we have been studying, it will be 
well to consider first. These are : the Widow and Diana in AW 9 
Wea that Ends Well; Antonio in Twelfth Night; and the old 
men in Macbeth and King Lear^ respectively. Each of these* 
though all are incompletely drawn, adds some new element to 
our conception of the plain people of this class. In the widow 
and her daughter we have perhaps the most highly developed 
moral sense in any of the plain people. In Antonio the faithful 
friend is emphasized, and it is noticeable that this is the only 
one of Shakespeare's plain people that represents preeminently 
the virtue of friendship. On the part of Antonio certainly this 
attachment is worthy to be compared with the poet's more cel- 
ebrated pictures of friendship, as, for instance, that between 
Rosalind and Celia, or between the Venetian gentlemen, Anto- 
nio and Bassanio. This sea-faring man has perhaps more 
capacity for passion than any other of Shakespeare's plain peo- 
ple except jEgeon. The character is very sympathetically 
drawn. The old men in Macbeth and King Lear each appear in 
only a single scene, and are introduced for a dramatic purpose 
not connected with the development of their own characters, 
yet they are so sympathetically delineated that thej' doubtless 
represent Shakespeare's true conception. The old man in Mac- 
beth appears only in a scene inserted to give information, yet 
his love of reminiscence, his reflectiveness, and his religious 
sense are well brought out. In King Lear, the purpose of the 
introduction of the old man is to illustrate the thought of the 
play by contrast, and therefore the only characteristics empha- 
sized are his gratitude and gentleness. 


In considering the country peasants, we pass from the middle 
grade of society into a class unique and separated from the 
others, — neither middle nor lower. It is the class containing 
people that are emphatically ** children of Nature," in whom 
neither the rules of conventional society nor the effects of edu- 
cation have had opportunity to work. It contains almost all of 
Shakespeare's natural clowns, as distinguished from his refined 
and witty court fools. It is noticeable that almost all the men 
belonging here may be called clowns, while the women, with 
the exception of Audrey, are not remarkable for their stupidity, 
but quite the opposite. Perhaps the representatives of these 
country peasants that are most true to life are Audrey and 
William in As You Like It. What the character of Audrey 
loses in stupidity it gains from her ingenuousness and strong 
moral sense. The emphasis on the natural morality of this 
simple, almost stupid, character is significant as expressing, 
once for 4ill, Shakespeare's belief in the fundamental and inevi- 
table character of moral law. Audrey's sisters are very meagerly 
drawn, and little emphasis is laid on their moral sense, though 
it is by no means contradicted. They are represented as pretty 
country girls, whereas Audrey is entirely without beauty. 
Jaquenetta in Lovers Labour's Lost has a quick wit and ready 
insight into character ; Mopsa and Dorcas in The Winter's Tale 
are coquettish shepherdesses, whose chief charm lies in the 
scenic effect produced when the play is acted. 

Of the clowns, William is probably the most true to life, but 
he is the least differentiated of all. His chief characteristics 
seem to be stupidity and humility. Costard is a far more com- 
plex character, though he is probably less faithfully drawn 
from life ; for, like most of the actors in this play, he bears a 
very direct relation to the theme, and the conception of his 
character must be modified in accordance with that. He is like 
William in his natural stupidity, but he has other traits that 
seem to connect him with several distinct types of Shakespeare's 
characters. For instance, his self-consciousness and his ludi- 
crous misuse of words seem to suggest the constable family, 
although neither of these characteristics is so fully developed 
as we find it in the best representatives of that class. Again, 
his affectation of wit and philosophy seems like an imitation of 
the court fools. The great difference, of course, is that Cos- 


tard's wit always breaks down, as, for example, in his conversa- 
tion with the genuinely witty Moth : 

" Costard. Well, if ever I do see the merry days of deso- 
lation that I haTe seen, some shall see — 

*< Moth, What shall some see ? 

" Costard. Nay, nothing, master Moth, bat what they 
look nixm." 

The old shepherd and his son in The Winter^a Tale are the 
most attractive of Shakespeare's natural clowns. Both have 
the simplicity and ingenuousness that is the chief charm of 
Audrey and William, but the many-sidedness of their charac- 
ters makes them far more interesting than the monotonously 
stupid peasants of the Forest of Arden. For instance, the 
shepherd's son, although too credulous to take care of his 
money, by no means gives the impression of stupidity, for he is 
endowed with a vivid imagination which is his most prominent 
trait. This is shown in his description of the wreck and it 
explains his seeming cowardice in the interview where Autolyciis 
tells him of the tortures awaiting him. Another characteristic 
is his warm-hearted generosity and pity, which, though not 
joined to good judgment, is very attractive. The old man is 
distinguished by his moral sense and by his quaint seriousness, 
which, though it appears comic to us, was very real to hiui. 
Both of these traits are well shown in the scene after the trans- 
formation of the two rustics, and the language is characteristic 
of the man. The clownish son is speaking to the rogue 
Antolycus : 

''CZoim. Give me my hand: I will swear to the prince 
thou art as honest a true fellow as any is in Bohemia. 

*' Shepherd. You may say it, but not swear it. 

'* Clown. Kot swear it, now I am a gentleman ? Let boors 
and franklins say it, I'll swear it. 

*' Shepherd. How if it be false, son ? " 

Comparing those country peasants with the plain people of 
the middle class already considered, we find several likenesses 
and many points of difference. In general the same moral ele- 
ment is emphasized, but here it is never joined to a sense of 
humor. Indeed, the lack of this sense of humor, which includes 
the faculty of seeing ^'oursels as others see us," makes some of 
these peasants, notably Costard, verge on the class of comic 
characters. Another marked difference is in the intellectual 


plane of the two classes. Clearly these country people are in 
power of mind and even in common sense far below those in 
The Merry Wives of Windsor. The lack of capacity for passion 
and all higher feelings is very strongly marked in these charac- 
ters, and it is this lack more than anything else that tends to 
give a certain comic character to the whole class. In some 
cases, however, notably in the shepherd and his son in The 
Winter's Tale, this is counteracted by the sympathetic manner 
in which the characters are drawn. 

The friars and the nuns add little to our previous conception of 
Shakespeare's plain people, except those traits already shown in 
.Emilia, — prudence, superior wisdom, and general elevation of 
character. But when we turn to the class rather indefinitely 
referred to in the dramatis personce as "citizens," we find an 
entirely new set of characteristics emphasized. The citizens 
appear with any importance in only four plays : Julius C(Bsar, 
CoriolanuSy King Richard the Third, and King John; but be- 
tween those shown in these plays there are great differences. 
In Julius CcBsar, the people are represented almost entirely as 
a body, and very little as individuals. The mob is character^ 
ized by absolute fickleness, unreasonableness, and stupidity. In 
the one scene where the citizens are treated as individuals, the 
first scene of the play, they appear in a slightly better light, 
for one, at least, is gifted with a quick wit unusual among all 
Shakespeare's plain people. In Coriolanus the same rule holds. 
Where the people are considered as a mob they are shown as 
easily influenced and untrustworthy ; but, treated as individ- 
uals, they show real worth. Several of the leaders especially 
exhibit impartiality in judging and a tolerance that is contrasted 
with the unreasonableness of Coriolanus. Several of them also 
have considerable argumentative abilitj'. In King Richard the 
Third and King John, the citizens are shown entirely as indi- 
viduals, and it is here that they appear in their best aspect. In 
both plays they are thoughtful and capable of weighing the 
affairs of the nation. In tht^ scene in King Richard the Third 
especially they show a strong religious sense, and it is note- 
worthy that the passage often quoted as Shakespeare's own 
opinion: "Woe to that land that's governed by a child!" is 
put into the mouth of one of their number. Shakespeare's atti- 
tude towards the "citizens" is well summed up by Edward 
Dowden : "That he (Shakespeare) recognized the manly worth 


and vigor of the English character is evident. It can not be 
denied, however, that when the people are seen in masses in 
Shakespeare's plays, they are nearly always shown as factious, 
fickle, and irrational.'' 

The chief diCBculty in dealing with the plain people as repre- 
sented in caricature is in determining to what extent their char- 
acters are distorted by the exaggeration. For some caricatures, 
although of course certain traits are unduly exaggerated, are 
shown in so many aspects that they have a reality and therefore 
a value exceeding that of some seriously drawn characters. 
Generally, the value for our study of a caricature is in direct 
proportion to the remoteness of its relation to the theme of the 
play. For instance, Holofernes and Nathaniel in Lovers io- 
bour^s Lost afford very little material, because their connection 
with the theme is so close that they are little more than embod- 
iments of one exaggerated trait,— here, the affectation of learn- 
ing. On the other hand, the value of Bottom and his compan- 
ions in A Midsummer Nighfs Dream and of Sir Hugh Evans in 
Tfie Merry Wives of Windsor is great, because their relation to 
the theme is of such a nature that no one characteristic is 
required to be emphasized to the exclusion of all the others, 
and therefore we have a much fairer representation. 

Among the most sympathetically drawn of all Shakespeare's 
plain people, certainly the most sympathetically of the carica- 
tures, are the **rude mechanicals" in A Midsummer Night's 
Dream, Two qualities are especially emphasized in them 
(although they have many more); namely, their lack of imagi- 
nation and the element of pathos mingled with the comedy of 
their characters. The first adds a very real touch to our con- 
ception of a certain class of Shakespeare's plain people, but the 
second is invaluable as showing the poet's own attitude towards 
these homely, hard-working men. This attitude is well ex- 
pressed in the words used by Theseus when speaking of the 
humble theatrical efforts of these men : 

*' I will hear that play ; 
For never anything can be amiss 
When simpleness and dnty tender it.'* 

The character of Hugh Evans also is drawn with much insight 
and gives a valuable hint of Shakespeare's idea of the dignity 
and worth of plain men. In fact, although this character, 
on account of the exaggeration of the misuse of English, is 


technically a caricature, yet the final impression is that of a 
serious portraiture. There remain two classes of caricatures : 
the justice type, represented by Shallow in the second part of 
King Henry the Fourth, and the constable fraternity, whose 
greatest representative is Dogberry. The former has little 
value for our study, for most of these characters are so uni- 
formly contemptible that they hardly seem real, and they are 
caricatures more of a single trait found in all classes of society 
than of plain people as such. Likewise the class of constables, 
of which Dogberry is the hea<l and Dull the feeble forerunner, 
while Elbow is the still fainter echo, has little value for us ; 
for although these beings are among the most perfect comic 
characters, the exaggeration is carried so far that they can not 
give us any hints as to Shakespeare's serious conceptions of 
plain people. 

Such are some of the most typical of the diflFerent classes of 
Shakespeare's plain people. What, in general, is his attitude 
towards them ? In the first place, it is too complex to be 
reduced to a single formula, for the catholicity of his opinions 
is equal to the wideness of his observation. Here, as in every 
class of Shakespeare's characters, what surprises us most is the 
great variety of the types he has drawn, each true to life, yet 
each different from the others. But in this diversity we may 
distinguish some constant elements. Almost without exception 
these homely characters, oftentimes in spite of manj'^ drav."- 
backs, command our respect for their high moral standards. 
The majority of them also are drawn with such a sympathetic 
touch that they excite feelings of at least partial kinship in 
every reader. Many of them have a healthy sense of humor 
and a homely mother- wit that recommend them to our interest. 
Some of them, like Anne Page and Emilia, rise considerably 
above the common level in refinement and depth of feeling, and 
some, like Antonio the sea-captain and JEgeon, show genuine 
passion. But after all there is much to bo said on the other 
side. The most stubborn of facts remains that, although these 
characters may be the object of special study, yet for the ma- 
jority of readers Shakespeare's plain people, as such, have little 
interest. When we close the tragedy of Hamlet and turn to 
The Merry Wives of Windsor we feel at once a lowering of tone 
that is oppressive. The absorbing interest in a grandly con- 
caived character must be exchanged for a contemplation of the 


petty doings of the country people. Their morality, when 
placed beside the sense of the mysterious and sublime that dis- 
tinguishes many of Shakespeare's nobler characters, seems bare 
indeed ; their rude sense of the ludicrous, when compared with 
the humor of Beatrice or Rosalind, is mere buflFoonery. And 
where shall we find among them a man of Hamlet's intellect or 
one having the will power of Prince Henry ? Apain, though 
we admit that the poet has indeed drawn many of these homely 
characters with much sympathj', yet we shall nowhere find one 
of them portrayed with the infinite pathos with which he has 
surrounded his King Lear. But the most striking deficiency of 
these characters as compared with the grander conceptions of 
the poet's mind, is the entire absence of any growth or change 
in character. Not one of these people would be capable of the 
development of mind and soul that we see portrayed in Mac- 
l^eth, Hamlet, and Othello. This diflFerence is fundamental, and 
therefore the fact that Shakespeare has nowhere represented his 
liomely characters as rising to a tragic height of passion is very 

The bare, unvarnished fact concerning Shakespeare's attitude 
towards the plain people of society is not welcome to modern 
ears, and therefore the tendency to explain it away by urging 
that, had Shakespeare lived in our time, he would have given 
us a different picture is very natural. But, although it doubt- 
less contains a partial truth, such an explanation has a funda- 
mental deficiency. If Shakespeare be taken as a supreme guide 
to the understanding of human character, can we take exception 
to his teaching in this one respect ? The conception of his other 
characters is acknowledged to be universally true ; is it then 
likely that in these, whom he knew best, he should have been 
so far from reaching the universal ideal ? The more natural 
explanation is better : that Shakespeare, in his insight into the 
character of these homely people, has not fallen below thn won- 
derful power of observation and thought shown in his portrayal 
of other characters. And upon closer inspection it will be 
found that this asstTtion can even be supported by the facts 
which at first seemed to militate against it. For, when once we 
get into sympathy with the poet and look at these characters 
with his broad and impartial view, tlie absolute and universal 
truth of the portrait becomes at once apparent. After all has 
been said, must we not concede that with the plain people, as 


always, the truth of Shakespeare's representation transcends 
the prejudice that would conform all men of one class to one 
type ? For is it not true, in our time as in his, that diflEerences 
in refinement and education must form a dividing line between 
the classes of society, and that, other things being equal, the 
man of culture is superior, not only in knowledge, but in fine- 
ness and power of feeling, to the man of limited opportunities ? 
In the delineation of his rural clowns Shakespeare has expressly 
combated the idea that the natural man is the perfect man. 
But if further proof of the truth and impartiality of the poet's 
view is wanting, it is surely found in the fact that he did raise 
some of his plain people to a level far above that of their com- 
panions. These are the prophetic voices, though they are only 
faint suggestions, of Shakespeare's ideal conception of plain 
people, his countrymen and ours. 

Marion Louisb Sharp. 


A windy night and an hoar alone 

By the gay-colored flames of wood from the sea ; — 

With its hiss and spntter and creak and gn:t)an 

Each glowing log had a tale of its own, 

And these are the tales they told to me : 

" I am come from the oak of Zens, the oracle famed of Dodona ; 
Aloft on the prow of the Argo, his will to Jason revealing, 
Guiding the swift sailing vessel o'er the broad back of the waters, 
Qnickly to Colchis I went and qnickly retnmed from my seeking, 
Bearing snccess and the fleece and the fifty sons of Achaens." 

*' There was a ship, as fair a ship 

As ever eye did see, 
Till the mariner's bow laid the albatross low, — 

'Twas sad as sad could be. 

'* For the sea-bird slain sent sorrowful bane 

Ere again I saw the shore ; 
Then the pilot spoke and the captain awoke, 

And thus was I no more." 


'* Gmring and crawling 
Through the gray sea. 
Fleet as the raven 
Warward I went 
Under a ragged rock, 
Like a black cat and lean, 
Hnnger his only mate, 
Cronching and qnivering, — 
Forth on a hieeing wave 
Sprang to the prey. 

* Hear how the water sings I 
See the cold cowards qnail I 
Let their base blood befonl 
All the white foam. 

Strike from the crashing steel 
Flame to the Heavens I 
Kill on forever, kill 1' 
Then was I broken ; 
Down through the icy sea 
Conquering ever, 
Singing the battle song : 

* Skoal to the Norsemen ! ' ** 

** Saint Elmo's fire flashed round my mast. 

Beneath my keel the white flame streaked, 

Above, the wanton witches shrieked, 
As noiseless through the storm I passed. 

'< Straight through my hull the moonlight came 

To seamen wrecked on hidden reef ; 

My sails were like a year-old leaf 
That shivers through its naked frame. 

'* For cruise on cruise of seven years 

My weary spirit led the gale, 

Till rest came to my phantom sail 
Through faithful maidens* blessed tears.'* 

" That stately Spanish caravel was I, 

Who crossed the pathless deep to lands unknown ; 
Unused to tempests and gray northern sky, 

I dared all through my master's will alone. 

" Beset by blackest horrors of the sea, 
And dreading the last plunge in darker space. 

Fear would have ruled my course, and mutiny. 
But for the greater fear of that brave face. 


" Along the glistening track of sunset light, 
Sad nights I sailed straight on into the West, 

Till dawn disclosed a low faint line in sight 
Athwart my coarse, — ^the ending of my quest.*' 

Then the place grew dark and chiU with night, 

As the last pale gleam sprang up and died ; 
But I felt the warmth of a spirit^s flight, 
And the darkness rang with the 8ong*s delight 
That the dead ships sang in their deathless pride. 

AucB Morgan Wright. 


A cooly shadowy veranda, a cozy hammock, and a girl in a 
fluflEy white gown, — all very ordinary circumstances. It was 
also quite ordinary for the girl to be dreaming of a man. That 
sort of thing usually goes with lazy summer afternoons when 
the air is filled with balm. To-day, however, Dorothy was more 
than dreaming, — she was thinking. Every one has his own way 
of taking life ; Dorothy took hers analytically. Trained by a stiff 
college course to look for all there was to find in things, she had 
also applied the same method to herself and her friends with a 
view to self-improvement and the acquirement of " new expe- 

The summer before — college girls usually limit such experi- 
ments to the summer-time — she had tried adaptation and had 
successively won the hearts of a professor, a lieutenant, and a 
college athlete. This, however, she discovered was not the best 
way, for one had the double misfortune of losing one's own self 
and of gaining unwished-for other selves. Still, last summer^s 
experiences had been good for her, — she had gained a wonderful 
knowledge of electricity through the reading necessary to keep 
up with the professor, and military tactics were certainly a de- 
sirable acquisition which she would never have gained had it 
not been for the lieutenant. The athlete had not taught her 
much, for she could manage a boat and keep scores long before 
she met him ; she also had a previous knowledge of moon-lit 
waters and guitars. 

This year she had started out on an entirely different basis. 
She had found out what she herself could do, now she wanted 


to learn the possibilities of others and to discover whether they 
knew aught of adaptation. Therefore she resolved to act her 
natural self, to be recklessly merry and frivolous when so in- 
clined, to devote whole days to solitude when the spirit 
prompted, and not to be agreeable when it was an effort. Per- 
haps, had any very captivating individuals crossed her path, 
she would in feminine fashion have exerted herself to please 
them, and to practice in secret their favorite pursuits in life ; 
just as one summer she had learned to sing because a certain in- 
teresting tenor had come her way. As it was, no such individ- 
uals came this time. Consequently, when dealing with Bob, 
the big brother of her dearest friend, she acted quite herself 
without considering whether it pleased him or not. 

Bob had made a very unobtrusive entrance into her life, ap- 
pearing first as a useful means of conveying his sister home on 
dark nights. Later, when his family had removed to the beach, 
he fell into the habit of coming around evenings for a chat. 
Since he was only " Peg's brother," Dorothy decided that he was 
good for an experiment in Platonic friendship, and she pro- 
ceeded to treat him as if he were one of her girl friends. She 
had always wanted a study in that line. Gradually she fell 
into the babit of looking for him every evening, on the ground 
that he was worth analyzing and did not have to be entertained. 
Sometimes, when she did not feel like talking, she would tell 
him so ; and occasionally, preferring to be alone, she would send 
him home. Whenever they played tennis together, Dorothy 
always stopped the minute she felt inclined ; if they went 
wheeling, Dorothy never attempted to climb any but the small- 
est hills, and dismounted whenever a stray urchin or a cluster 
of wild flowers caught her fancy. Through it all, Bob amiably 
adapted himself. "I wonder," she would often question, **if 
Bob is always so good and considerate because I am Peg's friend, 
or because I'm the only girl left near town, or because he 
really — ?" Here she usually stopped. 

Toward the middle of the summer Bob had bought a canoe, 
and Saturday afternoons usually found him on the river with 
Dorothy, who always assisted at the paddle. Last year, she 
would have nestled cozily among the cushions with a dainty 
Japanese sunshade throwing rosy lights over her face and hair. 
That, however, she confessed, was not exactly Platonic, and she 
intended to act just as if he were Peg and not Peg's brother, or 


as if she were Bob's friend MacMasters and not a girl. Cer- 
tainly MacMasters would not try to look pretty,— it wouldn't 
be natural. 

To-day, as she swang slowly in the hammock, she was review- 
ing the summer and trying to adjust her ideas of Bob and his 
probable ones of her. ** It's just like my friendship for Peg- 
gy,'' she argued, ''and yet somehow, it's more interesting. 
You take it for granted that you can be yourself and perfectly 
frank with a girl, but I never hoped to have such an ideal 
friendship with a man. It is ideal. Who would imagine that 
I could ever feel so well acquainted with Bob as to send for him 
when I want to go wheeling or to give him ribbons to match 
down town ! That's it, I guess, — beside being a good friend 
he's more useful than a girl, and somehow you always feel so 
safe with any one so big. The best of it is that he never gets 
sentimental ; it would just spoil it all if he did. What a lot 
one can find in a person when one acts perfectly natural ! Now 
I should never have dreamed that a fellow like Bob cared 
about sunsets and books ; but then, Peg does, and I suppose 
such things run in a family. I wonder if I. should ever have 
discovered it if I had treated Bob as I did the professor ? '* 
She laughed softly to herself. " Wonder if Bob will take nie 
up the river this afternoon ? Why, there he comes now ! '' 

A big, broad-shouldered fellow jumped lightly off his wheel, 
smiling up at the piazza as he did so, and then, not waiting for 
breath, exclaimed, " The best news, Dorothy ! " 

" That's good ; what is it ?" 

'* You remember that Dodsley fellow that used to hang around 
Peg so much last summer ? Well, he's sent up word for Mac 
and me to come for a week's cruise down the coast. We're to 
start to-morrow morning at eight, and I'm going in town now 
to buy a suit of oilskins." 

Dorothy felt injured to think that he had planned it all before 
telling her; but then, she counter-argued, Peg would have done 
exactly the same thing, — it was the way all friends did. Still, 
it was rather a chill to hear that news when she had been 
dreaming of the river. For the first time she hid her real self 
from Bob. 

*' I'm awfully glad," she exclaimed; "you will have such a 
grand time ! Too bad, though, it isn't longer, for after you 
once get started you won't want to turn around. And won't 
you look jolly in oilskins ? " 


He looked at her queerly a moment. 

"Doll *'— he hesitated — ** after IVe been in town may I come 
around to say good-by ?" 

She was on the point of saying that she was going out that 
evening when it occurred to her that it was not in accordance 
with her basis. She would not say that to Peg. '* Surely/' she 
answered, " and don't stay too long ! " 

In the erening he dropped in and laid out more fully his 
plans for the trip. 

'' I suppose, of course, I sha'n*t hear about it until you come 
back," Dorothy ventured. 

''I suppose not," Bob answered, twirling his cap; "you 
koow how I hate to write letters. We'll talk it all over when I 
come back." 

"Yes,** Dorothy replied, "if— if father does not take me to 
the mountains.*' 

Bob looked at her again ; then they shook hands and he was 

The week was a slow one for Dorothy. Once she caught her- 
self rejoicing that at any rate Bob was spending his time in 
strictly masculine company. On reconsidering this thought, 
however, she banished it, since it was unnatural under the cir- 
camstances. She also gave up the idea of going to the moun- 
tains, asserting that she had decided to act her natural self, and 
adding, ** Anyway, I hate the mountains." 

Thus it happened that at the end of the week Bob found her 
in the hammock attired in one of her dainty summer gowns. 
As he came up the steps she advanced to meet him in her frank 
manner. She was decidedly in the mood to be agreeable. Bob 
looked unusually handsome under his coat of tan, and his eyes 
shone with unconcealed pleasure at sight of Dorothy. 

"I say, Dorothy," he began, after they had discussed the 
trip, " let's go up the river and take supper with us. There 
won't be many more such days this year." 

"Then you must help put up the lunch," rejoined Dorothy ; 
so the two repaired to the kitchen, where lie cut bread and 
opened cans and she made dainty sand wiches and packed the box. 
She liked Bob in the kitchen, for he was extremely useful ; 
aud then, he never seemed to mind how homely she looked when 
it was warm and the apron borrowed from the cook was spotted 
and unbecoming. 


The sun was setting when they arrived, so they ate luncli 
first, remembering a former experience when, in the dark, Bob 
had carefully laid the bottle of olives outside the canoe. After- 
ward they paddled about in the long twilight, sometimes drift- 
ing, sometimes fishing for lilies, and once in a while singing to- 
gether when they grew tired of talking. ''It makes Bob real- 
ize that we are just friends,'' Dorothy was thinking, ''if I don*t 
try to entertain him. After all, it is by far the best waj' just to act 
one's self ; then people get out of the habit of expecting things 
from you. Now the lieutenant expected me to be in love just 
because I put myself out to study military tactics and the 
Spanish War. Bob is so different and so reliable," she sighed. 
'* I am getting to understand him pretty well. He's such a 
practical old comfort." 

" Let's draw up beside the bank," broke in Bob ; "there are 
mosquitoes out here." 

" Won't there be more there ? " queried the girl. 

'' Oh no, they never go under beech-trees," he asserted, arriv- 
ing there with two or three masterly strokes. 

*'But they're thick here," protested Dorothy, after they had 
been there a few minutes. '' My hands are bitten already." 

She would not have said that to any one but Bob, and it sur- 
prised her beyond words when he asked, '' Won't you let me 
hold them ?"-*adding hastily, *' just to keep the mosquitoes ofif, 
you know." 

While Dorothy was questioning whether that was exactly in 
line with this kind of friendship, he had taken them both in 
his big brown ones. This was a new phase of Bob. Dorothy- 
began to study his actions and her impressions under the cir- 
cumstance. '' Agreeable," she admitted ; '' I never realized 
what— what his hands were like before." 

"Dorothy, do you see that moon up there?" She nodded, 
although it was getting rather dark for the nod to be apprecia- 
ted. "It was glorious last Wednesday night, and the water 
was as smooth as glass. The other fellows had gone ashore, 
but I stayed behind for a smoke and a good, long think." 

" Why,"— Dorothy spoke before she thought and therefore 
naturally, — " I was looking at the moon that night, too." 

" You were, Dorothy ? " The eagerness of his tone made the 
girl start. Bob was getting different. Should she let him go 
on ? Could he possibly get very different and run the risk of — 


of spoiling it all ? Then came her inevitable longing for a 

"new experience " ; and, after all. was she not going to be per- 
fectly natural and do what she liked ? It was contrary to her 
inclinations last summer, when she had turned aside the athlete 
and, instead of liearing what he had to say, had asked to be 
taken in for the next waltz. 

"And do you know, Dorothy, it was you I was thinking of, 
and from that ni^ht on I could hardly wait to get back. I 
wanted to know if you missed me, I wanted to know if you any 
more than I could feel happy when we were apart, because — " 
His voice was low, and Dorothy was distinctly conscious that 
his words were producing a pleasant sensation somewhere near 
her heart. " — because, dear, I love you.'* 

Just what she said or did after that will never be related, for 
somehow, from that point on, she forgot to analyze. But then, 
that too was natural. 

Florence Evelyn Smith. 


To live 80 dose to Natnre's soul, 

The flonl that stirs the siunxner breeEO, 

That fashions couitless books from greenwood trees, 

That mnrmnrs into every form of life 

An nndertone of melody so strangely rife 

With harmonies before unknown of men. 

That hTiman ears are startled, touched, enthralled, 

And strain to catch again 

Some echo of the wondrous, imwiit song ; 

To be so much a part of all the power that sways the werid, 

That lights the stars, and feels within itself 

The vast, compelling force of endless life. 

That each far-throbbing heart-beat of the greater life 

Finds some small echo in our hnmanness, 

Vibrating strangely from the power unrealized heretofore, 

This is it that I long to feel, and know, and feel again, 

That something of its glorious meaning I may give to men. 

EnrrH Turner Nbwcomb. 


Ocmfessed— what long my bnrsting heart did hold ; 
Jnst as the son, long hid 'neath clouds of gray, 
Ofttimes breaks quickly forth at close of day 

And flnshes all the world with Qod's great gold. 

Confessed— as after smiset oomes the frost, 
With night adyancing slowly, dark and cold, 
Despair draws o*er me, lest I seemed too bold, 

And my lips* gain had been my heart's great loss. 

Confessed— yonr words through my despair, 
Like stars through evening dark, begin to shine ; 
I feel your fingers slipping into mine, 

Your tears and kisses falling on my hair. 

Maude Barrows Dutton. 


Faddishness is a manifestatioii of the imitative instinct of 
man, a part of our inheritance according to the Darwinian 
theory. It does not, therefore, stand alone and unrelated, but 
has many connections, some of them in better standing than 
itself ; it is twin sister to fashion, that organized faddishness 
that rules our gowning, and is related to etiquette, which is 
merely a common consenting to imitate the manners of those 
who possess social graces. This is a family of old lineage, nor 
is the fad itself a modern development. Olympus felt its influ- 
ence, when Jove's terrestrial amours were repeated among all 
the lesser gods. And surely Egypt's most famous queen, when 
she drank pearls dissolved in vinegar, gave occasion for a vio- 
lent fad among the Egyptian court ladies ; else it was because 
pearls were abundant only in the royal tree^ure- vaults and vin- 
egar unendurable to any palate but that of a Cleopatra. The mas- 
ter mind in a cage of monkeys is he who sets the fashions. He is 
the originator, the creative genius, tlie artist. He is always 
ready with a new and original method of swinging by his tail, 
and a flock of his fellows, in a frenzy of hero-worship, is ever 
hastening to festoon itself in imitation. Only a few — too old 



and stiff for such gymnastics, perhaps — sit in the comer and 
bewail the prevalence of fads in monkeydom. 

We may divide fads into two classes, according to the na- 
ture of their subjects. These are those which cheapen fine 
things, and those which, on the contrary, give a kind of false 
valne to cheap or worthless things. Fads of the first class have 
the one very real advantage of bringing fine things into the 
reach of many, a service not to be wholly counterbalanced by 
any possible loss in quality. Thus the fads for certain pictures, 
as of Queen Louise and of Hosea, are a step in the popu- 
larization of art. The second class in this division admits of 
less justification, and to this class belong nearly all those fads 
that are embodied in our conversation. Of these, slang is of 
course representative, and, though slang itself is an ever-present 
phenomenon, those special phrases of our speech to which the 
name belongs display the typical aspect of the fad both in this 
enthusiasm aroused by their use and in the exceeding brevity 
of their existence. 

It is sometimes held that slang is a regenerator of language. 
No doubt several expressions have been introduced into the 
language through its agency, have been given countenance, and 
have found their way into all the dictionaries. Yet these are 
few compared to the number of slang words and phrases that 
have passed through our daily speech, to die utterly or to be 
handed down to posterity in the biography of some "Chimmie 
Fadden," whore they arouse the same kind of interest and 
curiosity as does a century-old fashion book. Slang, in its par- 
ticular forms, is of too local a nature to be more than dialecti- 
cal, and too fleeting to become incorporated into language 
proper. A few exceptionally effective slang phrases pass over 
the country, like the best newspaper jokes, and are intelligible 
to nearly everybody, but even these soon meet their deserved 
fate. A friend of mine who was studying in a Southern semi- 
nary brought back on one of her vacations several slang ex- 
pressions commonly used, she said, in Virginia. She greeted 
her friends thus: "Hello, Sport!" Any one who met with 
her disapproval she dubbed a " mean squirt," while people who 
were uninteresting from the boarding-school point of view were 
stigmatized as " old buzzards." These terms were heard with 
horror by the elder, and with disapproval by the younger, mem- 
bers of her acquaintance, the New England youths preferring 


their native equivalents, such as "old pal/' " freak," "chump," 
etc., and frowning upon any Southern innovations. 

Language follows certain laws of development, but slang 
knows no rules, not even that of the survival of the fittest, as 
the longevity of that strangely popular expression, "rubber- 
nock," pi'oves. This word I have dii?covered to be a leveler of 
class distinctions, a witness to the genuineness of our democ- 
racy. It falls as naturally from the college girl's lips as from 
those of the negro street-minstrel who makes it the burden of 
his vulgar song. It is everywhere intelligible and will soon 
claim the label, "sanctioned by usage." College is a fruitful 
field for the fad-seeker, and here are noticeable many varieties 
of the conversational fad. Nearly every house contains some 
clever artist in unusual and striking forms of speech, whose 
influence can be detected in the speech of all her associates. 
Some one says, "Come and play with me," instead of the ordi- 
nary " Come and see me," and thenceforward all Smith College 
" plays " with its little friends. I have heard the honor of orig- 
inating this expression hotly contested among several claimants, 
just as the place of Dante's birth is disputed by various Italian 

The fad rules not only our language, but often the subject of 
our conversation also. In the seventeenth century Sir Isaac 
Newton made scientific matters fashionable in polite society, 
and everybody must talk of science, although society was most 
superficially informed. At some periods it has been the fad to 
display learning ; at others one must conceal all evidences of 
erudition. There have been times when ladies smiled most 
sweetly on those cavaliers who flattered them most extrava- 
gantly ; to-day we are not so grateful for broad compliments. ' 
The modern society woman represents the spirit of her age when 
she calls upon her neighbor, by discussing twenty matters in as 
many minutes, careful never to dwell upon one long enough to 
get interested in the subject. 

It is said that to-day there are no good talkers ; and there are 
surely none where fads prevail. For talking is self-expression, 
and conversation is worthless except as individuality is dis- 
played in it. The greatest charm in Robert Louis Stevenson's 
conversation, as in his letters, was that he gave himself so free- 
ly. But this is impossible to the faddist, who is an imitator, 
and who soon loses the power to be natural. Fads tend to re- 


<1uce everybody to one likeness, in external matters at least. A 
world in which everybody is doing the same thing in the same 
way would be very uninteresting, yet that is very much the 
, aspect of those little worlds where fads are the most noticeable 

' feature. Our literary experience is not more greatly broadened 

by reading all the moilern romantic novels than if we have read 
only two or three of the best of these ; and if all my acquaint- 
ances talk about the same things in the same way, I am very 
little richer for having many than if I had but one. 

These are serious charges against the conversational fad : that 
it takes away from our social relations naturalness and the 
power of genuine enthusiasm ; that it chisels into uniformity 
those forms of self-expression in which individuality should be 
most naturally revealed, and which, without the force of indi- 
viduality, become destitute of interest and of value. 

Ruth Barbara Canbdt. 



Three little days of peace and rest 
Thy head hath nestled on my breast ; 
And Thon, familiar yet unseen, 
Hast hallowed every care. 
Almost, methonght, I seemed to hear 
Thy childish prattle, as in prayer 
I bowed before Thy shrine, and felt 
Thy blessed Presence there. 

Three little days,— and now the honr 
Of parting ; for the night mists lower 
Above the whispering sea that bears 
Thy comrades ontward bonnd 
To viewless shores. Thy shallop, too. 
Laden with sweets and taper-crowned, 
Most forth. Farewell, my Child. The care 
Of Jizo fold thee ronnd t 

Ruth Locisb Gainbs. 

In England the tea-table is a very serious matter. It is rec- 
ommended to the esteem of all serious-minded Englishmen by 

being handed down from their forefathers and 
Tea-Tables firmly established by precedent. The tea-pot 

and cups are the Englishman's Lares and 
Penates, and like ^^neas with his household gods he bears them 
with him on his wanderings and sets them up in his new-found 
home. He brought them to America as soon as he discovered 
them himself, and they might be established here yet but for 
the fact that a difference arose between the two countries as to 
how tea should be drunk, the Americans refusing milk and pre- 
ferring salt water. This is a proof of the influence of the bev- 
erage, for it caused the final separation of the milk from the 
salt water partisans, and from this dates the existence of the 



United States, an unfortunate occurrence, but we believe the 
only case where the influence of tea has been other than bene- 
ficial. The difference in tastes shown by this first altercation 
has gone on increasing to this day, till now, though the custom 
of tea-drinking exists in both countries, the ceremony in Amer- 
ica has so far diverged as to be almost unrecognizable, and this 
divergence is the matter now in question. 

In England 'Hea" is one of the most charming episodes of 
the day. There is the nursery tea which is in the nature of a 
meal, and is exactly like a scene from ''Alice in Wonderland.'* 
The little straight-haired, bare-legged children group around a 
large table with nurse at the head and partake of bread and 
jam and scones, and tea enough to spoil a grown person's night in 
America. Nursery tea is equivalent to supper, but downstairs 
in the parlor, tea is only a restful and refreshing interlude, an 
informal gathering between the two great labours of the day — 
business and dinner. 

The tea-table looks very inviting with its white cloth and 
array of capacious cups, its large tea-urn kept hot by the com- 
fortable, quilted tea-cozy, and its plates of bread and butter, 
sandwiches, and cake on the shelf underneath. The members 
of the family drop in one by one, the day's callers have already 
been '' teaed " and have gone, except perhaps one or two intimates 
who do not break the family circle. Twilight falls and every- 
thing is peaceful and quiet. Everybody who gathers around 
the table is in that sociable, easy mood which only comes when 
one has deliberately chosen to steal a few moments from time 
for enjoyment. It is something to be looked forward to much 
as children regard the fifteen minute recess in the middle of 
school-time. Perhaps the ladies of the family have had one or 
two cups already with their callers, perhaps they have just 
come in from a round of calls and a cup at every house, but 
that will not deter them from one more for sociability's sake. 
What are five or six cups to an Englishman ? The regular rule 
is one with a sandwich or bread and butter, another with cake. 
Pater Familias is usually distinguished by an extra large cup, 
perhaps one of those famous ones "you could swim in." The 
task of pouring tea falls to the youngest daughter, the freshest 
from the nursery, for English families always seem to have an 
endless procession of daughters being ground out from the 
nursery to matrimony. And it is no small task to keep a tea- 


table with all its appurtenances running smoothly throughout 
the afternoon, and yet have it ready for an extra strain at night- 
fall. So the youngest girl anxiously manipulates urn, cups, and 
spoons with more or less skill according to the length of her 
prenticeship, while her brothers chaff her gently and the sister 
next above her enjoys the luxury of being served instead of 
serving. Everybody sits in his favorite chair, the chat skips 
irregularly about the room, night falls, and one by one the cups 
in the depths of the various easy chairs are clicked gently back 
into the saucers, and the gathering melts away with a sense of 
being rested and ready for that solemn and lengthy ceremony^ 
the English dinner. Tea comes between day's work and din- 
ner, like the benediction between the sermon and collection. 

We of late have reintroduced the tea-table and incidentally 
tea, but where is the charm of it gone ? Ours is like a fungus 
growth on the day's doings, not a part of them. Where is the 
good of tea just before a six o'clock dinner, and where the men 
of the family are never at home for it, and when nobody can 
drink it anyway for fear of nerves ? Tea with us is a little 
parade, a little passing in review before guests, dear to the fem- 
inine mind and sneered at by the masculine. And what a 
transformation in the very trappings of the tea-table ! One 
can hardly recognize it as kin to the one across the ocean. 

The American housewife seeks the smallest table she can fiud^ 
then the smallest and most delicate tea-pot, dainty, fantastic 
cups, impossible little spoons, and crowds all this paraphernalia 
on the table, crowning the whole with the horrible superstructure 
of a fidgety spirit-lamp and kettle. This stands there day 
after day accumulating dust, till the unwary visitor drops in. 
The hostess fills her lamp, and straightway the evil odor of 
alcohol pervades the room. Then she fidgets about seeking a 
place to scratch her match, the edge of the table, the chair, the 
floor, and finally lights the thing and resolutely folds her hands. 
But both she and her visitor have one eye on the treacherous 
little flame, nervously ready at any moment to pounce upon it 
with the extinguisher. It flickers — every motion of the ladies 
sends it flaring away from them towards the lace curtains. If 
it goes one bit further now, watch it. Oh what a narrow 
escape ! The visitor barely restrains herself from exclaiming, 
** Thank Heaven ! " The kettle has begun to pour its insipid jet 
of steam into the hostess's face, — it is time for the extinguisher. 


Why are extinguishers so bard to manage ? It seems an eter- 
nity while the flame is jamping nervously and the extinguisher 
sliding about before it settles firmly on. The visitor takes her 
cup and a minute but at least faultlessly dainty biscuit. The 
cap poised on one leg with an airy coquettishness, slender and 
graceful as a lily cup, how dainty it is ! But alas ! the lump of 
sugar and the lemon have filled it almost entirely. There is, 
however, a little tea lurking in the corners. An attempt to 
crush the lemon results in a narrow escape from the overthrow 
of the unsteady thing ; stirring is impossible, and the sugar 
will not melt. It must then be drunk raw. With fortitude the 
visitor raises the cup to her lips. Alas I (or perhaps fortu- 
nately) no sooner has she tilted the cup almost enough to sip, 
than the rim bumps her nose. One could wish for a stork's bill 
to drink from the impossible thing. At sight of the minute- 
ness of the spoon, all desire to conquer the exasperating cup 
and make it yield its treasure by spoonfuls fades away, and 
there is nothing to do but hold it for a space. This she does 
gingerly, trembling lest it commit some antic, a fear that in- 
creases as it totters with her every movement, till finally she 
breathes a sigh of relief as she sets it down. Oh for the com- 
modious tea-pot, the generous cream jug, the comfortable cup 
willing to empty its heart in sweet consolation for all your woes 
and wearinesses ! Gone is the soothing calm and nonchalant 
ease — the tea-pot has lost its halo ! And this obnoxious little 
growth which disturbs instead of aids the current of a call, let 
us banish it away forever, let its members be scattered to the 
ends of the house, to the gloomy attic and chill top shelf of the 
china closet, and let the odor of the incense of the burnt offer- 
ing be no more smelt in the land ! 

Fanny Hastings. 

The summer boarder sat on the edge of the porch, basking in 
the sun and dreamily watching her landlady, Mrs. Peters. 

Mrs. Peters was tall and thin 
The Trials of the Oppressed and sad, the loose skin on her 

face hung in mournful, droop- 
ing folds, her gray hair was pulled back tightly into a close, 
hard knot. She held a bright pan in her lap into which the 
green peas hopped with a brisk patter as they were rapidly 
pushed out from the pod by the thin, active fingers. 


''Yes, Miss MacDonald/' she was sayin^i^, ''there ain't no 
use talkin', what we wimmin folks need is sympathy. Now as 
a child I alwTis jest had to be coddled and sympathized with, 
an' now I've grown sick an' ailin', I do jest long for a little in- 
terest an' attention. Not that I want to be fussed over, but 
jest a kindly interest, that's all I ask for." Mrs. Peters's voice 
was high pitched and plaintive. "I don't never expect to git 
it though," she went on mournfully. "He ain't one to sympa- 
thize ; he's too wrapped up in his own consarns. Not that I'm 
complainin'," she added quickly. " There ain't a cleverer, 
kinder man in the village. He*8 nice round the house an' don't 
make a mite of trouble, not a mite ; but I do say that some- 
times when I'm ailin' I do jest long for some one to enquire how 
I feel an' jest take a little notice. I ain't never been rugged, 
you know. I've tried all kinds of them patent medicines, but 
they don't seem to do no good, not a mite ! But bless you ! He 
never knows the diflEerence." 

Mrs. Peters sighed and rocked far back and forward, her 
hands never idle. " Now I recollect one day last winter when I 
was feelin' real miserable. I couldn't barely draw one foot 
after t'other. Bimeby I had to lie down on the sof y all petered 
out. My liver I guess 'twas. Well he cum in pretty soon an' 
pulled his rockin' cheer up to the stove an' begun to talk 'bout 
Si Bartlett an' them fellers down the cross-roads, you know. 
An' he talked an' talked an' there I was a-lyin' there as peaked 
as I cud be an' he never once asked me how I was nor what the 
matter was. Never noticed it at all, you see. 

"Well I was bound and determined I wouldn't complain ; I 
jest grit my teeth an* never let on how bad off I was. I man- 
aged to drag myself round enough to git supper on the table, 
an' he set down an' et a hearty meal, an' I never swallered a 
morsel. But he never once noticed I I didn't say a word 
neither, but I jest slammed them dishes around I tell you, and 
lie was so took up with eatin' an' drinkin' he didn't notice that 

" Now it warn't a week later that he come in all petered out. 
I knew the minit I see him that somethin' was up, an' s'l to 
myself, ' Now, Marthy Peters, you jest be firm ! ' So I never said 
a word. He sot down to the table an' put his head in his hands 
an' looked like he'd lost his last friend. He looked at his plate 
an' didn't tech a bite. Every once in a while he'd kinder shiver. 

H i 


I sot down an' et my dinner an' didn't once ask what the matter 
was. I knew all he wanted was jnst a little coddlin' an' sym- 
pathy, bnt I wouldn't give in for the world, 

'' Purty soon he sez real low and sad like, ' I ain't feelin' well, 
Marthy.' ^ Ain't yon ? ' sez I, jnst as nnconsarned. 

'' He pushed back his cheer an' went an' sat down by the 
stove, all doubled up. I knew all he wanted was attention, but 
I wouldn't say nothin'. 

" ' I had a chill down't the village,' he sez. 
Did you,' sez I, clearin' off the dishes. 
I guess I'm goin' to have one of my sick spells, Marthy,' 
sez he, ' an' if I don't never git better I want you to have the 

*' I kinder choked at that, but I was bound I wouldn't give in. 

" * My feet have been soakin' wet all day,' he sez in that pa- 
tient, sad voice of his. 

'' Then he commenced to shake all over an' his teeth rattled. 
I couldn't stand it no longer. If there's anything I have a 
dread of, it's wet feet. You may recollect how my brother 
Hiram took sick that way an' died within twenty-four hours. 
I guv right in then, an' quicker'n scat I had them water-soaked 
boots off an' his feet into smokin' hot mustard water. I guv him 
a good, strong bowlful of hot yarb tea an' got him to bed. In 
less'n ten minutes he was a-snorin' with hot water bottles all 
around him an' three or four comforters on top of him. 

" Men folks ain't got no idea 'bout takin' keer of themselves 
anyhow, an' it falls to the lot of us wimmin to look out for 
them an' suffer in silence ourselves. So I've found out." 

Anne Harriet Coe. 


Ck>tdd gold be gold were it not tried by fire ? 
Or mbies rare bnt for some lesser glow ? 
So all things predons do some test reqnire, — 
Love is not love which only joys can know. 

Elizabeth Hamlin Macnibl. 


Of course it doesn't begin to compare with tennis or golf, it 
isn't worthy of being called a game in the sense that they are^ 

but it is nevertheless a mild and 
Croquet or chastened form of recreation, — a 

'' The Strenuous Life " game of resignation for those from 

whom tennis, the breath of life, 
and golf, the one thing needful, are cut off. Besides, it is a 
grand way of entertaining tiresome visitors. After sitting 
three quarters of an hour enduring the raptures of a caller over 
the beauty of our very mild little view, or answering a censuE 
blank of questions from the little old lady from the village, wha 
takes this way of showing ^' her interest," a way of escape, or at 
least of respite, is opened by a game of croquet. Then again 
the gaily striped stakes, the bright banded balls and slender 
wickets give a homelike, well-inhabited air to the place, which 
is increased by the soft fluttering of light summer dresses on a. 
warm afternoon, and the rippling laughter and airy banter of 
the players make up a charming scene of life aud movement 
and color. 

We quarreled over setting up the wickets. As we are a spir- 
ited family all such decisions are reached only after discussion, 
which calls into play powers of debate often brilliant and 
always prolonged. One side of the family estate took the forna 
of a hay -field, obviously unfitted for our present use. The back: 
was claimed first by an orchard, then by a vegetable garden ; a 
small spa.ce left between the woodpile and the barn was well 
adapted in every way except for the untoward fact of being in- 
tersected by a carriage drive. The other side offered an un- 
broken stretch of good sod tempting to the superficial observer, 
but which the expert's eye would have discovered to be basin- 
shaped, some would even have said funnel-shaped. This was 
thought to be somewhat of an advantage, however, for all balls 
would go direct to the center. Therefore, from whatever point 
you struck, you were able to count on hitting your opponent's 
ball. Of course when it came to going through any of the 
wickets, except the center ones — but there are always those who- 


The odds were now between the side lawn or " funnel faction "^ 
and the front lawn or ** pine grove party." The front lawn 
boasted three young pine trees which, after ten years of watch- 


ing and rigid cultivation and prayer, had been coaxed upward 
to the height of some fifteen feet, with corresponding circnm- 
ference and shade. These, which fell all three within the bound- 
ary of the court, together with the relics of a former gravel 
path, gently cloaked with dandelions and plantain and the 
traces of a flower-bed of a former summer and a graduated 
series of ant hills, lent variety and a certain rugged charm to 
the prospect. As the writer was a pine grove partisan her 
complaisance must be pardoned in recording the fact that our 
stakes were pitched on the front lawn. She wishes to add to 
the honor of the rival faction that, with the question once set- 
tled, no reference was made, not even in the hour of exaspera- 
tion, to the smoothly rolling surface of the side lawn. 

The golfiac found our game as exciting as his own, for what 
links offered hazards such as ours ? The tennis fiend ceased 
complaint at the monotony and inactivity of the game, for the 
contour of the ground was such that one had to be ready to leap 
into the air at a moment's notice, as it was impossible to predict 
what sudden turn a ball might make. We seldom dared to ask 
even our most tiresome visitors to play with us, because, aside 
from the slight surface obstructions I have mentioned, the 
conrt lay level for half its width, then slanted for the third 
quarter and canted abruptly for the fourth. To us who knew 
this, it was all in the game, but the stranger arched his eye- 
brow to see a ball gently struck fly swiftly across the court, 
down the slope and into the distance. Again we knew that at 
a certain point one's ball is protected by a circling rampart of 
ant hills, and we learned to avoid the spot ; but the stranger 
falling into it unawares was annoyed at having a third or 
fourth attempt to escape from this prison only result in rolling 
his ball back again into the lap of three miniature Alps. There 
was a never ending variety in our game. One wicket might be 
approached in three different ways ; there was the mountain 
route via the ant hills, the valley road, formed by a long curv- 
ing wagon rut, and the water shed, wild and picturesque. I do 
not remember any rippling laughter or airy banter proceeding 
from our coiirt. I do recall, however, hoarse shouts that doubt- 
less made us by-words with our neighbors, and yells of baflfled 
rage, for life with a croquet ball on such a battle-field as ours 
was not to be taken lightly. 


Whether the threadbare plantains and brown stalky grass 
and battered ant hills added to the homelike appearance of our 
place is for an outsider to say, but in any case the head of the 
household said that what little lawn was there was rapidly 
going to destruction and unless we could set up the wickets 
somewhere else we should have to stop playing. So one melan- 
choly day we pulled up the wickets, and the funnel faction, 
which had fallen into decay, failing to put in its claim, the 
gaily striped stakes whose knobs had come off, the bright 
banded balls whose colors were no more, and the slender wick- 
ets bent and contorted in the agony of the game, were all 
packed away in the attic. 

Julia Post Mitchell. 

"I have absolutely nothing more to say — nothing," cried 
Barrymore's sister. 

She remained standing in the center of the 

The Interloper room, staring up at her brother with hot and 

angry eyes. For him, he regarded her col- 
lectedly enough. In his mind a tumult of disquieting thoughts 
threatened to overwhelm that equanimity which had through- 
out distinguished his bearing toward her. But he forced them 
savagely back ; he brought himself to an ultimatum. 

"Sister," he said with earnestness, **I too have done. My 
strongest claims appear to you like absurdities, and when that 
is said, there is nothing left to say. I have neither reproaches 
nor apologies. After I have left you to-night I shall make 
arrangements with her for our coming marriage." 

He paused. The passion of her upturned face, born amid 
surroundings so well ordered and richly habited, struck him as 
a curious paradox. With momentary detachment of mood his 
eyes ran over the room, marking, as though for the first time, 
the painted hangings, the statues in their niches, even the crim- 
sons and blues in a vase of flowers. Then he returned to the 
figure of his sister, exquisite in its draperies, its laces, and 
trembling with defiance and wrath. 

" Hereafter, it is possible we shall not often meet. I have 
made no plans for the future. You have demonstrated that 
society will dismiss me. I could ask for nothing more to my 
liking. I shall devote myself to my profession." 


"And your wife ?'' she asked, with emphasis. 

"My wife we won't consider at present. Good evening. 
Don't let me keep you from your party." 

He bowed, and turned sharply toward the door. But on the 
threshold she arrested him with a cry. 

"Louis — your child T' 

He hesitated. 

Even then, with an angry reluctance, she noted the grace of 
hiB bearing, the power, the charm, in the suggestion of that 
head ; those somber eyes he turned upon her. So much gift 
and promise to be so wantonly sacrificed-one who had aimed 
so high to be brought so low — marriage*— with a concert-singer, 
a girl of the music-halls ! — her cheeks flamed. Drawing nearer, 
and lowering her voice, which had grown shrill, she said 
rapidly : 

" You allow me no voice, no rights, you cast us all off. But 
you can't cast off your child, you will have to answer to her 
some day, you will have to answer to yourself for what she 
grows into. Don't you know that there are some debts you have 
got to pay, that there are obligations you can't evade, that when 
you risk yourself you risk yourself, but when you venture your 
child, it's a different matter ? It's hopeless to speak of these 
things to one whose sense of justice doesn't teach them. All I 
know is that little things, servants and friends, can't protect 
her from you, just now ; after a while, you can't protect her 
from — ^some one else 1 " 

The tone, the emphasis, she threw upon these last words were 
indescribable. With a gesture he stopped her. 

"Leave that to me," he said sternly. '"There are some 
things I can not discuss ; one of them is my attitude toward 
my child." 

His eyes rested upon her for a moment with a dignity, a 
melancholy, that half abashed her. Then he turned and went 
into the street. 

It was raining when he arrived at the theater; cabmen 
were pacing the wet flag-stones, whistliDg snatches from the 
splendid air the prima donna had sung. Inside the house, peo- 
ple were bending to and fro, gathering up their wraps, their 
houquets, their programs, gently crowding their way to the 
exits, where the fresh wind from the rainy street blew up among 
the perfumes and glittering lights. Behind the curtain, behind 


the wings and boxes, he found the prima donna herself, perched 
carelessly upon a trunk in her tiny dressing room. 

The place was in great confusion. All around lay stage 
appurtenances of a hundred sorts, blue and white dancing cos- 
tumes, spurred riding boots, lace shawls, caskets of paste jew- 
els, some scarfs of colored cr6pe, some velvet cloaks, boxes of 
manuscript, piles of music, pots of rouge and rice powder, and 
on a stand by the window, a waiter of biscuits. 

A maid was packing in the corner. Uninterrupted by Louis 
Barrymore's entrance she went on with her work, whilst he 
talked, restlessly and indifferently, upon formal subjects. The 
prima donna wore a preoccupied air. For some moments she 
sat, her hands clasped about her knee, absently gazing at the 
rain drops beating at the window pane. She was a slight and 
childish creature, with a curly head, a small, pointed face, and 
the most mournfully exquisite blue eyes. She did not listen, 
or she did not appear to listen, to the man's remarks. 

But all at once, some word of his seemed to rouse her. Her 
breast heaved suddenly. She turned and addressed the maid in 

" You may go,*' she said. *' I will ring when I have need of 

Then, looking up at him, a curious shadow in her eyes, she 
said to Barrymore, "Your sister was here to-day." 

He regarded her, speechless. All at once a look of storm 
overspread her small face. She slipped from the trunk and 
moving to the window, threw up the sash. A shower of stray 
drops drifted in. Disregarding the raiu, she stood there lean- 
ing against the wet sill, her ribbons fluttering in the breeze, her 
hair sparkling with moisture, a charmingly graceful little fig- 
ure, but with something hunted, something desperate, in the 
look she turned upon him. 

** This can't go on. I can't have it any longer," she said. 

He took a step toward her. 

"I don't know what you mean," he said. "What is it my 
sister wanted with you ?" 

"You don't know — you haven't any idea — do you sux^pose it 
was for the first time?" she cried. "I thought I shouldn't 
trouble — but it's not to be borne. They're determined we shan^t 
marry — that's all. Yesterday one of them — one of them — tried 
to buy me off. I shan't tell you his name. I don't want him 


panished— it's not that at all. It's just that I am tired- 

Her voice dropped. She stood there looking up at him. 

" You must just please to stop it," she said. " Because, you 
see, if it goes on, my heart will breaf 


"Yrts," she answered, nodding her curly head, her lips 
tightly pressed together in the effort to keep from trembling. 
** I cau't sing any more — not any more. How can one sing with 
such—such — trouble ?" 

And she paused, looking up at him again with wide blue 
eyes, quite composed, smiling even, but smiling in a way that 
was heart-rending. 

He felt the situation intolerable. 

" Why — why have you kept this from me ? " he demanded in 
shaking tones. 

She looked at him silently. There was something in her eyes, 
something at once plaintive and divine, which checked him 
for a moment. Then his glance hardened. He swept some 
things from a chair, and drawing it forward, made her sit 

*' Tell me," he said, " tell me how long this has gone on." 

She shook her head with a gesture both childish and tragic. 

"What's the use?" she replied. "Do you think I kept 
count ? Long enough, it seems, to break my spirit." 

" What did my sister say ?" 

" What does it matter ? What they all said, I suppose. She 
said she cared for you. She said I was spoiling your chances. 
She said you were awfully young. Are you awfully young ?" 

He did not reply. 

" She said your first marriage was a mistake, and she wanted 
to save you from another. Whether it's a marriage or a mis- 
take she wishes to save you from, I didn't gather. She said the 
child was the light of their eyes— of your father's— of every 
one's— and you would never consent to give it up. She said it 
would kill your father." 

" That's enough." He began pacing up and down the room. 
Her eyes followed him in silence. All at once he stopped in 
front of her. 

"We've argued it out— all of this," he said harshly. "One 
thing I've never asked of you. What is your feeling toward 
the child?" 


There was a singular pause. She did not move. When she 
raised her eyes, their expression was anfathoroahle. 

"I loathe children. However — I oonld pot up with it — I 
daresay," she answered curtly. 

The color left her cheeks. She rose, and going to a table, he- 
gan to gather up some papers and lay them carefully together 
in a drawer. 

For a moment the man's gaze followed her, noting the move- 
ments of her childish hands, the small and sensitive face, where 
something proud struggled with something distressed. Then 
he joined her. 

" Cicely — when will you marry me ? " he said. 

"When I have played out this engagement," she replied. 
" When my two months are up." 

" Impossible — you will marry me now." 

She looked at him. 

"Do yon think I will break my contract — for you — for your 
sister — for any on© ? Do not urge me." 

He caught her wrists. 

" If you would trust to me — if you would let me arrange — 
decide — " 
,She regarded him steadily. 

" It can't be arranged. Ah, you should not, you should not 
oppose me. I do not yield." 

They knew that it was a crisis. But she did not waver. 
Only, all at once, there were tears in her eyes. 

" At the same time that I hurt you, I am hurting myself,** 
she whispered. 

He folded his arms. 

" I believe in you," he said. " Tou do not frighten me. The 
risks — there are no risks. I believe in you." 

She drew nearer a step. Her beautiful eyes were like flowers. 
When she spoke, her voice was pure music. 

"I should like you always to believe in me— like that," sho 

After their marriage there were vague rumors about the 
child. Some said the mother's family would take it. Some 
said the father's family would take it. Some said they would 
pnt it out to school. During the honeymoon it was never men- 
tioned. * 


One Sunday evening the wedding party came home to their 
coantry house. It was the hour of dusk. The western horizon 
was piled with golden clouds, the nodding primroses were 
bathed in dew, and the songs of linnets filled the air. As the 
carriage rolled up the drive, a troop of servants gathered in the 
door-ways and verandas. Somewhere in the background a yel- 
low-haired child, six or seven years old, was holding her 
nurse's hand. There was a clamor, a confusion, and then, one 
by one, they melted away, leaving the three alone — Louis 
Barrymore, Cicely, and the child. There was a pause. 

" Will you see about the baggage ? '' said Cicely. 

Barrymore went out. 

The child stood motionless, gazing at Cicely. Her fresh face, 
her ball of yellow curls, her green frock and sash, all gave her 
the air of a dandelion or a marigold. Moreover, there was in 
her eyes that liquid look which a flower takes on after a rain. 
Presently she spoke. 

^' I am wondering,'' she said, '' why my papa has brought you 

"It might have been to play with you," suggested Cicely. 

" Are you a nurse like Matilda ? " 

"Do I look like Matilda?" 

The child regarded her earnestly. 

" What is your name ?" she said. 

" It is Cicely. It is Cicely Barrymore." 

" It is like my papa*s. Are you his aunt ? '' 


"His cousin?" 


"What then?" 

Cicely drooped her head. 

"Wait," said the child, advancing. "Are you the inter- 
loper ? Matilda was speaking of one. If you are the inter- 
loper, you had better go before my papa finds it out." 

" I haven't any place to go," said Cicely, with a trembling 

" Haven't you any mother ? " 


The child regarded her gently. 

"That is a diflFerent matter," she said. 

She moved nearer, and began to study her. 


*' He will have to know," she declared at length. 

Cicely eyed her helplessly. 

" But/' she hastened to add, "you need not tell him. I will 
tell him." 

" What will you say ? *' asked Cicely. 

" I will say to him," said the child, " that on my account he 
must not send you away. I will promise to give up Bruno. I 
will tell him he has only to let you stay, and my silver por- 
ringer, with all the dominoes, are his. He will listen to me." 

*' Because," said Cicely, "because of the dominoes ?" 

"Yes," she replied, "and because ho is fond of me. He will 
let you stay because he is fond of me." 

The door opened, and Barrymore came in. 

"Listen," said the child in clarion tones, advancing, and tak- 
ing Cicely's hand. " The dominoes and the silver porringer are 
yours. You may give them to the heathen now, for all I care." 

He stared at her. 

" I had rather you did not give Bruno to the heathen," she 
added, more falteringly. " Bruno is my young puppy, and I 
love him." 

"What is this?" he asked. 

"The interloper. I must tell you that she is the interloper. 
But if you care for me at all, you will let her stay. I will try 
to answer for her. You will be good ?" she asked, turning to 

" I will be good," said Cicely. 

Edith Labarbb Lbwis. 


So much has been said and written with regard to examina- 
tion week that we are inclined to feel that the last word on the 
sabject has been presented. It will appear however to one who 
examines existing treatments of the theme, that certain phases 
of it have invariably been neglected. The soul and substance 
of the usual discourse on examinations amounts approximately 
to this, — that if they are not enjoyable they are so beneficial 
that no thoughtful person could wish to do away with them ; 
and that if a student has done her work perfectly from day to 
day, she has no reason for regarding the semi-annual test with 
apprehension. The first proposition appears based upon a mis- 
taken premise, and the second so narrow as to be quite insuflB- 
cient. The attitude of those who have done their work perfectly 
toward examinations is a foregone conclusion. For them the 
week of trial will be a placid time of reviewing and of syste- 
matizing ; and unless there is something superhuman in them 
they will derive some enjoyment from a sense of superiority 
over those of their sisters who are less well equipped for the 
battle. As for those who have done very little work and very 
poor work, examinations are for them just retribution, the 
inexorable consequence of the law of cause and effect. But 
between the drone and the irreproachable worker stands 
another class, composed of those who have worked, as they 
thought, faithfully enough from day to day, who yet find when 
they come to the time of examination that their knowledge is 
slighter and vaguer than they had believed, and who realize 
that if they acquit themselves creditably it will not be without 
an effort. The drone suffers, justly and keenly ; the irreproach- 
able worker reaping her reward experiences only calm sensa- 
tions. It is more particularly from the point of view of the 
third class that our theme is to be treated — the silver lining of 
examination week. 

That there is such a silver lining is undeniable. If we could 
always keep this in mind, would it not be better ? Who of us has 
not had the feeling, after passing through the ordeal, that it 
was not so bad as she had expected, and that she should not 



dread it again ? It is a pity that this comfortable state of mind 
should be so fleeting; most of all that it should pass away 
utterly as February or June approaches. For of the vivid and 
various emotions attendant upon examination week, the major- 
ity are pleasurable in a greater or less degree ; some fairly de- 
lightful ; and very few wholly without a redeeming quality. 
With regard to cramming, in the first place,— and let not the 
use of this term be misunderstood. It is chosen merely in defer- 
ence to custom ; and its purpose is to designate not the feverish 
process often associated with it, but the thorough, systematic^ 
sustained yet not immoderate kind of work that goes on during 
the week of examinations. Who that has assisted in a cram- 
ming-party of this nature will deny that much amusement as 
well as profit is in it ? Or if one rejects the lightening of labor 
that results from cooperation in favor of a quieter and more 
independent review, there is the gratification of feeling oneself 
in command of the subject. Not the least satisfaction of exam- 
ination week is the sensation that it imparts to one of being 
well informed. 

There remain the more incidental enjoyments. By the end 
of a semester, the breaking up of routine involved in the cessa- 
tion of lectures and recitations is welcome. There is a day or 
two when one has no examination scheduled ; when one strolls 
home from chapel with a feeling of irresponsibility. There are 
well-earned hours of doubly sweet idleness. There is the pleas- 
ure of glibly penning a ready answer ; or of being consoled in a 
despondent stare around the room by a look of woe on the face 
of the girl who volunteers in so discouraging a manner. In 
years to come, how many of us will remember examination 
week as a period not halcyon perhaps, but vivid and pleas- 
urable ; a time when we were freed to some extent from our 
bondage to the erkroke of the hour ; when we waved a pitying 
farewell to our friends setting off for the fray, ourselves peace- 
ful in the consciousness of two hours more in which to round 
oflE our fund of knowledge, or better when we returned joyful 
from a nine o'clock examination and met others hastening to an 
eleven o'clock, burdened with all the small accoutrements of 
writing, and wearing anxious looks ; when we closed the door 
on our last examination of all the week, breathing a long, happy 
sigh, and resolving — futile resolve ! — not to worry again ! 


Interest in internal affairs seems to be the order of the day for 
college papers. This inonth^s issue brings an unnsnal amount 
of franky careful discussion of college problems. An article by 
President Hazard, in the Wellesley Magazine, on '* Some Dan- 
gers of Student Life/' is of general interest, inasmuch as it is 
addressd to Wellesley students not as a distinct class, but as 
''just ordinary sinners." Miss Hazard points out no dangers 
that have never before received attention, but she lays new em- 
phasis upon old warnings. The danger of hurry, the danger 
of roughness, and the danger of social dissipation,— these are 
the three against which she would have us keep most vigilant 
guard. The safeguard that she advises against these dangers 
is an old one, too. '* We must attain to something of St. PauVs 
conception of the body ; we must bring our members under 

At Cornell, sharp dispute has arisen over the proposal, made 
by the men of the freshman class, to form separate organiza- 
tions for themselves and their women classmates. The measure 
is combated, not only by the ardent advocates of co-education, 
but also by those, even of opposite personal views in some cases, 
who had prided themselves upon the comparative dignity and 
good grace with which had been accepted the decision of the 
Cornell authorities to admit women students upon an equal 
footing with men. In the Era for this month Hon. John De- 
Witt Warner gives ** Graduate Opinion on Class Organiza- 
tion," strongly opposing any discrimination against women 
students. The woman student has done good and not evil 
all the days of her life at Cornell, he says ; she has made a 
record of which the University may well be proud. ** And," he 
continues, 'Hhere is another reason for great conservatism in 
this matter. • * You will, recall without my mention some 
of the institutions at which, of late years, the ' Anti- Woman ' 
crusade has been most marked ; and will also recall how gener- 
ally the most extreme manifestations of this have been in pro- 
portion to the insignificance of the institutions and the imma- 
turity of the students. Those who love Cornell would regret 
anything done by her freshmen that should tend to class them 
and our University with the boys and the colleges that have 



furnished the more prominent precedents of such apparent em- 
barrassment in woman's presence as has prompted what women 
students may have felt was discourtesy." This is good advice, 
and represents the spirit which will probably in the end pre- 
vail. In the meantime, that the situation is not all that is 
pleasant for the women students seems to be evidenced by a de- 
cidedly bitter enumeration of '^ Some Advantages of Oo-educa- 
tion," by a "Co-ed," who urges her sisters to rejoice in the 
privilege of furnishing material for the witticisms of the coUego 
humorous paper, and in the opportunities afforded them of 
learning their own insignificance. 

In its January number, the Educational Review publishes an 
address delivered by President Thomas of Bryn Mawr, before 
a recent meeting of the Association of Colleges and Prepara- 
tory Schools of the Middle States and Maryland. Miss Thomas 
answers in the negative the question, "Should the higher edu- 
cation of women differ from that of men ? *' Taking up first 
such forms of higher education as are received in technical and 
professional schools, she argues that if women graduates are to 
compete with men, they must receive the same training. There 
are no feminine methods of bridge building or of treating 
measles. It is irrelevant to urge that woman's mind differs 
from man's, for " the greater the natural difference between the 
sexes, the greater the need of a men's curriculum for profes- 
sional women, if they are to hold their own in professional life 
after leaving the university. * * As in medicine and law and 
bridge building, so in arts and sciences, the professional work 
of a graduate school must from the very nature of the case be 
the same for men and women. Science and literature and phi- 
losophy are what they are, and inalterable, and the objects of 
competition are one and the same for both men and women, — 
iustructorships and professors' chairs, scholarly fame, and tho 
power to advance, however little, the outposts of knowledge." 
In passing to the consideration of the college curriculum. Miss 
Thomas tacitly assumes what she has openly stated with regard 
to the professional schools, — that their women students are pre- 
paring themselves to compete with men in the great business of 
life ; that they must be fitted to do men's work in men's way, or 
fall short of their highest usefulness. If we admit this, we 
shall accept Miss Thomas's answer ; if not, — the question as to 
woman's college curriculum is still open. 


" It is hard to cast the skiii,'* said the wise Eaa when the Man-Cnb left the 
jungle to take up the life of a man. 

The college graduate whirls through 

"The Period of Reconstruction." her own Commencement, wondering 

what she wonld be feeling if she had 
time for it ; gets herself rested and *' pnt to rights**; finds somewhere in her 
trunk the diploma currently beUeved to have been the goal of all her ambi- 
tions, stares at it nnrecognizingly a moment, remarks ** Hello Thingnmbob 
again !** with a reminiscence of James, and pnts it by in a drawer. Then 
with her face set to the fntnre she assures her family that she is glad to be at 
home, and resolves to live np to her teaching by doing the nearest duty. 

Bnt the nearest dnty— I am considering the graduate who does not plnnge 
at once into active life — is sometimes in no hnrry about presenting itself. 
The home, while maintaining its paramount claim on her presence, has been 
too long in running order without her to be in any immediate need of her 
whole time and attention. Very likely she throws herself into cooking, 
shirt-waist making, or amateur millinery, with a zest in exact proportion to 
her former reputation for unpracticality, and a grim resolve to vindicate the 
higher education. But surely these things are not all the wide, wide world 
has to offer? In society, too, she finds that she has her own place to make 
for herself. She is fortunate indeed if after four years' absence she has more 
than one or two close friends outside her own family. And she and the 
others regard each other with a little mutual distrust. The associations in 
which they do not share are still the vital ones with her : on their side a cir- 
cle of friendships and interests is already formed, which does not open too 
easUy to a new-comer of a slightly suspected species. 

Now I do not mean to imply that my imaginary alumna is so false to the 
express ideals of her college as to yearn for a '* career " as the one thing that 
will satisfy her. Her desire is for a full life in almost any form : probably 
she would frankly avow that the most desirable of all is a genuinely happy 
marriage. But she has no notion of sitting still and waiting for this. The 
very fact that she is obviously beginning a new phase of life makes it hard 
for her to fall into aimless drifting, so easy when there is no specified point 
for beginning to make an effort. There must surely be work enough for her 
somewhere, and conscience and inclination alike urge her to hunt for it. It 
may be, if she lives in a city, that she turns to Settlement work without the 
least real vocation in that direction. But in any case it is surely not strange 
that until she finds her own place she should suffer from restlessness. The 



college has given her a great impnlae toward activity, and for the moment 
there seems no channel into which she can torn it. In general, she has faith 
that things wiU right themselves in the futnre, bnt in her pessimistic moods 
she sees herself following in the footsteps of the sage in ''Throngh the 
Looldng-Glass *' : — 

** But I wu thinking of a way 
To foed oneself on batter. 
And so go on from day to day 
Getting a little fatter.'* 

Now this is the qnestion to which this acconnt of the difScnlties of the 
freshman almnna has been leading : What has the college itself f umislied to 
sustain its graduate through this trying *' Period of BeconstmctiQn?" 

First of all, say the formal defenders of the college, it has gn^eatly enriched 
her store of resources : given her new interests, new standards, new methods 
of study and observation ; sharpened her perception and quickened her 
apporedation of the possibilities of life. But it may easily happen that all 
these gains are among the things that need time for adjustment. The 
alumna realises her new tastes chiefly through a sense of separation from 
companions who do not share them ; her new eagerness for study, through a 
perception of the loss of facilities and of daily stimulus. We must therefore 
look for the immediate help of the college not so much in special gains as in 
the attitude it has inculcated. 

We are very fond of saying that among the college electives not included 
in the catalog is one in the sense of humor. In fact, we sometimes treat 
this as a prescribed course, and there is a suggestion of Tanunas Haggart in 
the serious way in which we set ourselves to master the humorous aspect of 
a situation. But even if it would not be quite safe to confer a certificate of 
humor with every bachelor's degree, yet much in the college life makes for 
that ability to see things and oneself from more than one point of view* 
which is one of the roots of humor. This comes partly from the intimate 
contact with so many points of view in others ; partly also from the indi- 
vidual's finding herself placed in new and xmezpected relations which she 
must work out absolutely on her own account. For the time being she is no 
longer a dependent member of a family, but an independent citizen of a com- 
munity whose demands uixm her she must study and meet. After she has 
done things she knew she couldn't possibly do, three or four times, she has 
not only gained an increase in self-reliance, but has developed a tendency to 
examine herself and her surroundings with the interest of an onlooker. And 
she is in a position curiously adapted to this sort of study. She is in the 
midst of a little world, simplified by the exclusion of many elements and by 
an apparent uniformity of purpose, yet complete enough to present an 
analogy with the greater world outside. It is sufficiently large and complex 
to receive her full interests and energies for four years, while it is so compact 
that it can be studied as a whole. From the results of this observation of 
the microcosm comes a certain attitude, transferred later to the alumna's 
relation with life as a whole. 

First of all, its tendency is away from routine. This may seem a curious 
statement, in view of the uniformity of its daily life. But absolute absorp- 


tkm in the immediate end, the drodgerj of habit in which so many lives are 
passed with hardly a question of nse or pleasnre, is less easy when it is 
teown clearly from the beginning that on a certain Jnne day the whole stmc- 
tnre of college life, so far as the indiyidnal is concerned, will come finally to 
an end, while she herself will go on. But the college is very far from flying 
to the other extreme and preaching the vanity of hnman endeavor. On the 
contrary, its tendency is to shift the emphasis from the end in view to the 
effort itself. Not the acquiring of facts, so mnch as the training of the intel- 
lect, is the object of its method of edncation. If it is impossible for the 
hxmian mind to attain absolute tmth, the search for truth is left it, and this 
is now recognized as the vital thing. Not only in its formal teachings, but 
in its spirit, the college urges to activity, and in its stimulating atmosphere 
the student is impelled to put forth all the power that is in her. 

And so when the alumna leaves her college she carries with her, to sustain 
her during the months of readjustment, a way of looking at herself and her 
opportunities larger than the merely personal. Consciously or unconsciously, 
she is resolved to treat her life in the spirit of art, which transcends the 
mere material. But I am using rather large phrases to say that if at first it 
is not quite easy for her to take up her life again, she is in most cases resolved 
to look on the bright side, and leam somehow to weave in among her daily 
circumstances the best that college life and college thought have given her. 

Rita Cbxiqhton Smith *99. 

In 1892, the Postgraduate School of Tale University was opened to women, 
and although comparatively few have ever taken a doctor's degree, there is 

now hardly a postgraduate course given 

Postgraduate Work at Yale, in the University in which one or more 

women are not entered. The perfect 
equality in treatment of all students, both men and women, the freedom of 
intercourse with the faculty and with each other, and above all the stimu- 
lus of a large and living University makes Yale one of the most delightful 
places in the country for study and research work. Among the under- 
graduates the popular prejudice against women students has by no means 
disappeared, and the word ** co-ed" still carries with it all the scorn and 
stigma of which the undergraduate is capable. But with the postgradu- 
ates the attitude is quite different. Here one meets with older men, but first 
of all with students who know the value, if not the necessity, of help and 
discussion with their associates, bo they men or women. For this reason the 
postgraduate courses are by far the most agreeable, so that it is well to take 
while in college the studies which will carry one beyond the undergraduate 
courses at a university. This may be done very easily with a little planning, 
if the decision to specialize is made early enough in a college course. 

The library is one of Yale*s greatest attractions. Her postgraduates are 
allowed the freedom of the shelves, which is a privilege of great assistance. 
A new student is usually turned loose in the library and advised to get 
acquainted with the literature of his subject as fast as possible. This is 
usually an appalling task and one which can not be accomplished in a day. 


Bat the atmosphere of a big mdyersity is contagiouB, and one soon learns to 
accept a task involving weeks and months of labor as if it were merely the 
work of a morning. 

Those entering for a doctor's deg^ree at Tale are required to present a certi- 
ficate of proficiency in French and G^erman two years before the degree is to 
be conferred. These certificates are given by the different professors after 
an oral or written examination, as it happens. This is by no means an arbi- 
trary requirement, for a thorough reading knowledge of these two languages 
at least is absolutely necessary in every dexMurtment, and often a student who 
is ignorant of them is so handicapped as to be obliged to conquer them before 
he can proceed with his work. At Tale, as at other universities, some deixurt- 
ments are stronger than others, and so attract the most students. It may be 
for this reason or because the feminine mind is more prone to the study of 
English and the lang^uages that these courses seem to be most popular among^ 
the women. Almost half of the women studying at Tale take EInglish, and 
indeed the courses offered in that department hold forth many inducements. 

So much for the working life at Tale. There is no social life. Each 
woman comes to New Haven, usually without knowing any one there, hires 
her room, sets up her desk, and proceeds to get buried in her work. This is. 
true of the men as well as the women. In undergraduate life the emphasis 
is upon the social side, in postgraduate upon the working side. This for a. 
girl fresh from college is hard, too hard, it seems to me, to be wholly advisa- 
ble. It is, however, the exception rather than the rule when a woman goes 
into postgraduate work directly after graduation. Most of the women have 
had several years of teaching first. Still the woman fresh from college haa 
many advantages over her older colleagues. It takes the energy and elas- 
ticity of a youthful mind to do research work, and nothing is easier than to 
get out of the habits of study. I think I am not mistaken in saying that 
the best work is done by the younger men and women. 

In 1899, a woman's club was started at Tale which has been useful in many 
ways. The club has a room provided for it by the University, which it is- 
hoped in time will become a social center for the women, but so far the club 
has not been wholly successful. The vast difference in ages, the diversity of 
interests, and the almost morbid devotion to work make it almost impossible- 
to get the women together and acquainted with each other. But the absolute- 
necessity of such a club can easily be recognized. The older inhabitants each 
year help the new students to find their way about the city and advise them 
concerning boarding places. The boarding house problem is in fact the most 
difficult one a woman has to face in coming to New Haven ; for the city is 
full of students, and unless one is fortunate enough to get into a private 
family the only choice is a large boarding house, which is usually noisy and 
gossipy and altogether not conducive to study. Usually the most satisfactory 
way is to find a room with a private family and take meals in some convenient, 
boarding house or restaurant, for there are a large number of people who are 
willing to accommodate roomers but not boarders. This method is cheaper 
too, and in this way very good board and a nice room can be obtained for six 
or seven dollars a week. 

The object of this article is not to try to induce students to go into post- 


gradnate study. One should carefolly consider before undertaking for two 
or three years a work for which the stakes are large and the retoms by no 
meims apparent. The satisfaction to be gained must come from joy in work 
and from that alone. Bnt if yon have a subject which is capable of holding 
and absorbing yon, and if yon are convinced that that work will in some 
way act as sabstdtnte for amusement, friends, and home life, then Yale is one 
of the best places in the country to carry on that work. 

Ruth Oouldino Wood '98. 

Badcliffe College offers excellent opiwrtunities and privileges for graduate 
study. A student anxious to pursue advanced work will in general be able 

to find what she wants here. Most of 

Graduate Work and College Life the gnAvoA^ work heretofore has been 
at Radcliffe donein history, English, mathematics, 

philosophy, the languages, and zo(^lo- 
gy. Excepting zoOlogy, the natural sciences have rarely been choeen. 

For admission as a graduate student at Badcliffe, one must be a graduate 
of Radcliffe or of some other college of good standing and must present sat- 
isbctory evidence of character and qualifications. Graduate students may 
take courses without applying for a degree, yet such students are required to 
be regular in attendance, to do all the required work including examinations, 
or else to carry on regular work in some laboratory, museum, or library, un- 
der the frequent inspection and criticism of some specified instructor or in- 
structors. A graduate student is usually expected to take the equivalent of 
four full courses of study whether working for a degree or not, and these 
must be carried on with high credit for one academic year. She is sometimes 
allowed to take less than four courses if she can satisfy the Academic Board 
that she is an earnest student or that she has some definite purpose in view. 

A student who is considered to have had the equivalent of a Radcliffe de- 
gree of Bachelor of Arts may obtain the degree of Master of Arts after a 
foil year of residence and study in Radcliffe College. Her work must be 
approved by the Academic Board of the college, must afford suitable prexia- 
ration for the degree, and must be completed with high credit. '' The work 
approved by the Academic Board for the degree of Master of Arts may con- 
sist, wholly or partly, of research or special study, either in connection with 
or outdde of courses of instruction, carried on under the direction or with 
the criticism and approval of a specified instructor ; or it may be made up of 
coarses of instruction of advanced grade, four such courses being ordinarily 
reqnired as constituting a full year's work. In any case the programme of 
dtody must form a consistent plan o/ vx)rk to be pursued with »ome definite 
aiDi, although it need not be wholly in one department or field." 

Besides this work required of a student with the Radcliffe A. B. , a student 
from another college is often obliged to do additional work, when she is not 
considered to have the equivalent of a Radcliffe A. B. For instance, many 
coUegee do not require as many languages or as advanced mathematics as are 
required at Radjcliffe for entrance. Such studies are often pursued at these 
coU^ies in the freshman year and count towards the A. B. degree, whereas at 
Badcliffe they were completed before entrance. In this way Radcliffe some- 


times considers the A. B. degree from these colleges not equivalent to her 
own, since it represents some preparatory work. If it bapi)ens that a stndent 
from one of these colleges has carried enongh honrs in her own college in 
addition to what Radcliffe considers preparatory work, her degree of A. B. 
might be considered equivalent to Radcliffe*s, and the degree of A. M. conld 
be taken after one year. In every instance, Radcliffe decides each case on its 
own merits, for many things are taken into consideration. For instance, a 
gradnate of one of these other colleges, who has taught advanced clasaes in 
preparatory schools or has studied elsewhere since graduation, might poasibly 
be given the A. M. in one year. In general, I should say that the Smith 
graduate, who has not carried much more than the required number of hours 
iu college and who goes to Radcliffe immediately after graduation, would be 
required to spend two years before receiving her A. M. ; but if she has car- 
ried a large number of hours and has happened to take enough work in the 
languages to satisfy Radcliffe*s demands, she might be able to receive the 
degree in one year. 

The degrees of A. B. and A. M. at Radcliffe are countersigned by the Pres- 
ident of HarvanI University and the University Seal is affixed. Radcliffe 
does not confer the degree of Doctor of Philosophy ; but work, such as is re- 
quired at Harvard for that degree, may be done by a Radcliffe student. She 
will receive a certificate stating that the work done is equivalent to that re- 
quired of a Harvard student to obtain the degree of Doctor of Philosophy, 
and it will be signed by the President of Harvard University with the Uni- 
versity Seal affixed. This certificate counts as much as an actual Ph. D. to a 
broad-minded individual. All the instructors, courses, and examinations at 
Radcliffe are identical with those at Harvard. The Radcliffe students have 
the use of the University Library and of some of the University laboratories. 
Occasionally Radcliffe students wishing to take an advanced course are obliged 
to go to Harvard for it. 

The buildings at Radcliffe are Fay House, with its offices, library, hall, 
and recitation rooms ; several buildings for recitations ; the new gymnasinm 
and two small houses for social purposes, which contain the lunch rooms, 
graduate and senior rooms, and other rooms for recreation or study. Kone 
of these buildings are permanent except the gymnasium. Fay House livas 
originally an old dwelling house and still maintains many homelike aspects 
such as cozy corners, window seats, easy chairs, and fireplaces, which are for 
use. Homelike is a word particularly applicable to many phases of Radcliffe 
life. The college is not yet so large but that every one knows nearly every- 
body else, and the girls are exceedingly democratic and cordial. One of Rad- 
cliffe's homelike customs is the hot cup of bouillon placed at each desk in 
the middle of the long three hour examinations. 

There are a number of clubs at Radcliffe, — social, religious, athletic, or 
connected with some special line of study, and the Graduate Club. All one 
has to do to become a member of any one club is to apply for admission. In 
addition to the application if one desires to join the Gherman Club, for in- 
stance, or other clubs of this sort, one must have had high marks in a speci- 
fied number of courses in the line of work for which the club stands. All 
the Radcliffe frivolities, with few exceptions, come in the afternoon beti^een 

ALUMNjE department 245 

the hours of f onr and six, for many of the girls live at a distance and conld 
not easily go to evening affairs. Every Friday afternoon there is a play in 
the hall at Fay Honse, given nuder the ansinces of the Idler Clnh, the large 
Bodal clnh, to which any one may belong by paying the annual fee of one 
dollar. This clnb gives two open meetings a year in the evening, to which 
one may invite guests. These are big events in Badcliffe social life and, in a 
way, take the place of our Glee Clnb concerts. The most important enter- 
tainment of the college year is the giving of an operetta written and com- 
posed by the girls. This is given in the spring at Brattle Hall with several 

Class Day is different from anything at Smith, but may be likened to Ivy 
lUy evening. The seniors are divided into little groups of from two to five, 
and each group is assigned to a room in one of the college buildings. These 
rooms, decorated and furnished so that one would never suspect that they 
were only recitation rooms, are where the seniors receive their friends. The 
Tard is decorated with Japanese lanterns, and part of the lawn is covered 
with canvas on which are placed chairs and tables where the guests are 
served with salads and ices. There is dancing in the gymnasium and in the 
latter part of the evening the Qleo Club sings in the yard. 

Thus it will be seen that the Raddiffe girl does have ''college life" in 
spite of the fact that there are no dormitories. She enjoys her good times 
jnst as much ais we do ours, and I no longer pity her, as I was inclined to at 
first, because she does not do everything *' just as we do at Smith." 

Alice E. Gibson *98. 

Tear by year, the number of Americans who ^o from Dan to Beersheba or, 
more accurately, from Jaffa and Jerusalem to Damascus and Bey rout, in- 
creases, and nothing in this journey seems to 

An American University brin;; them a greater or more pleasing surprise 
is the Holy Land than a visit to the Syrian Protestant College at 

Beyrout. The city of Bejront is on the north 
side of a great headland called Ras Beyrout. which is really a spur of snow- 
capped Lebanon, jutting some miles out into the blue Mediterranean. The 
ciiYifige is situated near its western end where is also the lighthouse, and per- 
haps it is this proximity which has suggested calling it ''the Pharos of the 
East.'' The college is a department of the University of the State of New 
York, and was organized under the laws of that state in 1B68. Reverend 
Daniel Bliss, D. D., while a misBionary of the American Board of Commis- 
a<)ners for Foreign Missions, conceived the idea, received the endorsement of 
tbe mission, selected the incomparable site, collected the money for buildings 
and eodowment, and these thirty-seven years has been its president. Though 
MoDging to no foreign missionary board, its funds and affairs being con- 
trolled and directed by a special board of trustees in America, yet it is dis- 
tinctively a missionary college, an ally of and an important factor in the 
work of the American S3rria Mission. 

The first class graduated in 1870, and the following year the first class of 
doctors went out from the Medical Department. In that year the Preparatory 
Department was opened, as then there were no schools in the country capa- 


ble of properly fitting young men to enter the college. In 1878, the demand 
for pharmaciitB was met by opening the School of Pharmacy. In 1887, the 
School of Biblical ArchsBology and Philosophy was instituted to promote 
research in the land of the Bible by scholars from Europe and America. 
The present year has seen the opening of a sixth department, the School of 

Until 1880, the language of instruction was Arabic, though English and 
French were taught as classics and for conversation. But it was found that 
with Arabic for the language of the institution, only Arabic-speaking 
students were reached. Moreover, the Arabic language, though very rich in 
certain branches of literature, is poor in scientific works, and great efforts 
had to be made to provide text-books in Arabic. With English as the 
language of the college, the great storehouses of our literature and science 
are opened, and the wealth of English and American periodical literature 
and the constantly renewed editions of text-books keep the students abreast 
of the timea Since English has been adopted, the constituency has greatly 
widened, and there are now students whose mother-tongues are Arabic. 
English, French, German, Italian, Turkish, Armenian, and Persian. 

The faculty has thirty-three members : eleven professors, three adjunct 
professors, and nineteen instructors. Part of the latter are Syrians, gradu- 
ates of the college. There are also two matrons, one of whom is a trained 
nurse. The American instructors come from various coUeges in the United 
States for a period of three years, and while giving their best thought and 
work to the college, they themselves become rich in experiences of observa- 
tion, study, and travels, which prove most helpful to them in their future 

With the growth of the number of students and its teaching body, there 
has been a corresponding growth in stone and mortar, until now there are 
eleven stately buildings adorning the campus, besides a dormitory for medi- 
cal students outside the enclosing wall. The building of a wall eight feet in 
height, to surround the thirty-five acres of the campus, is in itself no small 
work. One does not wish to imitate Homer's catalog of ships, yet an idt a 
of the size of the institution can not be conveyed without some mention of 
the different buildings. The first btiilt was College Hall, the main building, 
which contains the library, classrooms, dormitories, and several museums 
which are soon to be removed to the Science Hall now building.* The Medi- 
cal Hall has two amphitheaters, various laboratories, and surgical and patho- 
logical museums. The observatory is uniquely situated, as there is no other 
in this part of the world nearer than Athens. It is finely equipped for astro- 
nomical, meteorological, and seismic observations. The telescope is a twelve- 
inch refractor. The President's residence in called Marquand House, a New 
England house and home in this far-away land. The Ada Dodge Memorial 
Hall is now occupied by the School of Commerce. It is a large building, 
containing also the administration offices, the book-store, refectory, reception 
rooms, and dormitories. The Assembly Hall is for college prayers, Sunday 
worship, and other public meetings. It has a pix)e organ and seats nearly 
one thoustmd people. The Chemical Laboratory has desks for sixty-four 
students, besides a pharmacy laboratory and a dark room. Morris K. Jesiip 

ALUMNjS department 247 

Hall is a dormitory for medical stttdents who wish to live on the campns. 
The Inctibating Laboratory is a fire-proof bnilding, as indeed are most of the 
structures, and is nsed in connection with bacteriology and physiology 
conrses. The Daniel Bliss HaU, named in honor of the President, is the new 
home of the Prei>aratory Department. It is designed to accommodate f onr 
hundred students, and is a model school building. Pliny Fisk Hall is the 
new dormitory for the preparatory students, and is named in honor of the 
first American missionary to Syria. There is also in process of erection the 
€heorge E. Post Science Hall, named by the trustees in honor of Dr. Post of 
the Medical School. Dr. Post, in addition to his profession as a surgeon, has 
made great contributions to natural science from this country, especially in 
his " Flora of Syria, Palestine, and Sinai." This new building is to be in 
Elizabethan style, of Lebanon limestone, and is to contain the museums, 
laboratories, and lectoi'e rooms for natural science. 

But stones do not make a college. What of the students? Who are they? 
Whence do they come and whither do they scatter ? They come from all 
parts of the Turkish Empire, from Egypt, sometimes as remotely as Khar- 
toum and Snakin ; from Cyprus and the islands of the ^gean ; from the 
Greek mainland and from Persia. A student came this year from Tokat on 
the Black Sea, and was twenty-three days on the way. Another came from 
Teheran, traveling to the Black Sea, then to Constantinople, and then another 
thousand miles to Beyrout. He learned of the college through friends in 
England and has come to fit himself to enter the Medical Dex)artment. The 
main body of the five hundred and fifty students are Syrians from every part 
cf the country, the majority, perhaps, from the Mount Lebanon range. But 
of late years the nnmber of Egyptians has rapidly increased. Li fact, Elitch- 
ener's victory at Omdurman was directly felt here in a great increase of 
ligyptians anxious to acquire the English langn^age. The Armenian contin- 
gent is also a large one. They have acquired their education and English in 
the mission academies and colleges of Asia Minor and come here to finish in 
the professional schools of medicine, pharmacy, and commerce. A majority 
of the students are Christians, but of almost as many sects as there are varie- 
ties of Protestants in America. There are Congregationalists, Presbyterians, 
Anglicans, Greek Orthodox, Greek Catholics, Maronites, Jacobites, and Copts 
from Egypt. Of the Moslem sects there are the Orthodox Moslems, Babites 
(the mystical Persian sect who are banished from Persia), and Druses. And 
of the Jews both Sephardim and Ashkenazim seek instruction. The pious 
Jew will attend classes on Saturday mornings, but he can not handle fire or 
*'cook", which prevents his shaking a test-tube over his Bunsen burner in 
the laboratory. He may stand by while a classmate does the ''work "for 
him. He is forbidden to write with pe^cils or crayon, yet he is ready to score 
« ten by dictating to a Christian the steps of a problem or a proposition to go 
on the board. 

There is a flourishing T. M. C. A. in the college with one hundred and fifty 
members, and membership requires the attendance upon a Bible study class 
each Sunday morning at eight o'clock. The other religious services are the 
Sunday morning preaching at nine o*clock, alternately in English and Arabic, 
Sunday School at three o'clock, and a voluntary evening service at seven 



o'clock. On Wednesday evening the Y. M. C. A. prayer-meeting is held. 
Morning chapel is held daily at ten minntes before eight, and fonr days in 
the week evening chapel at fonr o'clock. At the opening of the year, the 
Y. M. C. A. gives a reception for the new students. During the winter, Mrs. 
Bliss and the other ladies of the faculty hold a series of receptions in the 
faculty parlors, to which, by classes, all the students are invited. 

These gatherings are not necessary to teach politeness, for politeness seems 
inborn in the Oriental, who very quickly acquires also the usages and customs 
of the Occident. But there is one habit they dislike to put away and that i» 
the wearing of the tarMuh or fez on all occasions, in the house or on the 
street, in the class room or at divine service. Among some of their charac- 
teristics may be mentioned remarkably quick and accurate memories, strong- 
apprehension of facts, and great readiness to generalize ; but their utilitariaii 
bent of mind does not appreciate investigation and study for its own sake. 
They are hard workers, and more and more they are doing collateral reading 
and study in books other than the prescribed text-books. They make good 
use of the growing library which now has about twelve thousand weU 
selected books, and of the reading-room which is abundantly supplied with. 
American and European periodicals. Athletics is a flower of western growth^ 
but it flourishes well on Syrian soil. There is keen inter-department rivalry 
and underneath, much Syrian, Greek, and Armenian pride in prizes and 
points won. A former lieutenant of the Danish army is a regular instructor 
in physical drill. On Field Day the records made are very creditable and the 
enthusiasm is very great. 

The college was founded under the shadow of Lebanon to make in and for 
these lands educated, manly Christian men ; men to be a light and uplifting 
force, to break down prejudices, bigotry, and superstition, and to be factors 
in spreading a purer type of Christianity than is represented in the Oriental 
sects. That this, in the main, is the object accomplished, travelers in Egypt 
and Palestine are constant witneHses. Graduates have become teachers^ 
preachers, editors, judges, pharmacists, and physicians, and have filled other 
posts of honor. Weighty and unbiased testimony of the worth of the work 
accomplished here is that of the late Bustem Pasha, Turkish ambassador to 
England, and for ten years the GK)vemor-Gteneral of the Lebanon province. 
He said to Dr. Bliss, *' I don*t know how much of histor}', language, mathe- 
matics, or science you teach your students, but this I do know, that you make 
men, and I wish I had one of them in every office of my govermnent." 

Anna Carter Adams '88. 

On Saturday, December 29, from four to six o'clock, Mrs. Robert T. Hill 
received Smith College students at her home. 1728 Q Street, N. W., in Wash- 
ington. Fifty cards had been sent to Smith faculty, alumnfe, and under- 
graduates spending the Christmas holidays in Washington and Baltimore. 
Assisting Mrs. Hill (Justina J. Robinson '80) were Mrs. Bailey (Florence Mer- 
riam '88), Mrs. L. W. Busby (Katherine Graves *94), Edith Taylor '97, and 
Sophie K. Hiss 1904 of Baltimore. Among the alumnsB present were Jose-^ 
phine Clarke '80, Ellen Hedrick *92, Emma B. Hawks '92, Ellen P. Cook '08,. 
Mary A. Hartwell '94, Susan M. Parsons ^95, Caroline A. Jenkins '96, and 


Otelm Cromwell 1900. The formation of a Wanhington Almnnfld Association 
baa been discnsBed, bnt so ftur it has been felt that a more social and informal 
spirit conld be fofltered without snch an organization. 

The Smith GoUege Alnmnie Association of Cleveland held their annual 
luncheoQ at the Ck>lonial Hotel, December 29. Twenty-five alnmnie and 
vndergradnates were present, everj class from '92 to 1904 being represented. 
Be^Kmses to toasts followed. Dr. Miriam Kermish of the class of '92 acting 
as toast-mistress. Qrace Browne *97 lead in the singing of college songs, 
whidi was one of the most enjoyable features of the occasion, because it was 
very soeceasfnl in creating a Smith atmosphere. The attendance was not as 
large as the almnnae had expected, and it is to be hoped that next year the 
nndezgradnates especially will take a more enthusiastic interest in the annual 

OoDtributions to this department are desired by the second of the month in 
order to appear in that month's issue, and should be sent to Ruth L. G(aines» 
Morris House. 
'89. Martha A. Hopkins sails in February for Italy, to remain until next 

m. Alice H. Sherwood, graduate nurse, is practising in New York City. 
Her address is 85 East 02d Street. Her home is still in Southport, Ct 

'ttS. Anne L. Morris was married November 7, to Mr. Roland E. Stevens. 

QiBoe B. Field was married in June to Mr. George E. Spottiswoode. 

'9i Frances M. Bancroft was married September 5, to Mr. William J. Long. 

Kittle E. Lyall, a former member of the class, was married January 8, 
to Mr. Oliver Merrill. 

Bertha L. Noyes is studying at Radcliffe. 

"96^ Saia S. Duryea has announced her engagement to Dr. Charles D. Hazen, 
Professor of History at Smith College. 

Bertha F. Herrick has announced her engagement to Mr. Frederick M. 
Lloyd of New Haven, Connecticut. 

Georgia W. Pope is spending the winter with her mother in Berlin. 

Caroline R. Wing is spending the winter with her father and mother in 
'97. Gh:ace E. Browne will be in Porto Rico for the remainder of the winter. 
Josephine Hallockis studying with Fran Dr. Hempel in Berlin, Germany. 
ICary Perley Merrill is studying in Hanover, Germany. 
Susan Titsworth and Edith K. Dunton are to study at Columbia next year. 

'96. Helen Cornell, in the name of the Young Women's Christian Associa- 
tion, entertained the alumniB of Chicago at the Hyde Park Hotel» 

Lucia M. Wheeler was married January 1, at Troy, Ohio, to Dr. Joseph 
A. Hall. 


*99. Helen Andrew has announced her eng^agement to Mr. Isaac Patch. 

Carrolle and Louise Barber are traveling in Bnroi)e. Address, care of 
Morgan, Hayes and Company, Bankers, Paris. 

Florence Dow was married November 1, to M^. Dana Estes, Jr. 

Mary Clarke Heade, a former member of the class, was married October 
28, to the Reverend Thomas C. Pollock. 

ESdith Tomlinson was married in Jnne to Mr. Richard Badger. 

1900. The class of 1900 gave three hundred dollars to the Students' Aid 
Society last June. 

Edith H. Barry, a former member of the class, has announced her engage- 
ment to Mr. Roland C. Withington of Jamaica Plain. 

Katharine Barton is going to Honolulu. 

Sarah Cook is teaching in Chatham, New York. 

Edith W. Emerson has entered Radcliffe this year as a graduate student. 

After teaching for a year or more, Aloysia Hoye will take the course in 
the Johns Hopkins Medical School. 

Eatherine C. Qriggs is teaching Latin, mathematics, English, and history 
in the Wissahickon Heights School, near Philadelphia. 

Clara Heywood sailed last summer for a year of travel and study in 
Europe. Much of the time will be spent in Munich. 

Helen Janney has returned from abroad. 

Clara D. Loomis is studying for a master's degree at Columbia and Union 
Seminary. Address, 573 Park Avenue, New York City. 

Edna Palmer is teaching French and sciences in the High School at 

North boro, Massachusetts. 
Phebe Tompkins Persons spent two months during the summer working 

in the Settlement House of the Church of Sea and Land, New York 


4.da Prager has gone abroad with Mabel A. Harris, '97, for a year of 
study. She is now in Berlin. 

Helen Richards is teaching in Miss Hill's School for girls, in Philadelphia. 


'91. Mrs. F. T. Hill (Mabel Wood) a son, bom January 1. 

'94. Mrs. G. M. Smith (Katharine Ware) a son, Edmund Ware, bom in 

'96. Mrs. Percy McKay (Winifred Atkinson) a son, Percy Alurid, bom in 
November in Kobe, Japan. 

Mrs. J. E. Blunt (C. M. Curtis) a son, bom last fall in Evanston, Dlinois. 

'97. Mrs. Frank Heathman (Grace Brooks) a son, bom November 80. 

'99. Mrs. Edmund Phillips (Bertba Cranston; a daughter, Louise, bom in 


Probably erery college student has expected g^at tbings from senior year. 
Graduating classes are apt to assure the under class girl that it will be 

something quite different and new that she 

The Senior Point of View will encounter when she steps up to their 

place ; and so senior year comes to assume 
a lofty and impressire character to those awaiting it. But senior year once 
come, how different from expectation does this newness prove to be ! Any 
idea of an exalted station soon vanishes to make way for an altered point of 
view. Except for an increased ease and confidence in getting on with others, 
due to familiarity with three years of the college life, she feels herself in 
much the same relation to her fellows as in the earlier years. But in her own 
attitude toward the life about her how subtle is the change that i>asses over 
her as senior year advances I 

Perhaps the town has been an indifferent or distasteful place to her ; but 
now there begins to be a pleasant hominess about it, the outlines of the hOls 
grow dear, and she half regrets that her personal attachments in the town are 
so few. More especially does her heart warm to the college campus. Instead 
of a lot of detached, rather plain buildings, they surround themselves with 
the atmosphere of a home, the home of a loved institution and the birthplace 
of a spirit she is only beginning to appreciate. As she sings with hundredn 
of others like herself in the chapel service, as she jostles scores like herself in 
the hallSf as she works with her like-minded fellows in the class room, the 
inner meaning of ** college spirit *' grows upon her, as she meditates upon how 
rare a thing is this wide sympathy where hundreds side by side seek the same 
end. Of course the greater joy and strength of her friendships is only what 
she expected, and her heart enlarges with a greater interest for all, even her 
mere acquaintances, in the class. The anchor of all her college days, her 
academic work, seldom weighs heavy or drags as of old. Hard enough it 
is to study oftentimes and hundredfold are the distractions, but the so often 
elementary character of the studies of previous years has mostly vanished, 
and, when she gets right down to work, there is real joy in the task, in the 
satisfaction of accomplishing what is worth while. Instead of a struggle 
merely to *' come up to the scratch " for each day's recitation, she finds — per- 
haps to her surprise — a personal gratification, reaching on into the years 
to come. 

Is not such a change, part and parcel of the progress of senior year, only 
the natural working out of a college course? Baj; alas, how often is that 
lamentable word applied to the college senior, especially the girl senior,— 



sentimentsLlityl Of all the reputed Tinfortnnate and tinfitting results of the 
f onr years* training is not the limp and tear-eyed maiden the climax ? For 
her the accepted belief goes that oil the beauties and joys of life close with 
college. Of course it is very few who are supposed to go to the extremes of 
this ** simpering sentimentalism,** but in the eyes of outsiders and of the 
other classes, senior year is too apt to be enshrouded in a vail of tears ; and 
it is no wonder that the anxious mother fears for her daughter the return 
from her beloved college. This way of taking things, handed down by trar 
dition, is surely not the healthy point of view and, it is to be hoped, is more 
and more rarely the actual one. The few remaining symptoms might be 
treated as little affectations so that her expectant friends may not be disap- 

As this nonsense disapi)ears will not her real love for the college seek 
another outlet than sighs? *' Freely ye have received, freely give," sounds 
as the answer. But what can she — ^merely a senior in college — give? Then 
she may repeat for her comfort the old maxim, ** Many a mickle makes a 
muckle,*' hoping that at least in her small place she is marching with the 
procession of those who go out to help on the ideal for the college and its 
good fame in the eyes of those who will judge it by her. Quiet manners in 
public, to counteract the notion of the boisterous college girl ; respect for 
the customs of the place, as against the notion that she would be a law to 
herself ; sensible dress ; regard for times and seasons ; attention to work and 
interest in maintaining the standard of scholarship, — all these may have their 
influence in creating public opinion. And if the individual be negligent, 
especially the senior who has had the longer time to observe and judge for 
herself, how then shall the good work be begun ? 

Laura Woot^et Lobd 1901. 


The annual Christmas Fair given the fifteenth of December for the benefit 
of the Students' Building was in one sense an experiment. The faculty have 

from year to year cut down the amount 

The Students' Building Fair of work to be done by the undergraduates 

in preparation for the fair, and this year 
they decided that the entire management must be in the hands of the alumnse. 
Anxiety filled the minds of the committee as soon as the discussion arose 
and the attitude of the faculty was recognized, for the fair has been for 
several years the chief source in swelling the Students* Building fund. No 
anxiety need have been felt, however, for as soon as the decision of the fac- 
ulty was known, the loyalty and executive ability of the alumn» came to the 
rescue. Under the skilful management of Mrs. Higbee, Mrs. Williams, and 
Miss Lucy Cable, assisted by Mrs. Pierson, Mrs. Mills, and Miss Kellogg, the 
plan of a Christmas sale of articles to be contributed by associations of 
alumnsB in different parts of the country was suci^essfully carried through. 
The alumnae resxx)nded loyally and generously, and the success of the fair ia 
merely one expression of the fact that love for and interest in Smith lose 
none of their intensity, even though college days are only a remembrance. 

The booths were arranged this year with regard to the different localities 
which the contributions represented, instead of according to class distinctioiia^ 


Boston and Western MaBsacbnaetts supplied one very attractiye booth, New 
York and Worcester another, and Chicago and Syracuse a third. The articles 
sent were well chosen and the rapidity with which they sold tefltified to the 
good judgment of the contributors. The one opportunity allowed to under- 
graduates to help in the making of the fair was in offerings of candy, and 
here they responded most enthusiastically. Two booths were bountifully 
supplied with confectionery, from taffy to some of the more ambitious home 
products. Toward the end of the evening a financially successful and very 
popularly attended auction of the articles left over was conducted by Mr. 
Perry as auctioneer. 

Other attractions and financial devices of the fair were a lemonade stand 
very kindly contributed by Mr. Beckmann, rarebits and **hot dogs*' served 
by members of the Biological Society, chemical coffee served by Colloquium, 
and a new and amusing feature, a nale of lost articles, — college pins, fountain 
pens, spectacles, and other little necessaries of the kind. The side shows, 
though sadly limited in nimaber, were extremely popular and therefore finan- 
cially successful. One, the ever delightful variety show, found its admirers 
as constant as ever. The other, an operetta in popular melodies based on the 
tragedy of Julius CoBsar, created a great deal of interest which was substan- 
tially attested by the door receipts, a hundred and eight dollars for its two 
I>erformanc8s. The operetta was written by Ona L. Winants and was acted 
by members of the Lawrence House. 

Over six hundred dollars was cleared as the proceeds from the fair, a larger 
sum than was made last year in spite of the restrictions in the popular insti- 
tution of side shows. The result of the fair has shown through its material 
success as well as through the interest and generosity of the alumnae, thus 
revealed, that the Students' Building will not be a visionary structure accord- 
ing to an idea that has gained some ground with the more pessimistic, but a 

vital and not so distant reality. 

Virginia Elizabeth Moobb 1902. 

*' Gk> early and save me a seat I " We hear this so many times a day that 
we never stop to think what it means. We do not realize how, in this 
thoughtless way, we may make a disturbance or may lack consideration for 
our friends or may appear, at times, even rude. If a student enters chapel 
or the class room late and passes down to the front or the middle of the room, 
where some kind friend has reserved a seat for her, more or less attention 
must necessarily be distracted. Perhaps this is more noticeable in the class 
room than in chapel where no one is allowed to enter after the chant, and the 
reserved seat is usually given up to any one desiring it. In the class room, 
however, both the professor and the students would be much less disturbed 
if the girls would take convenient seats for themselves only and not save 
them for their delinquent friends. 

Moreover this habit is most unfair. It is easy enough for those living near 
the lecture halls to run over early in the morning and put ** Refrerved for 
such and such an hour" on chairs for themselves and for their friends. The 
girls, however, who live at a distance are unable to reach the hall until i>er- 
hape half the seats have been engaged. So, unless they have previously 


arranged with some obliging friend, they never can get seats toward the 
front, even if they are always prompt at their lectnres. The third objection 
to the cnatom of saving seats is, in a way, most imxx)rtant of all, as it por- 
tains not only to the relations of the students toward one another and the 
professors but also to their attitude toward guests. This is especially appli- 
cable to the habit of reserving seats in vespers. There girls sometimes 
refuse chairs even to fathers and mothers or to guests of the college because 
they are saving those seats for students late in coming. The habit cultivated 
every day unconsciously crops out. 

It is time, therefore, that we strive for a reform in this matter. It will 
take, perhaps, a little less kind-heartedness on the part of a few and a little 
more consideration on the part of many. A change, however, will certainly 
make us api)ear much more thoughtful and courteous. Thereby we shall 
gain not only a better reputation outside the college but also a more respect- 
ful attitude toward the professors, as well as a more careful consideration for 

our fellow students. 

Julia Agnes Bolsteb 1901. 

On December 5, 1900, occurred the Tyler House Dramatics, which had been 
anticipated with a g^reat deal of interest for the double reason that the House 

had never before had an opportunity of ap- 

The Tyler House Dramatics xiearing behind the footlights, and that it 

was known to contain several members of 
the Voice Club. The play chosen, *' To Serve for Meat and Fee," was written 
by Miss Beulah Marie Dix, a Radcliffe graduate, and was originally produced 
at that college. The scenes and costumes were Puritan, but the atmosphem 
rebelled against the somber limitations of Puritan life. Several characters 
served to give lightness and color to the play : Diccon, the gay cavalier in 
disguise ; Diantha, the light-hearted little heretic who loved the dance ; poor 
Ananias, who had a hankering for the goodies of this life : and the seamen, 
who found that all life on land, even the gayest, has its limitations. 

Methyl Oakes 1901 was a delightful Diantha ; she was graceful and un- 
affected, — ^her voice was good, and her acting showed true art. The part of 
the young hero is always rather a difficult one. but Maida Peirce 1902 suc- 
ceeded admirably in this r61e. Diccon was a sufficiently handsome and dash- 
ing youth, and Miss Peirce gave the part exactly the spirited and easy rendering 
it demanded. Selma Altheimer 1902, as the Puritan father of Diantha, could 
hardly have been improved upon. The part itself had very little action and 
no humor, and yet it was so skilfully managed that it held one*s interest 
through the entire play ; her voice was particularly well pitched and modu- 
lated. It would be hard to imagine a better rendering of a comic part than 
Florence Hinkley's representation of the jolly old sea-captain ; there seemed 
to be the true salt flavor in both voice and appearance. Elizabeth Pettingill 
1902,as the coquettish Quakeress of dubious age, was excellent ; and Ethel Birch 
1908 proved a charming foil to this character— the shy, pretty, loyal little 
wife of a doubting husband. Helen Harsha*s acting showed study and 
reserve. Anne Martin 1901 gave a picturesque and dramatic rendering of 
the polite villain. The stage setting showed the genius of utilitarianism for 


wfaich college girls are famous ; for no one can deny that onr stage properties 
were a trifle inadequate to the demands of a ship's cabin. Another good 
pamt was that even the minor i)arts possessed individaality and interest. 


Sir Bichard Harlackenden, ) Maida Peirce 

Diccon GK)odnanght, ) 

(Gamaliel Frothingham, Selma Altheimer 

George Annitage, , Anne Martin 

Abiathar Doryfall, Florence Hinkley 

Hopestill Greenoway, Helen Harsha 

Ananias, BCargaret Mnir 

Qill, Jessie Wadsworth 

Odlin, Fanny Hastings 

Diantha Frothingham, Methyl Oakes 

Joyce Frothingham, Ethel Birch 

Hmnility Pendleton, Elizabeth Pettingill 

Ona Lorrnb Winantb 1801. 

Four large boxes of toys were packed jnst before vacation and sent to 
Mrs. Ballington Booth to be distributed by her among prisoners' children 

on Christmas Day. No canse recently presented 

S. C. A. C. W. Notes in Northampton seems to have aroused so genuine 

an interest among the members of the college as 

that presented by Mrs. Booth. Quantities of toys of all descriptions, from 

dainty dolls to iron trains, poured in upon the committee until the problem of 

peeking became a serious one. A letter from Mrs. Booth has been received 

thanking the members of the committee and the girls who contributed for 

their kindness and generosity, and saying that a glimpse of the happiness 

and joy of the children over their gifts would have been ample pay for their 


Helen West Kftchell 1901. 

A union meeting was held in Music Hall, on Sunday evening, December 16, 
at which Mrs. Howard Taylor of the China Inland Mission spoke. Mrs. Tay- 
lor is an English woman and is perhaps better known by her maiden name of 
Geraldine Guiness, as the author of ''In the Far East" and *'The Story of 
the China Inland Mission." She has come to this country to visit some of 
the larger women's colleges for the Student Volunteer Movement. Mrs. 
Taylor spoke especially of missions in China and emphasized the great need 
for work there. By illustrations from her own experience she made the 
country and people seem very real. After the meeting, Mrs. Taylor talked 
very informally to a number of girls in the Association Boom. 

Dbua Dickson Leavens 1901. 

On Saturday, December 8, President Seelye sailed for Italy on the steamer 
Columbia. He will remain in Naples for the first month, and it is probable 
ttiat he will return by the last of April or the first of May. 



On Sfttnrday eyening, December 8, at an open meeting of the Alpha Socie- 
ty, Mr. Robert Bridges gave an interesting lectnre on " The Man and the 

On Wednesday afternoon, Deoemder 12, the Glee, Mandolin, and Banjo 
Clnbs gave a very saccessfnl concert in Assembly Hall. 

Jan. 14y 






Feb. 1 












Lecture. '' Recent Excavations in the Roman Fo- 
rum/' by Mr. Samuel B. Platner. 
Greek Club. Open Meeting. 
Biological Society. 
Soci^t^ FrauQaise. 
Alpha Society. 
Philosophical Society. 

Examination Week begins. 
Second Semester begins. 
Soci^t^ Frangaise. 
Phi Eappa Psi Society. 

Green Street and Belmont Avenue House Dance. 
Philosophical Society. Open Meeting. 
Biological Society. 
Alpha Society. 
Day of Prayer for Colleges. 
Physics Club. 
Washburn, Tenney, and Wesley House Dance. 

Eb««r*-55?fir9. 5 

b4;,^c.U. '73 1 «.,('■, 


Sm(tb Colleae 


februan? * t90t. 
Conbttcteb be tbe Senior Clasfl. 


NOV 7 1923 


MiCAH AS Champion op the Poor Margaret WUaon McCutchen 190S 257 
Jbbbmiah Ruth Aden Benedict 1902 262 

To A Skbptic 
Lost— A Train 
At Evbntide 
The Awakenino 

. Ethel Hale Freeman 1902 262 

Marguerite CuUer Page 1901 263 

Nina Ixmiee AhniraU 1901 269 

Esther Conant 1903 269 

The Tired Idols . . Katherine Fiake Berry 1902 274 

The Friendship op Emerson and Carltlb 

Persia Eastman RoweU 1901 274 


The Light upon the Hills 

Eiien Isabel WaJbridge 1902 278 
extrude Roberts 1901 278 


The G-tfst Fortune Teller Edith DeBlois Laskey 1901 279 

The Horse op the Baron de Contreport 

Ethd WaUaoe Hawkins 1901 279 

The Experience op Mehitabel Melissa Lucie London 1904 285 

The Song op the Mountaii^br Charlotte Burgis DeForest 1901 287 

A Pioneer Flower Bonnet LiUian Preston HuU 1902 287 

Clara Myers Knowlton 1901 292 

Ellen Gray Barbour 1903 292 

Elizabeth Robinson Ja^ekson 1904 293 


Who Knows? 

''Please Do Not Disturb" 

My Own Kingdom, . 






The Smith College Monthly is published at Northampton, Massachn- 
setts, on the 15th of each month, during fche year from October to June, inclu- 
sive. Terms, $1.50 a year, in advance. Single numbers, 20 cents. Contri- 
butions may be left at 3 Gymnasium Hall. Subscriptions may be sent to 
E. M. deLong, 58 High Street, Northampton. 

Entered at the Post Office at Northampton, Masaachasetts, as second class matter. 


Smith College Monthly 


Ethel Wallace Hawkins, 
Charlotte Burois Deforest, Bxtth Louise Gaines, 

Ethel Barstow Howard, Marquerite Cutler Page, 

Jean Shaw Wilson, Laura Woolsey Lord. 

business manager, 
Ethel Marguerite deLong. 

Vol. YIII. FEBRUARY, 1901. No. S. 


Rightly to understand the social condition of the kingdom of 
Judah in the time when Micah the Morashtite stood forth on 
its hillsides and proclaimed his message, we must go back at 
least a generation to the energetic reign of Uzziah, whence, 
brilliant though it was in itself, sprang all the distress and tur- 
moil that fired this prophetic soul. Uzziah's reign is the one 
bright spot in Judah's history from the splendid days of Solo- 
mon to the emancipation under the Maccabees from Syrian 
rule, a period of more than eight hundred years. Freed from 
the paralyzing dread of Assyrian interference by the civil wars 
then raging in that country, Uzziah had been able to set out 
for himself on a career of conquest. State after state of the 
surrounding country surrendered to his arms, and Judah from 
the lofty summit of Mount Zion could once more dictate terms 
to a prostrate enemy. 

One of the first uses Uzziah made of this new power was to 
turn the commerce, which usually passed outside the hill-girt 
fastnesses of his kingdom, through the gates of the mountains 
near to Jerusalem itself. The Jew is a proverbially successful 
trader, and even in that far-off day he wasted no time in mak- 


ing the best of his advantages. Wealth increased surprisingly. 
The more able of this simple peasant people became enterpris- 
ing merchants and landed aristocrats. The arts and the luxu- 
ries of foreign nations were introduced. Life was magnificent. 
Jerusalem was resplendent. The kingdom of Judah had 
reached the high- water mark of its prosperity. 

Yet the darkness which followed was the outgrowth of all 
this splendor. Wealth had brought luxury and power,— to th^ 
few, that is, who could obtain it, — but luxury brought vice and 
corruption, and power brought greed and oppression. Upon 
this basis of wealth had grown up an aristocracy permeated 
with the commercial spirit, the spirit that tramples down the 
rights of others and seizes for itself all that comes within ita 
reach. And this commercial spirit taught its own cunning. 
The price was great and the measure small. By skilful manip- 
ulation the rich man forced the peasant to become his debtor^ 
and when his victim could not pay, turned him out of house 
and home. If the poor man cried for justice, the judge^ 
blinded by the glint of gold, could not see the truth, and the 
rich was upheld. Tricked out of his civil rights, if the 
wretched fled to religion to beg for help and to implore the de- 
struction of the wicked by a just God, it was only to be baffled 
once more by the gold of his oppressor. The priest told him hia 
distress was punishment for sin, and the prophet predicted a 
glorious future for the princes, powerful and magnificent, the 
salvation and hope of Judah. 

Religion itself was defamed. With the silks and the pearls 
of surrounding nations had come in their gods, demanding^ 
altars in the local shrines and setting up their worship in the 
Temple itself. Rites and orgies, obscene and degrading, de- 
filed the hallowed courts ; while a lower plane of conduct, a 
more corrupted idea of justice, a baser standard of morality,, 
took possession of the land. Not only was the poor man driven 
from his home and left to die of hunger and disease, but Jeho- 
vah was dethroned from the shrines and hearts of His people, 
and without that light that had lifted them above their neigh- 
bors through those dark beginning times, God's chosen sank ta 
the level of the foulest heathen, — with this difference, that the 
heathen knew no better and the prince of Judah did. 

Such was the problem that Micah chose to face. For him^ 
however, it was deeply personal. He too was a poor man. He 


• « 

had bonght his food weighed in the deceitful balances. May- 
hap he too was wandering homeless from the land that had 
been his fathers' since the days of Joshua. His cry for justice 
may have been raised in vain, his reverence for religion shocked 
by the vileness of its priests. The problem of Micah arose from 
the awful realities of life ; his burning denunciations from the 
living sufferings of the soul. 

From the soul too comes his answer. Though the conditions 
of his time were very like the conditions before the Peasant 
Revolt in England or the Revolution in France, Micah is no 
Wat Tyler, calling on the people for an armed resistance ; he 
is no Marat, burning, hunting, slaughtering his oppressors. 
There is not a suggestion of personal vengeance in his words. 
Vengeance will come, it is true, but it will be the vengeance of 
Jehovah ; the oppressed will be delivered, but it will be the de- 
liverance of a God -sent Messiah. And Micah, with supreme 
faith, tells of destruction to come, implores justice and repent- 
ance, but raises no hand to hasten the immutable plans of the 
Lord. Spiritual is his vengeance, and spiritual is his remedy, — 
no relief associations, no public schools. It is not the suffering 
that he seeks to alleviate, it is the disease that he would cure. 
So he calls upon the whole nation to put itself in such an atti- 
tude to God, to draw so near Him, to be so filled with His spirit, 
that sin shall be impossible, that suffering and desolation, the 
fruits of sin, shall be no more. "He hath shewed thee, O man, 
what is good ; and what doth the Lord require of thee, but to 
do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy 

In his answer, Micah is like Amos. Practically, perhaps, he 
is Amos's inferior, but religiously he is above him. Their prob- 
lems were the same, 6nly the scene was different. Commercial 
dishonesty, greed for land, the corruption of justice, — both had 
to meet the same foes, both seek a remedy for the same ills. 
The remedy of Amos is more judicial. Individual righteous- 
ness plays a part, it is true, but the greater emphasis is on the 
free and uncorrupted administration of justice ; while Micah, 
though demanding justice, puts this and all other demands in a 
more spiritual light. Hosea's solution seems a compromise be- 
tween the solutions of Micah and Amos. His problem is a 
more general expression of the specific grievances against which 
they inveigh. " Injustice and cruelty " is his cry, and the em- 


phasis ia on the cruelty. So in his answer lie demands justice 
with Amos, though in a more general way, and mere}' with 
Micah, though in a more emotional and less spiritual way. 

When we turn to compare Micah and Isaiah, we find at once a 
greater difference. Micah is the peasant, stung by personal 
wrong and suffering. Isaiah is the statesman, reading clearly 
and coolly the problems of his time, and as clearly and 
coolly thinking out their solution. He lived at the same time 
that Micah did, and, though he looked at life from a very differ- 
ent point of view, he read its social problems in the same words. 
It is in his solution that we see the statesman most plainly. 
He demands all that Micah demands, though, like the other 
prophets, in a more material way, but he demands more, and 
here is the point of departure. He demands the recognition of 
the value of the individual. You must not deny justice to the 
poor, he argues, not only because in so doing you are oppress- 
ing him, but because you are withholding from him his birth- 
right as a man. '* I will make a man more precious than fine 
gold, even than the golden wedge of Ophir.'' It is this that 
connects Isaiah with the statesmen of modern times, and gives 
him a place with Cromwell, Lincoln, and Jefferson. Yet for 
all this, his answer is not so spiritually great as that of Micali. 
It is more practical — oh, by far !— and therefore greater in the 
affairs of the world ; but if humanity could attain to the per- 
fection of the ideal in Micah, would not the equality of man be 
the result ? ''To deal justly ": could we render each man abso- 
lute justice without acknowledging that, as a man, be has equal 
rights with his brothers ? Could we love mercy and see one 
man set himself over another to crush and oppress him ? Could 
we walk humbly with our God, without realizing that *'one is 
our master, even Christ *' ? 

Thus in comparing the four social prophets of Jewish his- 
tory, we see that Amos is more judicial, Hosea more emotional. 
Isaiah more philosophical, and Micah most spiritual. 

But why limit our problem to Jerusalem, our answers to 
prophetic times ? Is it not the essential characteristic of a 
prophet that he speak for all times, even though he know it 
not? The problems of our day and of Micah's are the sauie. 
Micah's answer, as the words of a true prophet, is alive to-day. 
His is an answer for the nineteenth century Anno Domini, as it 
was for the eighth before Christ. But it is not the answer of 


the nineteenth century. An age the most mechanical, the most 
progressive the world has yet seen, we solve our problems by 
institutions, by education. We formulate cunningly devised 
theories and try them on certain communities of unfortunates. 
We est-ablish numberless societies. We expend millions of dol- 
lars. We devote thousands of lives. And are the poor any 
better oflf now than they were in tbe days of Micali ? Belike, 
yes. But are they better off in proportion to our increased pos- 
sibilities for helping them, to our advanced education and en- 
lightenment ? Has Micah's answer no help for us to-day ? 
Shall it be scoffed at as visionary, ideal, the crude production 
of a crude age ? 

It seems to me, that at the close of his '* Progress and Pov- 
erty ''Mr. George is feeling for some such spiritual solution, 
tliat, down in his heart, he turns to such alone with living hope. 
And there are words more authoritative than any answer of 
Mr. (Jeorge's, words that, no matter when spoken, will always 
be the final decision for all problems of life ; and these seem to 
me to correspond in spirit with the words of Micah. When 
Jesus, asked by John the Baptist whether He were indeed the, enumerates the signs by which His divine commission 
may be known. He does not say, '*Tlio poor become rich," 
*'The poor have equal portion of the good things of the earth." 
He answers simply, in words adapted from one of the old proph- 
ets themselves, *'To the poor tlie gospel is preached." 

Let us not give up our philanthropic enterprises. Let us not 
slacken our practical zeal. But when we study ways and 
means, surely we should turn to that book whereby all life 
should be governed, and, finding there the same problems, study 
there the answer which, primitive though it bo, came from a 
more simple and simple-hearted age ; came from, what we often 
are not, a man that was one of the people, crushed with them, 
wronged with them ; came from one who, though all life 
seemed against him, never lost that triumphant faith that could 
give him patience in the midst of j)overty and distress to await 
the appointed day of the Lord. Give, work, think ; but teach 
the poor, the wretched, the influential, the fortunate, "to do 
justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with their God." 

Margaret Wilson McCutchen. 


A man imcrawned b^ what we call sacceBS, 
Bereft of life's twin bleeongs, hinne and friends, 

Heigained in loring all things save the best. 
We low in gaining onr ignoble ends. 

Both Allbk Benedict. 


Not live again I Look In a lovelj face 
And see the sonl's own marvele written there ; 

The earnest brow, the loring depths of bine, 
The lips that ecom destmctioii anil despair. 

Kneel at the bedside of a dying friend, 
Cla^ his brave hand and look into hie eyes. 

Mor« beantifnl than birth, or life, or loTe— 
Th« smUe that dnmbers on a face that dies. 

Watch from yonr hill the children of the vale. 
Those who on frozen fields are left to die, 

Trampled by the armiee of the great. 
They shiver at the stillness of the sky. 

And mnst they take no part, or one so mean 

In the great drains of the nniveree? 
Why bear the tortnre of a tiny scene. 

If not for greater dramas to rehearse ? 

Look at the earth-bed of a vanished lake, 
Where once the moon flashed silver on its breast. 

Those waters on a thonsand shores may break, 
A thonsand times within the snow-clonde rest. 

Shall roan who checks the flood and rides the seas 

Appear bnt once in conscionsness and power? 
Then should he bow indeed to woodland springs 

And worship every raindrop in the shower. 

No, not the earth with nil its richest store 

Can be the great inheritance of man. 
A life to live was Nature's. — Ood gave more, 

A day that opened where the night began. 



It was the evening of the Harvard-Yale foot-ball game, and 
the Union Station was swarming with wearers of the crimson or 
the blue, all pushing their way toward the suburban trains which 
were slowly puffing out of the station. A crowd of foot-ball en- 
thusiasts is usually a good-natured one, and there was little jost- 
ling or pushing, though no one could make any headway except 
as the whole mass moved by intermittent jerks, which generally 
threw one off his own feet on to his neighbor's. Suddenly, how- 
ever, the crowd felt itself uncomfortably condensed by an unex- 
pected impetus from the rear, and those who could manage to 
tarn their heads at all had the pleasure of seeing Dexter Curtis, 
Jr., dashing madly through the crowd with the reckless enthu- 
siasm of his foot-ball days. His hat was on the back of his head 
and his face was very red, but there was a look in his eye that 
caused the boldest newsboys to duck out of his path and made 
the crowd separate as best it could to let him by. The sacrifice 
of his own cherished dignity and the discomfort of the rest of 
humanity were small items to Curtis at the present moment, the 
point at issue being to get Miss Channing on the Millfield train 
in time, as he had promised. 

The young lady in question was running distractedly in his 
wake, holding on her hat with one hand, and making futile 
snatches at her trailing skirt with the other, in which she carried 
a Harvard banner and a huge bunch of red chrysanthemums. 

"Do you think we can do it ? " they heard her gasp as she ran 


"Yes, come on if you can, — the train is always a minute 
late ! " shouted Curtis. 

But when they reached the outer tracks there was the Millfield 
train already steaming out of the station, while the gateman 
stood before the closed gates as stolidly as though he had not 
<K)mmitted an unpardonable crime in sending the train out on 
time. He even had the assurance to grin broadly at the dishev- 
eled couple who rushed up to him, breathless and exhausted. 

" Sorry, can't let you through," he said. "Train's too far out. 



Miss Channing bit her lip hard : she felt undeniably cross ; 
she hated to run for trains anyway, but she had promised to 
meet her aunt on this train and go out with her to Millfield ; 
now she had lost her chaperon and her train, and she felt on the 
point of losing her temper. Moreover, she was quite aware that 
her appearance was disordered, not to say rakish, with her hair 
flying, her hat cocked on one side, and her gown dusty to the 

'* When does the next train go ?" she demanded of the gate- 
man with great dignity, ignoring Curtis, who was glaring after 
the departed train. 

" Whereto, lady ?" asked the ofiBcial. 

** Why, Millfield, of course," answered Miss Channing rather 
sharply, annoyed at the stupidity of her own question. 

The gateman consulted his watch. 

" Well," he drawled, **there ain't another on this road till 9.34, 
and thet's an accommodation. Waiting-room's to the right," he 
added, jerking his thumb in that direction. 

The exclamation that Curtis suppressed at this juncture was 
not a blessing ; a woman may feel annoyed at losing her train^ 
but the man who can lose his train with equanimity is either a 
brokea-spirited creature or a modern day saint. Curtis was 
neither ; moreover, there was more at stake than merely losing 
the Millfield train. 

**Perhaps there's a train from the other station," he suggested 
gloomily. ** If we can get back to the waiting-room, I will get 
a time-table and look it up." Miss Channing wearily picked up 
her skirts and started back. *' I can't tell you how sorry I am," 
he began lameh*. *' It was inexcusable of me to make you hurry 
so. and then lose the train ! But I was sure we could make it.** 

'*0h, it wasn't your fault at all," rejoined Miss Channing, 
with suspicious sweetness. ** I ought to have known myself we 
never could do it. But even if there is a train on the other road, 
I think I would rather stay here three hours than try to cross 
the city in this crowd. I only hope Aunt Edith won't be wor- 

" I'll telegraph to her," suggested Curtis, eager to prove that 
he was not entirely without resource in an emergency. But 
Miss Channing appeared unwilling to give him even that conso- 

** No, thank you,'* she said. *' Telegrams always send her in- 


to hysterics. — Never mind about a seat," she added resignedly, 
as Curtis looked in vain for a vacant place in the crowded wait- 
iag-rooin. ** I can stand up just as well.*' 

Curtis found one at last between an uninviting Armenian 
family and a dirty baby who was eating sticky pop-corn balls. 
He groaned to himself as he thought of the unpleasant position 
in which he had placed her. After she had condescended to go 
with him to the game, to show his appreciation by making her 
lose her train and obliging her to wait for three hours in a 
crowded station, unchaperoned and supperless ! And this was 
the opportunity to which he had been looking forward as his last 
chance. Somehow he had felt that in going to the game with 
him she had given him a little encouragement, even though she 
had worn a dark crimson gown and refused to support the blue 
of his Alma Mater. In spite of the fact that she had ignored 
his attentions all the afternoon with her usual coM little formal- 
ities, he had hoped that the evening might bring him better for- 
tune. And now what a moss he had made of it all ! Whatever 
respect she had hitherto felt for him must be fast vanishing, as 
she saw how incapable he was of taking care of her for one 
short afternoon ; and in his present mood he did not feel that 
three hours of his exclusive companionsliip would go far toward 
redeeming his character in her eyes. When a man particularly 
wishes a woman to rely on him for support and protection, it is 
distinctly hard for him to be placed in a position of apparent 

"Her young brother couhl have taken better care of her/' 
thought Curtis to himself, "and if any one else were in ray fix, I 
suppose he would improve the opportunity and get in a lot of 
good work with her, and be gonial and good-natured and enter- 

Whereupon with a great effort he summoned what he consid- 
ered a pleasant expression, and was just about to dazzle Miss 
Channing with it, when suddenly the pop-corn baby caught 
*8ight of liis face and burst into tears. Curtis hurriedly with- 
drew the smile, blushed in confusion, and looked at Miss Chan- 
ning to see if she had seen it. 

Miss Channing, as has been said, had fully determined to be 
cross ; not that she would show any ill-bred temper, but merely 
a resigned and polite displeasure. But when she had pinned her 
hat straight, smoothed her hair, and shaken out her dusty gown. 


she was surprised to find that the prospect of waiting three 
hours in the Union Station did not seem so appalling after all; 
and when she looked at Dexter Curtis, the gloom of his expres- 
sion suddenly appealed to her as ridiculously out of proportion 
to the situation. 

'' You are frightening that poor baby out of its wits with that 
dreadful frown, Mr. Curtis/' she remarked. 

'^ Glad she thought it was a frown," he thought grimly. 

" If I were eating pop-corn balls, I should be frightened my- 
self," she went on, looking at him quizzically. ^' I think I never 
saw you really cross before ! " 

Her manner was unusually informal and gracious, but Curtis 
did not feel like being laughed at. 

'' I am afraid I am going to be anything but diverting. Miss 
Channing," he said stiffly. **And I find this miserable time-ta- 
ble doesn't oflfer a single train before the 9.34. You will get aw- 
fully hungry before then. Wouldn't you— perhaps — couldn't 
you possibly come up town to dinner ? " he asked eagerly. " I 
know it isn't quite the thing, but it's too bad for you to go with- 
out your dinner on account of my blundering." 

Miss Channing pondered a minute ; she certainly was hungry; 
but she decided that such a concession would ruin the effects of 
her afternoon's fencing, which she vaguely felt had been rather 

** No, thank you, I can't do that," she said ; " but you may get 
me some — oh, some crackers or peanuts, if the station affords 
such luxuries." 

Curtis, grateful for small favors, hurried away and was soon 
lost in the crowd. Miss Channing waited patiently, hoping that 
he was not attempting to charter a buffet car or buy out the 
fruit stand. After she had puzzled herself for a while with the 
longsufferiug time-table, she found amusement in watching the 
contortions of the sticky baby, who occasionally mistook Miss 
Channing's chrysanthemums for the pop-corn ball, and began 
to stuff them into its voracious little mouth. 

At last she saw Curtis returning, an ungainly bag of bananas 
and a huge bag of peanuts in one hand, and a box of Uneeda 
crackers under his arm, and two large pink boxes of Baker's 
Best Confectionery, much bedecked with ribbon rosettes and 
streamers, sticking out of his pockets. Somehow the dignified 
Curtis in such a position appealed to her as his conventional and 


attentiye self had never done before. Bnt her mirth only em- 
barrassed and depressed him. '' She must think me a perfect 
idiot/' he thought to himself, as he unloaded his strange assort- 
ment of provisions. 

" I was sorry to be gone so long/' he panted, mopping the per- 
spiration from his forehead. ** Did you get tired waiting ?" 

" Oh, I didn't mind at all," replied Miss Channing, pleasant- 
ly—too pleasantly, Curtis thought, as he reflected grimly that 
his absence was probably a welcome relief to her. 

Fm afraid the i)eanuts aren't very fresh/' he said anxiously, 

but the bananas are fine, I'm sure. Oh, I remember now, you 
never eat bananas ! What an ass I am ! " 

*^ Never mind, Mr. Curtis," his companion hastened to assure 
him. *^ I am extravagantly fond of Uneeda biscuits, and as for 
the candy, I have never seen anything more elaborate than Ba- 
ker's Best Confectionery." 

'' It seemed to be the least objectionable," said Curtis, apolo- 
getically, " but I don't expect you to eat it." 

As the dreaded three hours passed by, Curtis grew more and 
more gloomy and morose. He admired Miss Channing's acting ; 
he could almost have thought her unexpected gaiety and un- 
wonted graciousness of manner spontaneous, if he had not 
known she was inwardly laughing at him or pitying him, either 
of which attitudes was almost intolerable to his pride ; her 
usual calm indifference would have been less humiliating. 

He breathed a sigh of relief when at last they heard the nasal 
voice of the conductor shouting out, ** Train for Norfolk, Clin- 
ton, Winchester, Millfield, and way-stations, western division, 
on track number seven ! " 

They boarded the train in silence. Miss Channing had some 
time since despaired of interesting him in conversation. As 
they sat in the chilly car waiting for the train to start, it sud- 
deiJy came over Curtis that he must tell her why it was that his 
blundering had meant so much to him, why he could not re- 
spond to her mood, why he was, in fact, so utterly wretched and 
miserable. He knew what her answer would be ; he was aware 
that both time and place were inauspicious ; but at least he 
could vindicate himself for his conduct this evening, and — well, 
it is easier to know the worst than to anticipate it. 

"I am going West to-morrow," he began clumsily. 

"So soon?" asked Miss Channing, raising her eyebrows in 


surprise. " I had hoped you would be here for my reception. 
Couldn't you manage to miss your train ?" 

It was an unfortunate question, and Curtis turned away, hurt 
and silent. 

Miss Channing was occupied in wondering indignantly why 
the West should suddenly seem so depressingly far away. "It's 
so far !" she heard herself saying half aloud before she knew 
it. Luckily Curtis had not noticed, and before he turned around 
she was again the conventional Miss Channing, politely indif- 
ferent, rather bored, and perhaps' a little colder than ever. 
Moreover, by some contortions of feminine reasoning, she im- 
mediately decided that Curtis must suffer for her momentary 
aberration. She deliberately took up the time-table beside her 
and glanced it over ; suddenly she gave a start of well feigned 

"Why, Mr. Curtis," she exclaimed, " what does this mean ? 
They say that women can never manage time-tables, but — '* 
here she ran her finger along the line of figures — " but here is 
certainl}'^ a 7.45 train for Millfield. You must have overlooked 
it — and it would have saved us two hours' waiting ! " 

But somehow Miss Channing could not feel as triumphant as 
she had expected when she saw the look of despair that came 
iiitoCurtis's face. As if he had not blundered enough without 
overlooking the right train ! The 7.45 sealed his fate and he 
knew it ; but his very despair impelled him to speak, and in a 
rush of words he made his explanation. 

When he had finished, however else Miss Channing felt, she 
did not feel triumphant. For a minute she did not speak; then 
she looked up defiantly. 

"I knew about that 7.45 train all the time," she said. **I 
didn't tell you on purpose. I found it on the time-table wheu 
you went to get the peanuts ! " 

And Curtis, appreciating the possible implication of her 
words, and being withal a man of discretion, refrained from 
telling her the discovery he had just made— that the 7.45 was a 
Sunday train. 

Marguerite Cutler Page. 


Sweet, the night is closing in, 
And the old, old wounds throb sore, — 

Yet my worst crime was less a sin 
Than your scorn of the love I bore. 

Echoes of battle still I hear, 
Thongh the snnlight long has fled ; 

The war was all for yon, dear, 
For yon ran the heart's blood red. 

Scarr'd with battle when I tnm*d 

To yon for the victor's crown, 
Each scar yon saw, the reason spnm'd, 

And my laurel was — your frown. 

Perfect and fair you stood above. 

To reach you I join'd the fray ; 
All the scars I wear for you, love, — 

And your only word was nay. 

Sweet, the night is closing in, 
And the old, old wounds throb sore, — 

Tet my worst crime was less a sin 
Than your scorn of the love I bore. 

Nina Louise Almirall. 


There was once a beautiful land of green rolling meadows, 
rising in hillocks of tall, feathery grass, now spreading out in 
fragrant violet marshes with clumps of silvery willows here 
and there, — again stretching green and level, where the broad 
river wound its course until it disappeared in the forest of 
pines and gleaming birches beyond. Above the forest rose 
the mountains, cold, still, and blue, where the white mist gath- 
ered silently at evening and rolled mysteriously away at dawn. 



Here dwelt a fairy — a real fairy ; not one of those gauzy- 
winged elves that flit from bud to bud, stealing the honey from 
its rightful owners the bees, and looking very perishable and 
bewitching, notwithstanding. No, not a make-believe fairy at 
all, but a wonderful being, so grand and beautiful, and yet so 
warm-hearted and humble, that there was never a creature too 
small and humble in all her land to feel her loving warmth 
and presence. 

And this presence was the fairy. She took no distinct form 
of being, dwelt in no enchanted lily or accommodating butter- 
cup, nor spoke a voiced language. But preferring to love her 
land as her heart's dearest treasure, and to dwell in closest com- 
munion with its every feature, she spread herself over it all, 
guarding and cherishing it by her presence. 

The little ground-sparrow flew far away over the meadows, 
fearing no harm for her nest of eggs hidden in the warm sweet 
clover, which she left all day, safe in the loving care of the 
fairy. The pale rosebud, opening to the light, flushed deep 
with delight in the presence of her sovereign. When the river 
seemed bluer than the sky it reflected, and when its little cur- 
rent waves lapped playfully against one another, then the fairy 
was laughing ; when at evening the broad fields lay peaceful 
with long shadows across them, then the heart of the fairy was 
beating in peace and rest. Again, as the fleecy clouds scurried 
across the heavens, happy thoughts were likewise flitting 
before the vision of the fairy. By her land she lived, and by 
it expressed her every mood. 

But after a long period of happiness a subtle change begau 
to appear in the land. Sometimes a startled doe would bound 
out of the forest depths and stand alert and shivering at the 
brink of the stream. Then the fairy, filled with strange alarm, 
would listen for some long expected sound, she knew not what. 
At times she fancied it to be a human cry breaking through 
the hushed silence. But the hollow echo sounded only the 
frightened notes of her birds, as they had uttered them a min- 
ute before, or the last rush of playful wind through the tree- 
tops. The suspense was but momentary, and soon the frightened 
doe forgot her alarm in cooling draughts of water. 

Though this land was not remote from busy worlds where 
men toiled after glory, riches, and all prosperity, still no living 
being had ever known the beauties of its realm or felt the pres- 


eace of its queen. No foot had trodden the soft carpets of rich 
grass, no hand had broken a flower from its stalk. And oft- 
times the fairy wished for other souls besides her own to com- 
prehend the grandeur of her land, for hearts that would thrill 
and beat like hers in the love and joy of living; or, if these 
wishes were too vain, for some one simply to inhale the perfume 
of her flowers, to feel the soft clinging tendrils of vines, as he 
lay under a canopy of green foliage or buried his head deep 
among flowers and creepers to drink of a virgin spring. 

The more the fairy thought, the more lonely she became, 
longing for something worthy of a higher affection than even 
her beloved land. So gradually, very gradually, she withdrew 
from her old self, unconsciously letting in the chill winds, 
where once only sunshine was permitted to come. Her loving 
vigilance and care seemed growing weaker and weaker, and 
often at eventide, when the far-soaring hawk directed his flight 
homewards and the wandering crow floated silently on his black 
wings to the nest in the pine-top, a sadness would creep into 
the land and suffuse the golden sunset. 

It was whispered about from flower to flower that the good 
fairy, the life of them all, was on the verge of a dreadful 
calamity. Being a fairy, and immortal, death could not harm, 
but a deep, death-like slumber was about to enshroud her, for 
how long they knew not. The daisies bending sorrowfully on 
their stems ceased to dazzle in the sun, the clover forgot to send 
forth its fragrance, and many a rosebud opened pale and wan. 
One flower alone lifted its head hopefully ; 'twas the tiny pur- 
ple heart's-ease. 

"Yet a little while and he will come ; fear not, dear sisters ! " 
Thus did this brave little flower strive to cheer the melancholy 

Now the days grew colder and shorter, the peaceful nights 
grew long and lonely. Sometimes the poor fairy was heard 
sighing as if bemoaning some long lost memory. And at 
length one dreariest night, growing ever weaker and weaker, 
she sank into deep oblivion. A chill wind howled dismally 
through the dark pines, and a cold moon shone out of the dark- 
ness, unmoved by the piteous sight of flowers wilted and grass 
bent low by the storm. A white mist rose silently from the 
broad river and, spreading out over the valley, enfolded in its 
damp, cold vapor the land she loved. 


Finally, in over the pale, mist-covered laud, came light, warm 
and yellow, streaming in from afar. And as ever the light 
grew stronger, the mist turned to gold and purple haze, deeper 
and deeper until, clarified by the golden light, it glowed like a 
beautiful opal held in the sun. The warmth of the new glory 
[)onetrated the chill air, and as the light brightened it widened 
for itself a path through the purpling mist even to the sleeping 

Through her slumber she felt its glow ; she turned her frozen 
heart toward it and then — from away out of the vista of yellow 
light, came strains of heart-rending music; at first, the sounds 
of sadly dripping water, then those of a clear, tender voice full 
of passionate sorrow, rising to ecstasy, sinking to a low, smoth- 
ered moan. And now the sad, lonesome dirge swelled and 
thrilled, telling as only it could tell the sorrows and tempta- 
tions in a longing, burning soul, the endless conflicts, and the 
final triumph of the noble and true instincts. 

The trembling mist rolled slowly back, gathering into itself a 
thousand new colors born of the strange light ; and in the place 
of darkness and chill stood the image of a beautiful boy. Fair, 
white, and gleaming, his head crowned with a soft, mournful 
glow, his lips parted in sorrowful melody, — yes, there he stood, 
the first visitant of the forsaken land. For a moment he paused, 
and seeing the once lovely country now all blight and desola- 
tion, in his new grief he forgot to sing. His beautiful form 
shivered, his golden head bent, and the land became filled with 
weeping. Then the fairy bestirred herself. Her numb, frozen 
limbs found unexpected life and ])0\ver, and, charmed by the 
music, she soon was standing in wondering pity and compassion 
beside the weeping figure. 

Lo, as soon as the presence of the good fairy returned, no 
longer was there silence or death; for her kingdom awoke with 
her. Once more the daisies shone bravely in the light ; again 
tlie wood-robin wound his sweet call ; and the river caught once 
more the color of her ej^es, and its little current waves tumbled 
merrily along as of yore, when the fairy smiled. The little 
heart's-ease, — how tall it stood on its slender stem, its face rn- 
diantly happy ! For had he not come, of whom she had proph- 
esied? But he wept, nor felt yet the loving presence of the fairy 
about him. And she, tenderly striving to reach his stricken 
vS>.)ul and to express her all-embracing pity, clothed herself in a 


form akin to his, one he would understand, — that of a beautiful 
woman. Qently she laid her hand on his shoulder, gently, so 
gently, that he raised his head and their eyes met. Love, ten- 
derness, pity, and a great desire to understand, he read in the 
lovingkindness of her blue eyes. Ah I she was young, young 
as be,— she would understand ! He let his eyes turn from her 
an instant and for the first time saw the land alight with sun 
and loveliness. 

"Ah ! then you did awake ? '' he suddenly exclaimed in eager 
tones, turning back to her. '' How long I have hunted for you! 
I thought it was too late and you had died." 

Now the fairy, who had been so lost in pity for him, suddenly 
remembered the cold, cold sleep which had held her a prisoner 
all those long winter nights ; recalled the beautifully sad music 
that had first aroused her sympathetic heart to life and energy. 
She looked at the boy, shining and triumphant, who had wak- 
ened and restored her to living ; and the spirit of the fairy, 
though now embodied in the form he best might comprehend, 
turned in love and gratitude towards him. 

So when, suddenly bursting forth in merry laughter, he seized 
both her hands in his, kissing her boyishly on both cheeks and 
smiling, oh so happily, in her face, she felt how young, how 
▼ery young and childlike and simple he was, such a one as she 
had longed for as companion in her beautiful but lonely land. 

" Come," she cried, leaning toward him, '' hereafter thou shalt 
dwell in my home, shalt- rule as I rule, shalt live as I live. 
Henceforth I abide in the form akin to thine, a real woman, as 
formerly a real fairy ; and thou — " 

'*And I — "he rejoined, unconscious, in his joy, of the few bril- 
liant tears still lingering on his beautiful lashes. 

"And thou,'' she repeated, pausing to look across to the hills 
she loved, "thou shalt be the Strength of my heart; for thou wert 
Grief when thou didst arouse me, but I am ever Sympathy." 

Esther Conant. 


The burning tapers flicker low, 

The tired idols sleep. 

The sacred swallows peep 
Beneath the temple eaves. And lo, 

From out the shadows stealing, 

A weary mother kneeling, kneeling. 
Prays a prayer below. 

And the tired idols sleep. 

The smoking incense hovers low. 
The tired goddess sleeps. 
A tiny birdie creeps 
Beneath its mother's wing. And lo. 
Before the mde shrine stealing, 
A lonely mother kneeling, kneeling, 

Pleads in prayer below. 
Bat the tired goddess sleeps. 

Kathebine Fibkb Brbry. 


One of the things which strike us most in reading the self- 
revealing works of Thomas Carlyle is the utter loneliness and 
solitude in which he lived his intellectual life. In spite of his 
affection for his family, in spite even of the intellectual com- 
panionship which he found in his wife, he, beyond almost all 
other mortals, seems to have been afSicted with that sense of is- 
olation and boundless solitude which comes over nearly every 
human being at some period of his existence. That dreadful 
sensation of the soul's being so wrapped and muffled in the outer 
trappings of the body that it can never, never reach out and 
touch any other human being, and thus get that longed for 
sense of companionship, — this feeling, which is, I think, an al- 
most universal experience, seems to crop out in nearly every 
page of Carlyle's writings. *' We are all little islands of mys- 
tery shouting to each other across seas of misunderstanding.''' 

• 14 


The secret of all friendship lies in this hungry, lonely character 
of the human soul, which ever strives to get a little nearer to 
some other soul. Our friends are those who at one point or an- 


other do seem to touch us, and those friends are the most soul- 
satisfying who have the most points in common with us ; but 
never do we find one person who can meet us at every point, and 
between whom and ourselves the ocean of misunderstanding is 
quite dried up ; the most we can do is to get a gossamer bridge 
like that of the Mohammedans to cross upon. 

The higher and more intellectual the plane upon which a man 
lives his moral life, the fewer people does he find who can meet 
him at any point ; and both Emerson and Carlyle habitually 
dwelt among altitudes seldom reached by the common run of 
men. Emerson's wide and broad sympathy enabled him to 
stoop to the level of those far below him, or rather, to lift 
them temporarily to his own height ; but Carlyle could not do 
this, and again and again we hear him crying out that he is 
alone. '' I am alone under the heavens,'' he writes, shortly after 
he has first met Emerson ; and again, more than twenty years 
later he says, ^' I am often abundantly solitary in heart," and 
" I am often very lonely in these months and years.'' 

At no time was Carlyle's sense of desolation much greater 
than when, living alone with his wife at Craigenputtock, he 
writes in his diary, ''lam left here the solitariest, stranded, 
most helpless individual I have been for many years." To this 
man, for the time being crashed and desperate, came Ralph 
Waldo Emerson, then young and unknown, but then and al- 
ways the living embodiment of ''sweetness and light." Like 
the clear, warm sunshine he purified the cloudy atmosphere, 
and left both Carlyle and his wife grateful for his brief visit. 
"He seemed," wrote Carlyle in a letter to his mother, "one of 
the most lovable creatures we had ever looked on." Emerson 
up to that time had been unknown to Carlyle ; but it was Em- 
erson's interest in those works of Carlyle which had reached 
hira in his home across the water, which drew him to Craigen- 
puttock to see their author. From that visit sprang a mutual 
interest which never flagged, and the friendship which then 
arose lasted to the end of their lives. 

This friendship, which has often been called strange and re- 
markable, seems to me too natural not to have happened. Not 
only their resemblances, but their differences, formed mutual 


points of attraction. Each had soared beyond the thought of 
his age and his country and stood alone, above other men. Car- 
lyle, as we have seen, had reached a point where understanding 
sympathy would be above all things grateful to him, and Emer- 
son was full of that sympathy which comes from understand- 
ing. Each spoke the other's language with just enough differ- 
ence in the terms to attract but not confuse. *' Eloquence," 
says Emerson, '^ is the power to translate a truth into language 
perfectly intelligible to the person to whom you speak." Elo- 
quence, then, was what these men possessed for each other. The 
aim of each was practically the same, to get beyond the mere 
material to something of real spiritual worth and value ; to 
turn aside from all sham and show and to get to the truth. 
^' Hate shams," was the burden of all that Carlyle said or wrote; 
** Love the truth," was the text from which Emerson drew all 
his philosophy. Both held ardently to a belief in the ideals of 
life, to a something far greater and more transcendent than a 
merely mechanical conception of the universe, and both were 
continually striving to do something to raise the ideals of man- 
kind. Each attacked his subject from a totally different point 
of view, but both moved towards the same center. 

The warm, sunny hopefulness of Emerson's disposition must 
indeed have been to Carlyle as balm to the sore and wounded 
spirit, for, in spite of his theoretical and ultimate optimism, 
Carlyle was of a gloomy and sometimes almost despairing tem- 
per. It is, I think, nearly always the case that characters like 
Carlyle, nervous, irritable, and easily depressed, are most strong- 
ly attracted to people possessing steady cheerfulness such as 
Emerson's. Each of these men, moreover, saw in the other a 
kindred poetic spirit ; each felt that the other was striving to 
express to the best of his ability what he also felt in his inmost 
soul, — the feeling that there is a something above and beyond 
mere fact ; each felt the wideness and the unknowableness of 
the universal. Herein lies the common element of mysticism 
which helped to draw them together, for both in their man and 
their poet natures these two were kindred spirits. 
• Their friendship had in it no element of coldness or formality; 
it was a warm, vital thing, as any one who has read their 
correspondence can not help seeing. Perhaps we can never real- 
ize just what it meant to Carlyle to have this kind, noble, stead- 
fast friend to whom he could pour out his sadness and trouble 


whenever the burden became too heavy for him to bear. Each 
seemed ever to feel confident that he would be met by the other 
in whatever strain he chose to write. Emerson, after his first 
visit to Carlyle, says that a man of true genius '' will give one 
a sense of having been metj and a larger horisson '' ; and years la- 
ter, Carlyle, in mourning over the dumbness of man, writes, '' I 
feel as if Emerson were the man I could soonest try to speak 
with." Especially as old age comes upon him, and after the 
death of Mrs. Carlyle, does Carlyle turn more and more to this 
friend across the sea. '^ I can not <^o without some regard from 
you while we are both here,'' he writes ; and again, in one most 
touching letter, he says, '' Can you not in defect or delay of let- 
ter send me a Massachusetts newspaper ? I think it costs little 
or almost nothing now, and I shall know your hand." So sim- 
ple and so affectionate was their feeling for each other. Nor 
was it in the least one-sided ; Carlyle does not depend more 
upon Emerson than Emerson upon him. '' I thank Qod when- 
ever I call you to remembrance," Emerson says ; and again, 
"Send me some word out of the wide silence." ''A friendly 
thought is the purest gift man can afford to man," says Carlyle; 
and Emerson was rich not only in friendly thoughts but in 
friendly deeds. It is characteristic of both men that they did 
not let their friendship live itself out in mere protestation, but 
were ever eager to be of practical use to each other, to do as well 
as to be. The most common matters were not too small to be of 
interest to one if they were so to the other. Thus we have Em- 
erson giving Carlyle a long account of just how to cook Indian 
meal, and sending him a barrel of the right sort. Herd, indeed, 
was another point which they had in common, a certain homeli- 
ness and naivete of character which is often present in the ex- 
pressions of both and blends curiously with their poetic quali- 
ties. Both men were seers in the truest sense of the word : they 
saw the facts which were around them, and their meaning, and 
both possessed the power to look down into the future and trace 
the result of the present. 

Thus there existed between the two greatest men of the centu- 
ry a warm, human, and sympathetic friendship,— a friendship 
for which there was every reason in the character of the men, 
and which is not a thing to be wondered at except for its perfec- 
tion« It is interesting to know that Emerson in his last hours 
thought of Carlyle, not as the great genius who had spoken 


thunderous messages to the world, but as ''that good man — my 
friend/' It seems as if these two, in spite of the broad ocean 
which separated them^came nearer to abolishing that great spirit- 
ual sea of solitude in which we are all submerged, and to stand- 
ing soul to soul, than often falls to the lot of mortals, be they 
geniuses or ordinary men. 

Persis Eastman Rowell. 


Thou who didst seek to find, 
Holding that search as recompense 
Sufficient, though the end denied, 
Teach me thy better joy, 
To be with striving satisfied. 

HsLBN Isabel Waxjuudg] 

Thb Light upon the Hills 

From the forest's fairy hollows the imrple light is fading. 
And the snnbeams sport no longer at the flashing, fern-fringed riUs ; 

In calm, unbroken stillness the flickering shadows deepen, 
Yet the sunlight glimmers warm and bright on the far-off western hill a. 

The dew is on the meadow and the clover heads are nodding 
In sQence, as the bumblebee his drowsy droning stills ; 

The splendor and the glory fade to the gray of evening, 
Yet the gold and crimson linger in the light upon the hills. 

The mist is on the river,— the pallid, reed-fringed river,— 
And the mystic hush of eventide the lapping water thriUs ; 

Yet beyond the mist and darkness a clear, faint light is shining 
With tender, mellow, radiant glow on the far-off, dreamy hiUs. 

Gertrude Roberts. 


The Gypsy Fortuns Tbllbb 

*' Lady, yoa whose silkeii shimmer 
Mocks the early morning glimmer 

Of the dew npon the grass, 
Qoick yon greet with soomfnl langhter 
What I tell of now— and after, 

And forget me as yon pass. 

* * Bnt, hy lips in whispers moving, 
By the eyes that melt with loving, 

By the blood that leaps like wine, 
By the touch of little fingers 
Which, though vanished, ever lingers, — 

I can read your fate in mine. 

"And, although your silken shimmer 
Mocks the morning's dewy glimmer, 

Though you scorn and pass me by, 
By the path each treads to-morrow, 
Height of love, or deep of sorrow. 

We are sisters, you and I ! *' 

Edith DbBlois Labkby. 

By reason of the extent of his domain, the fertility of his 
lands, and the *great number of his well-governed vassals, the 

Baron de Contrefort was the envy of 

The Horse of the all the lords in the region. None of 

Baron de Contrefort them could boast of such prosperity or 

of such success in managing affairs. 
But the Baron de Contrefort cared nothing for all that made 
him the admiration of his neighbors. He tranquilly enjoyed 
his wealth and never sought to add to the lands that he had 
inherited or conquered in his youth. The baron was a man 




without ambition and without pride except in one thing— his 
horse, Charles Martel. 

Truly he was a noble animal, this Charles Martel — a war 
▼eteran, too, and comrade of the hundred exploits which the 
baron had performed as a young man. But that was a long 
time ago. As I have said, the baron had established himself 
upon his domain as a peaceable landholder ; and he mounted 
the broad back of Charles Martel no more except for a gentle 
trot among the fertile fields of Contrefort. Clearly the steed as 
well as the master was no longer in the first springtime of his 
youth. Indeed his years numbered twenty -six, — a somewhat 
advanced age for a horse. But in the opinion of the baron this 
longevity was only a proof of the excellence of Charles Martel. 
'^ It must be a rare horse,'' he was wont to say, '' that can attain 
twenty-six years.'' He thought that his horse like his wines 
became more precious every year. Hence, through all the 
country-side a man would have struck the baron sooner than 
suggest to him that the eye of Charles Martel did not shine with 
its former fire, or that a very little hill sufficed to make him lose 
his breath. 

One day when the baron, having resolved to superintend in 
person the work of the corvee, was riding toward his cornfields 
on his beloved courser, he chanced to meet his cousin the Baron 
de Bourdigne, lord of the domain contiguous to his own. Not 
only was the Baron de Bourdigne his first cousin, but he was 
also a good fellow, and the two had always been the best of 
friends. So they greeted one another cordially and exchanged 
a few observations upon the state of harvests and game. Then 
the Baron de Contrefort would have passed on to his cornfields ; 
but at that moment, whether through thoughtlessness or through 
malice, the Baron de Bourdigne let fall these fatal words : — 

''My cousin, it seems to me that Charles Martel appears a 
trifle weak in the knees." 

That was all, but it was more than enough. Uttering a cry 
of rage, the Baron de Contrefort struck with all his strength 
the mocking face of his cousin ; then he seized him in an iron 
grasp, tore him from the saddle, and flung him to the ground. 
Then touching with his spurs the venerable sides of Charles 
Martel he set off at a hard trot for Contrefort. As for the lord 
of Bourdigne, he gathered himself up painfully, followed with 
a furious glance the cloud of dust raised by the shambling hoof a 


of Charles Martel^ shook his fist with a sinister and threatening 
gesture and, mounting his horse, took at a gallop the road for 

In those virile days when a man was insulted he did not 
demand an apology ; he avenged himself. Thus the outraged 
baron did not cease to urge on his horse until he reached the 
outer court of Bourdigne, where he drew rein before the little 
chapel. Some of his dependents, seeing him leap from the sad- 
dle and dash headlong into the chapel, came running from their 
quarters. Pausing at the door, they found the baron kneeling 
before the altar, solemnly swearing not to rest before compass* 
iug the death of Charles Martel. 

On reaching his castle the Baron de Contref ort descended from 
his horse and, having tenderly caressed him, he had him led 
away to the stables. Then he sent for the superior of the monks 
who lived on his estate and cared for the souls of his vassals ; 
and while awaiting his arrival, he entered the hall of the castle, 
where he paced to and fro, gnawing his bristling moustache and 
muttering a thousand maledictions. 

When the superior entered the hall, the baron turned upon 
him a look of savage joy. 

"Father," said he, "we are about to fight. To-morrow my 
cousin the Baron de Bourdigne will be here with a great army.'* 

The superior rolled his little round eyes toward heaven. 

"May the good Gk>d preserve us !" he cried. Then, changing 
his tone abruptly, "What the devil does my lord your cousin 
want with us?" 

"He has insulted me atrociously!" roared the baron. "He 
has just said to me that Charles Martel is growing old." 

"Infamous I" said the superior, who saw at once how the 
wind blew. "The noble Charles Martel! And what did 
you do ?" 

" I struck him a terrible blow and cast him upon the ground," 
replied the baron. 

"And why did you not kill him?" demanded the superior. 

" I forgot that," replied the baron. "What the devil. Father I 
When a mau is angry he does not remember all these things. 
But that will come later. And now, prepare to fight. How 
this recalls the crusade that we made together in the days when 
you were not yet a monk ! You had a terrible arm in those 
days, Father." 


'' It is the will of God," sighed the superior, philosophically. 
** If I must fight, let me fight my best. And in truth,** contin- 
ued the man of prayer, 'Hhere is a certain squire of the Baron 
de Bourdigne whom I could slay with great satisfaction. And 
now, to the siege ! *' And he rushed from the hall, tearing off 
his cassock as he ran. 

The next day the castle of Contrefort stood ready for a siege. 
The drawbridge had been raised and the gates closed, and upon 
the great wall many sentinels kept watch. In the court, the 
baron and the superior, both armed to the teeth, reviewed their 
soldiers and ordered the last preparation for the combat. About 
noon a sentinel gave the alarm from his tower, and rushing to 
the wall, the men of Contrefort saw a multitude of warriors 
advancing upon the castle. The Baron de Contrefort and the 
superior ascended the watch-tower and gazed upon the approach- 
ing army. As the enemy drew nearer, the baron could distin- 
guish his cousin of Bourdigne. His eye flashed, and his hand 
pressed the hilt of his sword. 

The hostile army halted a few paces from the wall, and a 
herald advanced into the open space. Having sounded his 
trumpet he proclaimed that the Baron de Bourdigne was come 
to avenge his cousin's insult ; that he had sworn the death of 
Charles Martel ; and that if it should be necessary he would 
raze the castle of Contrefort to the ground. 

''Ah, it is still a question of Charles Martel,'' cried the baron. 
^' He must be led to a place of safety. Let me go ! " 

He descended the staircase swiftly, rushed to the stables, and 
after a moment he was seen crossing the court at a run, drag- 
ging by the halter Charles Martel who followed trotting. The 
baron made him enter the hall of the castle, where he shut him 
in, then returned breathless to his soldiers. At that moment 
the noise of a terrible shock was heard. It was the assault of 
the men of Bourdigne upon the barbican. Then followed a 
fierce combat. Well defended though it was, the barbican 
yielded at last to the furious onslaught of the enemy. Crossing 
the ditch, they forced the gate, aud hewing down the defenders 
on all sides they pushed struggling into the court. Then uprose 
a terrible clamor. The monks rushed from their quarters, 
uttering cries of fear, and took refuge in the castle ; while the 
warriors of Contrefort and of Bourdigne fell upon each other, 
aud the clash of arms and the yells of the combatants swelled 



deafening to heaven. The Baron de Contrefort and the supe- 
rior were everywhere, fighting side by side, slashing and hewing 
like madmen. Soon it became evident that the soldiers of 
Bonrdigne were gaining ground. Step by step the garrison of 
Contrefort were forced to give way. Contending every inch, 
they were borne back even to the castle. It was now a question 
of saving themselves as quickly as possible; so they took refuge 
behind the solid door of the castle, overpowered for the moment 
but unvanquished still. 

The siege that followed this struggle was furious and deter- 
mined. Nine days passed in assaults and repulses. During all 
this time Charles Martel stood in a corner of the hall, with his 
head drooping and his eyes half closed. The baron stole an 
occasional moment from fighting or watching only to caress 
this stolid CC18US belli and to whisper a few encouraging words 
in his ear. 

•*Only look at Charles Martel 1'' he cried one day. "What 
noble resignation! '' 

The superior considered the animal with a penetrating eye. 
**Was he fed yesterday?" he asked. 

*'He would not eat," replied the baron. "His noble spirit 
forbids him to eat in such a crisis." 

The superior surveyed Charles Martel again, slapped him on 
the flank, and as the animal seemed sunk in oblivion, returned 
without further parley to the defense of the castle. 

On the tenth day, the besiegers gained ground enormously; 
and before night it became evident that the castle must fall. 
The besiegers gave over their onslaughts for the moment, and 
<again the herald advanced and sounded his trumpet. 

"Baron de Contrefort," he cried in a loud voice, "deliver 
over to us the horse Charles Martel and we will spare you and 
your men, and we will not raze your castle to the ground." 

The superior hastened to the side of the baron. He would 
have spoken, but at his chiefs dark glance he fell back without 
a word. The baron ordered his herald to reply with a valiant 
defiance. Then turning to the superior he said, "There re- 
mains the dungeon. Let Charles Martel ascend to it." 

He summoned two stable boys and ran to the horse, who 
stood motionless in his corner. 

"An re voir, Charles Martel," murmured the baron in his ear. 
^'Trust yourself to these good boys. As for me, I go to defend 


the door until you shall have ascended. Au revoir, my brave 
fellow/' And drawing his sword and shouting, "Follow me !'* 
he ran to the door of the castle. 

At that moment the engines of the besiegers thundered 
again upon the wall. 

Charles Martel, who seemed in no way moved by this din^ 
followed the stable boys with docility. At the foot of the stair- 
case he cast an indifferent glance upward ; then, with head 
hanging and eyes closed, stumbling and scrambling, he suffered 
himself to be dragged aloft. 

All night long the renewed combat raged among the ruins of 
tiie falling castle. Sunrise revealed the forces of the besiegers 
terribly reduced. In the dungeon, the remnant of the defend- 
ers grew every moment weaker. The baron and the superior 
rallied them for a last effort. The superior, brandishing his 
sword and swearing in a manner scarcely priestly, took his 
place beside the baron at the head of the soldiers. 

They carried the day. Before the very door of the dungeon 
the Baron de Bourdigne fell under the feet of his men. Terri- 
fied and weakened, they were cut down in this last desperate 
struggle of the besieged. Those who were able saved them- 
selves in flight, leaving the dead on the field of battle. 

The baron profited by the cessation of the combat to seek 
Charles Martel. He embraced the neck of the horse. 

" I have avenged you, my noble courser !" he cried. "Your 
traducer is dead, and you are saved.'' 

At the sound of his voice Charles Martel half opened his eyes; 
then he sank down upon the stone floor, and quietly breathed 
his last. 

At this moment the superior came in. 

''And how fares Charles Martel?" he cried as he entered. 

"Dead," replied the baron briefly. "It is emotion that haa 
slain him?" he submitted presently. 

" My lord," answered the superior, while his hand sought the^ 
hilt of his dripping sword, "I think that it is his great and 
honorable age." 

The baron bowed his head, and silently contemplated tha 

"At least," he said finally, "we have preserved all that 
remains of him." 

"Consider," hazarded the superior. "Here is your dear 
cousin dead — " 


"So much the better," interpolated the baron. 

"And your wall battered down, your stables and your chapel 
in ruins, your castle razed to the ground, and half of your men 
slain. I wonder if the game is worth the candle," said the 
superior thoughtfully. 

"My dear fellow !" cried the baron in astonishment, "what 
an original idea ! " 

Ethel Wallace Hawkins. 

Mehitabel Melissa came to college afflicted with some other 
things beside her name. The small High School in the little 

town of Maddern had, so to speak, re- 

The Experience of volved around Mehitabel Melissa's lit- 

Mehitabel Melissa erary ability, and she possessed there- 
fore a decided confidence in her talent 
in that direction. Her composition teacher had remarked to 
Mehitabel Melissa's father that she had a very *'apt pen," 
whereupon her father, beaming, had seen to it that the pen 
should be a gold one. 

At the graduation exercises when Mehitabel Melissa had 
stepped forward to read her essay there was a murmur of delight 
and expectation from the audience of relatives and friends. Me- 
hitabel Melissa's mother, who sat on the front row about ten feet 
away from Mehitabel Melissa, raised to her eyes with trembling 
hands a pair of opera glasses better to contemplate her daughter 
and the graduating gown which she had helped her to put on 
half an hour before. Mehitabel MelissaJ made a jerky bow 
and read her essay entitled, *' Flowers Everywhere," a subject 
of her own choosing. It could never have been said of Mehita- 
bel Melissa that she departed from her subject, — at any rate not 
before she had so endowed every region of the earth with flow- 
ers that there was room for very little else on this terrestrial 
sphere. The flowery language, the figures of speech, combined 
with the tuberoses, the lilies of the valley, the honeysuckle, the 
jasmine, the mignonette, all coming at once, were enough to 
have stifled the admiring friends and relatives with the fra- 
grance of it all. But instead of looking as if they feared it 
would be necessary to procure lawn mowers in order to make 
their way through the luxuriance of horticultural growth de- 
scribed as surrounding them, they listened in rapt, admiring at- 
tention. The exercises over, they rushed up to Mehitabel Me- 


lissa, kissed her, made much of her, and demanded the privilege 
of looking at the essay in their own hands. Mehitabel Melissa 
yielded it up modestly, — ^she had decorated it in water colors 
with little groups of forget-me-nots and violets. She wished it 
to be beautiful to see as well as to hear, and she had heard that 
the monks of old illumined valuable manuscript. 

The next day she read a certain '' Pamphlet of Information "' 
long and industriously, and there came upon a course which 
spoke of papers and themes. She would go to college, she 
would take this course, she would cultivate her talent. 

She went to college, she struggled hard with certain formali- 
ties of mechanical — nay, rather of a mathematical nature — and 
then she was installed. One day about a week later she went to 
the class in themes. At home when Mehitabel Melissa and her 
fellow classmates had deserved any reward, the teachers had oc- 
casionally read them a story or two. The professor seemed to be 
following this plan. Mehitabel Melissa sat and listened entran- 
ced to stories, amusing stories, and to two poems. She was de- 
lighted. All at once she felt that, after all, she was glad she had 
come to college. But when the class was dismissed, above the 
clatter of the arms of the chairs being folded back into place, she 
heard one girl say to another, 

**Do you suppose Alice Ward wrote that first poem? She 
wrote such clever things last year." 

Then it all dawned on Mehitabel Melissa—those poems were 
written by the girls, those delightful stories were themes ! She, 
Mehitabel Melissa, was expected to write things like that. A 
girl behind her gave her a gentle push, and Mehitabel Melissa 
moved forward a little. Then she walked out and went back to 
her own little room on the third floor of an off campus house. 
She closed the door and locked it. She went over and sat down 
by her desk and began idly to play with a patent inkstand, a 
parting gift from her father. She reflected that the inkstand 
would not work ; no matter, she could write home in pencil. 

In the house next door a girl in a red dressing sack was stand- 
ing by the window beating fudge in a pan. Mehitabel Melissa 
thought vaguely that it was strangely flippant of that girl to 
wear bright red at a time like this. With a sudden fierce move- 
ment she leaned over and pulled out a drawer in her desk and 
took from it with rude hands the decorated copy of her gradua- 
ting essay which had been laid there so tenderly. She read 



through the first pages, and then thought of the stories in the 
theme class. She pulled her brown waste basket over by her 
and made a potpourri of " Flowers Everywhere" by tearing it 
into little bits. Then she put her arm on her desk, laid her head 
down on it, and stayed there quite still for a long time. 

Half a year later another offering was laid on the shrine in 
the little drawer of Mehitabel Melissa's desk. It was in the 
form of a short theme and at the end it bore the legend in letters 
of red, ^^ Your work is improving." And this time Mehitabel 
Melissa was content that her production should remain undis- 

LuciB London. 

Thx Song of thb Mountainbbr 

I know that the forest tells me true 

The secret of the trees ; 
I trust the murmured syllables 

They scatter to the breeze ; 
But the ocean stores its loves and its lores 

Deep down in its watery fold ; 
For the heart of the sea throbs not for me, — 

The heart of the sea beats cold. 

The monntain breasts are warm with fire, 

Their pnlse bnt echoes mine ; 
I love their earthquake mntterings 

And their song in birch and pine ; 
Bnt the ocean keeps in its fathomless deeps 

Its thoughts to me untold ; 
For the heart of the sea throbs not forme, — 

The heart of the sea beats cold. 

Gharlottb Bubgis DxFobbst. 

Surrounding, encompassing everything were shadowy dis- 
tances of luxuriant foliage that seemed unending. Near at hand 

the bridle path of the pioneer 
A Pioneer Flower Bonnet wound around the roots of the 

great trees, and was finally lost 
in the green beyond. The stillness was more than that of a 
Jane Sunday, it was the silence of the vast primeval forest. 


There was no expectancy, no alertness. All life seemed hushed, 
drowsy. Only the shadows of the leaves moved, creeping 
across the bridle path as the sun advanced. 

Suddenly from far away in the green depths a faint noise of 
laughter and voices came echoing from tree to tree, growing 
clearer until the woods seemed ringing with it. A gay, 
mocking laugh sounded close at hand, and a vexed voice ans- 
wered, '^ Fie on thee, Sarah Wisner, for an ill-mannered sister." 
Around the turn in the bridle path came two ungainly farm- 
horses, swaying from side to side in their plodding gait and giv- 
ing their riders many a rough jolt. 

Surely it was Mistress Sarah who rode first; a winsome maiden 
was she with her mischievous black eyes, upturned nose, and 
saucy brown curls, well matched by rosy cheeks and a trim, 
little figure. Deborah Wisner was the older sister and she sat 
her awkward steed with a queenly grace. Her pale, clear-cut 
face, framed with black hair had a proud beauty in it that con- 
trasted well with the merrier face of Sarah. Their crisp lawn 
skirts were gathered up and lay in billowy piles of ruffles on 
their laps, and their dainty slippered feet were held out from 
the shaggy sides of their faithful carriers. Again Sarah's gay 

laugh rang out. 

'' I tell thee, Sarah, I will not have thy ill-timed mirth. Thou 
art a saucy child. What matters it if I choose to wear my new 
lawn to the Methodist meeting ? Is it meet for thee to chide me, 
clad as thou art in thy own fresh gown V* 

^'Ah, Debbie,'' said Sarah, reining in her horse so that she 
could face her sister ; '^but thou didst sew until late yester eve 
to finish thy lawn, while mine has been hung away these two 
days. Besides, Debbie, did I gainsay the fact that I desire to 
look my prettiest before the Methodist brethren ? ^ Says I to 
Josiar when I hears of them Methodists' arrival and when I 
hears as there was five sons, then says I to Josiar, there's a 
chance for them Wisner gals,' so — " 

'^ Sarah Wisner I Thinkest thou the idle gossip of Mistress Jo- 
siah Bardwell is fit for thy tongue ? I shall not stay another 
moment to listen to thy ill-chosen conversation." 

'' Nay, but thou wilt, Debbie, stay as thou art, for thou cans' t 
not go forward because of me and my beast, and I have no fear 
that thou wilt go home, Deborah Wisner. Ah, Debbie, I meant 
not to hurt. See, I will go on," and again the two horses jolted 


along the path, and the sunlight now and again broke through 
the trees and rested on the two fair faces. 

Finally Sarah stopped so abruptly that the stately Deborah, 
being close upon her, barely escaped a tumble. 

"Are we near, Sally ?*' 

'' The clearing is but just beyond," answered Sarah. ' 'Ar- 
range thy petticoats. Mistress Deborah, put thy flower bonnet 
upon thy shapely head, and prepare thy thoughts for the divine 

Thereupon each maiden shook down the crisp, ruffled skirts of 
lawn, and brought to light each a bonnet gay with flowers. Sa- 
rah's had red roses, Deborah's yellow. 

'' Sally, art not abashed to go unbidden to a strange church ? 
I know not what to say. Tell me the preacher's name again, I 
do forget." 

Sarah raised her clear voice and the wood echoed with her 
words. " Roe— canst hear ? Daniel Roe and his five — " 

" Sally, I command thee hush ! They will hear. Thou wilt 
disgrace us with thy pranks." 

"Gk) preach to the woods, Debbie, and I will go to the meet- 
ing-house," Sarah answered, starting her horse. 

Deborah followed, and another turn brought them into the 

It was a desolate little place, this clearing of only two months' 
settlement. Three log houses were built near the furthermost 
edge, and in the center a little log meeting-house, in the door of 
which a man was standing as they rode up. 

Deborah summoned her courage. *'Art Mr. Roe ? " she asked. 

" I am Daniel Roe, the Methodist preacher," he answered. 

"And I," said Deborah, "am Mistress Deborah Wisner — this 
my sister. Mistress Sarah. We are the daughters of Moses Wis- 
ner. Thou must know of our father who lives at the clearing 
beyond here near the Presbyterian Corners, where he is an elder 
in the church. He has allowed us to attend thy church this 

While she was speaking a perplexed look came over the 
preacher's face. He seemed at a loss what to say as he gazed up 
at them. 

" It would give me great pleasure, my sisters, to have you with 
us, but I hardly know how — " 

Deborah drew herself up proudly. " I beg thee to remember. 


Mr. Boe, that I am not thy sister, and as we seem not to be wel- 
come, Sarah, let us return." 

" Oh, I pray thee sir," broke in Sarah, **mind not my sister's 
speech. 'Twas but a hasty outburst. We did not know it was 
not allowed us to worship with thee and thy church." 

The preacher turned toward her bright, -earnest face. ''I 
thank thee, my child, for thy words. Surely it is right for thee 
to worship with us ; I was but puzzled by your finery,'' and he 
glanced again at the haughty Deborah. '^According to the 
rules of my church I can not let you enter with the gay flowera 
in your bonnets. If you desire to come in, you must first cut 
them out." 

•'Enough," cried Deborah. " I tell thee, Sarah, let us go."" 

'• But I am not going, Deborah, I shall remain for the meet- 
ing. 'Tis but a trifling service to cut away my roses." 

Deborah stared. '^ Then shall I do better on my homeward 
way. To such nonsense will I never stoop," and she whipped 
up her plodding horse and rode away into the forest, Sarah's 
troubled eyes watching her. 

"Do not worry nor blame, my child," said the preacher. 
•' Here is my son, Austin. Mistress Wisner, Austin. He will 
lead thy horse across the field to our dwelling, and there thou 
shalt cut away thy blossoms." 

Sarah looked down and saw that a young man had come out 
of the meeting-house, and was standing near the preacher. She 
had forgotten the five sons, and this was one of them. She 
thanked the preacher, and rode away across the field, Austin 
Roe leading her horse. He answered her questions about the 
new settlement, and the Connecticut section from which hi& 
family had moved; and she told him in turn about the preach- 
er's refusal to let them in with flowers in their bonnets, and how 
her sister Deborah had gone back home, and then they came to 
the little log house. 

** My mother is already at the meeting, therefore tell me of 
what thou hast need," he said, leading the way into the living- 

** Surely a pair of scissors will suffice for a cutting process, "" 
she said gaily. The scissors brought, he ^v^atched the brown 
curls nodding saucily over the bright bonnet in her lap, and the 
nimble fingers clipping the blossoms loose. 

" Oh, 'tis a pity to spoil the pretty thing," he said. 


" No, no, just quite sensible. 'Tis of no account to wear 

'' If I made the Discipline it should not be so,** and he sighed 
so woefully that Sarah laughed outright. 

''There, 'tis the last one,*' she said, giving a final snip; 
whereupon the last red rose flew off the bonnet and landed at 
the young fellow's feet. Quickly he seized upon it, and looked 
at her boldly. 
"Tis my prize, Mistress Wisner, is't not ?" he pleaded. 
" For shame, Mr. Roe, what says thy Discipline ? — and thou 
the minister's son." He laughed gaily. 
''I shall not wear it in my cap, "and he put it in his pocket. 
''Thou dost not need the roses after all," he added, looking at 
her admiringly as she stood ready with the plain little bonnet 
on her curls. " The Discipline knew best, I ween." 
"Art ready ? " said Sarah, abruptly. 

He swung her up on the old horse and they set out again. The 
freshly broken earth was rough and the horse stumbled fre- 
quently. Austin Roe had a bolder tongue than when they went 
oyer the field before. 

'' I fear me. Mistress Wisner, the ground is much too uneven 
for thy comfort." 

"No, no, 'tis but the awkward step of the farm horse. I am 
ased to many a jolt." 

He looked at her eagerly. '' I have a pony brought by myself 
from Connecticut. Wouldst thou have it, Mistress Wisner ? 
Twould suit thy weight rarely." 

"I beg thee, sir, to remember that the Sabbath is not a fit day 
for horse trading." 

Austin Roe bit his lips impatiently and turned again to the 
horse ; and the demure little Sarah saw^only the back of his 
shapely head for the remainder of the journey. 

The preacher met them at the door again and Sarah Wisner 
went in to her first Methodist Love-feast. She put off her coquet- 
ry as she had her flowers, and it was a serious little maiden who 
drank in the g^entle words of Daniel Roe that morning. 

"Thou dost transform our meeting-house with thy sweetness, 
my child, and thou art always welcome," said the preacher as 
he bade her good-by, and Austin Roe echoed his father's words 
in his face as he rode into the forest with Sarah. 


As they wound along through the golden green and the shad- 
ows, he looked at her shyly, remembering the lesson of the po- 
ny. Then gently he said, ''I shall ride often through these 
woods if thou wilt let me.*' 

And Sarah's look was clear and sunny as she answerered, 
''And thou shalt find a welcome if it please thee to ride all the 
way through." 

Another June, Sarah Wisner rode through the forest in her 
bridal gown, and the preacher married her to Austin Roe in the 
little log meeting-house. 

''Debbie, thou canst not help thyself, now. Thou art sist-er 
to one Methodist at least," and as the color deepened in Debo- 
rah's cheeks, Sarah whispered to the preacher, " FU wager, my 
father, that such relationship will not long suffice her." 

Lillian Prkston Hull. 

Who Knows? 

*' IVe loved, Fve loved," she said with content 

As she gazed at the red, red rose. 
And the red rose nodded in sweet assent. 

For perhaps she had loved, — who knows? 

*«rve lost, Tve lost,'* she said all forlorn, 

And a tear dropped on the red rose. 
The red rose pricked her with one small thorn, 

For perhaps she had lost, — who knows? 

Clara Myers Knowlton. 


Please Do Not Disturb" 

'* Studying. Please do not disturb." 

Jnst as well to go away ; 
She's absorbed in noun and verb, 

Not at home to you to-day. 

And yon 'd find it very stnpid. 
Heartless tibiogs are nonn and verb ; 

Might as well go home, Dan Cnpid \ 
' * Studying. Please do not disturb I " 

Ellen Gray Barbour, 


In the old family Bible, bound in calfskin, the date of my 
birth is thns recorded, * 'Elizabeth Catherine Deyer, born Febru- 
ary the tenth, year of our Lord 1832." That is the 
My Own way it stands, written in a large, bold, masculine 
Kingdom hand, and a little farther down the page, in my 
mother's exquisitely fine writing, the additional 
sentence, "February the twentieth. Baby was christened to-day 
Elizabeth Catherine, Elizabeth for my esteemed and beloved 
mother and Catherine for Mr. Deyer's maternal parent. We 
pray that our child may inherit the virtues and graces of both 
of these most estimable gentlewomen." 

Here were plain facts before my eyes and still I took them 
and colored them with my own fancy and there I read that 
Elizabeth Catherine Deyer was born a Princess Royal, and with 
tliis fancy I played for many years. Often I would spend long, 
rainy winter afternoons robed in a red shawl with a chain of 
pearls twined in my hair,— a cousin had been to Rome and had 
brought me the beads, which henceforth became my most 
cherished treasure, — a peacock fan in my hand, sitting in state 
ia the library holding ray court. I well remember how horri- 
bly mortified I was if any one intruded and saw me ; for it 
broke the charm, and I would snatch the pearls out of my hair, 
drop the fan and wrap the shawl about me, as if I felt chilly. 
Perhaps you will call this deception, but to be laughed at hurt 
me, and no one would have understood had I tried to explain. 

Let me beg you to give your children names. The combination 
of mine may now sound old-fashioned ; but such a wealth as they 
have beeni For instance, one day I was the haughty Tudor 
Qaeen of England signing the death warrant of the poor Queen 
of Scots, or again I was Saint Elizabeth, but liere I lost faith, 
for so completely did I merge my existence into that of the 
real saint that when my imaginary husband accosted me and 
brutally demanded what was in my basket and I answered, 
**roses,'* the roses failing to materialize I was indignant. Wasn't 
the Lord just as anxious that I should tell the truth as my far 
away namesake ? Then why didn't he perform a miracle for 
me and save me from telling a lie ? Then taking my second 
name I was Katharine of France, Catherine de Medici, Katha- 
rine of AragoUy just as my mood suggested. 

I had no brothers or sisters, and I lived in the old Deyer 
homestead with my grandfather, grandmother, and my own 


dear mother ; for my father had died when I was a tiny child. 
My mother was an invalid and, for weeks at a time when she 
was worse, I would steal in on tiptoe after breakfast to kiss her 
thin cheek, and again at nightfall before going to bed, to say 
good-night ; so the days were long and rather lonely. 

There was a small tract of woodland behind the house and 
this served as an enchanted forest where scaly, fire-breathing 
dragons guarded a buried treasure which I longed to discover, 
or as my pleasure park where I rode a-hunting with my train 
of lords and ladies. 

''The huge bronze gates of the palace are flung open by 
lackeys in brilliant coats of red and gold," I would murmur 
to myself, ''and the Princess Royal steps forth attended by 
her two favorite maids of honor, the Arch-Duchess Louise and 
the Countess Marie, and a dozen knights. As she descends the 
grooms lead up the horses and the Princess mounts and sits 
gracefully in her saddle patting the arching neck of her beauti- 
ful Arabian steed that, eager for the chase, chafes the bit 
beneath her gentle but firm hand. Her escort mounted. Her 
Royal Highness gives the signal and away they dash into the 
green wood. The Princess wears a gown of white embroidered 
with pearls; a great black hat with long feathery plumes shades 
but does not conceal her lovely face." Childish egotism ! In 
my fancies I was always beautiful. Pug nose, straight mouse- 
colored hair were transformed into Grecian features and locks 
the color of the sun, or occasionally black as a raven's wing ; 
but this did not give my courtiers so many chances for flatter- 
ing comparisons, and so was not so often chosen. And, of 
course, I had a lover ; but he was rather vague, a combination 
of Sir Galahad, Richard Coeur de Lion, the Black Prince, and 
other heroes of my childhood ; however, he loved me, slew the 
dragon, recovere<l the treasure, and danced divinely at the court 
ball given by the king on my wedding eve. 

My grandfather Deyer was a deacon of the church, therefore 
I was not allowed to dance, and on Thursdays at school I 
suffered untold agonies hearing the other girls talk about the 
good time they would have at dancing class, and how often 
Tom, Dick, or Harry would ask them to dance. So you see 
that the prince who was to win my heart and hand must 
know how to dance, for I danced like a woodland nymph, at 
least my courtiers swore I did. 


Long ago I laid aside my scepter and sovereign duties, but 
the throne is not empty , for my dearest godchild and namesake 
reigns. One day, seeing Betty bowing and kissing her hand 
before the long glass in my dressing-room, I sank on my knees 
beside her and flung my arms around her waist. 

"Betty," I gasped, *' are you a Princess?" 

"Yes," she answered simply, "I am, but how did you know 
it, Cousin Elizabeth?'' 

How did I know it ?— only because long years ago I too had 
reigned and played at being a Princess Royal. 

Elizabbth Robinson Jackson. 


The survival of the fittest as a law of the universe is unques- 
tioned in our day. If a maxim then has pursued us from our 
earliest recollection we may believe with some confidence that 
there is a sound kernel of truth in it. The person who main- 
tained that every adage is either a truism or a lie must have 
been possessed of an over-literal mind or inclined to extreme 
hastiness in generalization. No doubt there are in circulation 
flashy sayings of an epigrammatic order that remain current 
for a time by virtue of some empty conceit, but the day of these 
is brief. One by one they fall into disuse and are forgotten. 
Not so those sterling maxims, defying the test of time, which 
contributed to the moral growth alike of our parents and of 
our grandparents and so on ad libitum^ and of which we in our 
day and generation must not expect to be wholly independent. 
There is something very insistent about these venerable pieces 
of good advice, these words of consolation or of warning ; and 
it is well for us that it is so. An adage may seem to be cold 
comfort ; but there are times when it is the best antidote for 
the ills of life, if it is received in a spirit not too skeptical and 
acted upon accordingly. Thanks to the number and variety of 
these maxims, there is scarcely an unhappy contingency that 
can not be met by one of them. And where better can one turn 
in the period of discontent that comes in the middle of the 
winter term ? 

On the whole, there is no more trying time during the college 

year. The Christmas vacation seems a part of another life in 

some remote age ; Easter and the spring term seem myths. If 

the passing of examinations has left a feeling of relief, it has 

also left a feeling of much hard and steady work done. One 

has an ardent longing for one's home and family which must 

in most cases remain unsatisfied. One's existence is too likely 

to seem made up of dead routine, without ambition or aim. 

tf • 


Dull and lethargic discontent is too likely to be one's prevailing 
sensation. If this is so, now is the time above all others to 
seek help from the army of maxims ever ready at hand; to find 
one's best good in reverting to the familiar admonitions of 
childhood. The languid spirit, thus reinforced, remembers 
that all things come to them that wait, counts the weeks to 
some alleviating event, and finds the prospect less unendurable; 
remembers that every cloud has its silver lining, investigates 
the situation, skeptically at first, and admits reluctantly that 
life is not wholly joyless. Or better — and she who forgets this 
misses the best that maxims have to oflfer — remembers that 
king among good counsels that points to labor as the universal 
panacea. Then she may reflect that she is really not doing her 
best in basket-ball ; or that she could write an excellent story 
for the Monthly if she would take the time to work out the idea 
that she has had in her head for weeks ; or that she might be 
rather more useful on that committee of hers that has so many 
efficient workers ; or— incidentals failing— there is always the 
curriculum I In the winter of her discontent, let her moralize. 


A new, though by uo means a novel contribution to the dis- 
cussion of the old Question, ^' Shall woman's education differ 
from man's'' ? comes in an article in the Forum for this month, 
by President Thwing, of Western Reserve University. Dr. 
Thwing takes up in order the conditions, the methods, and the 
forces of education, the subject to be educated, the aim and the 
content of education. As regards what he calls ''the condi- 
tions of education," namely, time and space, there need be, he 
says, no difference between the education of women and that of 
men. The time of education should be, in every case, as long 
as purse will buy and individual will allow. The relative 
advantage or disadvantage of an urban, a rural, or suburban 
location for a college is practically the same to students of 
either sex. In regard to the methods and the forces of educa- 
tion he comes to a similar conclusion. Co-education, codrdinate 
education, separate education, — each method has its weaknesses 
and its strength ; each is good or bad, better or worse, best or 
worst, according to the individual student, man or woman, to 
whom it is applied. And the great teacher, the teacher of a 
great personality, is required to the same degree by men and 
women alike. Thus far Dr. Thwing's argument has been of so 
general a nature that it has been as impossible definitely to 
disagree as definitely to agree with him. Now comes our first 
intimation of his distinctive position. '' The fourth thing that 
I wish to say," he continues, *' relates to the subject to be edu- 
cated, — the man, the woman." Whereupon he goes about to 
prove woman's intellectual equality with man, assuming here 
and in the treatment of his next head that education has to do 
solely with the life of the intellect. When he comes to consider 
the content of education, however. Dr. Thwing departs suddenly 
and widely from this intellectual view of education with the 
statement, '' Of the many things I should like to say about the 



course of study, the one thing that I wish most to say is that 
the differences in different studies are of very small value, pro- 
vided the student is interested in the studies which he pursues. 
. . . Woman should take those studies which interest and 
move and form her. Man should take those studies which in- 
terest and move and form him. The studies should be different, 
not on the ground that the one is a man and the other a woman, 
bat they should be different on the ground that each is an indi- 
vidual." Thus, at the very crisis of the discussion, the empha- 
sis is adroitly shifted from the original question, and the paper 
closes without explaining to our satisfaction Dr. Thwing's views 
on the education of women or on this new problem of the scope 
and value of the elective principle in education. 

In the January Forum, President Jones of Hobart College 
gives, in no uncertain tones, his opinion of the elective system, 
as carried to excess in so many of our colleges, where the stu- 
dent is allowed passively to follow the line of least resistance. 
^'Any course disappointingly stiff is dropped for another occu- 
pying the same number of hours. 'When they persecute you 
in one city flee ye to another', is an injunction well laid to 
heart by those otherwise indifferent to the Scriptures ; and sud- 
den migrations from the Jerusalem of calculus to the Jericho 
of economics are not without their humorous aspects." While 
by no means advocating a return to the iron-bound conditions 
of fifty years ago. Dr. Jones maintains that enough restriction 
must be placed upon the operation of the elective system to 
give symmetry and consistency to the college course, if the col- 
lege is not to lose its place as a fitting-school for life. 

alumNjE department 

In writdng of the Cornell UniTersity Medical Ck>llege, I realize afresh that 
to have two *'alma maters" is an nnmized blessing. Though my mind's eye 

wanders frequently over **wav- 

The Cornell University Medical College ing meadows" and lingers 

among " purple shadows," it is 
no less capable of following the waves on Cajruga Lake, and seeing visions 
behind the *' Western hills " ; aad though I loyally say in the words we have 
all learned so well,— **We have no yell," I yet feel contentedly at home among 
those who '*yell Cornell." To know the strange i>er8onality of one college, as 
much as a finite being is able to know it, makes understanding another a little 
more possible, and, I believe, loving one college loyally necessitates loyally 
loving the second. 

But you who know me, know my feeling for Smith. The others do not 
care. All of you, being awake and in this century and country, ought ta 
know of the beginnings of life of the Cornell University Medical College in 
New York City. There were three factors in its origin. The first was a dis- 
agreement in the Medical College of the University of the City of New York, 
which ended in the transference of the allegiance of the majority of its fac- 
ulty, trained in teaching and in working together, to Cornell. The second 
was a gift from Colonel Oliver H. Payne, to build and endow a Medical Col- 
lege, under the sole condition that it should be made second to none. The 
third was the life motto of Cornell, bequeathed to it by its founder, who said : 
'* I would found an institution where any person can find instruction in any 

The first class of the Medical College was graduated in 1899. The college 
now numbers three hundred and thirty-six students, including those who are 
taking the first two years in Ithaca. We are too young to talk of what we 
have done, and too modest to talk of what we are going to do, but we have a 
very friendly feeling toward other colleges and are very willing to be known 
as we are. 

To know us you must know our building; that will tell you both our real- 
ity and our ideals. It includes much, in the words of a certain card catalogue, 
from "Accidents to Esthetics." From the roof, one can look either through, 
the glowing colors of the United States and Cornell flags flying bravely from 
their sixty foot poles, or straight into the court of Bellevue Hospital, or down, 
the East River toward the lazily active ocean, or into the squalor of an east 
side city street through which an ambulance frequently rings its way. It ia 
a building of light stone and brick, a city block in frontage, and a hundred 
feet in depth. There are two large entrances, one for dispensary patients and 



one for members of the college. Elntering either door, one finds himself in 
the midst of white marble tiling, rich dark wood, and space. If it happens to 
be after dark, the whole is filled by the most perrasive, soft, glowing electric 
light. The details of lecture halls and class rooms ; — a dissecting room with 
polished floors and space for three hundred students ; laboratories for under- 
graduate and advanced work, glowing with the brass of microscopes and the 
colors of chemicals ; the dispensary waiting-room, and the labyrinth of rooms 
where the poorest receive treatment from specialists, free of charge ; — are 
more interesting in reality than on paper. 

Jost as you are asked, '' How do you like Smith's?** we are asked, " How do 
you like your work ? *' and condoled with because it is '* such a grind," and 
reverently complimented on our '* sacrifices,*' and with confidential tone asked 
what medical students are like to work with. This time I am half inclined 
to answer, instead of changing the subject to the literary merits of ^^Eleanor** 
or the splendor of the present opera season. 

In regard to the work itself, to quote from the official register : *' The essen- 
tial feature of the entire system is the division of the classes of the several 
years into small sections for recitations, demonstrations, laboratory exercises, 
dispensary visitation, and ward work in the hospitals.'* The significance of 
these words will be realized only by those who know the work of other medi- 
cal colleges. Our work is practical from the start, our quizes, conducted as a 
recognized part of the college work, are models of applied pedagogy, and our 
professors are many of them known as authorities in the literature of their 
departments, and as skilled physicians in the hospitals with which they are 
officially connected. 

And the students? In the fact that the work fills time, heart, and mind, is 
our joy and also our tragedy. A schedule filled from nine to six, Monday to 
Sunday, which includes only an escaped hour here and there for study, pro- 
vides '* Accidents'* in plenty, but the * 'Esthetics," except for our building 
and our flags, must come ** between meals," as it were. For the benefit of the 
more technical I would add that a working definition of Aesthetics is ** the 
laughter and color and vision which transform grinding into life." I myself 
have not known a day of *' grinding " since I began. The chief reason for 
that lies of course in the beauty and elasticity and dignity of the work itself, 
but is also due to the companionship of those who are working with the same 
interests. Moreover, a large part of the reason is made by the irresponsible 
sxnrits of those '* wags " who are ever young, by the Cornell yells, and Cornell 
songs, and Cornell colors. The Medical Club, a very young organization, as- 
pires to complete what is lacking in public spirit, loyalty, knowledge of other 
coDeges, and opix>rtunity for relaxation, and so to provide the perspective es- 
sential if work is to be done in the true play spirit. 

The two most prominent points of interest in this life of ours to a layman 
are probably the constant presence of suffering, and the advisability of co-ed- 
ucation in medicine. For the nerve and strength necessary to meet the first, 
the advantage of wide opportunities in general education and travel, and of 
largeness of character can not be overestimated, yet our coarse from the 
study of hard, knotty bones to the responsibility over lif e^ is such a long, 


gradual one that we are better prepared for that responsibility when it corcea 
than the layman. 

Ck>-edncation seems, abstractly, to be the rational method of preparation 
for those who are to work not in monasteries nor convents, bat in the greats 
struggling world. In regard to the things which the outsider naturally thinks 
would be ** unpleasant," the most potent remark is that though some of ns 
are men and some are women, all are alike human, and where human inter- 
ests are concerned, the dividing barrier simply does not exist. The effect of 
a thing lies in its significance. The things we discuss are significant of suffer- 
ing and the work to be done to relieve it, so it is no wonder the words con- 
cerning them are free from embarrassment and spoken as a matter of course. 
It is even thought that many of the tangles of society would untwist them- 
selves were less stress laid on doing away with artificiality, and more on in- 
creasing reality, through common work and common interest among men 
and women. 

An alumna always wants to give advice, so if you are thinking of studying 
medicine, my advice as to the preparation is for you to have a college educa- 
tion full to the brim of Latin and Greek, even if only for the sake of the ety- 
mology of our long words ; of one science constantly, as training in scientific 
methods of study ; and of literature, history, music, people, and fun, to pro- 
vide portable inspiration. After that, take a good look at the world, through 
travel preferably. Then dive deex>— but visit Cornell first. 

Stella S. Bradford '98. 

The location of Bryn Mawr College is ideal : only ten miles from the heart 
of Philadelphia, the student may enjoy many of the privileges which the 

city offers and yet live in one of the most beautiful 

Bryn Mawr College country spots imaginable, — where athletic sports 

are secluded from the curious eye and lessons 
learned in the woods undisturbed save by the song of birds and the chirp of 
crickets. Not only did Nature do her prettiest for Bryn Mawr, but art and 
skill have combined in forming the nucleus for a group of college buildings 
which when completed '' will be the finest in the world.*' From the begin- 
ning the trustees of the college have foreseen a large development and every 
part has been planned and built upon a broad foundation, for the future as 
well as the present, so that in the end — if end there be — a harmonious result 
will be obtained. Large architectural plans were made, which include every- 
thing a great university for women could desire--«ven a Spanish garden and 
a pleached walk — ^and these plans are being carried out as fast as the need is 
felt, since an actual need is usually quickly followed by the necessary funds. 
One or two of the college buildings are modified reproductions of castles in 
Wales and above the entrance to Pembroke Hall is displayed the Pembroke 
coat of arms. They are all built of gray stone, overgrown with the graceful 
ambelopsis and English ivy. The gray and green of springtime, pictured 
beneath the blue skies, rival the gray and crimson in the golden sunshine of 
autumn, until the campus seems an enchanted fairy land. 

The first dormitory to be built was Merion, witii large, square rooms and 
vdthout closets. The trustees, who were Friends, said, "The young ladies 

ALUMNjE department 303 

will need but two gowns, one for the First day and one for school wear. 
These can be hnng on two hooks on the door." It was not long before ward- 
rohes were added. Foor dormitories have since been bnilt with acoommoda- 
tions for about sixty students in each. In these, one student may have one 
room or two, or two students may have two rooms or three, as opportunity 
and purse permit. As it is earnestly believed that the greatest benefits of 
ooUege life are obtained only by those who continually breathe its invigor- 
ating atmosphere, all undergraduate students, except the few who can live 
at home, must board in one of the college houses. 

From the main college buildings the campus slopes charmingly down to a 
large apartment house for the faculty — aptly called Low Buildings— and to 
the basket-ball field. It may be that no part of the campus is dearer to the 
hearts of the students than this amphitheater, nestled among the green 
knoUs, upon which each class yearly contests for the banner in basket-ball. 
In winter the field is flooded and converted into a skating rink. Four 
exercise periods are required each week of all students, of which one period 
must be spent in the gymnasium. The others may be taken in various ways, 
as drives, walks, badEet-ball, golf, or tennis. The length of the period 
depends upon the severity of the exercise. Exercise conditions may keep a 
student from her degree and deficiencies must be made up as in any other 
department. The success of one poor student in making up fifty-six hours in 
one week, in addition to the required amount, has always remained a mjrs- 
tery tome. 

Last May, the first effort to raise money for a Students* Building at Bryn 
Mawr took the form of a May day f 6te in which alumns, graduate students, 
and undergraduates took an active part. A large audience from Philadel- 
phia and beyond gathered to see Elizabethan plays and x^cturesque scenes 
reproduced with skill and historic accuracy on the beautiful college lawn. 
It was a perfect success and furnished a large nest-egg toward the Stu- 
dents!' Building. The fund was increased at Christmas time by the sale of 

Since 1892, the trustees have left the government of the college, in all mat- 
ters not purely academic, in the hands of the students. The students have 
accepted this responsibility as a sacred trust and have conscientiously and 
loyally worked for its fulfillment. So completely does this association hold 
control that unworthy students may be suspended or expelled from the col- 
lege without advice from the trustees, president, or faculty. Self-government 
has a long code of rules which the executive committees and proctors enforce, 
if need be. Usually the students gladly obey. The penalty for breaking 
some of the rules is a fixed sum of money ; for graver offences students re- 
ceive written admonitions from the executive committee. Three of these 
warnings coet a student the privileges of the college. 

It has always been customary for students to wear gowns during the aca- 
demic hours at Bryn Mawr. The cap is not as generally worn, but appears 
upon occasions. A pretty scene occurs the night the freshmen receive their 
caps and gowns, about six weeks after the opening of the college. The 
freshmen, proudly arrayed for the first time in the insignia of their alma 


mater, are met on the campus by the sophomores, likewise gowned and carry- 
ing lanterns. After marching and singing the two classes form drclee, one 
within the other, and each sophomore presents a freshman with a lantern 
** to light her through college.** The freshmen march and sing from honse 
to honse and then run home to hide or lock np those precions caps and gowns, 
for lo, the naughty sophomores are intent upon preventing their younger 
sisters from api)earing in their scholastic garb at chapel the next morning. 

In accordance with the provisions of the gift of Dr. Taylor, the founder of 
Bryn Mawr College, the board of trustees and the president belong to the 
Regions Society of Orthodox Friends, and while the college and its religious 
meetings are pervaded by the principles of the Christianity of the.Friends, it 
is a broad, non-sectarian college and not the slightest attempt at proselyting 
is ever made. All students of the college are cordially invited to attend the 
Friends' meeting at Haverf ord, and the college provides a large bus to carry 
such as feel inclined to accept. Buses are also generously provided for those 
who worship in the other denominational churches in the vicinity. To one 
who has attended chapel at Smith for four years, chapel at Bryn Mawr would 
at first seem strangely lacking. The attendance is varying, often small. 
There is no organ, no pano, and only within a few years has there been sing- 
ing. But to one who attends habitually, the plain service reveals its deeper 
meaning and power for helpfulness. The same is true of the Sunday even- 
ing meeting, in which all members of the college are invited to join. During 
these quiet hours the beauty of silent, spiritual worship becomes ever more 
beautiful and uplifting. 

Between graduate and undergraduate students, there is a gulf fixed, so 
deep that but few have had courage to pass over and meet those on the other 
side. Although they live in the same houses and eat in the same dining- 
rooms, there has been but little friendly intercourse. This difference seems 
gradually to be growing less, as the undergraduates find that graduates need 
not necessarily be ** pale-faced grinds," and as the graduates leam to take a 
more active and sympathetic part in the life of the college. 

It is often said that the only easy way into Bryn Mawr College is through 
the graduate department, since any graduate of a recognized college is admit- 
ted without examinations. In this way, some come from smaller colleges and 
take only undergraduate work, supplementing previous courses. This is not 
true of most of the graduates, who come rather with a desire for time and 
opportunity to carry on advanced work in special lines. Such students may 
be assured of the heartiest support and sympathy which the college can give. 
To this end, the college offers eleven resident fellowships of the value of $525; 
and five, often more, resident scholarships of $200 each. The fellowships are 
awarded upon application in each department **to the candidate that has 
studied longest or whose work affords the best promise of future success." 
The scholarships are awarded '*to the candidate next in merit to the suc- 
cessful candidate for the fellowship." In addition there are three European 
fellowships, one of which is given to a worthy member of the senior class, 
the remaining to students after one and two or more years of graduate study 
at Bryn Mawr College. 


The Graduate Club is generally well supported and a good deal of life and 
interest emanates from its center. It has very jnretty rooms in Denbigh, 
tastefolly fnrmshed through the kindness of Hiss Mary Gkirrett, in which 
aftanoon tea is served during the fall and winter by the different members. 
I have often wished some custom more sociable* and enlivening than tea- 
drinldng could be adopted for such an occasion. The club arranges for a few 
evening lectures, a few informal talks, and receptions. Outside the club, 
the social functions for the graduates are few. The two which they antici- 
pate each year with pleasure are the evenings when Miss Thomas receives 
them in "tiie Deanery," and the afternoon when they, with the faculty, are 
entertained by Mr. and Mrs. (Barrett. The chosen <dftemoon comes in early 
spring, when the shrubs have just burst into bloom and when the long hedge 
of japonica about Mr. Gkurett's lawn is aflame. It is, indeed, a privilege for 
an outsider to be thus cordially welcomed into this quiet, beautiful Quaker 
home, and to receive such charming kindness from each member of the 
family, from the little girls running to meet the guest in the hall, to the 
great-grandmother with her quaint dignity and sweetness. The more fortu- 
nate FeUows are splendidly entertained at dinner by Miss Thomas. 

I can not close even this brief account without endeavoring to make some 
acknowledgment of the personal encouragement which comes to all students 
of Bryn Mawr College through Presidept Thomas. The helpfulness which 
springs from contact with a powerful woman, who believes in other women, 
that they can and will do something of some avail, and who carefully guards 
their rights and privileges, and who sympathetically urges them on, is some- 
thing to be felt rather than expressed. Miss Thomas will ever be gratefully 
associated with the far-reaching influence of Bryn Mawr College. 

**Thott graoloos Inspiration, our gnlding itar, 
Mlttress and mother, all hall Brjn Mawr. 
€k>ddeas of wisdom, thj torch dlTlne 
Doth beaoon thy Totarlea to thy thrlne, 
And we, thy daughters, would thy restals be, 
Thy torch to consecrate eternally." 

Annah Putnam Hazen '95. 

RoxBUBT HousK, 1 Daytou Avenue, Rozbury, Mass. 

Mff dear Editor ;— Your note has been received, and I hasten to reply to its 
eonrteouB request for some facts regarding this Settlement, the history of 
which has scarcely been long and varied enough to warrant extending the 
story to the two thousand words that you offer. 

Rozbury House, which has recently been styled by the Boston Globe '* one 
of the moat interesting settlement houses in all Boston," is situated in that 
part of the city known as Roxbury, within a fifteen minutes' car ride of Back 
Bay station or the Public Library, and in the immediate vicinity of the busi- 
ness center of this section. The trolley is one block away, furnishing easy 
communication with all parts of the city and adjoining towns, yet not annoy- 
ing the residents by its continual racket. In fact, while all around us lies a 
congested district, we enjoy a very qmet comer, at the intersection of Mall 
Street and Dayton Avenue, with more air and light than if we were packed 



in the middle of a city block. Some have difficulty in finding the spot, though 
no one can understand why. Getting off of a Washington Street car at Eus- 
tis Street, walk down Eustis Street to Mall, and Mall to Dayton. You can 
tell Enstis Street by the old cemetery on its comer. I always begin to feel at 
home when I see those tombstones. 

Although this is a continuation of the social settlement, known as the Ben 
Adhem House, it is under entirely different management, being maintained 
by an association incorporated under the name of the Roxbury House Asso- 
ciation. This change was effected last summer, and the new management 
commenced its vigorous measures soon after, by starting a six weeks* summer 
school, where the usual industrial arts were taught by salaried and Tolunteer 

The first of September, a trained nurse and two residents, apart from the 
head-resident, came here to live and to carry out as far as possible the puiposo 
of the Association which is,— quoting from its printed circular, — " to elevate 
the character of those in the neighborhood of the House by classes, lectures, 
entertainments, and social gatherings, thus offering to the children opportn- 
nities for pleasure and profit, which will draw them from the street, where 
most of them spend their afternoons and evenings.'* 

Following out this idea we have chosen those forms of education which we- 
think — ^to quote again — " will perform the highest service, such as kindergar> 
ten, sloyd, sewing, cooking, drawing, literature, and singing classes. A 
branch of the Stamps Savings Society has been opened, the library is vigor- 
ously maintained, and mothers* meetings, neighborhood gatherings , a citizens'' 
club, as well as clubs for children of all ages are regularly conducted. There 
is also a nurse connected with the House, who visits the families to relieve the 
sick who may need her care, and to teach them how to care for each other in 
sickness, and to observe rules of cleanliness and ventilation." 

Among the children that come here, there are at least nine nationalities rep- 
resented, with as g^reat a variety of relig^us creeds, while among the workers 
the Jew and the Gtentile clasp hand, and in the Association, composed of rep- 
resentative people of Roxbury, is to be found both the Catholic and the Prot- 
estant. Gould Smith College itself desire a broader platform ? 

Of course Roxbury House is still a baby, a baby only a few months old, and 
that in itself makes it interesting, because of its possibilities, its probabilities* 
and its cries for help. The conviction, however, grows upon me that it has 
come to stay— to stay because it fills a need, and I have the hope that in the 
future it may number as residents, as it does now among its outside hdpers^ 
many of the Smith girls. 

Cordially yours, 

Sarah Pbbrt Browning '85. 

Head Resident. 

ALUMNjE department 807 

The AaBodation of Gollegiate Alnmnie is deairons of enoouraging the pur- 
rait of adTBnced courses of study among women graduates of colleges. It 

therefore proposes to devote fiye hundred dol- 

The European Fellowship lars every year toward XMtying the expenses of 

some yonng woman who wishes to carry on 
her studies in a foreign country. Applications for this fellowship will be re- 
ceired by any member of the committee having it in charge. The candidates 
must be graduates of colleges belonging to the association, and applications 
for the year 1901-1902 must be handed in before March 1, 1901. The fellow- 
ship will be awarded only to candidates who give promise of distinction in the 
Bul^ects to which they devote themselves. It will be the aim of the commit- 
tee to appoint the candidate who is best fitted for the position through origi- 
nal gifts, previous trainings energy, power of endurance, and health. To this 
end they will receive applications in writing from eligible candidates, who will 
present, as clearly as possible, their claims to the fellowship. A competitive 
examination will not be held, but the bestowal of the fellowship will be based 
npon evidence of the candidate's ability, and of her prospect of success in her 
chosen line of study. Such evidence will naturally consist of (a) her college 
diploma ; (&) testimonials as to superior ability and high character from her 
professors and other qualified judges ; (c) satisfactory evidence of thoroughly 
good health ; (cO a statement of the work in which she proimses to engage sub- 
nqnently ; (e) Uut^ and of chief importance, examples of her scientific or lit- 
enry work in the form of papers or articles, or accounts of scientific investi- 
gations which she has carried out. The fellowship will not usually be granted 
to those who are intending to take up the practice of any of the three learned 
professions, though such are not formally excluded from the competition ; it 
win rather be bestowed upon those who are looking forward to positions as 
professors and teachers and to literary and scientific vocations. Preference 
will be given, other things being equal, to graduates of not more than five 
Tesrs' standing. The fellowship will in general be held for one year ; but in 
an unusually promising case the term may be extended at the discretion of 
the committee. 

Bessib Bradwbll Hblmeb, 

1428 Michigan Avenue, Chicago, lU. 

Annib Cbosbt Emery, 

Pembroke Hall, Providence, B. I. 

BuTH Putnam, 

27 W. 28d Street. New York, N. Y. 

On New Year's Day Miss Sarah P. Browning gave a lunch at Boxbury 
House to several of her class CB5). Those present were : Mrs. W. D. Hutch- 
ins of Arlington, Mrs. J. B. Marlin of Maiden, Mrs. J. V. Turner of Hyannis, 
Professor Mary W. Calkins of Wellesley, and Miss Mabel Fletcher of Newton. 



A book has been placed in the Beading Room in which all alnmn® visiting 
the college are asked to sign their names. The list of visitors for Jannarj is 
as follows : 


Elizabeth Lawrence Clarke, 

Jannary 28 


Janet W. Roberts, . . . , 

" 17 

Lois Angie Leonard, 

" 29 


Jnlia B. Paton, . . . . 


MaryE. Wiley, . . . , 


Carol Weston, . . . . 

" 17 

Elizabeth Fay Whitney, 

* 31 

Helen Ruth Stent, 

'• 31 

Contribntions to this department are desired by the second of the month in 
order to appear in that month's isene, and shonld be sent to Rnth L. (Raines, 
Morris Honse. 

*80. Josephine A. Clark, Assistant Librarian for the past seven years in the 
Library of the Department of Agricnltnre, Washington, D. C, was 
appointed Jannary 1, Chief Librarian of the Department, sacceeding 
Mr. W. P. Cntter, resigned. 

'81. Miss Lanra D. Gill, who has been the representative of the Cnban Or- 
phan Society in Cuba since the close of the Spanish war, has been chosen 
Dean of Barnard College. 

''88. Emma Bates is absent from her home in Holyoke, for a trip of several 
months to Mexico and California. 

Evelyn GKlmore has been cataloguing the library at Bradford Academy. 

Mrs. A. W. Hitchcock's new address is 8 Institute Road, Worcester, 

*92. Eliza W. M. Bridges was admitted in September to the Massachusetts 
Bar, and is now practising in Boston. 

Marion Drew is s];>ending the winter in Aiken, S. C. 

Elizabeth C. Fisher has returned from her art studies in Paris and is 
now in Dedham, Massachusetts. 

Harriet E. Jacobs is teaching in Fiskville, Texas. 

Etta A. Seaver sailed for Europe in January. She will spend several 
months abroad. 

Helen L. Wolcott is teaching in the High School in Hartford, Conn. 

*98. Mary E. Harwood is teaching Lajtin in Miss Armstrong's School, Cincin- 
nati, Ohio. 
*94. Edith J. Swett is principal of the Lancaster High School. 
'96. Elizabeth R. Cutter is spending the winter in Florence. 

Mabel Durand has announced her engagement to Mr. Frank Woodworth 
Pine of Detroit. 

Claire F. Hammond was married December 27, to Mr. Herbert W. Rand, 
Instructor in the Biological Department at Harvard. Address, 36 
Trowbridge Street, Cambridge, Massachusetts. 


'96. Mrs. W. B. Copdand (Anne Tonng) has mored from Pittsburg to 1904 
Qreen Street, Philadelphia. 

V7. Grace Greenwood was married Jannary 1, to Mr. Cleveland E. Watrons, 
Sheffield Scientific '95. 

Margaret Miller, a former member of the class, has annomiced her en- 
gagement to Mr. Elisha Billiard Oooipeit. 

Harriet Morris is spending the winter with her family in San Diego, Cal- 

Josephine D. Sewall has announced her engagement to Mr. Kendal Em- 
erson, Amherst '97. 

Grace Whiting is in Florence, studying singing. 

'98. A gronp of Smith alimuue in New York has formed a basket-ball team 
which plays every Saturday morning at the Lenox Lyceum on Madison 
Avenue against a team of Bryn Mawr alumn». The Smith alumnsB 
are : Ethel Craighead '98 (Captain), Georgia Coyle '98, Ethel James '98, 
Charlotte Sherriil '96, Janet Roberts '99, Jaffrey Smith 1900, Carolyn 
Wnrster 1900, and others. 

Cara Y. Burch has returned from Europe, and is living in Bryn Mawr, 

Alice Jackson is in charge of a Working Girls* Club in Greenfield, Masa* 

Maude Jackson is teaching in Englewood, New Jersey. 

Margaret Kennard and Mary Kennard '99 are in Berlin after a trip to 

Mabel E^nowlton is studying the Spanish language at Mrs. Gnlick's 
school in Spain. 

Carol Morrow is teaching in South Orange, New Jersey. 

Alice E. Twining is teaching in New Haven. 

Blanche Wadleigh is teaching in the Hannah More Academy, Beisters- 
town, Maryland. 

Lucia Mae Wheeler was married January 1, to Dr. Joseph A. Hall of Cin- 
cinnati, Ohio. Address, 628 Crown Street, Walnut Hills, Cincinnati. 

1)9. Mrs. J. F. Allen's (Ruth Homer's) address is now 4588 Laclede Avenue, 
St. Louis, Mo. 

Margherita Isola has announced her engagement to Mr. Charles Gilman 
Hyde of Philadelphia. 

Elizabeth Squire is traveling in Egypt and the Holy Land. 

1900. Mabel Burroughs is assisting Miss Bromback in the English Depart- 
ment of Oberlin Academy, Oberlin, Ohio. 

Gertrude Perkins is teaching Greek and mathematics in the High School 
at Lebanon, New Hampshire. 

Mabel Per Jdns is doing postgraduate work in botany and zoOlogy at Smith. 

Marion A. Perkins is teaching science in the High School at Huntington, 
New York. 


1900. EUmbeth B«Tell luw annomioed her engagement to Mr. Gtoorge McCal- 
Inin of Northampton. 

Beerie Boge» is the head of the Lower Middle School of the Balliol 
School (formerly Mies Piatt's) at Utica, New York. 

Sarah Sanderson is teaching Latin, French, and English at the State Col- 
lege of Agrionltnre and Mechanic Arts, Kingston, Rhode Island. 

Edith Sheldon lias taken up College Settlement work in Philadelphia. 

Florence Shepardson has accepted a {XMition as teacher in the High School 
at Williamsbnrg, Massachnsetts. 

Cora Sweeney is an assistant in Greek and Latin in the High School at 
West Springfield, Massachusetts. 

Lnoy C. Thayer has taken a school for the winter in Monroe, Massachn- 

Eliaabeth Wood was married in January to Mr. John Edward Hayee. 

Louise Wright, a former member of the class, has announced her en- 
gagement to Mr. Malcolm McAToy of Cincinnati. 


*90. Mrs. Edgar Warren Swift (Helen Folsom) a daughter, Virginia Louise, 
bom January 20. 

*03. Mrs. William Foster Bice (Florence May) a son, William Foster, Jr., 
bom NoTember 80. 

Mrs. W. S. Buffum (Wilhelmina Walbridge) a son, Charles Walbridge, 
bom in December. 

'97. Mrs. J. R. Steyenson (Florence Day) a son, William Edwards, bom Oc- 
tober 26. 


One of the greatest needs of the college life is the individtial standard of 
scholarship. Through the leveling influence of class room and dormitory 

companionship there has been fostered an opinion 

IndiTidaal Standards that "as good as the rest*' is sufficient, and that if 

certain students neglect to some degree their college 
work, such an attitude may be adopted by others. Almost any day one can 
hear rpmarks wafted through the hall such as, *' They nerer studied for this 
course last year" ; or, '* If you are not going to do that reference reading, I 

It would seem that such students were not really students at all but rather 
time-serrers apprenticed for four years to instructors for masters whom it 
was necessary to conciliate. Except for the satisfaction of a well prepared 
recitation, the instructor is neither benefited nor injured by indiyidual work. 
It is the student herself who must bear the consequences. Even if she is not 
particularly fond of work, since she is placed in an institution where it is 
necessary, she could render it much more enjoyable if performed thoroughly 
and cheerfully. For no matter how disagreeable the task, there is always a 
pleasure in work thoroughly accomplished. Then, too, if a student fails to 
realize the benefit to herself of placing high ideals indei)endent of other peo- 
ple, she must, at least, acknowledge that she as well as others, forms an 
independent factor in raising or lowering the general standard. Since one 
student gauges her degree of thoroughness by some one else, so that one, in 
torn, may measure her work by the former. Again, while those who have 
been conscientious fall from their pedestals, dragging with them weaker 
characters who had employed them as a standard, others who turn over a 
new leaf with a determination to do good, independent work exert on their 
part equal influence. 

The habit of depending on the majority for a standard is one that will 
cling throughout life, weakening the character and permitting a nature that 
might be steered by its own rudder to be buffeted by all the winds of heaven. 
Ahnost invariably when individual standards are established, they are higher 
and more serious than those of a community ; but if each person would have 
definite ideals, in time the whole tone of the conmiunity could be heightened. 
It requires courage to leave a room full of idling friends in order to read 
more carefully some article recommended but not required, or to learn thor- 
onghly a lesson which in college language might be '* bluffed," yet the habit 
once acquired becomes ea^ and the results repay fourfold. 

Flobencb Evbltn Smith 1902. 




At a joint meeting of the junior and senior dasses on December eleventh^ 
a motion was made and carried that a junior-senior debate be held on Feb- 
ruary twenty-second for the benefit of the Students' Build- 

The Debate ing. Accordingly all juniors and seniors interested in the- 

subject and willing to take part were urged to give their 
names to a committee consisting of Miss E. T. Emerson 1901, Miss A. C. 
Childs 1901, Miss Freeman 1902, and Miss Otis 1902. Of these, there were six- 
teen from each class. A notice was then posted to the effect that there would 
be two trial debates previous to the one on Washington's Birthday, for the 
purpose of selecting the final teams. 

The subject for the first trial debate was then announced to be as follows : 
*' Should Federal Protection be extended to Negro Suffrage"? Debatera 
were recommended to prepare themselves on both sides of the question, giv- 
ing special attention to refutation as a form of argument. A committee of 
the faculty, consisting of Miss Jordan, Miss Peck, Mr. Dennis, and Professor 
Wood, furnished information as to where references could be found and what, 
in general are the principles on which debates should be conducted. The^ 
debate was then appointed for January twelfth. 

The competitors from each class were divided alphabetically into two sec- 
tions, and lots were drawn for the specific team portions, twenty-four hours, 
previous to the time set for the debate, or rather the debates, for the sections 
were to debate simultaneously in different rooms of College Hall. Three 
members of the faculty served as judges in each room, and the audience was. 
made up of friends invited by those taking part and of the members of the daaa 
in Civil Government. The list of the judges, the moderators, and the teama 
of the four sections is as follows : — 


First Section. 

Judges : Miss Cheever, Miss Cutler, Professor Stoddard. 
Moderator : Miss Barrett 1901. 

AfllrmatlTe Bide. 

Miss Foley, Ist speaker. 

Miss Fellows, 2nd 

Miss Byles, 8rd 

Miss Howard, 4th 




NeinvtlTe Bide. 

Miss Bnrbank, 1st speaker. 

Miss Bolster, dnd 

Miss A. C. Childs, 8rd 

Miss deLong, 4th 




Second Section. 

Judges : Miss Cook, Miss Jordan, Mr. Emerick. 
Moderator : Miss Sprague 1901. 

Afflrmative Bide. 

Miss E. S. Wilson, 1st speaker. 

Miss Mc Grew, 2nd '* 

Miss Hunter, 8rd <* 

Miss Stuart, 4th <' 

Kegative Bide. 

Miss Johnson, 1st speaker. 

Miss Peters, 2nd " 

Miss Rumbdld, 8rd ** 

Miss Winants, 4th " 



FiTBt Section, 

Judges : Miss Hanscom, Miss Norcross, Professor Tyler. 
Moderator : Miss Freeman 1902. 

AfflrmfttiTe Bide. Negatlre Side. 

^^ Gox, Ist speaker. Miss Knapp, Ist speaker. 

MffEeyes, 2nd '* MissCanedy, 2nd 

Jfi89B.H. French, 8rd ** Miss Egbert, 8rd 

Miss L P. Chase, 4th '* MissBonfoey, 4th 


Second Section. 

Jndges : Miss Peck, Miss Tonng, Mr. Dennis. 
Moderator : Miss Mabnry 1902. 

AfflrmatWe Side. MegaUye Side. 

Miss Walbridge, 1st speaker. MissMacniel, 1st speaker. 

Miss Moore, 2nd '' Miss Minor, 2nd 

MissTnbby, 8rd '* Miss Van Noorden, 8rd 

MissSonther, 4th '* Miss Montgomery, 4th 



Each debater spoke twice, eight minutes the first time and two the second. 
As the decision of the judges was made with a view merely to choosing four 
students from each section for the second trial debate, the winning side in 
each room was not given. However, in one section this was done by taking 
a popular vote, which resulted in favor of the affirmative side. 

When the debates were over and after the judges had consulted together, 
Mr. Dennis read the names of those chosen for the second debate. This list 
was as follows,— Seniors : Miss Bnrbank, Miss A. C. Childs, Miss deLong, 
Miss Howard, Miss Hunter, Miss McGrew, Miss Stuart, Miss Winants ; 
Jmdors : Miss L P. Chase, Miss Canedy, Miss B. H. French, Miss Egbert, 
IGss Minor, Miss Moore, Miss Tubby. Miss Walbridge. 

The sul^ect for the second trial debate, which is to be held on February 
ninth, is, " Can the Existence of the Chronic Mugwump be Justified*' ? 

Mart Sesltb Hunter 1901. 

For many reasons it is to be regretted that college life is such a typical 
expresdon of the American spirit of feverish hurry and eternal rush. It is 

a pity that the college day should always seem too 

The Value of Time short for the college duties, and that the college 

mind should have so little time to steady itself and 
adjust its restless energies; but amid these temporary difficulties, college 
training teaches us one of its most permanent and important lessons, — ^the 
value of time. As soon as one realizes what a great amount of work must be 
accomplished in four short years, the value of time begins to increase. The 
student finds it necessary to map out the days hour by hour, with a certain 
proportion of work and recreation ; and while in actual practice the proper- 


tion often beoomes sorpridngly distorted and the days do not materialize as 
she has planned, there is a growing realization of the extravagance of wasted 
honrs and of the satisfaction in well ordered days. The atmosphere is that 
of condensed time, and the stndent inevitably acquires the habit of concen- 
trating her work within certain limits of time and appreciating her recreation 
with the keenest essence of enjojrment, priding herself on her ability to 
wring the contents ont of every moment. 

Thns the valne of her own time is a lesson soon learned by every stndent ; 
bnt there is a corresponding quality more rarely found and quite as import- 
ant, — an appreciation of the time of others. In our zeal to make the moet of 
our own time we crowd the days so full that we encroach upon the time of 
others, making the loss of others our own gain. The energetic girl who saves 
the first ten minutes of the recitation hour in which to review the week's 
work flatters herself that she is wisely improving her time, failing to realize 
that when she rushes into the recitation room five minutes late, the disturbance 
of banging doors, squeaking chairs, and rustling note books may subtract 
several valuable minutes from the time which really belongs to the instructor 
and to the other members of the class. The same girl will fume and fret 
because, when she has saved a certain fifteen minutes out of a busy day for a 
committee meeting, the rest of the committee fall to appear at the appointed 
time, but come strolling in at intervals until her whole evening is wasted ; 
but she herself will feel perfectly justified in being chronically late to lec- 
tures, late to church, late to '* gym,*' and late to meals. 

The aimless, idling type of girl is seldom seen in the college world ; we are 
more familiar with the other extreme — ^the breathless maiden who is always 
rmming madly across the campus from recitation to recitation with her golf 
cape flying and a general api)earance of trying to get the better of time. The 
secret of the balance between the two extremes is simply promptness. Let 
the fleeting moment be realized to its utmost capacity, let the wasted hours 
be reduced to a minimum, yet the demand for promptness in meeting all 
appointments is nothing more than a just consideration for the rights of 
others. The habit of promptness should be considered as important a part 
of mental discipline as the habit of concentration, and its acquisition requires 
after all very little effort. Unfortunately the punctual college girl is the 
excejytion rather than the rule ; but perhaps it is because of this very rarity 
that we appreciate her so much when we do succeed in finding her. It is 
with a distinct sense of surprise and relief that we see her going promptly to 
keep her appointments in her deliberate and collected manner ; she claims 
less from her friends than her flurried sister who always needs some one to 
collect her note books, rubbers, and fountain pen while she hunts for her hat 
and cries desparingly, *' Oh wait for me ! '* The punctual girl is a treasure at 
any price; whatever her faults, her. friends rejoice in her because she can 
always be depended upon ; and the resi)ect and gratitude she wins by her 
consideration of others' time is surely ample reward for her pains in acquir- 
ing the habit of promptness as a necessary element in a true realization of 
the value of time. 


Extract from a letter of Dr. Meyers, dated Amoy, China, Oct. 18th, 1900 : 

I have been waiting till this week to write to yon, hoping to have some- 
t^iing interesting to tell yon abont the beginning of my medical work. For 

at last I have begnn, though it is a very small be- 

S. C. A. C. W. Notes ginning indeed, jnst one dispensary day a week. 

I had been able to get a little preparation in med- 
ical Tocabnlary by going over to Tek-chin-Kha with Dr. Otte, to some of his 
big dispensary clinics. And as usoal when it came to the actnal clinic, it was 
not half as bad as my fears. In the first place, there were only twenty pa- 
tients altogether and more than half of them were children. And then 
things went abont as smoothly as if I had been at home. Of course there 
were the cnstoms of the hospital to learn, bnt I shall not have to bother abont 
those again. 

And jnst ad I was fairly started, some of the officers from the Dntch man- 
of-war in the harbor came to visit the hospital, and Dr. Otte went to show 
them aronnd. My heart was in my throat when he left me all alone with 
the women stndents and the patients. Fortunately when the patients didn't 
understand me or I them the students would elaborate until we understood 
each other. One woman I couldn't understand though, and so I told her to 
wait until Dr. Otte came back, and afterwards I heard that she said I con- 
sidered her case so serious that I consulted Dr. Otte about her, and she was 
much elated over this. 

On the whole it was extremely nice to be doing a little work of my own, 
and I know the interest will grow. However, this is all the regular work Fm 
going to do until my first examination (i. e. in the language) is over. I did 
think I was through with examinations, but they still pursue me. This one 
is not so formidable, only I don't want it to fall below the 97 per cent of the 
last examination. 

Extract of Dr. Meyer's letter written on a river boat, Dec. 14, 1900 : 

I have just been having a most protracted and entertaining conversation 
with the boatman during the half hour while I have been waiting for my 
burdens to arrive. Eim-slng is a most interesting individual, a deacon in one 
of our churches and very earnest in Christian work. The first topic was my 
gold watch chain and Phi Beta E^appa key and my rings, whether they were 
gold and how much they cost. Then we switched off on to my family and I 
ended up with telling him how I happened to come to China. He inquired 
wtiether my family had discussed the matter and decided to send me, and 
whether I was pleased to come. Isn't that an un-American view of the case ? 
I told him that I decided to come and told my people and they said all right, go 
ahead. And I suppose he thought that was a very queer way to arrange the 
matter. 1 told him too of the large girls' college whose students were send- 
ing me out, and I just wish you could have heard him say, **Put-che thia 
Tiong-Roklftng"— they must love the Chinese very much. And I was glad to 
say I thought they did. 

The Monthly came this week and was welcome as always. I search every 
list of names for those that are familiar and I am rather appalled to find 
them growing so few. I with some of the under classmen (or girls) would 
write me so that I can keep the personal touch that is so very nice. Ton see. 


I know none of the girls personally after 1903, and I want to get acquainted 
by letter and photograph. Address : Dr. Angle Meyers, Amoy, China. 

At the missionary meeting, Febmary 8, interesting reports were read 
from all branches of the work of the society. At the close of the regular 
meeting the members were asked to stay to transact some matters of bnsi^ 
ness. The resignation of the president, Miss Alice Dnryee 1901, was read 
and accepted. Miss Sarah DeForest 1901 was nnanimoaaly elected to fill 
the chair for the remainder of the year. 

While almost every girl in Smith College has contribnted either money or 
articles for the Needlework Guild this past year, probably only a few of 
them realize what the organization really is and what a great work it does 
throughout the United States. The object of the guild is to furnish new, 
plain, suitable garments to meet the great need of our hospitals. Homes, and 
other charities. The annual contribution of two or more new articles of 
wearing apparel or household linen or a donation of money constitutes mem- 
bership. There are now three hundred and more branches, representing 
thirty-seven states of the Union, which shows the remarkable progress the 
guild has made in thirteen years since it started with one small organization 
in one city. The yearly collection at that time was a little less than four 
hundred articles, while this year over four hundred thousand garments were 
received and distributed to the various organized charities throughout the 

The report of the Smith College Branch for the year 1900-1901 is most 

encouraging, and shows a marked progress and increase of interest in the 

work. Over nine hundred garments and thirty-four dollars in money were 

received by the guild and sent to the college settlements in Boston and New 

York, which returned letters of gratitude and thanks to be extended to all 

the members who have so generously shown their interest in this cause of 

alleviating the suffering of the needy. 

AGNV8 Hastinob Giix^hrist 1901. 

During the Christmas vacation Miss Scott read a paper before the Modem 
Languages Association at the University of Pennsylvania, in Philadelphia^ 
on II Cortigiano. She suggested that Shakspere knew II Cortigiano^ either 
in the original Italian, or in the English translation, and that he foxmd in it 
Benedick and Beatrice, in il Signer Gkupare Pallavicino and la Signora 
Emilia Pia. 

In spite of frequent assurance to the contrary, some students still seem to 
labor under the delusion that all communications and invitations for mem- 
bers of the faculty must necessarily be put on the faculty bulletin board. 
While the student bulletin board is available to almost every student, some 
members of the faculty are inaccessible through the medium of the faculty 
bulletin board ; consequently papers and themes left on this board not only 
take up too much space, but often fail of their destination, and invitations 
sent in this way are discourteously delayed. Papers should be left in the 
offices of the department for which they are intended ; invitations for Presi- 


dent Seelye and for Mrs. Seelye, for the science prof eseoTs, and for the matrons 
of the campns houses should be mailed or delivered to them, and the faculty 
bulletin board should be reserved by the students for such invitations as are 
sure to reach the faculty, and for those communications from the faculty 
which are ouly too sure to reach the students. 

The Oriental Club has developed from an experiment of a few members of 
the senior clasa of *96 who met at Professor Wood*s house. The desire to 
look more generally into the history and literature of the East than was possi- 
ble to do in the class room prompted this plan. It was designed to test the 
question whether there was need of other work, supplementary to class room 
work, and to take up a more general survey than would be appropriate for 
the class room. At first the archceology, but later the history and litera- 
ture of the Orient, read and translated, have been the main lines of work. 
Some especial subjects of this year have been Japanese literature in connection 
with which a Japanese drama was given by six of the club members ; also 
Indian literature, selections from which were read. 

The club does not aim at elaborate organization, nor does it do anything 
aside from Oriental work for which it was founded. It oonsiBts of a group 
of students gathered together solely for a particular work, and only very 
gradually has it begun to take on a more definite form of organisation as its 
needs arose. It was originally a senior club, but within the last two years 
juniors have been made eligible to membership. 

Ibknb Lathrop Smith 1901. 

Another property box has been built by the Council in the basement of the 
gymnasium for the Senior Dramatics costumes. It was found that the 
dresses and suits left over each year became torn and dilapidated when left 
in the one over-crowded property box ; and also as these costumes are not 
supposed to be used for the ooll^ dramatics, they proved a trying tempta- 
tation when lying in the one box with the other things. The new box con- 
sists of a series of shelves and a closet with hooks and poles, and is very con- 
venient. The rules of the general property box are as fbllows : 

1. None but campus houses are allowed to borrow costumes. 

2. Property may not be kept out longer than three days, Sunday excepted. 

8. The key must be returned to the custodian the same day it is borrowed, 
and the person borrowing it is requested, before taking a key, to register its 
number, the date, and her name upon the slip over which the keys hang in 
the custodian's room. 

4. Any one who borrows costumes is requested to return them to the par- 
ticular drawer or closet they were taken from, in order to facilitate matters 
for the custodian and future borrowers. 

Each year the custodianship is awarded to a junior, the custodian for the 
corrent year being Gertrude O. Tubby, Tenney House. 

Along with Colloquium, Biological, and other scientific clubs, it is but 
natural that there should be some kind of an organization to represent one of 
the fundamental sciences, physics, and to meet the demands of those who 


desire to follow recent inTestigationB. The Physics Club has therefore beerr 

founded, having as its object the review of the development of physics ani 

the reading and stndy of the current works on the snbject. The clnb meets 

every second and fourth Monday of the month, and at the last meeting elected 

the following officers for the year : Agnes Childs 1901, President ; Mary S. 

Hunter 1901, Vice-President; Louisa B. Kimball 1901, Secretary and Treasurer; 

also as members of the Executive Committee, Susan Seaver 1901 and Alice 

Kimball 1901. 

Louisa Blbecker Kimball 1901. 


On Monday evening, February 4, at an open meeting of the Philosophical 
Society, Professor G^rge T. Ladd of Yale gave an interesting lecture on 
**The Conception of the Gk>od in Ethics/* He spoke of the universal claim 
of ethics upon all adult human life. The expression **the Good" is used in 
many ways, he said. The noble, the practical, the sweet are all good. States 
of selves and what has reference to states of selves alone are good or bad. A 
science of ethics begins when it sees a man's actions are directed towards, or 
terminate in, a form of good, and unifies these. The Hedonists and Ehidae- 
monists hold that a deed is good as it promotes happiness and that the state- 
ment that happiness is a good is self-evident, requiring and admitting of no 
proof. The truth is, Professor Ladd said, that men seek other things than 
happiness. Neither the savage nor the man of highest culture considers it 
as the ultimate good, but only the man of the middle class yields to the argu- 
ments of the Hedonist. Man is a complex being with many interests ; some 
live for pleasure, some for art, and some for righteousness. Upon the solu- 
tion of the problem of the ultimate good depends the answer to the question 
whether life is worth living. There are three kinds of good : the Eudaemon- 
istic, the aesthetic, and the ethical. The common element in these three 
Professor Ladd called satisfaction. Man has longings for all and the ideal 
good is the satisfaction of these longings. This ideal of ultimate good is a 
subject of development changing from time to time with the development 
of the race. 

After the lecture the members of the faculty and of the Society had an 
opportunity to meet Professor Ladd at the Tyler House. 

Grace Raret Pkters 1901. 

At an open meeting of the Greek Club held in Lilly Hall on Tuesday even- 
ing, January 16, Miss Boyd gave an entertaining lecture on " New Chapters 
in Cretan History.*' After giving a brief history of the island, Miss Boyd 
described the archsBological excavations which she herself conducted in Crete, 
having obtained the Agnes Hoppin Memorial Scholarship from the American 
School of ArchsBology at Athens for the purpose ; various stereopticon views 
of scenes in Crete, of the people, and of the archsBological treasures were 
also shown. 

In obtaining books from the college library it is surprising to find what a 
large number of them are disfigured by pen and pencil marks. It seems 
incredible that the students should so abuse the privileges of the Reference 


Libnzy as thns to maltreat college property. Pencil marks along the margin 
and lieavy miderscorings not only min the appearance of a book, bnt in 
emphasizmg the wrong points snch marks often prove a hindrance to the 
next reader. The stndents who are allowed to take ont reference books 
surely haye no excnse for not treating them with the greatest care, and 
retnniing them promptly and in good condition. 

On Sunday evening, January 18, at a meeting of the Missionary Society, 
the Reverend W. Gonrtenay Fenn, who has recently returned from China, 
gave a very interesting talk on the Siege of Pekin. Mr. Fenn, who was 
among the colony of legations, missionaries, and native Christians shut up 
in the dty during the siege, gave a vivid description of their experiences 
during that dangerous time, and illustrated his account with stereopticon 

On Wednesday evening, January 16, Miss Byrd lectured before the Educa- 
tion Society on '* The People's Astronomy.*' The lecture was held in one of 
the rooms of the High School building and was open to the public. 

At an open-dosed meeting of the Oriental Club on February S, Professor 
Wood gave an interesting talk with stereopticon on the "Architecture of 
India," a very attractive branch of the general subject of India, which the 
dub is now studying. 



President, Janet Somerville Sheldon 1001 

Vice-President, Ruth Hawthorne French 1902 

Secretary, Edith Grace Piatt 1902 

Treasurer, Margaret Hamilton Wagenhals 1908 

Editor, Ghrace Viele 1901 

Chairman of Executive Committee, Jean Shaw Wilson 1901 


President, Mary Franklin Barrett 1901 

Vice-President, Mary Balberine Fisher 1901 

Secretary, Mazjary Lawrence Gilson 1902 

Treasurer, LoTdse Priest Putnam 1902 

Chairman of Executive Committee, Shirley May Hunt 1901 



Chairman of Executive Committee, Maude Miner 1901 
Secretary and Treasurer, Rachel Berenson 1902 




PresLdent, Marie Stuart 1901 

Yice-Prefildent, Mary Qove Smith 1902 

Recording Secretary, Carol Helf enetein Childs 1902 

Corresponding Secretary, Gtertmde Boxana Beecher 1908 

Treasarer, Fanny Hastings 1908 

Editor, Clara Myers Enowlton 1901 

Chairman of Ezecntiye Committee, Helen West Kitchell 1901 


Feb. 15, 

Soci^t^ Frangaise. 


Alpha— Phi Kappa Psi Joint Play. 


Philosophical Society. 


Lecture by Mr. Louis Dyer. 


Morris House Dramatics. 


Biological Society. 


Washinjtton's Birthday Exercises. 


Junior-Senior Debate. 


Physics Club. 




Lecture by Mr. Charles Young. 

March 1, 

Soci^t^ Fran^aise. 



Lecture by M. Gaston Deschamps. 


Philosophical Society. 


Southwick and Delta Sigma House Dance. 


Biological Society. 


Lecture for the Students' Building. 


Physics Club, 




Glee Club Concert. 




Smitb College 


fl>arcb ' 1901. 
Con^ucte^ (m? tbe Senior Claed. 


6IF1 UF THt 

NOV 7 1923 


Odb for Washimqton's Birthday 
A SoMO TO Smith 

Paolo and Francssoa 
Gounod's **Ave Maria" 
The Sheik*8 Soluti6n 

Sybil Lavinia Cox 190S 821 

Agnes Hunt *97 822 

. Marjory Gane 1901 828 

Elta Beeeher Longyear 1904 882 

. Marie Stuart 1901 882 

La Bbale Isoud . . . Ruth Barbara Canedy 190B 888 

The Emancipation of Patty Sloan Ethel Withington Chase 1902 839 

V BKSSS • • • • 

The Death of an Aspiration . 
Sunset Land 

. EUen Gray Barbour 1903 848 

Candace Thurber 1904 348 

. Marie Louise Sexton 1901 851 

From My Window 
The Romance of Willie 
My Vioil . 

Margaret Hamilton Wagenhals' 190S 851 

. Helen Louise Harsha 1901 852 

Edith Turner Newcomb 1909 858 

Julia Post MitcheU 1901 859 

Oyer the Mesa . . , 

** The Last Shall Be First " . 





Ruth Louise Gaines 1901 861 
Hden Esther KeOey 1902 861 



The Smith College Monthly is pablished at Northampton, Mafisachn- 
setts, on the 15th of each month, daring the year from October to Jtme, incln- 
sive. Terms, |1.50 a year, in advance. Single numbers, 20 cents. Contri- 
bntions may be left at 8 Gymnasinm Hall. ' Sabscriptions may be sent to 
E. M. deliong, 58 High Street, Northampton. 

. Articles designed for the literary departments for a particular issue must 
be submitted by the twenty-second of the month preceding. 

Entered at the Post Office at Northampton, Masaaohusetts, at eeoond olasa matter. 


Smith College Monthly 


Ethel Wallace Hawkins, 
Chablottb Buroib DbFobest, Bxtth Louise Oaikes, 

EfnoL Babstow Howard, Margueritb CirrLSB Page, 

Jean Shaw Wilson, Laura Woolsbt Lord. 

business manager, 
Ethel Marguerite deLono. 

YoL Yin. MARCH, 1901. No. 0. 


Thy country brought thee forth, O Washington, 

In midst of chaos, darkness, war. The light 

That slowly dawned did bnt reveal thy greatness, 

Nor could find thy equal. As upon 

The wall whereon the masters of the past 

Had traced with mystic touch the likenesses 

Of those whom Florence held in grateful memory, 

There shows amid the lines that time has dimmed 

One noble profile, Dante* s, clear and strong, 

So, on the wall that patriot hands upreared 

Around our young republic at her birth, 

For her protection, and that thereupon 

The faces of her great might be described. 

Thy clear-cut profile, O great Washington, 

Stands out against a background formed of those 

Whose traceries are indistinct and blurred. 

Her noblest son thou wert, O Washington, 

Her greatest citizen. None other shared 

The love she bore thee — ^meaeureless. And now 

Full fAx score years her feet have trod the path 

Wherein thou didst with loving wisdom set them, — 

Full six score years, whose ever chang^ing fates 

Have brought no lessening of thy country's love, 

Which is to-day as measureless, as strong. 

As yesterday— a century ago. 


Yet not because, when dangers dimmed her skies, 

And clonds that gathered over seas drew low, 

'Twas thon didst draw thy sword and fight for her, 

The while thon snfferedst all things for her sake ; — 

Ten thousand others suffered at thy side, 

And fought, and died, and are forgotten now. 

'Tis not for battles fought she loves thee, nor 

Because, in time of peace, thou mad*st wise laws 

While guiding her along her toilsome path ; — 

For other hands than thine have led her on. 

And other minds than thine her laws conceived, 

Tea, greater laws than ever thou didst frame. 

Tis not as soldier or as statesman that 

She honors thee. Thy epitaph be not 

That thou wert ever first in peace and war, 

But rather this : Thou lov'dst much and wert strong. 

Thy love it was, longsuffering and kind, 

Bereft of vanity or hope of gain, 

That battling 'gainst such odds as never were. 

Overcame resistance, loosed thy country's bonds. 

And set her free. Thy strength it was 

That saved her from herself, when greatly torn 

By jealousies and doubts ; thy strength that made 

From thirteen petty states one glorious whole. 

Full six score years have passed, whose lingering touch 

Has left the wall a bulwark vast, and drawn 

New faces numberless. Amid them all 

Thy clear-cut profile, O great Washington, 

Stands out against a background greater now 

Than once, but jret BtUl dim and indistinct. 

O GK)d, whose mighty hand the nations holds. 

Grant us to-day to love our country more. 

To love self less, to walk in spirit ever more 

And more with him who loved much and was strong. 

Sybil LAViNiA|Ck>z, 


Hail to thee. Mother I Our grateful love rises 
To answer the love and the care we have known ; 

Proudly we hold from the past in our keeping 
A name and an honor as dear as our own. 


Patiently, kindly, thou dearedst our dnll vision, 

Till wakened our sight to the glory of earth. 
Something we grasp of life's measureless wonder. 

Something we feel of its infinite worth. 

Clear in that glory shall rise the world yision 

Of kinship and service, as self falls away. 
Gladly we enter the dust of the courses 

Whose prize shall be neither the gold nor the bay. 

Ever thy touch shall be felt on our shoulder, 
While hearts that the years can not alter shall raise 

Prayer that GK)d send thee a future full-handed, 
And crown with His blessing long length of rich days. 

AoNBS Hunt. 


One might think that the possibilities of the genuine chival- 
rons romance of the Middle Ages had been long since exhausted 
in poem and story. Amid the prosaic, rapid mechanism of 
modem times, one does not look to find the man of genius, with 
all the complexity of cosmopolitan life from which to draw, 
turnback to the well-worn age of chivalry for his material. 
We imagine we have outgrown the tale of knights and armor, 
and courts and ladies. But if given to us in spirit and in truth, 
these things will always appeal to the romantic sense which is 
now so much obscured in this workaday world. After all, brave 
deeds and courtly language can never be unworthy of our atten- 
tion, even though they be dressed in well-worn plots. One 
who, wearied with a round of commonplace duties, takes up 
"Paolo and Francesca'' for the first time, reads it through at a 
bound, breathlessly absorbed from the title page to the end, and 
spell-bound with interest. In the first rush of commendation, 
lie thinks only of the total effect — what beauty, what poetry, 
what a perception of character, what new breath and fire in 
ancient form ! Indeed, what sublime mastery in the whole con- 
ception! Another reading, in the quieter and surer light of 
unimpassioned criticism, shows that the results are unusually 

* Paolo and Franceeca, A Tragedy in Fonr Acts, by Stephen Phillips. 


First, a word concerning the plot itself. The material is old, 
borrowed from Dante or Boccaccio or both. The bare outline, 
the actual story of Paolo and Francesca, was ready-made to the 
author's hand. That he saw its possibilities bespeaks imme- 
diately the master mind. But this is premature. All the tra- 
ditional accessories of the drama are here, the underplottings 
and the contrasts that are found in every tragedy that can be 
properly so called. The druggist's shop and the potions are the 
traditional resort for ill-fated heroes and heroines. The little 
underplot of the druggist's daughter and her life, of Nita and 
her Bernardo (Nita's haste to get to him causes her unwittingly 
to urge her lady to her doom), of Paolo's roistering friends, of 
the soldiers and the peasant girls outside Rimini, — all are vitally 
connected with the main plot, but are used in such a way as to 
relieve the stress or increase the suspense of the situation, in 
the time-honored fashion. 

A new element, or at least an element not so old as the others, 
is the introduction of Lucrezia as the motor force. This is of 
great significance. As if to remove some of the blame from 
the shoulders of the principals, Lucrezia is made the instigator 
of all Giovanni's action, and for her part she is partially ex- 
cused by the clever use of personal motive other than the worn- 
out one of revenge. The long speech during her first scene ex- 
plains it all. She is bitter — bitter because her life's most pas- 
sionate dream, that of tender care for little children, is unful- 
filled. To me this Lucrezia is a most pathetic character. That 
which she most dearly prizes and which belongs to her by birth- 
right, has never been hers, and she is embittered. This, coupled 
with some natural jealousy that she should be superseded in the 
affections of her kinsman, causes her willingness to inflict pain ; 
and she puts the first bitter drop in Giovanni's cup, which, 
spreading, soon permeates the whole. She is redeemed in our 
estimation by her subsequent repentance and tenderness over 
Francesca when, in the time of trouble, the younger woman 
touches her '^ where her life is quivering most," by appealing as 
a little child to her protection. This again urges Lucrezia to 
action, but her impulse now is to restrain Giovanni, not to im- 
pel him on. This balancing of good and evil in Lucrezia for 
the precipitation of action is a powerful factor in the play, in- 
genious in its conception and effective in execution. 


The supreme art in this drama lies, however, not in the plot 
or any workings of the plot, but in its management. In the 
method of this work lies its power. Here we come upon Mr. 
Stephen Phillips's genius in all its force. Throughout the 
whole, — in plan, characters, poetry, everything, —there shines a 
colossal simplicity. It is one of the finest illustrations in mod- 
em literature of the high art of simplicity. This quality acts 
as an interpreter. We appreciate the cleverness of the method 
by means of it. It eliminates impediment in the way of perfect 
understanding of ''how it is done." It gives us an apprecia- 
tion of the brilliant, dashing alternation of long, lingering 
sweeps with bold, suggestive strokes, that characterizes the im- 
pressionist picture before us ; as in the swift transition from 
lingering dialogue like that in the last scene between Paolo and 
Francesca, where Paolo in long, poetic rhapsodies fills the 
atmosphere with the thought of love to eternity, to the next 
scene where Lucrezia enters hurriedly and interrogates the 
frightened Nita with sharp, energetic questions that convey her 
suspense and excitement. These rapidly executed contrasts, of 
which the play is full, are telling in the extreme, lending to the 
whole a zest that could be achieved in no other way. The 
scene in the druggist's shop is so instinct with life and passion 
that it is hard to realize that one but reads it in a book and does 
not see it enacted before his eyes. 

With most writers, the dangers of this bold method might 
outweigh its value ; for there is the possibility of making 
changes of action so sudden that they become bald and bare 
and might even verge on the ridiculous. Again, such swift 
dealing with men s deepest passions might prove uncouth and 
extreme. But we find here nothing uncouth and nothing bald 
or bare. What then is the explanation of this phenomenon ? 
Mr. Phillips has furnished himself with an excellent provision 
against these faults. At every important turning-point, the 
change, though strong and bold, is not unpleasantly sud- 
den, for we have every time been warned somewhere before 
of the approaching event. This principle of preparation for 
all of the most important action effectually counteracts a possi- 
bility of tendency toward abruptness. The first of these 
touches of premonition is in Giovanni's speech of welcome to 
Francesca : 


" This child 
Shall lead me gently down the slant of life. 
Here then I sheathe my sword ; and fierce mnst be 
That qnarrel where ag^n I nse the steel." 

That this happy termination of affairs is to be impossible we 
already foresee. Again there is a slight touch of premonitory 
warning when, speaking of Lucrezia, Giovanni says : 

'* She has often cooled a rashness 
Which I inherit." 

He inherits his rashness ! A still more marked foreshadowing 

of trouble comes a little later when he says : 

" Though I sheathe my sword, I am not tamed. 
What I have snared, in that I set my teeth 
And lose with agony." 

Later Francesca's innocent longing for "sorrows of her own" 
is pathetic in its foreboding ; and Giovanni, as if unwittingly 
scenting trouble in the air, says fiercely of his love for Paolo : 

** Any that came between ns I would kill.'' 

Another exquisite touch is at the point where Francesca first 

feels something strange in Paolo's conduct. Her delicate 

organization is sensible to the approach of sorrow. 

'* And yet, Nita, and yet — can any tell 
How sorrow first doth come ? Is there a step, 
A light step, or a dreamy drip of oars? 
Is there a stirring of leaves, or ruffle of wings? 
For it seems to me that, softly, without hand, 
Surely she touches me." 

Soon after, as if to add force to her feeling of sorrow, these 
words of Giovanni are unintentionally significant in their irony 
of the real state of affairs : 

'* What little grief perplexes you, my child ? *' 

The choice of the word ** perplex" in this connection is mas- 
terly. We can not explain it, we can only feel its keen appre- 
ciation of life. Another gentle foreshadowing of what is to 
come is in Francesca's choice of metaphor when she is alone 
with Nita in the garden. Soon Paolo is to enter and the vision 
of Angela be fulfilled. In her troubled, nervous restlessness, 

she says to her maid : 

Day in a breathless passion kisses night 
And neither speaks." 

Francesca seems to be ofteuest singled out as the messenger 
of these suggestions, perhaps because her delicate, untrained 


sensibilities are more quickly in touch with the unseen than 
those of the rougher, sophisticated men and women about her. 
She senses the element of a watcher, during her second converse 
with Paolo. It is only we that know of Giovanni's presence, 
but Francesca says : 

'* One watches quietly. 
P. Who? 

F, 1 know not : perhaps the quiet face 

Of Gtod : the eternal Listener is near." 

These touches are so poetic, so beautiful, and withal so suggest- 
ive, that it seems desecration to detach them and impute them 
to cold, prosaic Method. We feel them and understand them. 
They will not bear too close analysis if we would retain their 
poetic beauty. But they all represent that element of prepara- 
tion which lends so much to the rounded art of the whole. 

The transcendently clear, simple method already spoken of 
would be impossible without the use of characters suited to 
such treatment. One of the chief sources of harmony in this 
drama is the appropriateness of the treatment to the characters. 
Id accordance with the bold, simple manner of execution of the 
plot, we find character studies equally simple and boldly con- 
ceived. In not one of the persons in the play is there any in- 
tricacy or psychological complexity of disposition. They are 
all single-minded human beings, actuated by common motives 
and moved by simple passions. Not that they are not strong 
and ably differentiated, or that each does not stand out in high 
relief against the other. All this is skilfully effected ; but their 
predominant characteristic is their simple, unmixed natures, 
wholly in harmony with the plot and its mode of operation. 

Of these characters, Giovanni is the most important. He is 
characterized by a passionate devotion to Paolo and by a rigid 
sense of duty. In those times these two elements combined to 
make a noble man. We respect the latter and, though it leads 
him to commit outrages, admire the former. That he should 
tnrn at the time when domestic troubles were at their worst, 
when he had every reason to think that his brother had killed 
himself, but was not yet certain — in this suspense that he should 
turn and answer the summons from Pesaro for assistance in 
quelling an outbreak, demands our greatest commendation. 
And his love for his unworthy brother is pathetic. He does 
not think of him as even a remote possibility for the dangerous 
one '' not far to seek/' of whom Angela warns him, until Lu- 


crezia poisons his mind by suggesting Paolo's name. Eren 
then it is some little time before he realizes whom she means ; 
eyen at last he is loath to suspect his brother. Indeed, the blow 
causes him to reel and swoon. Nor is his faith in Paolo shat- 
tered until he returns home from the wars the last time and 
finds him there. He believed that his brother would slay him- 
self, and even thought that the armed ghost rode beside him in 
battle. But that this faith is shaken to its foundation in his 
soul on his finding Paolo returned, is evinced in the thoroughly 
hard and cold fashion in which he speaks to Francesca of his 
brother and commends her to him. Indeed, I have questioned 
the naturalness of the whole scene in which he pretends to take 
leave of her, his fell purpose all the while biting at his heart, 
while he speaks quietly and pleasantly of Paolo's loyalty to 
him. It seems to me that a man who had undergone the violent 
emotions he had just been through, would be unable to control 
himself so as to appear perfectly affectionate and spontaneous 
concerning the object of his hatred and in the presence of the 
woman who had caused it. If it be possible, however, it but 
shows Giovanni's stern mold the more. 

Paolo's nature compares unfavorably with the older brother's. 
At first he is apparently strong as Giovanni. He certainly in- 
tends to die when he leaves his friend Luigi and returns to 
Rimini, whither his love is drawing him. But disappointed- 
are the expectations that we were given when he early assured 
Giovanni of his affection : 

*' And he, this wooer, 
If he should wrong Francesca any way, 
My dagger to his heart were swift as yours." 

Francesca is the simple, innocent convent maid, the unfortu- 
nate center of all the distress, becoming more sophisticated as 
the emergency requires. Lucrezia, the motor power behind 
Giovanni, has been already discussed. In her the yearning for 
children and the consequent bitterness, and the jealousy of 
Francesca, afterwards changed to passionate affection and re- 
pentance as Francesca throws herself upon her, — all are simple 

• The same and even greater boldness and unity distinguish 
the minor characters. Each stands out by himself as a sepa- 
rate entity, no matter how small his r61e. Nita, the light- 
hearted, ignorant, silly servant maid, Tessa, the flippant, re- 


strained daughter of the drug-seller, Pulci her father, who 
trembles for his illicit business at sight of the tyrant, Luigithe 
sympathetic and Corrado the boisterous companion of Paolo, — 
all are fresh and virile. Nor must Angela be forgotten. The 
blind old nurse so tenderly attached to Giovanni is an impor- 
tant factor in the situation. Her supernatural vision gives 
Giovanni his first suspicion of evil. 

Besides the characters themselves, the mode of their delinea- 
tion is worth noting. These people are all drawn with a few 
rapid strokes at the outset of their appearance, and thereafter 
develop themselves. Not a single speech but contributes to the 
personality of the speaker. It is here that some of the strong- 
est effects of Mr. Phillips*s method are obtained. Within the 
first few pages of the play all the people so far introduced have 
more than reached us with their personality, they have planted 
in us an interest in their doings and in the mighty happenings 
that they are bound to mold among themselves. Much is told 
with a little. A few words, a phrase or two, and the whole 
person is before us. This is perhaps most noticeable among 
the minor characters where there is no opportunity for further 
disclosure. There is but one spot where this is possibly carried 
to extreme. That is where the poet tries to have Francesca 
characterize herself. It is doubtful whether she would publish 
her own simplicity in so open a fashion as the first words she 
utters in the play would mark : 


Am innocent yet of this great life ; 

My only care to attend the holy bell. 

To fling and to embroider cnrionsly : 

And as throngh glass I view the windy world." 

It were more natural to leave the announcement of her reti< 

cence to Costauza's words soon following : 

" Be tender with her, even as GK)d hath been. 
She hath bnt wondered up at the white clonds, 

Hath heard bnt gentle words and cloister sonnds." 
This principle of delineation by the exclamations and remarks 
of others in the play is very marked. More is told by Lucre- 
zia% words as Giovanni says : 

•* When hath the prey 
Writhed from our mastiff-fangs? 
Luc, Giovanni, loose 

Francesca's hands— the tears are in her eyes/* 


than by anything Francesca herself has hitherto said. And 

when Giovanni returns from the wars and asks for the Lady 

Lucrezia : 

" What radden thing has happened? 
Nothing? Yon then that hnddle aU together 
Like cattle against thnnder — what hath chanced?** 

the whole general character of the servants is conveyed to us 
by means of one sharp simile. 

The consideration of these points leads me to speak of dramatic 
effect without which the bold, striking method many times re- 
marked would be bare and uncouth. The action is heightened 
and enriched by more dramatic devices than can be counted. 
The play is full of them and they lend unparalleled charm and 
richness, — not only dramatic situations, but dramatic touches 
of all kinds, fine effects that seem to make the warp and woof 
of the entire tragedy. To cite all these subtleties would be im- 
possible. The whole play would need to be quoted. But some 
of the most striking instances follow. Paolo, having bought 
the death potion from Pulci and being in haste to meet his fate, 
says authoritatively, "Unbar the door!" adding, **How the 
night rushes in ! " In another place the tense strain of expect- 
ation where the two dead are soon to be brought in on a bier 
is conveyed by blind Angela's cogent words as she enters the 
trembling hall : 

*' Will no one take my hand ? Two lately dead 
Bnshed past me in the air. 1 Are there not 
Many within this room all standing still? 
What are they all ezp^ting?" 

One of the most powerful passages in the play is during the 

lovers'^last stolen interview, when suddenly Francesca starts 

and says (slowly) : '' I felt a wind pass over me." At this point 

a solitary cold wind strikes greater terror to her heart than the 

thought of death, which she has just solicited of Paolo ; and 

the effect is wonderful. Another supreme touch is earlier in 

the story, consisting of Francesca's innocent, dangerous toying 

with the fastenings of Paolo's armor, when her very presence, 

much more her touch, was agony to him. Again, volumes of 

the misery and strain of grief that Giovanni has undergone 

are told us in his few half-crazed words to Nita on issuing from 

the death chamber : 

" Yon have a curl awry 
And falling o*er yonr eyehrow — bind it np." 


A last master stroke lies in his broken speech over the bier : 

** She takes away my strength. 
I did not know the dead could have snch hair.*' 

These are but few of the many striking effects which make 
this drama. It is heavy-laden with them. Whole passages of 
intense dramatic valne abound. The temptation to cite more of 
them is difficult to resist. Indeed, before leaving this subject, 
I can not forbear mention of the clever way in which the story 
of Launcelot and Guinevere is made to stand for that of Paolo 
and Francesca themselves, and of their reading of it. Each is 
made to interpret the part into which each can put his personal 
experience, and so the use of Tennyson renders doubly beauti- 
ful a difficult passage. The question whether this arrangement 
is natural, is not pertinent. The whole is but a boldly con- 
ceived, artistic drama, and its very form precludes the require- 
ment of ordinary occurrence. Dramatic effect is of more im- 
portance, and naturalness can be sacrificed to it. 

Before concluding an all too inadequate survey of this won- 
derful work, I must call attention to the peculiar force and 
value of Mr. Phillips's stage directions. His purpose is visible 
even in these. Each is carefully selected from a host of possi- 
ble ones, with a view to making each of distinct weight. As a 
result, their very sparsity gives them strength. I find but one 
stage direction in the drama which I should call ill-advised. 
That one is rather too explicit at a crucial point to excite the 
reader's imagination, and the effect is weaker than if it had 
been omitted. I refer to the passage where Francesca is strug- 
gling with the temptation to allow Paolo to come to her. 

'* Nita, He does entreat he may come in to yon 

A moment. Shall I answer ? 
F. walking to and fro and putting her 
hand to her heart. Let him come." 

But other than this, all the stage directions are of great 
weight. At the proper moment, such phrases as these tell us 
much : "A noise of falling chains is heard," ** Enter out of 
the sunlight Paolo," and so forth, besides an occasional ** seiz- 
ing his arm," "turning slowly," ** looking steadfastly at ner." 
Moreover, the use of the single word "Pause" is peculiarly 
forcible. That one between the disappearance of the lovers 
and the reappearance of the half-crazed brother Giovanni is 
especially significant. 


My admiration for this splendid poem increases in direct 
ratio to my familiarity with it. I marvel more and more at its 
lofty tone maintained without a break, its extremely straight- 
forward clearness, its lack of one iota of excess, and the poetic 
beauty of its blank verse. It is simple to grasp, although many 
of its finest eifects are so subtle that we can only feel their 
strength and beauty ; and this simplicity, nothing short of 
gigantic in its conception, is the poem's greatest, most admira- 
ble characteristic. It is but seldom that such a grand concep- 
tion is combined with an adequate and at the same time simple 
expression. In this is its greatness and its permanency. Here 
lies the quality that causes critics to call Mr. Phillips's work 

Marjory Ganb. 


Here is a song that human heart hath wrought, 
That master mind in pain hath strongly thought ; 

From darkening pathways trod, 
It rises, calling out for light, for love ; 
From faith in donbt, to the great vault above 
It seeks the Mother-heart of Gk>d. 

Elsa Bebchbr Lunoybab. 


The noise and bustle incident to the night encampment of 
the caravan was dying away. A rod or more from the tents, 
sinewy camel drivers were berating the tired beasts with tongue 
and staff before settling them for the night. Weirdly, against 
the moonlight, the great, ungainly shapes sank and rose and 
sank again, while their distorted shadows stretched in leaps 
across the sand. 

In front of one of the smaller tents stood Gerald Grant, bid- 
ding his mother and cousin good night. 

"There is nothing I can get for you ?*' he asked. "Well, good 
night, then." 


Mrs. Grant stooped to enter the tent. Ethel Avery was fol- 
lowing her after a careless, " Good night, Jerry. Call me for 
the snnrise/' but Gerald put out his hand for a more formal 
leave-taking. He held her hand for a minute, scanning her 
face as if in search of something, then dropped it with a quiet, 
**Qood night, Ethel. See that you have plenty of bedding. 
These nights are often chilly in spite of the hot days." 

In the little time Gerald had stood there talking with his 
mother and cousin, an all-pervading quiet had replaced the 
confusion of the noisy settling. Thirty feet or more from the 
women's tent, lithe, silent Bedouins were building the night 
fire. The sheik was watching them at a comfortable distance 
from the heat. In response to a wave of the sheik's hand, 
Gerald lounged beside him. This was not the first time 
Gerald had made the journey from Bassorah to Jerusalem 
under the guidance of the Sheik Hajj aj Ebu Yousef. Gerald 
was attracted anew at each meeting by the shrewdness and 
almost cosmopolitan sageness of the older man, with its foun- 
dation of a thoroughly oriental nature. 

This time, instead of being alone, or one of a party of men, 
as heretofore, Gerald was traveling slowly home from Southern 
India in the company of his mother and her niece. Gerald 
knew very well why his mother had joined him with Ethel. 
He had never seriously questioned whether he would fall in 
with his mother's plans or not. There was time enough for all 
that in the future, and then— Ethel had such queer ideas. His 
brows knit as Ethel's latest queer idea came into his mind. 

**What worries my friend?" asked the deep voice of the 
sifteik, in his own tongue, which Gerald spoke after a fashion. 
" la it the maiden ? She is fair, surely. Dost thou love her ?" 

"It would make no difference if I did," Gerald blurted out. 
** I could not tell her of it." The sheik looked puzzled. Gerald 
stopped a minute, trying to put his meaning clearly in the 
unfamiliar language. ''She believes no man should ask a 
woman to marry him until she has given him a sign that he is 
the chosen one. She would almost put in practice that custom 
which the maidens of the Ganges have when they go out with 
their water jars and sprinkle the heads of the men they would 
have woo them. It's a pretty custom, truly, but not exactly 
possible in our country." 

''And she has given thee no sign ? " asked the old man. 


" Strange ! I thought she loved thee, and I wondered if her 
love might be returned. Sometimes I have thought thou lovest 
her, and then again thou seemest too impatient or too indiffer- 
ent. Indifference and impatience are far from being love's 
shadows, my son." 

"Impatient? yes," exclaimed Oerald. ''Impatient because 
I am too American to like her method, but hardly indifferent. 
Though, perhaps, I am a little loath to settle down, to give up 
my pleasant journeys with you, my friend." 

Silence fell between these two, who, so unlike and so seldom 
thrown together, had yet become good friends, — a silence not 
voiceless, because these two understood each other. From a 
circle of Bedouins around the fire came the sound of a monoto- 
nous chant, ''The Death of Abdullah," recited by an old man in 
a drowsy singsong to the sleepy group. On the outskirts of 
the circle out on the moon-lit sand, Bedouin boys, less tired 
than their elders, played games with their almond-wood wands, 
tumbling and tripping each other up with the crooks. Now 
and then an unusually hard fall elicited a shrill cry, quickly 
smothered. For all was done quietly, subdued by the moon- 
light and the silence of the desert, as well as by regard for those 
who might be sleeping. 

Into Gerald's drowsy brain drifted the close of the monoto- 
nous recitation, " And sosaith Duraid, the son of As-Sinniab of 
Insharn." As the last tones died sleepily away, the deep, quiet 
voice of the sheik asked of the singer, "Give us now the 
'Address to the Beloved.'" The Bedouins settled themselves 
more comfortably into the hollows of the sand. Here and there 
one rose and stretched his tired muscles, wrapped himself in 
his blanket, and lay down again before the fire. The sheik sat 
back in the darkness, turned slightly towards Gerald, who lay 
with his handsome, sun-burned face lighted by the flames. The 
old man waited patiently until the night quiet again prevailed, 
and then began : 

** Of thee did I dream while spears between ns were quiyering. 
And sooth, of our blood fall deep had dnmken the tawny shafts. 
I know not— by Heaven I swear, and here is the word I say t 
This pang, is it love-sickness, or wronght by a spell from thee? 
If it be a speU, then grant me the grace of thy love-longing ; 
If other the sickness be, then none is the g^t of thine I " 

Through Gerald's heart surged anew the old question — Did he 
really love her so much that nothing else mattered ? 


Again the sheik touched his mood lightly. 

"And how wouldst thou feel, my son, should the maiden 
make choice of other than thee?" 

''But she couldn't, she mustn't!'' exclaimed Gerald, jumping 
to his feet. The sheik smiled quietly. In a flash Gerald saw 
his real position. 

" My friend," said Gterald, ** you have thrown a new light on 
the situation. I'll wait for no signs. To-morrow, — well, to- 
morrow well see. By the way," he added, ** to-morrow I shall 
be twenty-eight years old. Well, good night, my friend." 

"To-morrow, ah, to-morrow I" murmured the sheik, as Gerald 
went away. " How much his to-morrow holds ! " 

Already the camel drivers were astir when Gerald started 
across to Ethel's tent, to call her for the sunrise. The sand 
which he remembered as vivid red in the firelight's glow, 
spreading out to the mysterious silver sea of the moon -lit 
desert, now was commonplace and cold in the faint pink dawn. 
Ethel hurried to meet him, exclaiming, 

"Oh, here you are ! I've been waiting for you for some time. 
Yes, the sky is beautiful, but I haven't any time for that now. 
Aunt Hattie's and my jewel-box has been broken open and I do 
not know how many things are gone. The gift I had for you 
to-day is stolen, I know, because that is what I opened the box 
to find. It's a little oriental charm I picked up at Bassorah. 
This must have happened yesterday, for yesterday morning, 
just before we started, I took the charm out of my purse, 
showed it to auntie, and then put it away for safe keeping. 
Auntie is in a terrible state of mind. I left her counting over 
her belongings for the fourth time, trying to remember whether 
she had her diamond and pearl pin with her or whether she left 
it at home." 

" Did any one see you open your jewel-box ?" asked Gerald. 

"Several people might have seen the charm, but I do not 
think any one saw where I put it, for I went back into the tent 
to put it away in the box." 

" Of course it's some of these thieving Arabs. They are a 
pretty good lot on the whole ; but, like all communities, I sup- 
pose they number some rascals among them. I'll speak to the 
sheik about this." 

Ethel watched Gerald walk across to tell the sheik of the 
broken lock and the missing jewel. The sheik came over with 


Gerald to where Ethel was standing. Gerald asked Ethel for 
the box, and then, in response to a request from the sheik, 
asked for a description of the charm. Ethel hesitated a 
moment, then gave it rather reluctantly. The sheik watched 
her blushing face with a peculiar expression. Gerald looked 
from one to the other in silent amazement. There was appar- 
ently between these two the mutual understanding of some 
point which he, the interpreter, had missed. 

" ril get the box,'' Ethel broke in rather hastily. 

"Who do you think could have taken it ?" Gerald asked the 

The sheik sighed. "I know not. My people are ever but 
children, yet they are not bad. Thou wilt find nothing of 
any money value stolen, I think." 

And so it proved. Nothing was gone but the oriental charm, 
which, to Gerald's bewilderment, seemed to have little value. 

"What is the sheik going to do ?" asked Ethel curiously, aa 
she and Gerald watched the assembling of the tribe at the 
sheik's bidding. 

"Work on their superstitious natures, I suppose," replied 
Gerald. "That white ass the sheik always rides is regarded as 
sacred by the whole tribe. It's one of the famous white asses 
of Nejd, and the sheik always cares for it with his own hands. 
I believe the sheik is going to retire into the desert, and by the 
help of prayers to Allah and the wonderful powers of the ass, 
he'll come back with a knowledge of the thief." 

"What a foolish performance !" exclaimed Ethel. "Do you 
believe any of this stuff ? " 

•* I believe in the sheik," replied Gerald. " That is the main 

A sullen silence pervaded the camp during the sheik's three 
hours' absence in the desert. Fierce black eyes glanced 
askance at these foreigners who had got one of the tribe 
into trouble and cast suspicion over the whole number. Impa- 
tience had succeeded suUenness long before the sheik returned. 
Gerald grew worried. 

"Thank goodness, there he comes!" exclaimed Gerald. "I 
began to be afraid that he and his ass had ridden away never to 

Ungraciously, at the command of the sheik, the Bedouins 
gathered in a wide circle around the sheik and his ass. In 


response to a low-toned request from the sheik, Gerald led his 
mother and cousin into the circle. ** We've merely got to 
go through the formality of doing as the rest do/' Gerald 

Of the long, impressive speech of the sheik, which followed, 
Gerald explained to his companions as much as he could under- 
stand. ''He's working on their belief in the supernatural and 
putting in a lot of religious precept and instruction." The 
Bedouins shifted uneasily in their seats and glanced furtively 
at each other. The deep, even voice of the sheik went on. 
"Now," explained Gerald, "he has just told them that each 
one, to save his reputation, must go up and touch the ass's tail. 
As the ass is a sacred ass, he'll know when the thief touches 
him, and probably he'll bray or kick. Sort of trial by fire, 
you see." 

The sheik closed his speech and motioned to the old men to 
try it first. Then silently and sullenly, one by one, the rest 
came up and touched the ass's tail. The interest grew intense 
when only a small group remained and as yet the ass had given 
no sign. A low murmur of surprise went around the circle 
when the last man had gone up and the ass stood there placidly, 
having scarcely altered his position. 

"What utter nonsense all this is ! " exclaimed Ethel, impa- 
tiently. "I don't believe in your old sheik at all." 

"Stay still a minute longer," begged Gerald. "See, he's not 
through yet." 

The sheik was passing slowly around the circle, stopping 
before each person, bowing to the ground, and muttering caba- 
listic words. He made the entire circuit, then turned and went 
back to one of the younger men. He drew himself to his full 
height, and, pointing at the Bedouin with his stick, said in 
clear tones, 

"This is the thief." 

The man glanced helplessly around the circle, then fell in a 
huddled heap at the sheik's feet, talking rapidly and incohe- 
rently. In an instant the excitement had spread to the whole 
circle. Amazement and superstitious fear had seized every one. 
The sheik waved them all back, saying, " Let only the strangers 
remain." The sheik questioned the man long and earnestly; 
then, dismissing him, he approached Ethel and Gerald. Silently 
the sheik handed Ethel her charm, which the Bedouin had 


given up. In response to the eager questioning of both faces^ 
he smiled quietly. 

"Thou wouldst like to know how it came about ? We will 
sit here and I will talk slowly, and thou wilt tell the maiden aa 
I tell it to thee. My people are superstitious and sometimes do 
wrong, but — praise be to Allah — they are not common thieves, 
as this proves. My white ass—the poor beast grows old now, 
even as I am old, but always has he been greatly reverenced 
and dreaded by my people. To-day he and I went into the- 
desert, I to think and pray to Allah, he to bear me company. 
In the desert grows a very pungent herb, the golden matricaria. 
Its odor is penetrating and not unpleasant. When I had found 
this plant, I rubbed it well over the tail of my ass. When, later, 
I went slowly around the circle of Bedouins, I found only one 
man whose hands had not that odor about them. That man 
could only be he who had feared to touch the beast lest the 
sacred animal object to being handled by the morally unclean. 
Why did he take no other jewels when he took the charm? He 
is not a common thief, I tell you, and the charm has a peculiar 
character which made it valuable in his eyes. Ah, the maiden 
has gone I Well, perhaps it is as well. The charm which she 
unwisely showed thy mother in the sight of several of my peo- 
ple, is one well known among us, but hard to obtain. It brings 
to the giver the love of him who receives it, like your sorcerer'a 
Ibve-philter. The wretched man who stole it has a wife he 
dearly loves who has ceased to love him, and — what ! the 
youth gone, too 1 Ah, — well, I am but an old man." 

From the distance came the sound of Gerald's happy voice, 

calling eagerly, " Ethel ! Ethel 1 " 

Marie Stuart. 


Thy name is Tristram : yet 'tis trne that then 

Art not so sad as I, loving too well. 
'Tis thine to act, to live, fnlfil the vow 

Whose keeping's more than life. The mystic spell 
Of Honor's spirit self doth on thee lie, 

And gnides thy striving. — Ah t tis good to strive, 
To feel the shock of arms, and all defy, 

Fighting that Honor may on earth snrvive. 


My heart is sad, Sir Tristram. I am thine, 
Bnt thon art Honor's, and thy mistress dwells 

In many lands. Yet she has fled from mine, 
Where from Mark's throne I see the Northern fells. 

Dear love, thy path is southward. Where Honor will, 
Go, Tristram, sadly. Isond is sadder still. 

BuTH Barbara Ganbdt. 


"Patty Sloan, come here this minute!" a sharp matronly 
voice rang out above the clattering of a mowing-machine in 
the field next the house. 

Patty jumped with a scared expression, and fled into the 
house without a word. Her companion, a good-looking, broad- 
shouldered lad with some four or five and twenty years to his 
credit, stood looking after her with a thoughtful expression in 
his keen brown eyes. 

'^ The old woman will pitch into her now," he thought, and 
his mouth grew a little set in expression, ''and she won't dare 
' ask about going to-morrow. I wish she was a little mite more 

I spunky." 

\ He sighed and swang off down the dusty road, his head bent 

as if in deep meditation. 

Within the house, Patty stood before her mother with down- 
cast eyes, twisting a corner of her apron nervously around her 
finger till her mother snapped, 

" Drop that apron an' look me in the face ! Don't act as if 
you wasn't more 'n ten an' foolish at that ! Didn't I tell you I 
didn't want no more foolishness with these loafin' boys that 
orter be out pitchin' hay this minute, same 's their fathers^ done 
before 'em ? If their fathers ain't got anythin' for 'em to do 
better 'n loaf around, they needn't think they're comin' here to 
kill time ; I've somethin' better for you to do ! Now take these 
peas 'n' go shell 'em inside an hour, 'n' don't let me ketch sight 
o' Dave Roberts again unless you want me to give him a piece 
o' my mind ! Do you hear ?" 

"Yes'm," said Patty, in a subdued tone. 

"Well, why don't you say so, then ? Go 'long 'bout your 
work now,— I haven't got no time to waste talkin'." 


Patty took the basket and pan to the kitchen door-step, 
whence the steady rattle of peas against the pan somewhat pro- 
pitiated her energetic mother. Mrs. Sloan bustled about the 
heated kitchen, rattling pots and kettles, splashing water 
noisily, clattering pie plates, and advertising generally her lack 
of indolence. Patty glanced at her quickly now and then, but 
each time looked back again in ^lence to the low ridge of hills 
bordering the horizon. 

"Wonder if I got the other side of those hills I could still hear 
mother cooking ? " she thought rebelliously. The daring of 
even imagining such a thing shocked her into glancing appre- 
hensively over her shoulder at her mother, who proved to be 
testing the interior of a prospective rhubarb pie. 

"Anyway, I do think I might go to-morrow ! '' she continued, 
and there was a little spark in either blue eye which did not 
tally with her reception of Mrs. Sloan's rebuke. "I haven't 
got any new gown to wear, but Dave says my pink one is pretty 
enough 'n' to spare." 

The pink in Patty's cheek deepened as her thoughts ran on, 
and she looked so pretty and innocent that her mother uncon- 
sciously modified the tone of her previous address as she asked, 

"Ain't they most ready ? Your father '11 be in in less 'n an 
hour V I want to put you to work on some *o this stuff. Takes 
more to feed one man th'n 'twould to feed a dozen women 1 " 

"Yes, that's so," assented Patty, eagerly. "I wonder why, 
too. Father don't seem to ask for much." 

"Your father's no different from any other man," answered 
the mother, firmly. "When things go all right he don't say a 
word, but let anythin' go wrong or not be done, 'n' he sees 
quick enough, I notice I " 

Patty subsided, and went to work to lay planks of pastry 
across a sea-green morass of rhubarb. 

Dinner came and went with a rush, accompanied by a steady 
flow of conversation on the part of Mrs. Sloan and a receptive 
silence on the part of her husband and her daughter, and still 
nothing was said about the morrow. Patty spent a hot after- 
noon in the garden, stripping the currant bushes of their clus- 
ters and revolving plans for a siege with her mother. She did 
not quite know how to go at it, and finally evolved a scheme 
which was, of course, the most unfortunate possible. 


"If I work hard enough to-day she ought to be willing for 
me to go to-morrow/' Patty decided ; and the result was that 
she presented herself in the kitchen an hour sooner than she 
was expected, with a face the color of her currants and shining 
with perspiration. 

*• Land o' GK)shen !" exclaimed her mother. "Why didn't you 
have sense enough to stop before you got as hot as all that ? 
You'll be down sick on my hands 'n' I'd like to know what you 
think I'd do then 1 " 

''But, mother," Patty protested, " I'm not as hot as this, not 
really ! Shall I begin to strip 'em ? " 

"Not by a long shot !" was the stern rejoinder. "Go get your- 
self a fan, 'n' see if you can manage to stay out o' yer sick-bed 
a little while yet." 

'• But, mother,— " 

She faltered and stopped as her mother turned upon her in 
blank amazement at the first evidence she had ever seen of 
obedience other than instant and unconditional. 

"Please, mother," she went on in breathless haste, 'Td 
rather strip the currants now and wash 'em after supper so 
they'll be all ready to jell to-morrow, and don't you think you 
could spare me to-morrow ? " 

"What do you mean ? " demanded her mother. 

"There's going to be a— a—picnic to-morrow, and they want 
me to go, and I've never been to one, and — " 

She stopped and looked appealingly at her mother, who was 
frowning ominously. 

"Now you can jest stop all such foolishness to start with ! " 
came forth in uncompromising tones. "I ain't a slave-driver, 
an' if I thought it best you should go I shouldn't make you sit 
up all night to earn it, simpleton ! But as for havin' you go 
out with a raft o' crazy young uns to sit around on the ground 
'n' ruinate yer clothes, 'u' git a sunstroke 'n' be no good for the 
rest o'the summer — not much I You kin have jest as much fun 
'n' more sittin' around in that grape arbor with a decent dinner 
to come to, an' " — her tone softened a little—" an' perhaps your 
father '11 take you to town with him next time he goes, if he 
ain't too busy." 

Patty's baby-blue eyes were full of tears, but there was a new 
expression around her mouth, making her look oddly like her 
mother. She said nothing more, but went to work with her 
currants, — ^a proceeding ignored by her mother. 


Supper over, she strayed down to the gate between the lilac 
bushes and, leaning on the top, swang idly to and fro as she 
watched the moon rise big and golden across the newly mown 
field. The crickets sung, and now and then a bird called sleepily 
to his mate, and the harvest richness of peace, almost oppress- 
ive in its calm, hung over the earth. Insensibly Patty drank 
in the scene and felt comforted and irresponsible. Suddenly a 
figure loomed up further down the road. 

" Shall I send him off ?'' Patty meditated. " Mother said he 
mustn't hang around and he ought to be pitching hay, and 
she'd give him a piece of her mind. Well, he probably won't 
stay long and there isn't anybody pitching hay to-night, so I 

guess, 'lo, Dave !" she said gently. ** Did you get the colt 

shod ? " 

"Fine's a fiddle!" Dave answered eagerly. *'Can you go 
after all?" 

" No," said Patty, mournfully ; " and what's more, she won't 
ever let me, so far as I see. She said I'd spoil my clothes and 
not have a good dinner, and it was all foolishness, and — and — 
oh, Dave, I'm getting kind o' sick of it!" she went on. **It 
isn't as if mother was mean to me or anything, but she won't let 
me do any thinking on my own account, and I'm nineteen, too!" 

**I know it's kind o' tough," Dave murmured, sympathetically 
patting the hand nearest him. *' But why don't you spunk up 
and say something ? You hadn't ought to let her boss you 
round so. Tell her you're going to the picnic — she can't stop 
you if you do, you know." 

**0h, I'd never dare in all the world!" whispered Patty, 
horror-struck. "You don't know mother! Why, she'd say 
things and look at me in a way — my, it makes me shake to 
think of it I " 

" Looks never broke any bones yet, and all you need is more 
backbone to make her come right 'round and stop nagging you. 
Tliere," — as Patty drew away in alarm — "don't get cross with 
me, because I don't blame you. Only I hate to see you feel 
bad, and I wish you'd let me go tell her — ask her — no, tell your 
father I want to look after you at that picnic and afterwardB 
too!" he ended rapidly. "Will you let me? I'd take awful 
good care of you, Patty, just as good as I can possibly. 
Can I?" 

Patty's answer had much difficulty in penetrating a barrier 


of white lilac which did its best to cut the words off from the 
world, but Dave was hardy enough to remove the barrier, and 
the defense was abandoned. 

''Can I?" he repeated. 

"Y— yes, Dave !" she answered, with a meekness of quite a 
new type and which partook of decision. ** But not now, Dave, 
or she'll — " 


"Well, maybe she won't do anything to you, — but please 
don't ! " she pleaded hard. "Wait a little while, only a little !" 

"All right, dear I But how are you going to manage about 
to-morrow ? " 

" I suppose I'd better not go. You go and have a good time 
and I won't care so very much. Anyhow, she won't let me go." 

Dave thought a while. "Well, I'll stop here about eight in 
the morning and see you a minute before I go. Will you be 
here ? " 

"Yes, for a minute. But mother' 11 wonder where I am if I 
don't go in now. Good night." 

" Good night ? That's not the way to say good night I See 
here, now ! " 

"Dave Roberts ! Oh, I hate you I No, no, no, I don't ! Only 
you mustn't ! " 

" Well, all right this time. Good night ! " 

" I don't care so much now as I did, about that picnic ! " said 
Patty, as she smoothed her pillow out that night. "And I don't 
suppose it would have done any harm if I had let him. 
Well — " and she went peacefully to sleep. 

Thursday dawned bright, cool, and breezy, and it seemed as 
if new life and vigor came in through the window as Patty 
threw open the blinds. 

"I wish I could go !" she murmured, shaking out her blue 
gingham skirt preparatory to slipping into it. "No, I guess 
I'll put on my pink, — this is kind of limp ; besides, I got cur- 
rants on it, I think. I hate to see a girl look mussy ! " she 
argued with conviction. 

Nothing was said about picnics when Patty appeared, and 
the breakfast dishes were wiped and put away long since before 
Patty ventured to say, " The picnic people will be glad it's like 
this instead of pouring." 


"M-m-m!" vouchsafed Mrs. Sloan abstractedly, weighing^ 
currants and sugar alternately and dexterously transferring 
them to the big kettle. "Gimme that cup, will you? How 
many'd I say then, five or six, when you mixed me up ? " 

"Six," said Patty resignedly, and settled herself to listen for 
the wheels. She was casting about in her mind for a pretext on 
which to leave the kitchen, when her mother spoke suddenly. 

"Gk) find your father, Patty, 'n' tell him he's got to go to 
town *n' get me five pounds of granulated sugar, — granvlated^ 
mind — 'n' he might as well take you ^long, 'cause I can't use 
you yet awhile. Hurry up, 'cause I'll be through with thia 
before you're back. Here, take your sunbonnet ! " she called 
after Patty's rapidly retreating figure. 

" Father," said Patty, appearing in the barn-door, "mother 
wants five pounds of granulated sugar down to Lyman's, and 
she says I'm to go, as long — " 

The sound of wheels broke in upon her messages, and with a 
conscious " Oh ! " she turned abruptly and fled to the lilac gate. 
" Don't you look fine ! " said Dave gaily, as she appeared.. 
"You'd better come with me, don't you think ? " 

" Don't I wish I could 1 'Stead of that I've got to go to town 
and get sugar with father, —a day like this, too ! " 

" Here, you go tell your father I'll take you to town and do it 
quicker than he can, too, because he'll have to stop and hitch 
up. Or shall I go ? " 

"No, I'm not afraid but what father will let me ; and moth- 
er's weighing currants." 

Her faith in her powers of persuasion was well founded, judg- 
ing by the short time which elapsed before she took her place 
with Dave, smiling all over. 

"This is something like, isn't it?" said Dave, as they sped 
along the hard, even road, bordered by fields of waving grain 
or symmetrical, button-like cabbages, with here and there a 
glimpse of brook and always the background of blue hilla 
around which little puffy white clouds drifted. 

"Let's go round by way of the forks," Dave suggested* 
"That'll bring us out behind Lyman's and won't take much 
longer. " 

Patty assented, shifting responsibilities with the remark^ 
"You know the roads better than I do, I guess." 


"Now Patty, when can I tell 'em?" he resumed, as they 
turned off the main road and went in pursuit of the brook. 

" Don't let's tell 'em yet, Dave, because if we do, mother most 
likely will spoil everything." 

"But I don't like this business of prowling 'round and catch- 
ing glimpses of you on the sly, instead of coming out in the 
open and having some sort of claim "on you. I couldn't say a 
word now, no matter what she went and did to you, and I know 
she isn't over good to you, evian if she doesn't actually hurt 
you. And you don't care enough for me, I don't believe, to do 
what I want you to, — stand up and talk back." 

"Oh, yes, indeed I do, Dave, only it's when I'm with her. 
When I'm with you I'm not so afraid, but she does scare me. 
Why, even father never says anything, no matter what she 
says ! " 

"Well, if I asked you to do something for me and you knew 
she wouldn't like it, would you ? " 

"Why, what do you mean ? — Oh, see that cunning calf in 
there, Dave ! " 

"Would you do it ?" Dave persisted. 

"Why, — " Patty hesitated and was lost. 

"Then you don't love me," said Dave, firmly, if mournfully. 

" Oh, yes, I do ! I would, Dave, — if it wasn't much. Well,'* 
— as Dave drew himself up and looked hurt — ^^ anything ^ 
then, — only you won't ask me, will you ? " 

"There's Lyman's, see?" said Dave. "Five pounds, you 

As he came out of the store, a white-haired old farmer rattled 
up in a dilapidated buckboard, flung the reins up on tlie horse's 
knobby back, and prepared to descend. 

"Hello!" he said, as he caught sight of Patty. "Seems 
to me I heard your name mentioned a leetle while ago, comin* 
by your house. Ben't 'lopin', be ye ? " 

He smiled genially and stood patting the colt's nose. 

"I guess Mrs. Sloan was in a hurry for her sugar," Dave re- 
plied, with a glance at Patty's rosy countenance. "You don't 
happen to be going back right away, do you ?" 

" Yep, soou's I kin git a bag o' meal an' some raisins. Kin I 
do any thin* fer ye ? " 

"Yes," said Dave, with calm decision. "You might take this 
sugar out to Mrs. Sloan and save her waiting any longer. We 


have one or two more errands to do before we go back, and it 
would help Mrs. Sloan out considerable." 

Patty's eyes were like saucers, but in view of Dave's deter- 
mined expression she did not venture to remonstrate then and 

" Wh — where— are we going ? " she stammered, as they turned 
down a road diametrically opposed to the one leading home. 

"We're going to the picnic," he said. 

Patty looked about to cry with dismay and bewilderment, 
and Dave slipped his arm around her with a comforting — 

"There, I didn't mean to scare you, but you said you'd do 
something for me and show you loved me, and this is what you 
must do : stop looking scared, have a good time all day, and 
trust me to take the consequences. Will you ? Now try real 
hard ! " 

"It don't seem to take much trying," Patty confessed honestly. 
"But I'm kind of scared of what mother 'II say. Besides," she 
added practically, "I haven't any lunch." 

"That's all right, I'll take care of that. Just look at the size 
of my lunch basket and see if you think I could eat all that ! " 

Patty was not remarkably quick at drawing conclusions, as a 
rule, but when a market basket appeared, jammed full of appar- 
ently every viand procurable, even she became a prey to suspi- 
cion and exclaimed, 

"Dave Roberts! I verily believe you had this all planned 
beforehand 1 " 

"Would you mind holding the reins a minute?" remarked 
her imperturbable companion. "I think we might put down 
the top of the buggy ; it don't seem to be hot." 

And Patty adjusted herself to circumstances and proceeded 
to enjoy herself thoroughly. 

Still, not even Dave's confidence could quiet all Patty's 
qualms as they neared the farm about eight that night ; and it 
is to be feared that their drive homeward in the moonlight 
lacked some of the romantic enjoyment that circumstances 
seemed to warrant. When the house came in sight, Patty 
moved a little closer to Dave and sat very still. 

"You let me do the talking," directed Dave, " and remember 
'twasn't your fault, anyway." 

Everything appeared to be orderly and calm as they drove 
up to the gate, but Patty had the same feeling she always had 


liafore a thunder-storm. The young people got out of the buggy, 
tied the colt to the gate-post, and walked silently up to the 

"Patience, is that you?'' issued from the interior of the 

"Yes, Mrs. Sloan," Dave had to answer for her. 

"You may send the young man home and come in at once ! " 
were the orders from the still invisible back room. 

Dave opened the door and, preceded by Patty, walked straight 
to the back room. Mr. and Mrs. Sloan sat on either side of a 
small, round table. Mr. Sloan had been reading the paper, but 
it lay on the floor now; while Mrs. Sloan's hands were folded 
grimly over her knitting. 

"I never thought to see the day," she began icily, ignoring 
Dave pointedly, "when any child o' mine would deliberately 
disobey what I told her, 'n' what's more, sneak off to do it." 

" Hold on, Mrs. Sloan, you haven't any right to say that ! " 
broke in Dave. "Patty went to a picnic with me, that's all, and 
I made her do it, so you can't blame her !" 

" She's old enough to know what she's doin', 'n' I told her she 
shouldn't go to that picnic, 'n' she oughtn't t' have done it. How 
you took it on yourself to interfere is more'n I understand." 

"Well, I'll tell you!" said Dave. "You treat her like a 
baby and keep her tied down at home as if she wasn't 
old enough to be trusted out of the back yard. There was no 
reason why she shouldn't go to that picnic, because you had no 
need of her at home you said, and it was perfectly right as long 
as Deacon Stone and his wife went ; and so I took it on myself 
to take her. You say she's old enough to know what she's 
doing, and she is, and I have her consent for what I'm going to 
say. Mr. Sloan, "—turning to that individual, who sat watching 
proceedings with an air of quiet enjoyment—" if you have no 
objections to me personally, I'd like to marry Patty some time 
in September!" 

"Land o' Goshen !" said Mrs. Sloan, feebly. 

Ethel Withinqton Chase. 



Why are they dead, the violets he gave me ? 

Why should they die ? 
His love that came when nothing else ootild sare^me 
Is deathless as the eternal sapphire sky. 

Ah, why 

Shonld love a token give 

That hath no while to live, 
Is withered by a breath and blasted by a sigh? 

Why are they dead, the violets he gave me ? 

Why shonld they die ? 
Sweet Death, who only hast the power to savefme, 
Why dost thon hide thy face and pass me by ? 

Ah, why 

To them thy treasure g^ve 

Who are bnt glad to live. 
And are not left alone with life*s great pain, as I? 
Why are they dead, the violets he gave me? 

Why shonld they die? 

Ellbn Gray Barbour. 

It is a sad thing to see how growing up reduces one's impor- 
tance. In my tender youth I was a poet. Inspirations thrust 

themselves upon me on all 
The Death of an Aspiration sides, and I was able to im- 
provise volumes to put into 
the mouth of my favorite doll, — a blond gentleman with a bees- 
wax attached mustache, — apropos of the waterfall represented 
by the woven wire springs at the back of the attic. This ditty^ 

began — 

"As I lie here by Nature's door, 
And listen to the water roar." 

I can not remember the end, if it ever ended, but I used to hifc 
the springs to make the water roar, and think the whole pro- 
duction marvelously fine. My friend Peggie assisted, and so 



perfect was our team work that we could compose alternate 
verses without compromising the sense. 

I can remember one play we were particularly fond of. It 
had no especial name, but consisted in arraying ourselves in 
night gowns, which, by the way, had a peculiarly solid appear- 
ance over our smock frocks, and dangling two much soiled lib- 
erty scarfs belonging to the property box of the nursery. Then 
we would float up and down the room. Now floating is a cross 
between a cake walk and Delsarte exercises, and is considered 
very graceful by the performers. The floating figures take the 
part of difPerent months or seasons, and spout flowery or snow- 
bedecked verses according to the time of year they represent. 
This game, however, had a tragic end one rainy day, when I, 
taking the part of Winter, had been lulled to sleep by Spring, 
alias Peggie, and when that young lady broke my slumbers by 
pouring some execrable cologne — a Christmas present from the 
waitress — over my stockings. Two thin black legs beat the air 
frantically for an instant, and then Winter arose, tore the 
cologne bottle from the hands of the luckless Spring, and flung 
it out of the window. Then Spring closed in and took her seat 
violently upon Winter's stomach, until the combatants were 
separated. Peggie stamped down stairs, high tragedy in 
every step, and solemnly vowed she would never speak to me 

Games, however, I did not look upon as regular poetical ex- 
ercise; they were merely recreation. The serious manifesta- 
tions of genius were kept in a small leather-bound note book, 
aad no one, not even Peggie, knew of their existence. These 
gems bore a marked resemblance to the poems at the back of 
St. Nicholas. There was one about the rain invented on the 
way to school in a March shower. This was the first of the col- 
lection, and was copied with great care in a shaky handwriting 
where all the small letters were the size of capitals. 

*' Listen, do yon hear the rain drops 
As they spatter on the walk ? 
Listen, for yon know it is their kind of talk. 
Telling pretty stories to their comrades on the way, 
They are merry every single rainy day; 
Days that try yonr patience and make others sad, 
Why shonld we be sorry when the rain is glad ? 
For rainy days to them, yon know, 
Are jnst the same as we below 
CaU holidays." 


The next one, Dame Natnre, began the wistaria vine series, 
for after this they arranged themselves in the order of my fa- 
vorite cubby holes. 

*' Ton all of yon know of Dame Nature who makes 
The flowers* best dreBses, their bomiets, and capes. 
She*8 a dressmaker, thongh she has lots more to do, 
She Bees to the world and to me and to yon." 

(This line distressed me greatly, owing to the impoliteness of 
the order.) 

" She looks at the weather. 

And calls oat the rain, 

And chooses the grasses which border the lane. 

She calls in the seasons and ont the new year. 

And she knows when it*s time for each frnit to appear.*' 

This ditty never had an ending, owing to intermption, and 
my muse never permitted piecing, — she insisted upon a finished 
production at a sitting. The only other one of the collection 
that I can remember was entitled, '^ A Wish." That was of 
the window sill series. This particular window sill belonged to 
a dormer window in the attic, and looked out upon miles of 
house roofs broken only by church steeples and tree-tops, with 
the river beyond them. I used to think of the river as a great 
belt buckled by the bridge, which looked almost silver in the 
sunshine. I have no idea why this place should have suggested 
productions of this order. 

*' If I had a fairy godmother 

And had three wishes given me, 

I wouldn't ask for a silver gown 

Or a coach and horses three. 

Bnt I'd ask to be the shepherdess 

Of the the little white clonds in the sky. 

And with my lambs I'd play all day, 

All day when the son was high. 

And when the son pnt his nightcap on 

And laid him down to rest, 

I and my lambs would settle down 

On a smooth green mountain crest." 

This left me in such an uplifted state, that I stayed until I 
was late to dinner, watching it grow dark over the city, and 
seeing the lights pop out one by one in the tall buildings on the 
New York side, until it looked like a great sparkling crown. 

I imagined myself a grown up lady, writing things that were 


printed in real books, and being spoken about, even bj people 
who did not know me, by my front name instead of "Miss." 
I was so busy dreaming about the time to come that I never 
heard the footsteps on the garret stairs, nor realized that the 
precious red note book had fallen on the floor. At the sudden 
appearance of a light in the doorway I woke up with a start 
and turned around. My brother had been in search of me, and 
as he came across the room with the candle in his hand, the 
light fell on the note book. He picked it up and looked at the 
first page. "Well, Kidletl'' was his only remark, but there 
was an ocean of pent up mirth in his tone and in his eyes. His 
expression sent a little shiver down my back bone. He was 
trying not to show that he was laughing at me. 

" Give that to me I " I said, the tears starting in my eyes. 
He handed it over gravely and we went down to dinner. From 
that moment I ceased to be a poet. My productions had been 
laughed at — a process far more disheartening than hissing. I 
had a prosaic world to face, — the lights downstairs and those 
laughing eyes on the other side of the dinner table. 

Candacb Thurbbr. 

Sunset Laivd 

Her bine-veined fingers falter at their tasking of to-day ; 

Where once he loved, the chestnut cnrls are waves of gentle gray ; 

The love-dinmied cirdet on her hand, frail witness is to bear 

The truth that many summers past her sweetheart biid it there. 

Within the fastness of her heart, in memory shrined bright, 

Still live 'mid rose and lavender the days of young delight. 

She turns the hoop of purest gold, her amulet so tme; 

With such a wealth of memories, who would regret the rue ? 

Sweet i>assion's songs, long, dreamy hours with tints of dawn ablaze, 

Liong, happy years, but few false steps. — ^The Indian summer haze 

Etes wrapped the dross in mistiness and purpled all the good. 

And gently dreams away with her the sunset of its mood. 

Marie Louise Sexton. 

From My Window 

A row of naked elms, 

VeOed in a mist of green, 
The flash of running water, 

Bright through their branches seen ; 


A hilLnde dimpled with hollows. 
Where the last pale saowbanks lie, 

And crowned with a grove of pine-trees, 
Somber against the sky; 

Above, in the light bine heavens, 

Lasy clonds, silver white, 
A flood of brilliant sunshine, 

Drenching the earth with light, — 

Framed by the bonghs of a maple. 

Where a pair of robins sing. 
With their hearts as fnll of gladness 

As the air is fnll of spring. 

Maboarbt Hamilton Waoenhals. 

Time was dragging slowly for the patient in Number 33. 
The house physician had made his last round for the day, the 

head-hurse had looked at the rec- 

The Romance of Willie ord and with a smile and an en- 
couraging, " Very little tempera- 
ture to-day. Miss Mabie, you're doing famously/' had gone on her 
way again. Even her own nurse had gone out to her supper, 
and Ruth Mabie felt decidedly lonely. 

It was a warm June evening. From her narrow white bed 
she could see through her fifth story window the twilight set- 
tling down over the tall, smoke-begrimed buildings of the city 
below her. The heat seemed to have half stifled even the 
noises, but down below, how far away it seemed! an electric car 
was pursuing its clanging, metallic way. From the steeple of 
the Catholic church near by came the monotonous, jerky ring- 
ing to evening mass. It had a peculiar, hollow sound. She had 
heard something like it before — yes, it was the bell on the cathe- 
dral at Strasburg. It was about a year ago that she had been 
in Europe, that memorable, soul-expanding trip of the summer 
after sophomore year in college. And to think of spending 
this vacation in this way — all because of that audacious appen- 
dix which her descendants ten thousand years hence would be 
born without. Why, why hadn't she lived in 2900 instead of in 
1900 ? She forgot for a moment and tried to turn herself; 
then quickly remembered, and with a sigh of pain and 
weariness tried to think how good every one had been to her. 


as her eyes rested on some exquisite pink rose-buds which a 
newly arisen breeze was swaying on their long stems. 

She was on the other side of the city from where she lived. 
The few visitors she had been allowed had gone two hours be- 
fore ; no one else would come to-night. Hospital life was ex- 
ceedingly stupid and uninteresting. Why did people always 
talk about hospital romances ? To be sure one of her college 
friends had a cousin who fell in love with one of the internes 
once when she was in the hospital, but there was certainly no 
one here to whom Ruth had been violently attracted. She had 
seen only two of the internes. One had taken her history the 
afternoon she came to the hospital. She remembered saying, on 
her mother's entering the room, **Dr. Blumgreen, my mother;*' 
And almost in a breath with his acknowledgment of the in- 
troduction, turning to her he had said, *' Mother and father 
living ? " He certainly was too inexcusably stupid. The other 
had just returned from his vacation ; he was always clearing his 
throat and referring with the most experienced air to ^'a little 
operation I performed while I was away.*' No, she certainly 
could not be bored with him, and the house physician was too 
old ; besides, fancy tolerating any one who always leaves be- 
hind him the odor of ether or chloroform — no, decidedly there 
was to be nothing interesting in that direction. 

Through the open window the noise of the children scream- 
ing at hide and seek came floating up from the street. Down 
the corridor she could hear old Tom's cracked voice singing a 
wailing hymn tune. He had felt it his duty, they said, to come 
to sing to the patients every Saturday, since they had dis- 
charged him from the free ward, three years ago. Across the 
hall some one was moaning ; she could hear a bell ringing from 
a neighboring room for a nurse, and pacing up and down the 
corridor was a man whose daughter was to be operated on to- 
morrow. There was one thing for her to be thankful for ; that 
was over. 

The door was ajar a little ; was it some one knocking ? She 
listened, it came again. '' Come in," called Ruth a little weari- 
ly—probably some one of those tiresome doctors again. The 
door opened wider and in bustled a small, elderly lady of 
about sixty -five. 

" How do ye do ?" And without waiting for a reply she con- 
tinned in a high-keyed, rather cracked voice, "I've been 


wantin* to come in to see ye ever since I heerd about ye, but 
they told me as how I couldn't come in till the week was up. 
It's up to-day, ain't it ? Ye see I've been talkin' to your nurse 
and I sez to Willie, ' I'm a-goin' over an' see that young lady 
acrost the hall.' Thank ye, I will set down jest a spell. Now 
jest ye lie still an' don't talk," with which last obviously unnec- 
essary injunction, she continued amiably, rocking contentedly 
in the chair near the bed, " I told Willie I was comin' over to 
see ye, I told him, sez I, ' I've a mind to pull the screen back 
and let ye holler acrost, 'twould be real sociable like an' ye're 
both sort of lonely.' " She chuckled affably at the idea and as 
the other party to the procedure looked rather blankly at her 
she said, " Willie's my gran'son, ye know, mighty fine boy nigh 
on to twenty-one, goin' to graduate from college next June ef 
he's well enough. Ain't them pretty roses now ? — ^why Willie's 
got some jest like 'em, looks though they might hev been picked 
off the same bush ; I'll have to tell Willie about 'em. Did you 
dread the operation?" ''Grandma" proceeded to ask. Ruth^ 
glad of a chance to speak, said she had tried not to think of it. 

"* That's jest what Willie said exactly," responded her sym- 
pathetic listener. '' He sez he wasn't goin' to think of it eny 
mor'n he could help— his mother though she took on so " — a de- 
tailed description was interrupted by the entrance of Miss 
Mabie's nurse with a diminutive tray and a still more diminutive 
supper. '* Don't give her much, do ye ? Ain't ye terribly 
hungry ? " 

'' That's jest what Willie sez ; he sez seems like he'd die ef he 
didn't get nothing to eat. Well now, do ye get ginger ale ? I 
wonder why Willie can't have some. Well, good night, I'll come 
to see ye again to-morrer, I'll tell Willie 'bout comin' in to see 
ye, good night, sweet dreams to ye," and Grandma, not en- 
couraged by the nurse to remain longer, went back to Willie. 
As the door closed the nurse and Ruth exchanged amused 
glances, but further questioning was stopped for a time by a 
thermometer being placed gently under Ruth's tongue. 

Ruth's dreams that night were filled with visions of un- 
known Willies whom she kept meeting under the most unac- 
countable circumstances. The next day she heard Grand- 
ma's voice several times across the hall and looked for her to 
appear with every knock at the door, but not until evening did 
she enter, as bright and beaming as ever with " How are ye to- 


night? Miss there I've forgot yer name. Perhaps ef I 

called ye by yer front name I could remember it better." 

"Oh well nowy ain't Ruth a nice name ! I had a sister once 
named Ruth, but she died when I was young, I don't remember 
her. I was tellin' Willie/' she resumed, "what a nice time I 
had in here last night and what a nice young lady ye was, — I'm 
so fond of young girls, ye know — I hope ye don't mind my 
comin' in. I think Willie's kind of jealous of me." 

The next evening she came bustling in with *' Willie thinks 
Ruth's an awfully pretty name, and I sez, sez I, ' Well, she's a 
pretty girl too,' and he sez, ' Well, Grandma, so ye've said a 
dozen times, an' I think ye're real tantalizin'.' It's been awful 
hot to^ay, ain't it ? Oh, I'm so sorry for those poor people 
down in the wards. I was down there fannin' a poor woman 
that can't get well, an' I declare it jest made the tears come to 
see her sufferin' so and no one as could do anythin' for her. 
Why you ain't got but one sheet over yer, hev ye ? I don't see 
what Willie's got to hev so much for. I must go an' see to the 
poor lad. Good night, my child." 

In the meantime Willie remained ever a mystery. To be 
sure Grandma had confided to her the slightest variation of 
degrees in Willie's hopes and fears, opinions and sentiments, 
and yet she had a curiosity to know the real Willie. Perhaps 
he was not to be held responsible for the eccentricities of his 
grandmother and in spite of the oddities of her manner, she 
had a good big heart. Perhaps — well anyway, in spite of her- 
self it was rather interesting to know that Willie liked the 
name Ruth. 

*' Imagine my ever meeting him — suppose I should sometime 
by some chance — wouldn't it be queer ? I should say — * How do 

you do, Wi ,' no, I should have to call him Mr. Heathman, 

that's his name, * I have heard of you so often.' " 

A few evenings after this Ruth had another call from Grand- 
ma. She was lying, twirling two or three sweet peas in her 

"See, aren't they beautiful ? I have never seen this variety 
before. Wasn't I fortunate, I had such an enormous bunch of 

" Well now, I ain't seen any fringed ones like these before ; 
those pink and white ones there make me think of my old gar- 
den at home, and somehow, I think I like 'em better, seems 


like they're more genuine." She was fondling two or three of 
them which she had taken from the vase by the bed. '' I guess 
I'll keep these ef ye don't mind — ye've got almost more'n the 
law allows," she said, chuckling good-naturedly. 

'* Yes, do," Ruth said quickly, '*do take some more. I never 
thought — I have so many and I'd love to have you have some." 

" I guess I will," said Grandma with alacrity. "Ye know I 
live in the city now and don't get many flowers. 'Tain't like it 
used ter be. I used to hev the finest sweet pea bed for ten 
miles 'round when I lived in Barrington. Always planted 'em 
in March every spring, and by the fourth of July I'd hev bush- 
els of 'em. My, don't they smell sweet ! Well, good night, 
child, good night, I mustn't tire ye all out." So Grandma made 
her adieux for the evening with a goodly bunch of sweet peas. 

Ten minutes later, as the nurse was getting the room ready 
for the night, there came a knock at the door and almost with- 
out waiting for a reply, in walked Grandma. She was fairly 

*' I thought I'd better come an' tell ye to-night. Willie wants 
me to thank ye just over so much for those sweet peas ; he'd had 
roses and pinks and most everything else but sweet peas and he 
sez how he thinks it was so sweet of you to send 'em to him. 
Good night, dear," and before Ruth had time to recover frona 
the shock of surprise, Grandma had gone, and the nurse with a 
queer little smile on her face was saying, '' Come, Miss Mabie, 
it is time for your powder, and then you must get to sleep and 
rest if you're going home by Tuesday — you've had a trying 

The next day Grandma did not come. Ruth was determined 
to be very unbending, and even the day after when her impa- 
tience with the coolness of 'Hhat woman," had somewhat sab- 
sided, she was determined that the woman's age should excuse 
her no longer, and that this time she should be '^ squelched." 
When Grandma came the next day, Ruth was sitting up. The 
old lady was truly delighted. 

*' Settin' up ! Well, I'm right glad to see ye gettin' along so 
finely. Willie was jest sayin' to-day he thought he should go 
crazy ef he couldn't set up soon," She seemed perfectly un- 
conscious that she had, as Ruth expressed it, '' queered herself/' 
but continued, 

"Ye know I'd feel right heart-broken for the poor lad ef 


Mary wasn't comin' to-morrer, but it jest made him like a new 
boy when he heard to-day she was comin.' She's been in Cali- 
fornia, ye know — her mother was ill and she couldn't get on 
before, and here the poor girl has been nearly crazy worryin' 
over him, and — Oh, didn't I tell ye about Mary before ? " she 
went on complacently. " Why bless ye, he an' Mary are goin' 
to be married some time. We think they're awful young, but boys 
and girls will fall in love, bless their hearts ! an' I 'spose they 
won't be able to wait long — his father's got enough to keep 'em 
for awhile, and Willie, he's awful ambitious ye know, he won't 
live on his father long. She's a nice girl, Mary is. I am fond 
of young girls." 

Ruth's astonished face during this disclosure would have been 
a study for any one else but an unobservant, Willie-admiring 
grandmother. This then was the end of her romance and then 
she began to smile as the humor of the situation fully came 
over her. Finally she could control herself no longer. Grand- 
ma stopped short a moment in her tale. " Why, — " she began. 
" Look," pointed Ruth, *' excuse me, but look. Oh dear, he's 
gone, there was the funniest man out there." 

"Hm!" chuckled Grandma, "I've seen some pretty queer 
specimens wanderin' round these halls since I've been in this 
hospital," and went on rocking. 

" An' sure, dear child, ye'regoin' home to-morrer. I'm right 
glad for ye, right glad, but we'll miss ye, child, we'll miss ye." 
She sighed. " I've grown right fond of ye. I was wishin' the 
other day you could see my son. I've got an unmarried son," 
she explained, "he's a mighty fine man, such a good business 
man — such fine principles, an' he's so good to his old mother. 
Ye're a nice girl, Ruth, a nice girl. Well I must say good- 
by, and sometime if ye ever see me down town or any place, I 
wish ye'd come up an' 8p)eak to me. I'm gettin' old, I don't see 
ez well ez I used ter and I'd love to hev ye. Well child, to- 
morrer ye go home and Willie will have Mary. Willie's a nice 
boy, a nice boy. I'm goin' to kiss ye good-by, ye don't mind, 
do ye ?" and Ruth did not. 

"I've had some beautiful American Beauties sent me to-day," 
she said. "I shan't want to take them away with me, and 
won't you — won't you give them to Mary ?" 

The next morning Ruth, weak, but radiant at the thought of 
really being at home again, that home she had never apprecia- 


ted till now, was helped down the corridor to the elevator. By 
the window at the end of the hall, as near to the breeze as they 
could get, were several convalescents in wheeled chairs. They 
looked up and smiled wistfully as Ruth stepped into the eleva- 
tor. Down, down they went, and up, up as though seized by 
some kind angel, vanished the horrors -of iodiforme and ether. 
As they passed the waiting room, outside the door stood a suit- 
case with the initials M. R. S. on its side. She remembered 
having a vague consciousness that the M must stand for Mary. 

Oh the thrill of that first freedom of the open air as she was 
helped into the carriage, and how she loved the boisterous 
racket of the electric cars and the friendly noise and jolt of the 
paving blocks, as the carriage drove slowly along! Why had it 
never seemed beautiful before ? And yes, they were crying an 
*^ Extra Evening Post." She leaned back exhausted stgainst the 
cushions, and let the dust blow into her face in a sort of sweet 
delirium. How strangely far away that little death-in-life 
seemed now! 

And when you ask her about hospital romances, she smiles 
as though she could a tale unfold — if she would. "Anyway," 
she laughs, as she tells the tale, " I could have had one,'' and she 
thinks of the unmarried son of good principles. 

Helen Louise Harsha* 

My Vioil 

Each night I pass a silent honse, 

And watch in vain the door 
Throngh whose wide arch my love once came, 

Yet never cometh more. 

Whether the white stars shine above 

The lonely, hallowed place, 
Or moonlight, franght with witchery, 

Holds all in its embrace, 

Whether black clonds look threatening down, 

To fill me with vagne fears. 
Or rain falls fast o'er sleeping earth, 

As in my heart fall t^pars ; 


Ever the same long watch I keep, 

In silence and alone,* 
Ever the same dear x>ath I jAce, 

In search of what is gone. 

And so I pass the silent house, 

Watching in vain the door 
Through whose wide arch my love once came, 

Yet never cometh more. 

Edith Tubnbb Nbwcomb. 

Grandfather was a Quaker. It was funny, because he had 
the usual number of eyes and hands and so forth, and seemed 

just like anybody else, only a great deal nicer 

Grandfather than the general run of them. There were 

moments when your mother took after your 
grandfather and times when on father^s face you saw grand- 
father's smile, but grandfather was always grandfather and 
took continually after himself and always had his own smile. 

There was a tall stove in grandfather's room ; it was always 
going. The door was open, and you saw clear down into its 
glowing depths ; the fluted iron- work in its heart was burning 
rosy red, a swaying red light breathed over the beautiful coals — 
and the corn-popper stood against the wall. Grandfather pot- 
tered about and did the queer, nameless things that all grown 
people find to do while you are popping corn, but you could 
always talk to him whenever anything came into your head 
that wanted to come out, and after a while he would come over 
and pop when you were tired, and his were always six or seven 
times bigger than your best ones. 

When the world went wrong and brothers and sisters wouldn't 
let you play with them because you were cross and bothered, or 
you had been convicted of sin by your father or mother and 
knew they were ** hating the sin but loving the sinner," or your 
ear ached, you might go to grandfather's door and he always 
said, " Come in." He never asked what was wrong or seemed 
to know anything was wrong, and you were sure that he neither 
knew about sin nor sinner, nor realized how cross you were nor 
how you bothered. Nor sin nor crossness nor bother were 
possible in grandfather's room, full as it was of stove and corn- 
popper and queer old carved chessmen and tall sets of drawers 
with laughing handles and most of all — of grandfather. 


Down would come the queer, old chessmen: Enight and 
castle, bishop, king and queeh, and the modest little pawn 
children, the great, glowing fairy world of red and black and 
chivalry. That was a game ! A game that held in its magic 
squares December days when Christmas was in the air ; long, 
warm January afternoons, the air outside thick with snow ; 
cold yellow February sunsets over the tree-tops at the window ; 
comfortable days in March when the stove glowed and the 
strong wind clutched at the windows and rattled them in the 
casements ; days of April when the soft rain sang on the roof, 
and May when the great Out-Doors returns again for little folks 
not strong enough to play in the snow and cold. 

When grandfather had to do queer grown-up things or 
couldn't play for some other reason, did he say, **Run away, 
dear, I'm busy now" ? Grandfather ! You surely never had one 
if that is all you know of them. What he said was, ''Come 
here," and you went straight toward the light of those quiet 
blue eyes. While you leaned against his chair he explained 
that the castles and knights could not come off their shelf to- 
day. It didn't matter why; grandfather would never take 
advantage of you, his reasons held good whether explained or 
not. But the next thing to soften the blow was to follow him 
over to one of the tall chests of drawers and while he pulled 
the laughing handles to guess what was coming. It might be & 
peppermint, would it be, could it — ah, it was gum-drops! You 
looked your thanks, and, if you remembered, said them ; then 
you went out and closed the door quickly behind you with ft 
sweet sense of resignation of one willingly bearing a sorrow 
which gave your everyday life a dignity that not even the con- 
tempt and soon-earned scorn of your brothers and sisters could 

The days of gum-drops increased and the chess-days grew 
rarer. Something strange had come upon the household, & 
thing not to be asked about, only to be felt, to be forgotten at 
tea-time, but remembered on the way to bed. 

At length a day when the house was dim and full of visitors 
who came silently. Some one took your hand said, "Come and 
see grandfather." Willingly, for you had not seen him for a 
long time, three days at least. But why don't they go up to 
his room where he always is, and what is that black, queer- 
shaped thing at the end of the room, standing on cross-bars ? 


He can not be here, why do they -- Grandfather I but asleep. 
Ah, that is why they are all so still. We too must walk lightly 
and not disturb him. 

Julia Post Mitchell. 

OvBB THE Mesa. 

Over the mesa, botindless, wide, 
Swept by the wind from the monntain height, 
SMmming swiftly in swallow-flight. 

In the gray of the dawning, — ^let me ride I 

Over the mesa, when the tide 
Of burning light beats on the sand, 
And the blue sky arches on either hand. 

In the qnivering noonday,— let me ride I 

Over the mesa, glorified. 
When river and sky gleam molten gold. 
And purple mists the diffs enfold. 

In the i)omp of the sunset,— let me ride I 

Over the mesa, none beside. 
While stars bend low the plain above 
In silent fellowship and love. 

At the hour of midnight, — ^let me ride I 

Ruth Louise Gaines. 

The golden rays of the setting sun streamed through the 
high, narrow windows of the monastery and glorified the cold 

walls of the little room. The 

"The Last Shall Be First" mellow light touched the shin- 
ing crucifix outlined against 
the gray stone with reverent fingers, and rested with a caress 
that was like a heavenly henediction on the bent heads of the 
monks gathered around the abbot. It was in some respects a 
striking group, for the Monastery of St. John represented all 
that was highest and purest in spiritual and intellectual life. 
The men who gathered within these walls were famous students 
even in the dark days when learning was almost forgotten in 
the strife for mere existence, and their names would be honored 
long after the monastery itself had crumbled into ruins. 


So the little band sitting quietly in the abbot's room, this late 
summer afternoon, typified the very spirit of the place. Even 
the purpose of their coming together had its own significance. 
The adjoining church, which all had so earnestly desired and 
which had meant so many years of waiting, was at last com- 
pleted. Beautiful as art and loving toil could make it, it now 
needed only one more ornament ; the chancel still waited for the 
painting that was to complete the whole. All the monks had 
been urged to attempt this sacred task, yet all agreed that 
Brother Francis alone was worthy to paint the picture of the 
Mother of Christ and her perfect babe. To-day the alloted 
time was at an end, and a breathless hush had fallen on the 
reverent group gathered to view the completed work. Each 
felt, as he gazed upon it, that his highest ideals were realized at 
last in the glowing canvas before him. 

.It was the abbot who finally broke the silence, his voice low 
and tense with emotion. '^ My friends and brothers in Christ," 
he began, '^ hardly is it necessary that I put into words what I 
see writ so clearly on the faces of all here present. Together 
have we worked and prayed and waited, and together do we re- 
joice in the harvest. Our brother there," and he turned toward 
the artist who sat a little apart from the rest, '' has put into 
visible form that which we all bear stamped upon our hearts, 
the image of our Lord and of his holy Mother. Need I ask, 
then, if ye approve ? Do ye not agree that this painting is 
worthy to be placed even above the high altar, that all who 
look thereon may feel their hearts uplifted ? " He paused, and 
from the monks came a murmur of approval, " It is worthy." 

In the stillness that followed a timid knock sounded at the 
door, and a moment later an old man entered the room. Put- 
ting down a large canvas that bent him nearly double, he 
straightened himself slowly and looked apologetically at his 
companions. Finally his glance rested upon the abbot, and he 
spoke hurriedly with almost pitiful appeal. 

** Thou knowest I am not worthy 1 Yet the voice within me 
bade me work ; I dared not refuse. 'Tis the Christ I know, I 
could paint no other " — and he was gone. 

The two paintings remained side by side, in absolute con- 
trast. In one, the divine mother stood serene and queenly, the 
baby in her arms stretching out its tiny hands as if to gather 
in the adoration of the world. The delicate blue of the Ma- 


donna's robe melted into the deeper azure of the heavenly back- 
ground, and here and there an angel face peeped forth, as if to 
catch a glimpse of the holy babe. The Virgin's face, beautiful 
in form and outline, was radiant with immortal glory, the 
majesty of divine motherhood. The other painting bore no 
trace of queenliness. It was only a humble peasant woman, 
bowed with care, her helpless baby cradled in her arms. Yet 
in her face was a hint of something beyond earthly suffering, 
a foretaste of the joy that might be revealed in the future when 
sorrow had passed away. 

For a moment the monks looked at one another, horror and 
perplexity mingled in their expressions. Then one of them 
sprang to his feet, and his voice rang out full of denunciation. 

''Let it be condemned!'' he cried. ''It can not be counte- 
nanced. He has not painted the Queen of Heaven, only the 
meaningless images of his own dazed, rustic brain. Let it be 
destroyed, I say ! " 

He sat down once more. The abbot made no sign either of 
approbation or of disapproval. But for once the monks disre- 
garded his presence, and as one person, they echoed the speak- 
er's words, "Let it be destroyed." There was another pause, 
and then Brother Francis arose and looked calmly over the 
angry group. 

" With thy permission. Father," he began, turning to the 
abbot, "may I beg that we consider this affair quietly and 
without so great haste. For it is often easier to condemn than 
to decide justly. Had Brother Thomas been granted all the 
privileges that have fallen to our lot, no doubt his ideals would 
be far more lofty. He must then, of necessity, have had a 
grander conception of our holy Virgin. And yet, if to his sim- 
ple heart the Christ appears a very humble babe and his mother 
a peasant woman, shall we destroy his work ? Nay, brothers, 
he has labored for love of the church, and he also deserves to 
reap the happiness of reward. Will ye not grant him this, 
his due?" 

As the young man spoke, the expressions of his hearers had 
changed, a dawning conception of a broader charity than their 
own had taken the place of their former disapproval. But at 
his last words their faces clouded once more. Then, at last, 
the abbot interposed. 

"That which our brother has just spoken finds an echo in my 


own heart, my friends," he said. " Of a truth do we need to 
guard against too hasty judgment. If my decision meets the 
approval of all, this is my counsel. Let the larger painting be 
placed as we at first planned, and let the other also possess a 
corner in the church. For any work, however crude and im- 
perfect it may be, if only it be inspired by a pure spirit, must 
prove helpful in the world." 

And so the queenly Madonna was placed above the high altar^ 
and for years reverent pilgrims came there to worship, and ita 
fame spread over many lands. If occasionally some curious 
visitor strayed to the side of the altar and noticed the smaller 
painting in its dim corner, he glanced at it, and straightway 
forgot. And so the months and years crept on. The old abbot 
was laid to rest at length, and Brother Francis filled his place. 
But the church still extended welcoming hands to all who cared 
to praise or pray. 

Perhaps it was the cheerful light, so eloquent of comfort, that 
drew the attention of a poorly-clad woman, lingering by the 
door one bitter winter night, and prompted her to enter. She 
drew the ragged mantle from her shoulders and wrapped it 
about the tiny form of the baby in her arms. Her face, re- 
vealed in the brilliant light, had once been beautiful, but heavy 
lines of sin and care graven upon it had destroyed nearly every 
trace of former charm. She shivered as if in appreciation of 
her own misery, and shrank into a dark comer not far from the 
altar. Over the silent throng the majestic tones of the organ 
pealed forth, the music ringing out joyously at times and again 
dying away tenderly among the vaulted arches. The altar 
flamed with glowing tapers, and in that blaze of light the 
Madonna stood revealed. Beautiful as ever and undimmed by 
time, she seemed to smile down upon the crowd below with 
royal kindliness. And once more the music burst forth in 

triumphant joy, — 

'* Gloria in excelsis Deo, 
Bt in terra, pax.'* 

But the glad song found no response in the heart of the woman 
crouching on the pavement. **Aye," she murmured to herself 
bitterly, '^'tis better as I thought,— one moment, and then all 
over for us both," and she glanced down at the pale face of her 
sleeping baby. "Fool that I was to think of finding comfort 
here ! " her thoughts ran on, as she raised her eyes for an 


instant to the radiant Madonna. '^ Can she understand ? Can 
she look down from heaven and know my life, and why I am 
what I am ? Let the nobles and the rich go to her for comfort, 
she will listen to them. They, too, wear rich garments, their 
children are beautiful like her child ! *! 

Half-blinded by her angry tears, she stumbled to her feet, 
and her hand, stretched out to steady herself, touched the edge 
of a canvas. As she turned partly in curiosity, her attention 
was attracted by something in the picture, and she sank again 
to her knees, and gazed and gazed with growing wonder. It 
was only a simple peasant girl like herself, but the painting 
was full of meaning to her. ''Was she like that *t" she thought 
with strange surprise. "Was she weary, and her son ever cold 
or hungry? Ah, if that be true, perhaps she does understand — 
she, too, has suffered — but there is no sin in her face — " 

The music sank lower into plaintive strains, fainter and 
fainter, then rose again in one final burst of tumultuous glad- 
ness. And still the woman did not move. One by one the 
throng melted away, and yet she lingered. Only the lights on 
the altar gleamed through the gloom when she at length rose to 
her feet. She bent forward for a moment and touched the 
painting reverently with her lips, then gathered her baby closer 
and slipped into the night. Her hands were numb with cold, 
the little one lay heavily in her arms, and she shivered as the 
first cutting gusts of wind swept about her. But in her face 
shone a wonderful light, the glory of that peace "which passeth 

understanding. " 

Helen Esther Kellby. 



Our brothers in colleges for men are wont to despise us for 
oar attitude toward the question of class etiquette. The charge 
yields infinite discussion, futile if with regard to practical 
problems speculation without experimentation be futile ; for 
our convictions are strong, and there is small probability that 
we shall ever make trial of the system of class relations vaunted 
by our brothers as superior. ''The sterner sex'' is an expression 
as offensive as it is hackneyed. One must however admit some 
fitness in it when one reflects on this matter of class etiquette 
as viewed in men's and in women's colleges ; when one contrasts 
the vigorous discipline that pursues the boy freshman from the 
day of his entrance upon college life with the gentle treatment 
accorded to his sister. Our brothers would tell us that the 
worth of the system must be judged by its product, and that 
their resultant sophomore is better in point of humility and 
general fitting behavior than ours. We should probably con- 
test this latter point. Moreover we should maintain that after 
all not the resultant sophomore but the resultant senior is the 
true test of the system. Here however we must admit an 
almost insurmountable obstacle in comparison, for among our 
brothers it is the senior only who discourses 'on the system in 
such a manner as to do it full justice. Indeed after listening 
to such a discourse on such a system one is tempted to feel that 
in view of the pure pleasure accruing to seniors all other con- 
siderations should be thrown to the winds. 

Our brothers maintain that class discipline is a valuable 
preparation for their struggle with life. It occurs to the on- 
looker that to it may be traced the sudden feeling of utter 
insignificance that is said to be so inevitable for the young 
alumnus, and so salutary. Sinful pride is strong in most of us. 
Our brothers violently suppress it in the freshman ; but is it 
not wont to reappear three years later^ more restrained, more 



reserved, but mightier than before ? Our policy, on the other 
hand, is to allow it a gentle and lingering death, a death how- 
ever from which there is no rising. It is said that the newly- 
fledged alumna suffers far less than the newly-fledged alumnus 
from a sense of vanished importance. Is this because the 
alumna's undergraduate conceit is enduring and incurable ? 
Or is it because in her case the college hierarchy has been more 
gently graduated and the senior less an autocrat and despot ? 

Aside from the spirit of our less exacting system of class 
etiquette and class discipline, there are incidentals that we hold 
to be desirable. There is the possibility of companionship 
between senior and freshman without the consciousness of con- 
descension on the one hand or of restraint on the other. There 
is freedom from the necessity of punctilious regard on the part 
of the senior dignity. We all know that a position at the sum- 
mit of any hierarchy entails its disadvantages. From these the 
girl senior is comparatively free. Her head lies comparatively 

Are we frivolous-minded, or devoid of sense of perspective? 
Is it that we fail to realize the enormity of certain sins against 
the college code ? At a basket-ball game a few weeks ago such 
a breach of etiquette as the interruption of senior singing by a 
joyous, effervescent freshman chorus aroused hot indignation 
among the seniors, but called forth from them nothing more 
than admonitions in private to their freshmen friends that the 
latter for their own sake should inform themselves as to the 
unwritten laws of seemly conduct. If the incident had oc- 
curred in a college for men — but imagination falters aghast 
before the conception of the lengths to which outraged senior 
dignity would have gone. Do we err through a certain weak 
or indolent amiability ? Are we defective in our sense of the 
fitness of things and their proper relations ? In any event, we 
are far from wishing to question that our brothers' system is 
the best for them. Then may we not, in return for our modera- 
tion and fair-mindedness, be allowed to maintain, however 
mistakenly, that for us ours is better ? 


It is a century and a half now, more or less, since Gteorge 
Washington first invaded Dan Cupid's tranquil domain in the 
month of February and the hearts of our countrymen ; and the 
struggle for supremacy is still going on. This year, to judge 
from the serious tone of our college exchanges, brings a victory 
for the new-comer in our quarter of the field. Yet we must 
beware of auguring from this the seriousness of mind and lofty 
sternness of purpose of the college public. For, when all is 
said and done, what has Cupid and his solitary henchman, St. 
Valentine, to hope for against the Father of his Country backed 
by serried ranks of recollections of examination week ? 

The best of the distinctively occasional articles for the month 
is one on "The New Patriotism" in the Nassau Literary Maga- 
zine. This magazine contains also a poem, "The Undying 
God," that is remarkable for the beauty and originality of its 
expression of an old theme. The Yale Literary Magazine 
prints an unusually thoughtful essay on "The Greek Apprecia- 
tion of Nature," and an interesting piece of criticism, " 'Herod' 
and the Attic Tragedy." With the exception of " The Pride of 
the Hildreths" in the Columbia Literary Monthly, the good 
fiction of the month is to be found in the Yassar Miscellany, 
which issues an alumnae number, with contributors from classes 
ranging from '68 to '97. Our enjoyment of their clever stories 
and learned articles and graceful verse, great as it may be, can 
not have the element of personal pride and interest that we feel 
in good work done by those who are our own fellow students, 
even though they be not under the tutelage of our own Alma 

The Educational Review for February contains a discussion 
on school reform by Dr. De Garmo of Cornell, based upon a 
paper in the Atlantic Monthly for May 1900, in which Dr. 
Miinsterberg registered the belief that in our treatment of 
educational problems in this country we are urging two pseudo- 
reforms, namely, the elective system and professional training 
for teachers, at the expense of the real reform of which we 
stand in need, namely, better teaching. The two movements 
thus stigmatized Dr. De Garmo vigorously defends, maintain- 
ing that although liable to abuse, they are very real and very 



necessary reforms. But he agrees that the greatest need of the 
American school to-day is for better teaching. 

The great educational achievement of the past fifty years is 
the development of the free high school supported by local 
taxation. This development has been possible only by the use 
of cheap labor. The employment of women teachers in the 
grades at very low salaries has enabled communities to hire 
more women and a few comparatively cheap men for the high 
school, and to spare money for equipment. But this develop- 
ment of schools by cheap labor involves a double wrong and 
calls for a double reform. " In the first place," to quote Dr. 
De Garmo, ** though on the whole women are no worse oflf than 
they were in the past because of becoming cheap teachers, yet 
it is true that the community is lowering the tax-rate by the 
exploitation of women, for they give their labor, their lives, 
their hopes of home, for a pittance which barely pays their 
current living expenses, leaving little or nothing for culture, 
travel, support of others, or old age. They are, in short, con- 
demned to poverty and celibacy. They are fast becoming a 

new sisterhood The counterpart to this condition 

Is that the strong men are fast being diverted from teaching. 
Woman competition forces their salaries below the point where 
a self-respecting man can found and support a family. . . . 
Under the present system women sacrifice most of what makes 
their lives worth living for a bare pittance, while the schools 
suffer from want of that strong, virile spirit to be found only 
in the ablest men." 

These evils are to be done away with only by the use of radi- 
cal measures. Dr. De Qarmo advocates a reorganization of the 
public school system which should give six years of elementary 
and six years of secondary training, the first to be paid for by 
local taxation, the second either wholly or in part by the gov- 
ernment, since it has control of almost all the most productive 
sources of indirect taxation. In this way our system of educa- 
tion would be made more compact and symmetrical, individual 
communities could pay their grade teachers better and demand 
a higher standard, of preparation, which would in turn react 
upon the teachers to render their lot less cheerless; and the 
state, obtaining revenue without the friction which accom- 
panies direct taxation, could offer salaries that would secure for 
our high schools the best teachers, men and women alike. 



We considered onrselves very f ortpnate in being in Tokyo at the time when 
Danjnro and Kickogoro, with their excellent company, were playing at the 

Shintomiza theater; and donbly happy in having- 
A Day at the among our acquaintances a cultivated Japanese girl 

Japanese Theater who was so kind as to be to ns gnide, philosopher, and 

friend on the occasion of onr first visit to the play- 
house. When in Japan, the tourist would fain do as do the Japanese ; bnt 
without a proper amount of instruction (ten years is considered none too long^ 
for a primary course), he not infrequently wanders far afield. We were,, 
therefore, most willing to leave all arrangements to Mademoiselle Tokiva — 
as I will call her — and trust to her promptings to keep us in the paths of 

Our party of eight met at the Imperial Hotel at half past nine on the morn- 
ing of the day appointed, and on learning that we would have a Japanese 
tif&n, or lunch, at the theater, voted unanimously to provide ourselves with 
several packages of good European sandwiches. We knew that we were to 
spend the day and, being somewhat unfamiliar with Japanese dainties, de- 
cided that it might be wise not to depend wholly upon the feast provided by 
the tea-house through which arrangements for the day's entertainment had 
been made. At ten o'clock we had taken jinrikishcLS and were ready for the 
ride through crowded, busy streets. This was not by any means the least 
interesting part of the program. We went directly to the one particular tea- 
house, among the many surrounding the theater, which had taken the com- 
mission to look out for our comfort. There we left our wraps and parasols 
and had a cup of tea ; after which we crossed the street and, conducted by 
an attendant from the tea-house, entered the Shintomiza, a large two-storied, 
wooden building with broad, open verandas on both first and second floors. 

In the entrance corridor were racks for the wooden shoes which the 
audience check and leave there before entering to take their places. The Jap- 
anese reverse the old-country custom of walking to meeting barefoot and 
putting on shoes just before turning the last comer. And also that of our 
theaters which forbids to the head the friendly protection of the hat, but 
leaves free choice in the matter of foot-wear. 

The interior arrangement of a Japanese theater is, in some respects, simi- 
lar to our own. On either side of the stage, which occupies one end, are the 
boxes. These are reserved for the musicians. The central portion of the 
stage is made to revolve so that one scene may be reset while another is in 
use, and then turned to the audience so that the action of the play may con^ 



tinne without loss of time. The sloping floor is divided into sections six feet 
sqaare, separated by low railing the tops of which serve as bridges on 
which the 8i)ectator8 pass to their places. Each section is provided with 
ciuhions ; for all sit on the floor. Two walks, abont fonr feet broad and on a 
level with the stage, extend through the anditorinm from the entrance doors 
in the rear to the stage in front. On these called hana-michi^ or flower walks 
(from the old cnstom of strewing them with flowers), the actors, in making 
their entrances ftt>m the back of the hall, pass through the audience. 
They move with an exaggerated strut which to the European, observing it 
for the first time, seems thoroughly ludicrous, and too ridiculous to permit 
him to look upon any part of the performance as higher than a burlesque. 
There is one balcony which extends around three sides of the building and, 
like the floor, is divided into sections each accommodating four x^rsons. The 
two side galleries are but six feet wide, the entrances to the boxes being from 
the npper verandas through sliding screens. The rear gallery is broader and 
has, back of the boxes, space *' for standing-room only.** Back of this, and 
above the entrance corridor on the lower floor, is a large room which is pro- 
vided with a table and chairs. This was reserved for our use, on the day of 
oar risit. Here, before the performance, Mademoiselle Tokiva read us an 
outline of the play. Here, later in the day, our tiffin was served to us. 

At eleven o'clock we went to our boxes which were in the center of the left 
balcony. The curtain was drawn aside. The play had begun. The audience 
was still assembling. It was a pretty sight to watch the careful tenderness 
with which the grandparents (whole families of three generations came to 
enjoy the play together), were helped along the narrow bridges to their 
places. Once in, they seated themselves on their cushions; lighted their 
pipes or cigarettes at the hUxichi, or braziers, with which each section is pro- 
vided ; took a sip of tea or 8cUe4 and settled themselves for a day's entertain- 
ment. There were elaborate programs of the play in Japanese, and also very 
clear and satisfactory outlines in English. With these and the explanations 
which Mademoiselle Tokiva gave us, we were able to follow the evolution of 
the plot and subplots and, in a measure, appreciate the sentiments of the 
heroes and heroines. 

The modem drama with dialogues is said to have originated out of the 
farces which served as interludes in the No performance, originally a sacred 
dance of the Shinto religion. In this flrst form the story was told by the 
chorus. The actors merely went through movements and assumed attitudes 
which illustrated the recital. The drama of Dan jure is a representation of 
every-day life ; as much so, certainly, as Irving's ** Robespierre." The drama 
is said to have practically no literary value. It is, in most caFes, compiled by 
the company which produces it, and is changed to suit the demands of vary- 
ing conditions. One of the greatest historical plays, therefore, leaves with 
the European spectator, a memory of several thrilling episodes threaded on a 
slender plot. 

The characteristic of Jaiianese acting which probably first impresses every 
European visitor is the stage voice. It is high in pitch and exceedingly 
shrill, with wails which — though it be irreverent — I must confess reminded 
me of the midnight serenades given to Maria by her feline adorers. Every 


action seems to be so greatly exaggerated, and all the sitnations are so long 
drawn out, that one despairs of being able to appreciate the mnch praised 
merits of the acting and tnms his attention to the stage setting and coetnm- 
ing. Great care is given to detail in both respects and admirable effects are 

Three scenes I remember with especial vividness. The first in which an 
old farmer, having digcovered that his son has acted as gnide to the enemy's 
clan, vows to kill him and thus defend his honor. The cqpter of the stage is 
occupied by just such a house as one might see on a ride into the country. 
There are the rough screens, the veranda, the thatched roof. At one end 
there is a cherry-tree in full bloom. Farming implements are scattered 
about. The old man, overcome by the grief which his son has brought upon 
him, seizes a hatchet and cuts off a branch of the tree, proclaiming that by 
auch violence he must take the life of his child. The action is accompanied 
by appropriate music and brings tears to the eyes of many in the audience 
who have been watching with breathless interest. 

The management of i)erspective in the following scene is certainly unique. 
Two knights on horseback are to engage in a combat. The great curtain is 
drawn aside disclosing a scene on the shore of the ocean. A painted curtain 
at the back represents a bold headland against which the surf is dashing. 
Low iMdnted screens, placed at intervals corresponding with the openings into 
the wings, are painted to represent water. A great commotion is beard at the 
back of the hall, and the knights enter on the hana-michi. The one in black 
on the left is Danjnro. His opponent on the right is in white. They are 
dressed in magnificent armor, and mounted on steeds richly caparisoned but 
somewhat wobbly about the back and very peculiar in respect to the legs. 
In fact, each horse is made by two coolies who walk one in front of the other, 
both with bodies bent forward from the hips, the second one forming by his 
back and shoulders a seat for the rider. The style of ancient Japanese 
equestrian armor favors the illusion. The knights ride boldly, fearlessly. 
The horses prance and toss their heads. The audience is tense with excite- 
ment At the shore the horses hesitate, but finally plunge in and struggle 
through the surf, crossing and recrossing the stage. &naller horses and 
riders are substituted in the wings for the originals, and thus the effect of 
distance is produced. 

The curtain is drawn, and when one next sees the stage he finds the two 
combatants dismounted and about to engage in the final struggle. They have 
taken off their kdbutos, or helmets. The older of the two knights feels com- 
passion for the youth and beauty of his young opponent and would spare his 
life. But, not being allowed to exercise the '* quality of mercy,** he with one 
blow strikes off the head of him whom he afterwards discovers to have been 
his own son. Danjuro plays the part of the elder knight and is truly superb in 
his interpretation. After the blow has been dealt and the head severed from 
the body, the great actor takes it between his hands and, gazing at it long and 
earnestly, laments with great power. The success of such a representation 
depends upon the promptness of the mutes. These are small men dressed in 
black with black covering for heads and faces. They supply stage furniture 
when it is needed, have a care for the scenery and drag off dead bodies — and 


other objectionable articles. In brief, they are the clondfl which render in- 
Tisible all things which should not be seen. When the yonng knight was 
struck down his body was instantly covered with a black cloth. The head, 
which apparently fell from his shoulders, was bnt an image passed throngh 
a trap-door in the floor. 

The foreigner on his first visit to the Japanese theater sees such machinery 
T«ry plainly and compares it, most unfavorably, with the management of 
effects in his own eonntry. Bnt if he goes again and again to see the same 
play be finds that he gradually forgets such details and that the real power 
of the acting takes increasing hold on his imagination. 

It was interesting to watch the audience as it was moved by the great act- 
ors—for Danjuro's company is composed of stars. It wept in sympathy ; 
shuddered in horror ; shouted its approval. There was little opportunity for 
smiles in that very bloody tragedy I The spectators paid visits between the 
acts, walked on the verandas, and enjoyed the refreshments which were 
brought in by attendants from the tea-houses. Children ran about on the 
hanormithi. They even ventured on to the stage and peeped beneath the 
great curtain to watch the carpenters at their work. While we were at tiffin 
the horses appeared at the door and were asked to come in. They seemed 
much interested in our appearance and were delighted to display the glories 
of their equestrian heads and tails. 

The great historic play of the day was ended about five o'clock. Two 
short comedies followed and the curtain was drawn, for the last time, be- 
tween eight and nine in the evening. 

We decided to leave the auditorium at the end of the first play and com- 
plete the ezx)eriences of the day by visiting some of the actors in their dress- 
ing-rooms. If a comparison in this particular be made with many European 
theaters it will, I think, be most complimentary to the Japanese, for their 
dressing-rooms are marvels of cleanliness, order, and refined taste. The 
floors are covered with matting. The screens are of soft shades of gray. In 
the tokonoma, or small raised recess, there is always some beautiful object, a 
picture, perhaps, or a bronze vase holding one fiower. 

Onoye Yesaburo, the man who played one of the leading woman's parts — 
for there are no women in Danjuro's company — was very gracious. He 
showed us how to touch up the lips and eyes, displayed his costumes with a 
great deal of pride, and wrote his autograph for us. Kickogoro was too busy 
to talk to us, but kindly gave us permission to sit and watch his disposal 
of red and white paint as he made ready for his next scene. It was a great 
surprise to learn that Danjuro put a fixed price upon such a visit, counting the 
favor worth two dinners at the Imperial Hotel. The great actor received us 
standing. We also stood and felt very awkward until Mademoiselle Tokiva 
came to the re«tcue and translated our compliments. Gradually Danjuro un- 
bent and finally wrote his autograph for each of us. Later, when we re- 
turned to the hotel, we found a pnckage of two dozen Japanese towels 
stamped with Danjuro's crest. These he bad sent as souvenirs of the occa- 
sion. It was a rare treat to see the costumes, many of which were very val- 
uable historically as well as intrinsically. The brocades, the lacquers, and 
bronzes were of exquisite workmanship, the despair of collectors. 


We would have been glad to spend honn in that qniet room, talking with 

the man who has done so mnch for the dramatic art in Japan ; but Danjnro^ 

next part was coming on, and the hour was growing late, so we reluctantly 

said good-by to our first day in a Japanese theater. It was a day long to be 

remembered, for it brought an introduction to a new phase of Japanese life 

and art. 

Gertrude £. Simonds *95. 

New Zealand has sometimes been called '* The Gonntry without Strikes.** 
but the people themselves prefer to call it " The Laboring Man*s Paradise.** 

The reason for this is obvious, for it is the land 

Some Social Conditions where the laboring man rules supreme. 

in New Zealand The chief executive, the Premier, who has 

himself risen from the ranks, received and con- 
tinues to hold his office by the vote of the laboring class. Naturally, he uses 
all of his influence for the passage of laws in their behalf. Their wages, 
number of hours, rates for over-time, holidays, and all other questions of 
this kind are governed by law. The average laborer works from eight until 
five o^clock, and receives about two dollars and forty cents a day. Any woA 
done before or after that time is called over-time, and receives accordingly 
double pay. Wednesday and Saturday afternoons are observed throughout 
the year as half holidays. Every person who employs labor must observe 
one of the two afternoons. Those who do not abide strictly by the law are 
heavily fined. The outcome of this has been to make New Zealand a coun- 
try of pleasure-loving people. 

Saturday afternoon has become the popular time for every kind of athletics 
and out-of-door amusements. During the winter months lacrosse, cricket, 
and foot-ball are played constantly. There is always one large game of foot- 
ball to which admission is charged. At this one the local teams meet others 
from the different cities of the colony, and much loyal enthusiasm is dis- 
played by the audience. Boating, yachting, golf, tennis, croquet, and horse 
races absorb the attention of the people during the summer months. Auck- 
land is the yachting center of the colony, but every town and city in New 
Zealand has its own race-course. This is by far the most popular sport, and 
is attended by all classes. The women bet upon the horses as eagerly as the 
men. This is controlled by the government, and thousands of pounds go 
through the totalisator, the government betting machine, every year. By 
means of this the betting is carried on as fairly as possible. Many people 
consider this the curse of the country. This may or may not be true, but it 
is a fact that thousands of pounds which should be used for better imrxwses 
are lost every year in the government machine. New Zealand may be called 
*' The Laboring Man's Paradise," but a country whose government controls 
such a questionable business as this can hardly hope to stand for the things 

which are highest and best. 

AucB Earls Fowler 1900. 


Preyions articles in the Monthly haye pointed out wherein a pnrBoit of the 
bowledg^ of housekeeping and home-making is in the direct line of the 

college graduate. Snch hints led me to inquire further 

Boston School of into the work along this line for which the Boston 
Housekeeping School of Housekeeping has been established. A closer 

acquaintance with this school during this, its third 
season, has fuUj proved to my mind the ei&ciency and need of such an 

The aim of the jiromoters of the school when the idea was first brought to 
bear upon the minds of progresslye housewiyes, was essentially to solve some 
of the mysteries of the servant question, with the hope of making house 
work a respected trade. It was distinctly seta, however, that this problem 
can only be solved through a proper understanding in the minds of employers 
of the principles of the home and the proper social relations of the two 
classes. Together with this is the necessary understanding of the sociological 
aspects of the home in relation to all living. The aim thus becoming broader 
and higher, the main effort of the school is now seen to be toward the promo- 
tion of this idea. In this pursuit such practical courses are offered as ynll 
serve to bring out the essential elements of the home and promote its proper 
management. Such courses may be enumerated as : home sociology and 
home economics ; house sanitation and public hygiene ; the science of bac- 
teriology ; cooking and the chemistry of food-stuffs ; dietaries ; marketing, 
household buying, and ezi>enditure ; together with kindred courses in per- 
sonal hygiene. 

Courses in home sociology and economics aim to place the dominant rela- 
tion of the home in society in the prominent ixxdtion it should hold in the 
minds of citizens. A study of the various branches under house sanitation 
proves clearly how essential to public hygiene and health is a scientific knowl- 
edge of cleanliness and care in the individual householder. Bacteriology in 
relation to the housewife points out not only the disagreeable elements of 
dust and dirt, but also how these tiny plant organisms should be treated to 
produce beneficial results. Practical lessons in cooking have as their basis 
the study of the chemical combinations of food materials. Mrs. Ellen H. 
Richards in her practical problems in ** Dietaries" brings out the nutritive 
and economic values of foods. We learn the right proportions of the chemi- 
cal constituents of food to be combined for healthful results. She asks us to 
decide what to give littie boys who will not take meat or eggs. All these 
courses are conducted in such a way as to serve as hints and suggestions for 
further work. Practice in all branches is by no means the least part of 
the work. 

The school now having learned and jirofited by experience has for the first 
time this winter divided its work into two terms making an entire course of 
thirty-two weeks, which is longer than formerly. Correspondingly the 
school has grown in numbers from two, its first year, through fifty-four, last 
year, to seventy-one registrations for the present year. By the variety of 
cities and colleges represented in the registration, the interest apx)ears to be 
far from local. Besides students from all the women's colleges in the East, 
there have been representatives from the Baltimore Women's College, the 


University of Michigan, and the Ohio Wesleyan. The charming home of 
the school on St. Botolph Street is an object lesson in itself to those few priyi- 
leged to reside there dnring the conrse. Its competent managers prove 
the possibilities of a beantifnl home conducted npon scientific and hygienic 

This School of Honsekeeping, which can not fail in its object to produce 
more efficient home-makers, is in the minds of its directors simply a step 
along the line. The thought predominant in their minds is the inflnenoe of 
the home in public life. This then is the first step to attach public interest 
to this phase of study so important in the present conditions of society. A 
success well nigh assured serves as a hope for later development in the 
way desired, — that of a more professional ** School of Home and Social 

The present courses of the School of Housekeeping are of so high a scien- 
tific tone as to prove clearly the high rank of domestic science. To the 
college graduate the field is open for much needed and interesting research 

along these lines. 

M. Louise Ballou *99. 


The following are the candidates for alumnse trustee, in the lilaoe of Miss 
Charlotte C. Gulliver, A. B., whose term has ezjnred : — 

Mrs. Mary Gtorham Bush, A. B., '79, Springfield, Mass., Registrar of Smith 
College, '91-*95 ; proposed by the Boston Association. 

Mrs. Helen Rand Thayer, A.B., '84, Portsmouth, New Hampshire, connected 
with the work of organizing College Settlements ; proposed by the Western 
Massachusetts Association, the Worcester Club, and the Syracuse Club. 

Mrs. Helen Shute Moulton, A. B., '87, New Haven, Connecticut, Instructor 
in German at Smith College, '88-'98 ; studied subsequently at Bryn Mawr 
College and GK^ttingen University, '94-'98 ; proposed by the New York Asso- 
ciation and the Western Massachusetts Association. 

Ballots should be sent before April 15, to Miss Eleanor H. Nichols, Haddon 
HaU, Berkley Street, Boston. 

MissQrace A. Hubbard '87, gave an informal talk, March 2, on "Some 

Aspects of Training at Smith College,** 

New York Alumnae Association at the house of Mrs. William H. Bald- 
win Jr. (R. S. Bowles '87). Tea wasafter- 
wards served. About sixty persons were present. 

Mrs. Waldo Richards of Boston gave her dramatic reading of Monsieuar 

Beaticaire before the Woi'cester Smith 
Worcester Smith College Club College Club, January 11, for the bene^t 

of the Students' Aid Society. Consider- 
ing the heavy expenses and exceedingly bad weather of that evening, the en- 
tertainment may be called a financial success, since fifty dollars was cleared^ 



A book has been placed in the Beading Room in which all alomniB yisit- 
ing the college are asked to sign their names. The list of visitors for Feb* 
mary and March is as follows : 

'88. Elizabeth Lawrence Clarke, Febmary 21-28 

*85. Anne Capen, 

*86. Mary Stebbens Atwater. 

'96. Elizabeth Fisher Read, 
Ellen Dnckworth Tmll, 

'97. Margaret Elmer Coe, 
Ora W. Parent, . 

'98. Cora M. Martin, . 
Christine C. Wright, 
Marion Pngh Read, 

'99. Lonise Ballon, 

Mary C. Childs, . 
Mary E. Goodnow, 
Ethel D. Hastings, 
Florence Eetchnm, 
Helen E. Makepeace, 
Harriet G. Martin, 
Sarah N. Whitman, 
1900. Minnie W. Foster, 

Bertha W. Groesbeck, 
Anne Perry Hincks, 
Virginia W. Mellen, 
Marg^aret Morris, 
A. J. Smith, 
Cora E. Sweeney, 



March 2-11 
February 22 








Contributions to this department are desired by the second of the month in 
order to appear in that month's issue, and should be sent to Ruth L. Gkdnes, 
Morris House. 

'86. Another novel, ** A Pillar of Salt," by Mrs. Gerald Stanley Lee (Jennette 
B. Perry), has just been published by Houghton, Mifflin & Company. 

'88. Marion Dwight has had leave of absence from school for a year on ac- 
count of health. 

Mary B. Rayner has been visiting in the East. 

^91. Rose Garland is studying law at the New York University Law School. 

'92. Etarriet A. Boyd sails for Crete March 16, to conduct excavations for the 
American Exploration Society. 

'94. Mary Clark has announced her engagement to Mr. Charles Putnam. 

'97. Mary Rockwell has announced her engagement to Mr. Eidward Cole of 

Mary Bartlett Smith is teaching geometry, trigonometry, and English in 
the Johnson High School, North Andover, Massachusetts. 


'98. Josephine D. Daskaxn had a poem, ''The Sons of Sleep,** in the Feb- 
ruary number of Scribner*s. 

Catherine Farwell has announced her engagement to Reverend Edward 
R. Hjde of Turner's Falls, Massachusetts. 

Mary Mc Williams has been spending a few weeks with President McEin- 
ley at the White House. 

Vera Scott is teaching for the present at Tressler's Orphan Home in Penn- 

*99. Helen K. Demond has announced her engagement to Mr. Albert Robin- 
son, Superintendent of Schools in Warren, Massachusetts. 

Ethel Oilman, Louise Ballon, Charlotte Stillings, and Sybil Shaw 1900, 
are taking courses at the Boston School of Housekeeping. 

Kate L. Lincoln is to teach science in the Wakefield High School next 

Alice McClintock is spending the winter at home in Denver, Colorado. 

Edith Putney is teaching in Dallas, Texas. 

Ellen C. Putney is teaching in Winchendon, Massachusetts. 

Mary E. Tillinghast was married last July to Mr. Frederick H. Paine. 
She is living in Brooklyn. 

Sarah N. Whitman exx)ects to go to Oxford, England, for study in the 
summer courses offered there. If there are others going at the same 
time, she would be glad to hear of it. Address, Simsbury, Conn. 

1900. Cora E. Delabarre has announced her engagement to Dr. Htmter of 

Madeleine Z. Doty is studying law at the New York University Law 

Fanny Scott is traveling with her family in Mexico. 

Evelyn W. Smith is now teaching botany in Mt. Holyoke College. 


'95. Mrs. F. O. Fish (Frances F. Curtis) a son, Maxwell, bom January 16. 

'96. Mrs. A. J. Nock (Agnes E. Grumbine) a son, Samuel Albert, bom Feb- 
ruary 17. 


Semi-Annnal Report of the Proceediiigs of the Council from Sei^tember, 
1900, to February. 1901 : 

The first meeting of the year was held October 16, MIbb Lord, who had 
been elected President of the Gonncil in Jane, presiding. The other officers 

for the year were then elected as follows: treasurer, 

Council Report Clara Bradford 1908 ; secretary, Eloise Mabury 1903. 

Daring the celebration of the twenty-fifth anniversary 
t)f the college the Council was called upon to take charge of the students' 
meeting, to take the initiative in deciding upon a gift for President Seelye, 
and to present it, and in various ways to help render the occasion successful. 

The Council has had two meetings with the Conference Committee, at 
which it was decided that the usual program should be carried out on Wash- 
ton's Birthday and that the second Sunday in February should be retained as 
the date for the Day of Prayer for Colleges. As a result of a meeting of the 
Council with the House Committee, it was decided that the request of the 
Students' Building Committee for a second Glee Club concert to be given the 
night preceding the regular concert be refused. Substitutes for this concert 
were granted, and a donation party, a joint senior- junior debate, and a joint 
Alpha-Phi Kappa Psi play were approved of. The House Committee further 
decided that no entertainments and no decorations should be allowed here- 
after at the dances given in the gymnasium. 

It has seemed expedient to the Council that hereafter the junior president 
shall conduct the first freshman class meeting until the freshman president 
has been elected ; and this addition will be made to the Book of Reference. 
In accordance with a request of the Council, a telephone has been put up in 
the old gymnasium for the use of the students both on and off the campus. 
It is hoped that President Seelye's request that the bulletin board in Seelye 
Hall be used only for notices directly concerning that building, will be duly 
heeded. In response to the feeling expressed by the students that there 
ahould be another college song beside ** Fair Smith," the Council has chosen 
one kindly written for the purpose by Miss Agnes Hunt *97, which the Coun- 
cil hopes will meet the approval of the college. 

The Council wishes to express its thanks to the students for their dignified 
deportment at the college election of the national President held in Novem- 
ber, and for their cordial cooperation in the efforts of the Council to main- 
tain order in chapel and in the college generally, especially in President 
Seelye's absence. 

Eloise Mabury 1902, Secretary. 



On Saturday eyening, February 10, the Alpha and Phi Kappa Psi societies 
presented '<The Adventure of the Lady Ursula." College dramatics ar» 

always welcomed with enthusiasm, and when it was an- 

Joint Play nounced that a play was to be given by the two literary 
societies for the benefit of the Students' Building fund, the 
customary eagerness was greatly increased and the production of Anthony 
Hope's sprightly drama impatiently awaited. 

To say that the play was successful is aU too little, for it is the universal 
opinion that it was one of the best ever given in college. The simple scenery^ 
the brilliant costumes, the clever acting of the leading characters, and the 
finish of the minor parts combined to make the performance a polished 
whole. Even the servants showed their careful training, and Mary Lewis as 
Mills was inimitable. But it was preeminently the sustained air of realism 
which made one forget that the dashing officers and swashbuckling cavaliers 
were really only girls. 

Ethel Freeman, as Sir Qeorge Sylvester, captivated the audience as well as 
the Lady Ursula. Every expression and attitude was appropriate, and the 
interpretation of the part left little room for improvement. Sir Qeorge*s 
rather melancholy air belong^g to the cynical bachelor, was finely mingled 
with the steadfastness and nobility of the strong man that he showed 
himself to be. 

Eda Brun6, as Lady Ursula, reckless, wilful, repenting and then rushing 
into new dangers, yet showing the woman through her attractive, manly 
disgruise, gave life and siiarkle to the whole play. The rashness tempered 
with regret, showing the really fond, loving nature of the Lady Ursula^ was 
admirably brought out. 

Ellen Emerson, the pompous, irritable club man, a stickler for etiquette^ 
who feels grossly insulted if it is not observed, was very amusing, and the 
gay company of the officers of the Foot Guards in their gorgeous uniforma 
gave a touch of color to the otherwise somber setting of the third act,— scen- 
ery in conformity with the period in which the play took place. 

Sarah Schaff. as the Reverend Mr. Blimboe, was a delightful mixture of 
platitudes and a natural and worldly interest in the Lady Ursula. The origi- 
nality of Miss SchafTs acting made her part one of the best features of the play. 
Selma Altheimer, as the Earl of Hassenden, carried the audience through her 
experiences by the force of her sympathetic voice, which necessitated the inter- 
est all felt for the gallant lover who is placed in a most perilous position by the- 
pranks of his sister, the Lady Ursula. Anxiety and fear for her betrothed. 
Lord Hassenden, was cleverly interwoven with a piquancy which made May^ 
Barta, as Dorothy Fenton , a charming foil for the impetuous heroine. Miss 
Barta showed the training of her very proper aunt, the part played by 
Hannah Johnson, where decorum was delightfully neglected whenever she* 
thought she might hear a bit of gossip, her whole attitude then being one of 
''listening and not approving." 

On the whole the experiment of the joint play proved to be a great success,, 
and much credit is due to the cast and the managing committees for th& 



The Earl of Hassenden, Selma E. Altheimer 

Sir Gteorge Sylvester, Ethel H. Freeman 

The Rev. Mr. Blimboe, Sarah S. Schaff 

Mr. Dent "I f . .Ellen T. Emerson 

Mr. Castleton rww^^ 4« ^\>^ Edith DeB. Laskey 

Sir Robert Clifford, V ^^^io J. \ Margery M. Ferriss 

Mr. Ward, f ^^* Guards, ^| ^^^» ^ Knowlton 

Mr. Deverenx J \.. . . Helen Witmer 

Qnilton. Servant to tiord Hassenden Anne L. Sanborn 

MiHs, Servant to Sir George Sylvester Mary B. Lewis 

Servant at Lord Hassenden^s town lodging Janet S. Sheldon 

Miss Dorothy Fenton, betrothed to Lord Hassenden, 

May W. Barta 

Mrs. Fenton. her annt Hannah G. Johnson 

The Lady Ursnla Barrington, Lord Hassenden's Sister, 

Eda von L. Brnn6 

It is not very often that the four classes in college have an opportunity to 
combine in one general celebration, but on the twenty-second of Febmary 

the whole student body is the recognized unit, 

Washington's Birthday and the loyal enthnsiasm aroused by the day 

transcends all bounds of class distinction and 
survives in the mind of every student long after the noise and dust of the 
rally in the gymnasium have passed away. The first exercises of the day 
were held in Assembly Hall, where an address on **The Conquest of Com- 
merce'* was given by General Curtis Guild of Boston, and the Junior Ode, 
written by Sybil Lavinia Cox 1902, was read by Miss Peck. After the exer- 
<dse8, there was the usual rush for the gymnasium, where a few gallant mem- 
bers of each class had succeeded in accomplishing wonderful feats in the art 
of impromptu decorating ; each comer of the gymnasium bloomed with yel- 
low, red, green, or purple, and in its midst rose the precarious but imporing 
platform from which each song leader led her class through its varied reper- 
toire. The customary council '* stunt'* was this year omitted, and instead 
the classes joined in singing a song, of which the words were written by 
Agnes Hunt '97 and the music by Ethel W. Chase 1902. '' Fair Smith" was 
unusually well sung even unto the third verse, and from the mingled sounds 
which accomi»nied the usual tramp around the gym, it is probable that no 
-absent class or present celebrity escaped a proper tribute of song. In the 
afternoon the seniors beat the juniors in basket-ball, and the sophomores beat 
the freshmen ; the captains and coaches were chosen before the games. 

The Senior-Junior Debate was held on the evening of February twenty- 
second, in the Alumnsd G3rmnasium, the question being, '* Should Federal 

Protection be extended to Negro Suffrage?" Judge Bassett, 
The Debate Mr. Root of the High School, and Mr. T. M. Connor, all of 

Northampton, kindly served as judges, and Laura W. 
Lord of the senior class acted as moderator. The affirmative side of the 
question was upheld by the juniors, the seniors defending the negative. The 
debating teams were composed of the successful competitors in the second 
trial debate and were arranged as follows : — 



Miss I. P. Chase, Miss Burbank, 

Miss Moore, Miss Stnart, 

Miss Tnbby, Miss deLong, 

Miss Canedy, Miss A. C. Childs. 

Sides and positions were not assigned to the contestants until the morning 
of the day before the debate, as it was desired that the debating should be, 
as far as possible, extemporaneons. 

Each debater was allowed seven minutes for her first speech, and three min- 
utes for rebnttal. Mr. Root, in annonncing the judges' decision, said that 
they had met with the difficulties usually connected with their iwsition. On 
one point, however, they were all agreed, namely, with regard to the prize 
of fifty dollars for the best junior debater, which was uuanimously awarded 
to Q^rtrude Tubby. On the other two points their decisions were as 
follows : — the gold medal, offered to the best debater, junior or senior, was 
won by Marie Stuart 1001, and the honors of the debate went to the 
seniors. Since this debate was given for the benefit of the Students* Build- 
ing, an admission of twenty-five cents was charged, and about one hundred 
and fifty dollars was cleared. 

The debate throughout was very creditable to the contestants, especially 
when the small amount of time allowed for team work is considered. The 
interest shown by the college at large proves that the inter-class debate sup- 
plies an element which the college has heretofore lacked, and which faculty 
and students alike are disposed to welcome, hoping that it may become a 

X>ermanent institution. 

Ubsula Minor 1902. 

The enthusiasm of a college audience is surely the trneet criticism of a 
college play. From the moment when the curtain was raised upon the first 

tableau of the Morris House dramatics until it 

Morris House Dramatics fell after the last words of the heroine, Ihe 

hush of the audience and the spontaneous 
bursts of applause showed how truly the efforts of the actors and the splen- 
did management of the committees were appreciated. 

The play itself was a classic, a translation of Eug6ne Scribe's ''La BataHle 
de Dames." Although the plot was one with which we are well acquainted 
in these days of colonial novels, still there was to be found a new element in 
the strictly French setting. The story is that of a young French officer 
against whom a warrant of arrest had been issued. Digguised as a servant 
he finds refuge in a cousin's chateau, where he falls in love with a young girl 
who is visiting there. After many complications he is finally pardoned, and 
though loved by his cousin, the Countess d* Autre val, receives the hand of the 
woman he loves. 

Mary Barrett 1901 was the young hero, M. Henri de Flavigneul. She 
portrayed ably the warm-hearted, impulsive youth, and in manner and gest- 
ure made real to us the keen, alert French soldier of the period. As a foil to 
the animation of Henri was the dignity of the mistress of the chateau. The 
gracious but clever grande dame was well interpreted. This part was taken 


by Rosamond Lent 1901. Mary Bohannan 1002 showed remarkable ability 
in the management of her part, the Baron de Montrichard, a capable officer, 
but somewhat of a fop and having a weakness for the fair sex. In yoice. as 
well as in gesture and ax^pearance, Miss Bohannan gave her rdle a perfect 

M. Gnstave de Grignon, the wonld-be brave lover of the Countess, stands 
ont as a good piece of acting. Lucia Dewey 1002, who played this part, gave 
real touches of humor and added greatly to the general effect. Helena 
Eriegsmann 1001, as the young girl, MUe. Leonie de Villegontier, was the 
inghiue, a part which is always charming when well acted. 

The introduction of the minuet in the second act gave a beautiful touch, 
as it intensified the atmosphere of French life during the early part of the 
last century which permeated the play from beginning to end. The cos- 
tomes and stage settings as a whole were good and combined with the acting 
formed a harmony which is not often seen in amateur plays and which is 
worthy of the enthusiasm it received. 


The Countess d'Autreval Rosamond Lent 

MUe. Leonie de Villegontier, her niece Helena Kriegsmann 

M. Henri de Flavigneul Mary F. Barrett 

The Baron de Montrichard Mary McD. Bohannan 

M. Gustavo de Grignon Lucia C. Dewey 

Quartermaster Shirley M. Hunt 

Brigadier Helen V. D. Morgan 

i-i j.A 5 Helen Clark 

Grens d'Armes -J . . . .. ^i^, ,~ 

( Antomette Putnam-Cramer 

Servant Mary Jennings 

Dancers: Esther Greene, Florence Ross, Jessie Carter, Marion Evans, 
Florence Agard, Bertha Holden, Grace Zink, Mary AuU. 

On Wednesday afternoon, February 20, Professor Wood*s classes in Com- 
parative Religions had the pleasure of listening to a lecture given by Dr. 
Harlan P. Beach, on '* Confucianism in China." Mr. Beach said that every- 
thing in China was dominated by Confucianism. Education consists in com- 
mitting to memory and in some slight degree understanding the classics 
which Confucius arranged and to which he gave his approval. The Chinese 
value education very highly. A scholar is a gentleman from the first day he 
goes to school and belongs to the "sect of the learned." The first thing a 
boy does in acquiring an education is to spend three years in memorizing the 
sacred books, being ignorant all the while of their meaning. Composition 
is valued highly, and modern scholars are continually trying to imitate old 

The system of examinations is very important in China. The examina- 
tions are public and any one may enter. Only a certain number of degrees 
can be given each year, and of the men who are successful in passing the 
examination, from ^ to 2 per cent only can receive one of the nine degrees 


which inrare the poeseMor honor in hiB oommTmity and an offidal positioii 
proportionate to the grade of his degree. The badge of a degree is a button, 
which is worn on the top of the cap. 

Confucianism not only influences the education of the people and their 
social and political life, but its expression in ancestor worship is felt in every 
part of the Empire. One of the greatest obstacles which Christianity has to 
meet in China is this worship of spirits. 

Dr. Beach closed his very interesting talk by saying that every mine that is 
dug in China is a missionary, for it proves that dragons do not live under the 
ground, and every railroad helps break down superstition, which is the enemy 
of progress in China. 

Mart Hunt Brdison 1901. 

The Day of Prayer for Colleges was observed on Sunday, February 10. 
The vesper service began at a quarter to five, and Professor Tyler, Professor 
Wood, and Dr. Perry spoke. At the students* meeting, Miss Sage and Miss 
Hale, presidents of the Wellesley and Radcliffe associations, sx)oke. In the 
evening Dr. Blodgett gave an informal organ recital in Assembly HaJl. 

On Saturday evening, March 9, a stereopticon lecture on ''The Personal 
Washington," was given by Mr. W. W. Ellsworth, for the benefit of the 
Students' Building. 

On Sunday, February 24, the Reverend F. E. Clark of Boston, founder of 
the Christian Endeavor movement, spoke at vespers. 

On Saturday afternoon, March 2, M. Qaston Deschamps gave a lectuie in 
Assembly HaJl on *' La vie de provence d'aprds les romans de Theuriet, 
Bozin, Loti, et Pouvillon." 

Department Society Meetings : 

Biological Society— March 21, April 18. 

Colloquium— March 26. 

Philosophical Society— March 18, April 15. 

Physics Club— March 25. 

Oriental Qub— March 19, April 16. 

Clef Club— March 19. 

Soci6t6 Frangaise— March 16, April 12. 

Mathematical Club — ^March 19. 


March 16, Phi Kappa Psi Society. 

20, Lawrence House Dramatics. 

23, Alpha Society. 

27, Easter Vacation begins. 

April 11, Spring Term begins. 

' >»>-•< 

EfAu-t-o. 1 3 ( , ,7'yf 


Smitb Colleae 


Hpril * 1901. 
Con^ucteb ^ tbe Senior Class. 


OIF' uf T.!E 


NOV 7 1923 


Thb Social Sbttlbment as a Practical Ezpbbssion of 

SodOLOGiCAL Needs 
The Memory of an Hour 
Old Darnooat . 
Edwin Booth . 

The Decadent Poetry of the 

A Hindoo Sono 
When Greek Meets Greek 
On the Hill 

Amy Esther Stein 1904 885 

Ethel Bantow Howard 1901 890 

. N<ma Burnett MUU 1901 891 

Anna Theresa Kitchd 1903 ZSfl 

. Eva Augusta Porter 190S 398 

Qrace Whiting Maeon 190S 898 

Sarah Lydia DeForest 1901 402 

Olive Chapin Biggins 1904 402 

Ethel WaUaee Hawkins 1901 411 

The Rustication of Billy Burns Edith DeBtais Laskey 1901 411 
The Summer's Secret . . Bsrsis Eastman RovxU 1901 417 

Two Niohts 

A New Joshua . 

My Queen of Hearts . 

Miss Jemima's First Sail 

Children of the Sun . 


Klara Elisabeth Frank 1903 417 

. Selma Eisenstadt Altheimer 190t 418 

. Frances AUen 1904 419 

Katherine Fiske Berry 190$ 420 

Fanny Steams Davis 1904 425 





The Smith College Monthly is published at Northampton, Massachu- 
setts, on the 15th of each month, dnring the year from October to June, incln- 
sive. Terms, $1.50 a year, in advance. Single nnmbers, 20 cents. Contri- 
bntions may be left at 8 Gymnasinm Hall. Subscriptions may be sent to 
H. E. Kelley, Albright House, Northampton. 

Articles designed for the literary departments for a particular issue must 
be submitted by the twenty-second of the month preceding. . 

Entered at the Poet Office «t Northampton, Maasaohuaetta, aa aeoond olasa matter. 


Smith College Monthly 


Ethkl Wallace Hawkins, 
Chablottr Bcbgis Deforest, Ruth Louise Gaines, 

Ethel Babstow Howard, Maboxtebite Cutleb Page, 

Jean Shaw Wilson, Laura Woolset Lobd. 

business manaqer, 
Ethel Mabouebite deLono. 

Vol. Yin. APRIL, 1901. Xo. 7. 


If we follow man's psychological evolution , we see that at 
«ach stage he has deyeloped a science which was the expression 
of that stage, an attempt to solve the problems that arose in his 
path towards a higher plane of life. *^ Mathematics, precisely 
because it deals deductively with logical abstractions from na- 
ture, is the earliest developed. . . So when the mediaeval 
world passed over into the modern epoch, the awakening of the 
human intellect to the real world led it first to the accurate, 
logical distinctions of mathematics, in their applications to 
astronomy and physics. . . As the interest in the heavens 
depended upon their supposed influence over human destiny, 
so the study of the stars centered upon their relation to our 
earth, and physical geography and geology are born. Through 
geology the possibilities of a scientific study of the history of 
life are realized, and biology is born." At this point, after it 
is established that man is only a single manifestation of the 
great stream of organic life and that he is joined to all other 
forms both present and past through the laws of descent, the 
scientific spirit is carried over with one splendid impulse to the 


study of humanity, and the humanistic sciences come into ex- 
istence. Since this movement was first manifested in the field 
of institutional history, it naturally resulted that the regenera- 
ting force was very soon felt by the science of political econo- 
my. " Furthermore, the field of social history has seen the de- 
velopment of a new science, — sociology, which, rapidly differ- 
entiated from the. more special political sciences, has assumed 
the place of the larger study of society." 

This last science, the science of sociology, is distinctly a pro- 
duct of the nineteenth century. It is our attempt to solve the 
problems that confront us. Ft responds to a need which has 
arisen, among other things, out of our modern life and our 
democratic form of government, — the need of a thorough under- 
standing of the social forces at work among us. Our govern- 
ment is in a certain sense a vast human experiment. History 
has demonstrated to us the weaknesses of despotisms and of 
oligarchies. We have seen the causes of the decline of the re- 
publics of Athens and of Rome. And at the present day it 
lies with us to make a democratic form of government a perma- 
nent possibility and a success. We, profiting by the examples 
of the past, have avoided most of its mistakes. But those early 
mistakes are not all that we have to guard against, for new con- 
ditions have since arisen. Success in guarding against those 
mistakes might be called a negative cause of our future pros- 
perity, but there is a positive side which is at present impera- 

The future success of a purely democratic government such 
as ours will depend, I believe, largely upon our acquiring a 
broad understanding of the needs of the country, — an under- 
standing such that each class will not only respect the rights of 
other classes, but will appreciate their problems from a broader 
point of view ; for understanding each other and sympathizing 
with each other's difficulties will afford the best mutual help in 
obtaining the truest solution. This understanding can not be 
attained while the man of culture and the trained thinker shuts 
himself up in his study in a luxurious home on upper Fifth 
Avenue, and the laborer does not leave the Bowery. They can 
not truly know each other and can not truly know each other's 
needs. And not knowing, they will not work in harmony or 
for mutual benefit either at the polls or away from them. This 
understanding can come only from personal contact. And for 


this parpose a common meeting ground for the day laborer and 
the thinker is necessary. ' 

But besides this understanding of the country's need, the 
country demands of every individual citizen that he attain his 
highest possibilities, morally, mentally, and physically. For 
the moral standards of the majority of citizens will set the 
moral tone of the government. It was said of Athens at the 
time of her greatest prosperity that every citizen was fitted to 
govern her. Can we say that every American citizen is fit to 
govern even his own city ? Athens was governed by a Pericles. 
Our cities are governed by a Tweed or a Croker. By means of 
individual development we must raise the standard of the na- 
tion as a whole. At present the members of the so-called 
** upper classes" are given the opportunities to attain their 
highest possibilities ; and it is imperative that similar opportu- 
nities, though of a different nature, be given to the ^' other 

Three of the problems, then, that arise in our path are : How 
shall we obtain a knowledge of the social forces working among 
us ? how shall we find a common meeting ground for worker 
and thinker ? how shall every citizen be given the opportunity 
of attaining his highest possibilities ? It is to fulfil these prac- 
tical sociological needs that the modern social settlement has 
been evolved. 

The social settlement furnishes an opportunity for the stu- 
dent to observe, study, and learn to know the conditions of life 
in other classes than the one in which he himself was reared. 
At the same time he is frequently able to test by actual experi- 
ment the value of the theories thus formed. So a broad and 
true understanding of the large social forces may be attained, 
and the path of least resistance taken, when a tendency is dis- 
covered which is believed to be in the direction of advance. 
The settlement likewise is a common meeting ground for men 
and women from very different spheres of life, but all interested 
in one another, and all, consciously or unconsciously, inter- 
ested in the same problems of life. As yet, since the realiza- 
tion of the need of social fellowship is still in its infancy, the 
" settlement worker " is not a true inhabitant of the neighbor- 
hood, but an outsider coming in to '*work" for its benefit. 
This somewhat unnatural position is, I believe, only a transi- 
tional stage, a paving of the way toward a more natural condi- 


tion of affairs, — a condition in which the broad man of socio- 
logical interests will not be an outsider living in a building 
which is to a certain extent an institution, but will make his 
home in the neighborhood, leading his own life normally and 
naturally, yet because of his social and political interests espe- 
cially anxious to become in his district a power for and a leader 
toward what he believes to be right. Then the settlement 
building will be the place not only where the people come in 
contact with the influences brought to them from without, 
which will undoubtedly always be beneficial ; but where they 
will gather because of common interests and receive from with- 
in influences equally beneficial. Furthermore, the settlement is 
of great service in helping the people of its district, young and 
old, to help themselves develop their nobler sides, spiritually, 
aesthetically, morally, mentally, physically, and socially. 
There are a tremendous number of facts that I might cite in 
support of this statement, but I must content myself with a 
very few. 

A couple of years ago the Rivington Street Settlement started 
what might be called a circulating picture gallery. A tolera- 
bly large collection was made of good photographs of the 
world's best paintings, mostly old masters. These could be ob- 
tained in the same way that books are to be had at a circulating 
library, and might be taken home and hung on the wall. At 
the expiration of the week the picture must be returned in 
order to keep it in circulation, but another could be taken out 
in its place. The people responded with remarkable zeal to this 
chance, within their means, of beautifying their homes. For 
they too feel the need of beauty in their surroundings and do 
all they can to get it. This circulating gallery, then, is one of 
the many ways in which the settlement has helped the people 
to satisfy their aesthetic craving. Let us now see how, among 
other things, it has helped them to satisfy their craving for a 
higher social life. 

In the report of the College Settlements Association is the 
following : ** Every club of young men on the East Side, to 
maintain its standing among other clubs and to have a good 
time as well, must give a large ball. Until the University Set- 
tlement opened its hall, there was not one in the neighborhood 
to which there was not a bar attached ; that is, immediately ad- 
joining, if not in the dancing room itself. It is the custom of 


the proprietors to reduce the rent according to the amount of 
liquor sold. If the bar is very profitable, a club can often se- 
cure the hall free a second time. We have always been un- 
willing to take the responsibility of or countenance an enter- 
tainment in a hall where so much liquor would probably be sold 
with the usual results." When the University Settlement hall 
was not available, the diflBculty arose anew. And " the way it 
was solved in one case shows how the settlement might make its 
influence felt in a larger circle than that of its immediate fol- 
lowing. One club of young men succeeded in inducing the pro- 
prietor of one of the halls to close his bar for one evening, that 
is, to sell * soft drinks ' only. . . We hope that this one even- 
ing may prove the entering wedge in the destruction of a sys- 
tem which is the source of much evil. . . His social life is, 
to be sure, only one phase of man's activities, but it is an im- 
portant one. It has the power to make him superior to days of 
toil and drudgery, if it brings him inspiration and pleasure at 
their close. While we must wait patiently for many forces to 
make the conditions of the working day less hard, we can see 
to it that the leisure hours are so filled as to broaden the mental 
and spiritual horizon of the toiler." 

And so when we consider that the first college settlement 
was opened in 1889, and that to-day, only twelve years later, 
there are, besides this settlement in New York, one in Philadel- 
phia and one in Boston, a University Settlement and three or 
four smaller ones in New York, and innumerable settlements 
all through the country, we can not help but feel that their in- 
fluence and their significance are growing in intensity from day 
to day. This influence, I have endeavored to show, will be to 
''broaden the mental and spiritual horizon of the toiler"; to 
provide a common meeting ground for the man of thought and 
culture and the manual laborer ; and to furnish the opportunity 
of obtaining a more comprehensive knowledge of the social 
tendencies of the age, in order that by the aid of this knowl- 
edge sociology may furnish a true solution of some of the most 
pressing problems that have arisen in man's path toward a 
more perfect life and civilization. 

Amy Esther Stein. 


Metbought I wandered with my own tme love 

Into a garden that was all aflower 
With sweet delights ; and grace was given ns 

To bide within that place a single bonr. 

And what beyond that sweet, short bonr might lie 
In store for ns, we knew not ; only this— 

That, for the while we trod those garden ways, 
Raptnre was onrs and deep we drank of bUss. 

Little we recked the moments as they ran, 
Nor marked I where a shadow dimly crept 

Behind my loye. Together hand in hand 
We wandered, and onr sonls within ns slept. 

So the bonr passed, bnt on a sndden One 

Stood by ns pointing to the onter gate, 
Whither I tnmed me, lingering, and sighed — 

Onr treasure spent that wad so rich of late. 

And going forth, I stood npon a path 

Thorn-planted, rongh, and steep, with many a stone. 
Ah me I how cruel for my dear one's feet, 

Methonght, — when turning, lo, I stood alone. 

*' And wouldst thou tarry, sweet, nor leave the fair 
Fresh garden which for thee seems fit abode. 

Though I must forth from thence, parting from thee 
To tread alone this drear, thorn-tangled road ?*' 

In bitterness I cried, and turned again 
To where my love delayed the gate within ; 

Only a shadow rested on the place 
Where something bright and well beloved had been. 

Day follows day. Along that weary path 
Toiling, I cease not from my soul to bless 

The One whose hand held back my love from me 
And spared her this long journey's bitterness. 

Of ttimes I dream that in a hallowed place 
She stays, there patiently to wait for me. 

Is it a ray of promise gilds the dream. 
Or the soft light of a dear memory?— 

The memory of a garden where of yore. 
Through shaded ways with sweet delights aflower, 

My love and I together hand in hand 
Had grace to roHUi for one most blessed hour. 

Ethel Barstow Howabd. 



The early cold snap had turned the country roads into grooved 
masses of sandstone on which the horses' feet rang sharply, as 
one or the other, tired of standing quiet, gave an impatient 
stamp. The three men in the long covered wagon drew the 
buffaloes closer around them, and the two on the front seat 
glanced once more along the road running at right angles to 
that on which they waited. At the corner where the roads met 
was a clump of tall elms, and further down the side road a 
screen of alders hid the wagon and horses from any one pass- 
ing by on the main road. 

" 'Bout time he was showin' up,'' remarked the man who held 
the reins. 

'* Does he always come along at just such a time ? " asked his 
companion, a slender, .dark-haired young man in glasses, with 
the first traces of professional mannerism already apparent in 
his quick, observant glance, the look which, without attracting 
the attention of its object, scans every new-comer for the signs 
of bodily weakness of whatever nature. 

" Him ? Oh, he's most as reg'lar as a clock," returned the 
driver. '^ He'll have his breakfast to one house and go just so 
far and git his dinner at another. Alius the same house and 
alius the same meal, an' he never mixes 'em. So if you knows 
where he is on his round, you'll know just what time he'll be at 
any place along it." 

"Then why didn't they send to some one of these places and 
take him, instead of sending us out here to freeze for half an 
liour waiting for him ? " 

" Well, Doc, they did try that so many times that he's got 
sorter skittish about it. Alius looks round everywhere 'fore he 
goes inter a place. You see, haulin' him in every winter f er nigh 
about twenty-five year, they've gone an' used up most of their 
stunts on him. So when his folks sent word to the 'Sylum that 
he'd been seen at Plain ville night afore last, the Sup. decided to 
send us to catch him here at this cross-roads, which is only 'bout 
six mile from the 'Sylum, an' where he'll alius stop and mosey 
round a bit anyway." 



" What does he do that for ?" inquired the young doctor. 

" Laws, Doc, hain't you heard 'bout Old Damcoat yet ? Fd 
forgot you hadn't been there long enough to see him. Why, 
he's one of our reg'lar customers. Every winter his folks gits 
us to haul him in an' keep him till spring if he don't git out 
first, for he's cute as a cat 'bout gittin' out. But the reason he 
goes an' fools round the cross-roads is 'cause he's got a notion 
his wife's waitin' fer him there. You see, he comes o' good 
folks, does Old Damcoat, an' years ago he was 'bout as smart 
a young feller as they make 'em, jus' startin' in to be a mighty 
cute lawyer, I've hearn tell. Well, an' he went an' got married 
to a mighty fine gal, an' just the day of the weddin', right after 
they'd been tied up, in fact, he had to go off somewhere, 'bout 
gomethin' that was awful pressin'. They was mighty fond of 
one another, him an' her, an' nat'rally they didn't like that 't 
all. But he said he'd come back just at sundown, an' she said 
she'd be at the clump of trees at the turn of the road to meet 
him. Well, that afternoon, just as she was comin' out of the 
house to go to him, she tripped an' fell down some stone steps 
an' struck her head 'gainst a stone or something so 'at she died 
in 'bout half an hour. An' they sent some one to tell him, an^ 
the blame' fool met him right at the turn of the road as he was 
comin' along so chipper and glad, calculatin' to meet her there ; 
an' he up an' told him suddint like, an' Old Damcoat just 
jumped up an' fell down like dead. They picked him up an* 
carried him into the house, all dressed in his weddin' suit still ; 
an' when he come to, he was just ragin' in brain fever, an' they 
thought for a long time that they'd soon be a-carryin' him out 
an' layin' him beside her. But he got well, at least his body 
did, an' all of a sudden one day when they weren't lookin' at 
him, he got up an' dressed himself in his weddin' clothes and 
walked off up the road, lookin' for her. An' he's been lookin* 
for her ever sence. He goes along, an' every clump of trees at 
a turn of the road he stops an' looks, and waits awhile for her ; 
an' then, when she ain't there, he goes on ter the next place. 
His folks is mighty fine people, an' they've tried an' tried to git 
him shut up and took care of, but he won't stay nowhere. 
Alius gits away an' goes along again, lookin' for her. An* 
what's more, he won't change that weddin' coat of his for 
nothin* nor nobody. They gives him clotlies every now an* 
then, an' hell take everythin' but a coat. An' counts of that 


he's been called Old Darncoat for so long that folks has most 
forgot his real name. He won't never take no money from his 
folks neither, but alius begs his way round. As I was a-sayin', 
he'll go to one house for his dinner an' another for his supper 
and another for his night's lodgin' an' breakfast, an' never 
mixes 'em, an' never '11 take anythin' more. He goes most a 
hundred miles up into Massachusetts, an' then turns round and 
goes down 'most across Connecticut, lookin' for her. He'd keep 
that up alius, but in winter his folks tries to have him shut up, 
so's he won't be found froze stiff somewhere, for he don't never 
wear no overcoat." 

''Seems cruel, though, to trick him just this way," said the 
young doctor, slowly. He was thinking of a certain photo- 
graph on his desk, a photograph he looked at long and hard 
when the dreary monotony or more dreary excitement of his 
life seemed ready to turn him into a fit companion for the occu- 
pants of the cells under his charge. 

''Maybe, Doc," replied the keeper, cutting at the tops of the 
alder bushes with his whip. " Maybe, but I know this, — it 'ud 
be a heap cruder to leave him out an' free to freeze to death in 
the cold snap what's comiu', sure." 

" I suppose so," assented the other, "but I wish the 'Sup.' 
had thought up some other way. I — " 

"Ain't that him comin' down the road yonder ?" broke in 
his companion, rising in his seat to see better. "Yes, that's 
him, sure. Now, sir, you'll have to go an' meet him, for he 
knows me an' 'ud run if he see me. You just keep him talkin' 
so's we can git behind an' grab him. The horses '11 stand all 
right. (Jot them handcuffs ready, Bill?" turning to the man 
on the back seat. 

" All right," was the response. 

The two men clambered out and stood beside the wagon, while 
the doctor, his distaste for the errand he was on increasing with 
every step, walked slowly forward and stood waiting under the 
clump of elms. 

He had not stood there long when a man rounded a little 
clump of brushwood, cast an eager look toward the clump of 
trees, and walked rapidly toward it. It was a peculiar figure, 
a gentleman's, unmistakably, yet with a certain something 
about it^ hcurdly recognizable at the first glance, that suggested 
tbe trampb On a closer analysis it would be found that this 


impression owed its existence to certain slight but unmistaka- 
ble signs of a wandering, aimless life, in the attitude of the 
whole figure and in the lines of the face ; no less than to the 
darned, patched, and faded coat of once blue broadcloth whose 
antique cut contrasted so strangely with the neatness of the 
rest of his attire. He wore a glossy, high silk hat, well-made 
trousers and waistcoat, and his shoes, although now dusty, had 
evidently been carefully cleaned that very morning. His gray 
hair, though longer than fashion dictated, was neatly combed. 

As he neared the clump of trees and saw only the young doc- 
tor standing there alone, the eager look began to be disturbed 
by an anxious expression which flitted rapidly across his face 
as he glanced searchingly around the place. A moment more, 
and the anxious expression had crystallized into a look of dis- 
appointment so intense and painful that for a moment the spec- 
tator was too startled to speak or move. Recovering himself 
with an effort, the doctor stepped forward and gave the old 
man a cheerful good morning. 

Old Darncoat looked at him for a moment without answering, 
while the last traces of his latest disappointment faded slowly 
from his face. Seeming then to become conscious of the salu- 
tation, he lifted his tall hat and returned the greeting with a 
gracious courtesy which would have adorned the finest drawing- 
room in the land. 

** A fine morning, sir," continued the doctor, hastily seizing 
on the first commonplace topic which suggested itself. 

"A fine morning, indeed," still with the same courtly air, 
** cold, but remarkably clear. But," his blue eyes beginning all 
at once to wander restlessly up the road, " I must bid you good 
day, sir. I am on my way to keep an appointment, I — " 

The keeper had seized Old Darncoat from behind. There 
was a furious struggle while he fought for his freedom like the 
madman he was, and the united strength of all three was 
needed before he was at last securely bound and placed in the 
wagon, which turned and drove rapidly off down the side road 
toward the grounds of the State Asylum. 

It was past midnight, and the full moon was shining clearly, 
when Old Darncoat awoke. For days past he had been sunk in 
a state of torpor such as sometimes overtook him, and his 
guards, grown careless, visited him less often. But now, as he 


sat up in bed, this torpor bad left bim, tbe weigbt of bis years 
bad fallen from bim, and for tbis nigbt be was once more tbe 
brave, brilliant young lawyer, vigorous in all tbe pride of bis 
etirly manbood, full of buoyant confidence in tbe future tbat 
lay before bim. It was once more tbe day of days for bim, 
hencefortb every success be migbt win, every bonor tbat fell to 
bis lot, must be doubled and trebled, for tbe woman be loved 
was bis to sbare tbem witb bim, — bis beyond tbe power of 
beaven or eartb to take ber from bim. He sat there on tbe side 
of tbe bed for a few moments, only dumbly conscious of bis 
abounding vitality, bis transcendent bappiness, wbile bis eyes 
roamed vaguely over tbe walls of bis little room. Tben of a 
sudden be sprang to bis feet and looked wildly around bim. 
Wby was be tbere ? Tbis was no place tbat be knew. 

Ab, be remembered something vaguely now, — enough to 
assure bim tbat be bad been tricked, trapped, brought here by 
force, against bis will, in defiance of bis rights as a free citizen. 
Wby, be did not clearly remember, nor did be consider ; the 
hot young blood bad come rushing to bis cheeks at tbe memory 
of tbe outrage, and be sprang toward tbe door, intent on call- 
ing for help, commanding, threatening, demanding to be re- 
leased. His band was already raised for a blow when a sudden 
thought made it drop again, without a sound. 


He turned, rushed to tbe little barred window, and looked 
out. How late was it ? Long after sunset, of course, but how 
many hours had she been waiting tbere for bim ? He raised 
the sash ; tbe air outside was biting cold, for tbe predicted 
" cold snap'^ bad arrived with a vigor tbat no weather prophet 
would have ventured to foretell. It was a summer night to Old 
Damcoat. He felt tbat it was cold, but his diseased fancy put 
only the cold of a summer evening into tbe bitter air. Yet this 
was enough and more, for be felt it not through himself but 
through the woman who bad been waiting those long hours, 
cold and lonely, at tbe turn of the road, — who was waiting now. 
Yes, he was sure of it. 

''Till tbe world's end.^' She bad laughed as she said it, but 
he knew she would keep tbe promise. And tbat he should have 
broken faith with ber on tbe very day of tbe wedding I Ob, 
tbe scoundrels who bad forced him to it ! Later be would re- 


turn, and his vengeance shonld be certain and snre ; bnt now — 
now, he must keep his tryst, come life or death. 

The bars were strong, bnt they bent nnder his grasp. Oh, 
the joy of a young man's strength, the delight of being strong 
— for her. 

" Eleanor, Eleanor ! " 

The bars bent further ; first one, then another, then a third 
was wrenched from its socket in the cement and fell out. His 
hands were torn and bleeding, but the way stood open. 

" Eleanor, Eleanor ! " 

His clothing, lying in a heap on a chair by the bed, caught 
his eye. He hastily huddled it on, took his tall hat in his hand, 
dropped noiselessly out of the window, and was off. 

It was bitter cold. The sharp wind cut through his scanty 
clothing, blew his long gray hair about his face, stiffened the 
blood on his hands, but he kept on. 

"Eleanor, Eleanor!" 

Heaven alone knows what indistinct memory of the last 
great shock he had experienced concentrated his attention on 
the clump of elms where the doctor had met him that morning 
three weeks before. There were other roadside comers, many 
with their clumps of tall trees, all along his way, but he looked 
neither to right nor left as he sped on toward that one spot. 

" Eleanor, Eleanor I " 

What was this strange languor that began to creep over him ? 
His feet were growing heavy as lead ; it needed all his strength 
to lift them. The trees and fences were beginning to swim and 
waver before his eyes, but he never stopped. Every moment 
exertion seemed more impossible to him, but the same one word, 
filling his mind afresh with every throb of his pulses, spurred 
him forward, and he still struggled on. 

"Eleanor, Eleanor!" 

At last the race was nearly over, he saw the clump of elms at 
the turn of the road. He drew nearer, and she stood there, 
waiting. The thrill of joy that shot through him roused even 
his waning energies, and he hurried toward her. Nearer, 
nearer still I Now she saw him. She was bending toward him 
with arms outstretched. He saw how the wind slowly waved 
the folds of her white dress, stirred the loose curls on her fore- 
head. Her face was turned toward him, and the look of love 
and yearning and joy upon it made it no longer a face, but a 


transparent window through which he could look deep into her 

" Eleanor— J?Zeanor / ** 

He thought the universe must rock and reel at the cry of joy 
he uttered as he stretched out his arms to draw her to him. 
But the sleeping crows high up in the branches of the old elm 
uev'er heeded the faint, drowsy murmur from the lips of the 
uncouth figure which stumbled so slowly forward and fell with 
arms outstretched at its foot. 

Early the next morning, the covered wagon came down the 
side road once more, and before it went a party of men, well 
wrapped in heavy overcoats, anxiously beating the bushes along 
the way. The night before had been one of the coldest on 
record. Foremost among them was the young doctor, and it 
was he who first reached the turn of the road and saw the fig- 
ure that lay so still under the old elm. He drew nearer and 
stooped for a minute over the quiet face, on which the light of 
a great joy still lingered, then he gently drew his handkerchief 
over it. 

"I—I guess he's found her," he said. 

Nona Bubnbtt Mills. 


From bis deep eyes unto the world looked ont 
The pain and woe of all the tragedy 
That lives in Shakeepeare's many-peopled realm ; 
He bore their sorrows on his tender soul,— 
The sorrows of them ail, bnt not the sins. 
He wrote in flames again upon the age 
The genins that in bygone years had lived ; 
And yet throngh years that gave to Art his life 
He lived and loved, not Actor, but a Man ; 
Nay, more : xmselfish, conrteons, true, and kind, 
He lived — a Ghentleman. 

Anna Thxrssa EIitohsl. 


We seek Thee everywhere ; we strain our eyes 
And grope our little way toward Thee ; and then 

We weep because we can not understand ; 
Tet if we sought Thee not, we were not men. 

And Thou — ^Thy wisdom folds us closely round. 
Thy love falls o*er the path our feet have trod, 

But unto us Thou showeet not Thyself ; 
For if Thou oouldst be known, Thou wert not Gk>d. 

Eva Augusta Pobteb. 


It is a truism to say that the great age of creative power i& 
over^ but it is a fact that confronts every student of modern 
literature with an absolute finality that is appalling. It is hard 
for any one in the twentieth century to accept the word ^' deca- 
dent " as applied to any part of its civilization. It is particu- 
larly hard for an American, because he has so little past and 
necessarily centers all his life and hope in the present and the 
future. Yet, however distctsteful the term may be to us, we 
can not deny the apparent justice of the statement that poetry 
is in its decadence : the more we study the facts of the case, the 
more inclined we are to agree with the verdict. 

In the first place, there is too much verse. A large share of 
it has no excuse for being. It is written, not as the inevitable, 
almost involuntary, expression of strong feeling, but with a 
keen eye to the effect all the while. Much of it is intensely 
morbid. Melodious melancholy easily lends itself to the dream- 
iest measures, and in consequence we have the large amount of 
unhealthy, introspective verse, that weighs down our current 
literature and is a serious stumbling-block in the way of our 
mental progress. The morbid tendency is especially strong in 
the younger writers : college magazines display it constantly, 
but it is by no means confined to them. The habit of self- 
indulgence in this respect seems to increase, and an unoffending 
paper is receiving more and more of the burden of confidences 
which used to be inflicted on some longsuffering friend. If the 
fits of the blues which are vented on paper were never to be 



heard of again, the change of confidant would be a decided 
advance ; but, unfortunately, to write one's moods is only to 
give them a permanent form, and if that form happens to be 
pleasing in itself, it is carefully preserved with all its load of 
depression. The pessimistic note has crept into the nature 
poems, which form a noticeably large proportion of contem- 
porary verse. Perhaps there is a closer connection between 
these two facts than would appear on the surface, for nature 
has always proved a most convenient reflector of men's moods. 
In these lines from a little poem called " Winter," by a modern 
English poet, we have a fair illustration : 

'* All night the sad world dreamed, 

The sad world wakes all day, 
And casts on the snow a mddy glow 

From its heart that bleeds for aye." 

There is the very quintessence of pessimism in this cynical ap- 
preciation of morbidness, by another latter-day poet : 

*' In the desert 

I flaw a creature, naked, bestial, 

Who, squatting npon the gromid. 

Held his heart in his hands, 

And ate of it. 

I said, • Is it good, friend ? ' 

' It is bitter— bitter,' he answered ; 

< Bnt I Uke it 

Because it is bitter. 

And because it is my heart.' " 

There is another fault almost as characteristic of present day 
poetry as this. It is the bald incompleteness, the so-called 
^'stiggestiveness," on which the modern school seems to pride 
itself especially. For all but the comparatively unimportant 
and youthful minority who have been taught to admire the 
vagueness and to appreciate its artistic merit, it has already 
spoiled the short story, and now it is invading the realm of poe- 
try. Stephen Crane was entranced by its mysterious fascina- 
tion, and gave himself up wholly to its sway ; for example : 

" I saw a man pursuing the horizon : 
Bound and round they 8i>ed. 
I was distxurbed at this : 
I accosted the man. 

* It is futile,' I said, 

* You can never ' 

* You lie,' he cried, 
And ran on." 


ThiB temptation to omit all the intermediate steps in the reason- 
ing process, leaving the reader to jump from point to point as 
best he can, unaided, is one which appeals especially to the 
American mind. The English poets of the day are slower, 
more graceful, producing more finished results than our own, 
who are characterized by a more or less jerky, but always rapid, 
intellectual movement. 

On both sides of the water, the greater minds are making a 
struggle to break loose from the trammels of convention, which 
bind them down to superficiality ; but in doing this, they 
escape the safeguards as well. They try so hard to awake a 
real sensation that they shock with their brutality. Kipling 
does this over and over again. His **' Barrack Room Ballads " 
are full of lines that make one cringe and shrink from them in 
disgust. Among American poets, Gourand is bad, and Crane 
is worse. With all this abuse of verse, men are losing their 
reverence for it. Nonsense rhymes increase in popularity. 
Parodies on the noblest poetic masterpieces of the world are 
received with enthusiasm by persons of culture. Soon the 
term " funny poetry '' will no longer sound incongruous. The 
standard of the subject matter considered worthy of metrical 
treatment is much lower than formerly, even in the days of 
Herrick and his poems on Julia's petticoat. The most frivo- 
lous, the most trivial, commonplace ideas are given expression 
in poetical form. The requirements for a poetical vocabulary 
are so lax that they have practically ceased to exist, and verses 
written in cockney. Bowery, or Hoosier dialect meet with a cor- 
dial and unprejudiced welcome. They are popular rather be- 
cause of their dialect, than in spite of it. Besides this, there is 
a more unconscious degradation of poetry. The conception of 
earnest poets is of a more purely aesthetic nature than of old. 
The lover of poetry is a lover of the beautiful. He appreciates 
the sensuous charms of melody, of cadence, of rhythmic lilt, 
and the connotative power of the several sounds. He enjoys 
the subtlety, the delicacy, the ephemeral quality of poetry. It 
is to him an artistic pleasure, not a vital experience. 

However, some contemporary verse has the germ of truth, 
which is the essential of true poetry. With all his pessimism 
and his brutality,— yes, and his suggestiveness, too, for he has 
all the modern faults, — John Davidson strikes the note some- 
times. In his poem called " Thirty Bob a Week," there are 


traths which are startling in their force and newness — in these 
lines, for instance : 

" I mean that haTlng children and a wife, 

With thirty bob on which to come and go, 

Isn't dancing to the tabor and the fife : 

When it doesn't make yon drink, by Heaven, it makes yon think. 

And notice cnrions items abont life." 

And these : 

•• • Thy will be done.' Yon say it if you dnrst I 

They eay it daily np and down the land 

As easy as yon take a drink, it's tme ; 

Bnt the difficnltest go to understand. 

And the difficnltest job a man can do. 

Is to come it brave and meek with thirty bob a week, 

And feel that that's the proper thing for you." 

It is consoling to know that, after all, there are many excep- 
tions to the general decadent condition of poetry to-day, and 
that there is still hope for the future. We have Kipling's 
" Kecessional " in all its grandeur ; we have William Watson's 
answer to it, and the exquisite little poems of Edward Row- 
land Sill, like dewdrops in their perfection and purity; and 
there is inspiration from a dozen more. Perhaps it is most en- 
couraging of all to find that true poetry is present in the same 
men who have most conspicuously every contemporary failing, 
for we see then that the faults are not fatal ones after all, and 
that the spirit of poetry still lives in spite of them. No, poe- 
try is not dead, but it needs a long, long rest. Let cultivation 
and polishing and refining of the form, the outer shell, be laid 
aside for a while. Poetry will be decadent, and will decline 
more and more, until men will leave it alone, will live so that 
their store of thought and feeling will have an opportunity to 
increase, and not be exhausted, as fast as it accumulates, by the 
constant drain of instant expression. Let expression wait, until 
there is too much to express I 

Grace Whiting Mason. 


The monsoon blows in the ooooannt trees, — 

Blow, thou kindly monsoon. 
My Love thon bring'st o*er the western seas, 

Blow, thou friendly monsoon. 
O hasten the speed of her wingdd ship ! 
That eager prow in the white spray dip. 
As it carries a message of joy and life 
To this tired heart of pain and strife. 

Blow, thou pitjring monsoon. 
Where'er my LoTe shall touch the soil 
Of this sad land of sin and toil, 
Some little aching will be eased, 
Some dim, vague longing be released. 
So hasten. Love ! Come to me straight I 
Unloose me from this smothering Fate, 
And open that deep heart of thine, 
And shed on me its joy divine. 

Blow, thou kindly monsoon! 

Sarah Lydia DbForest. 


Lamson was lying lazily in the hammock on the broad, loi^ 
veranda of the summer boarding-house, w:atching his rival out 
of his half -closed eyes. The rival, Professor Percival Lovejoy, 
was sitting in a small, straight-backed chair, and bent double 
over a pasteboard box, watching the manoeuvers of an impris- 
oned beetle. The professor was small and thin. He had light, 
curly hair and a silky, pointed beard, and his mustaches curled 
into two delightful letter S's. A flaxen curl lay loose on hia 

Lamson had great contempt for the professor. It was humil- 
iating to contend with such an apology for a man. He noticed 
the curl, and began to recite in slow, monotonous tones, 

'* There was a little girl, and she had a little curl, 

Right down in the middle of her forehead ; 
And when she was good, she was very, very good, 

And when she was bad, she was horrid." 




The professor moved uneasilj in his chair and flushed deep- 
ly. He raised one of his hands and brushed the curl into place, 
then coughed apologetically. Lamson went on cruelly in the 
same slow, monotonous tone, 

'* There was a little prof., and be had a little congh, 

Which he naed wheneyer he was flurried ; 
And when he was good, he was very, very good, 

And when he was bad, he was horrid." 

"Dear me," the professor managed to say, '*you are really 
quite a poet, Mr. Lamson, aren't you ? '* 

" Oh, quite a one," Lamson said, '* but not before I saw you. 
You inspire me." 

The professor got up and walked over toward the hammock. 

"Mr. Lamson, I want to show you the elytra of a coleoptera ; 
this is such an excellent specimen. Are you interested ?'* 
Not at all,'^ Lamson said, and closed his eyes. 
Ah, but see. It is right here." The professor leaned over 
him until Lamson could smell the perfumery on his handker- 
chief. "Just see." 

The screen door behind them slammed ; the professor jumped ; 
and the beetle fell with a little thud on Lamson's high, bronzed 

" Don't move, don't stir, Mr. Lamson," cried the professor, in 
alarm, "FU have him in a minute." But the beetle was fast 
escaping down the inside of Lamson's collar. 

When the professor at length drew forth the poor little bug 
between his slight, tapering fingers, all life was gone. If some- 
thing hadn't happened just then as it did, no one could have 
told but that at length the rivals would have come to blows 
over the dead body of the innocent little beetle. But a merry 
peal of laughter saved them. Professor Lovejoy turned around 
and saw Phyllis. 

"Oh, it was terribly funny, terribly funny," she was saying. 
" Mr. Lamson looked so comical, and the poor beetle was so 
glad to be free and crawl again, and you all were so serious 
about it. Oh, it was so funny 1 " 

The professor laughed shortly. " It was funny, Miss Phyl- 
lis, wasn't it ? Only I lost a very valuable specimen of a col- 

" Did you ? I'm so sorry. But still, I'll help you find another." 

The professor bowed low. 
Then I'm quite repaid," he said. 



Lamson was smiling grimly and mopping the back of his 
neck with a large white handkerchief. 

'' Do I not need to be repaid also, Miss Phyllis ? " he said. 

"You?'' said Phyllis. "Why, you killed the beetle, Mr. 
Lamson, but still we can be very forgiving. We will let Mr. 
Lamson go with us beetle-hunting, won't we, Professor Love- 

joy ?" 

" Why, most certainly ; nothing would give us more pleas- 
ure, Mr. Lamson," and the professor bowed low again. 

Phyllis drew up a large rocker near the hammock and sat 
down. She was very small and delicate. There was nothing 
of the air of the present athletic girl about her. She did not 
even wear the popular masculine shoes, but dainty, thin-soled 
little things. Her hands were far too small for tennis or row- 
ing, and even the simple little pink gingham, with its rufiSes 
and Hamburg insertion, did not look durable enough for golf. 

"Do you know, Mr. Lamson, what I've been doing?" she 
asked abruptly. " You see that row of bottles over there on 
the window-sill, don't you ? with the preserved bugs in them ? 
Well, I've been naming them. The first one there, that poor 
little fly, is our abused Mr. Stoker, and that generous-looking 
spider beside him there, is his wife. That bumblebee is our 
fleshy landlady. The grasshopper with the sandy complexion 
is Professor Lovejoy, and that caterpillar that never gets exci- 
ted over a thing is you. Professor Lovejoy has taught me a 
great deal about bugs I never knew before. I seldom become 
so interested in things as I have in this zoology." 

"By the way. Miss Phyllis," the professor interrupted, "if 
you have not named yourself among these, allow me to." He 
produced a card from behind the bottles on which was pinned 
a beautiful butterfly, gold and yellow and black. " This is you. 
Miss Phyllis, — a dazzling butterfly among us other poor bugs 
of the earth. 

" Oh, lovely ! " she cried. " You are delightful. Professor." 

" Miss Phyllis," Lamson said softly, leaning forward in the 
hammock toward the girl, "won't you take a walk with me 
this morning ? I've discovered a beautiful, shady spot, and I 
want to show it to you. I've got a magazine here, too, and 
we'll read ; will you go ?" 

" Why, yes, I'd love to," she said. 

Lamson beamed with pleasure. 


"Oh, Mr. Lovejoy," she added, "Mr. Lamsonand I are going 
to take a walk. Won't you come too ? " 

" Certainly, certainly, Miss Phyllis ; just a minute, 111 get 
my haf 

When he had disappeared, Lamson turned to Phyllis. 
"What made you do that ? " he asked. 

" What ? " 

"Ask him. I only asked you to go." 

" Why, I thought you'd like him to go. The more the mer- 
rier, you know ; besides, I thought we might talk bugs, he 
and I." 

" Yes, Phyllis, but J didn't want to talk bugs. I wanted to 
talk to you about — something else." 

The girl shot him a quick, penetrating glance. 

" Mr. Lamson," she said, '' bugs are oftentimes more interest- 
ing to me than something else." 

Lamson started. He did not know that such a little i)er8on- 
age could be so dignified and so cruel. 

They all three started out together, with Phyllis in the mid- 
dle ; bat half an hour later Lamson came stalking back alone. 
Behind him on the side of one of the warm, sunny hills could 
be seen a spot of pink, and beside it the professor. They were 
both, Phyllis and Professor Lovejoy, wending their way slowly 
down from the hilltop, talking bugs, — and something else too, 
for all Lamson knew. He had left them a little while before, 
both crouched low in the long grass, their heads dangerously 
near together, watching a cricket chirp. 

Lamson was feeling rather unhappy ; Phyllis had been cruel 
from the start. He had taken them to a beautiful, shady spot 
with a dark, cool brook flowing silently along beneath over- 
hanging ferns and white waxen flowers, untouched by the sun. 
She did not rave over the loveliness of the spot. She did not 
even mention the ferns and the flowers. All she said was when 
Lamson had led her into his sanctuary, 

" Oh, what a superb place for frogs, Professor ! We'll come 
frog-hunting here to-morrow afternoon. Don't forget to- 
morrow afternoon— frog-hunting." 

Lamson was deeply disappointed. Formerly, Phyllis would 
have admired the spot because of its beauty, its silence, its 
woodland odors ; she would have knelt down and touched the 
ferns, the flowers ; and if, by chance, a frog had broken in upon 


her girlish admiration, she would hare been startled and an- 
noyed. It was unnatural, unbelievable, for her not to be afraid 
of bugs, but to admire them, — it was unmaideuly, at least so 
Lamson thought. 

Lamson did not really believe that she cared for frogs and 
spiders and beetles, any more than she did for the professor him- 
self. He believed that she was playing her little part with Pro- 
fessor Lovejoy just to make the summer more exciting. Lam- 
son thought that one of woman's most delightful pleasures is to 
excite jealousy, and he realized that Phyllis was succeeding. 
He could have endured it, perhaps, to be jealous of a real man ; 
he would have been content to contend for Phyllis with his 
equal, but even to try to outdo such a specimen of humanity, — 
his pride could not allow that. He would withdraw from the 
battle ; he would refuse to contend with the professor. 

He walked bitterly toward the veranda and up the few steps 
into its inviting shade ; he threw himself exhausted into the 
hammock again and closed his eyes. The veranda was quite 
deserted save for one large, mannish girl who was cleaning her 
golf clubs with an old rag and some oil. She was sitting with 
the toes of her stout, thick shoes toeing in, and between her 
knees she supported a golf club which she was scouring. She 
was whistling a popular coon song, and keeping time with one 
foot. Her name was Sarah Farnum. 

Lamson opened his eyes and looked over toward her. 

" What are you doing ? " 

The girl looked annoyed. ** Can't you see?" she said, and 
went on whistling. 

Lamson never cared for her. She was too sarcastic, — and too 
much like himself in other ways, also. But suddenly a bright 
idea came to him. He would give Phyllis a little of her own 
medicine. He got up directly from the hammock and strode 
over towards the girl. 

"Let me help you.'' 

*' Fiddlesticks," she said. 

*' Truly. I mean it. Here, give me the rag." 

" Thank you," she said quickly, ** I always clean my own 
clubs. You would hinder more than you would help." 

Lamson smiled. Some girls, he thought, made a great mis- 
take never to allow people to help them. All he said was, 
** You really do not have much respect for my abilities, do you ? 
But I may stay here and talk, may I not ? " 


"Oh, I suppose so, if you want to." And she raised the club 
on a level with her eyes, and squinted critically down its shaft. 
"Straight as an arrow," she said, and went on whistling. 

When Phyllis and the professor came back, they found Mr. 
Lamson and Miss Farnum deep in a discussion of golf. The 
girl had long since ceased to whistle. Lamson was very good 
at all kinds of athletics, especially golf, and he knew how to 
make himself interesti