qualifying adjective; the womanliness is the chief thing. Were the intellectual alone cultivated, we should utterly fail of that "harmonious 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, but by year and hour When Mark Twain said that the cauliflower was only a cabbage gone through college, he showed a keen appreciation of the refining 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 beautiful, 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 DEFOREST. TO SMITH COLLEGE Once more we bring our hearts to thee, Once more our hopes we dedicate, O College of our love! Thou mighty wind whom soul hath wrought, Whom none but soul again may move. As sure as life that never ends, Though man may come and speak and go, 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 Thy children listen for thy word, Thy breath that they may hear and see. With empty words we dare not call,- She is of life a part 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 hope 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 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!— Thou mighty wind whom soul hath wrought, Whom none but soul again may move. HELEN ISABEL WALBRIDGE. ONE COLLEGE SUCCESS 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 wondered 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! 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 several 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 freshman meets congenial members of her own class, and it is likely to prove the center from which many of her friendships radiate." But on the morning after the Frolic, she found that she could recall hardly a face. She remembered only a bewildering throng of figures in an extraordinary variety of costume, ranging from full evening dress to shirt-waist and short piqué 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 impression 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 different. 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. "She 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. Nobody'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 Katherine, 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 |