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Out of the gloaming 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,
But 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 waves 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.


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

whether literary or not, who has not dreamed beMy 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 something 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 polished andirons reflect the flames. They call it a grate,-that part which holds my glowing coals. The word would suffice to 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 pensively 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 insignificant self, but become great in my personality and in my achievements; 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, peaceful 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.



When angels sing a lullaby

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 lullaby

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

Is empty now.
The mother weeps.



“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 vocabulary. It is a term not easily to be defined in its extension and intension ; but the quantity that it represents is in no way indefinite. One comes to regard this college spirit as a factotum. It is an excuse, it is an explanation, it is a quality to be gloried 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 exhortations 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 powerful 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 quartercentenary 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 condemnation 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 regard 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 approximately 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 devoid 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 of our mouth, we can not but realize that the story itself was unusually vigorous and fascinating. Another bit of narrative leads us along delighted by the charm of its phraseology, yet leaves us at the end with a distinct sense of disappointment at the weakness or the incompleteness 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 ability is the fundamental requirement for success in that line. As for us, we may take from them both what enjoyment they have to offer now, increased by the certain promise of more unmixed pleasure from their future work.


The most obvious difficulty which beset the class of 1900 in presenting "Twelfth Night” lay in the necessity of reforrning Sir Toby Belch and his

boon companions. Impartial observers watched the exTwelfth 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 bibulousness from the bearing of the jolly knight, but would not the mirth of the scene disappear with them? Or if it remained would it not appear forced and causeless ?

That this difficulty was overcome, and more than overcome, in the presentation of the play last June, was due to the admirable acting of Sir Toby. His 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 scenes in one without any intermission 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 feeling. 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 Orsino. The poetic element of the delineation was enhanced throughout hy 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 distasteful, 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 Nlyria 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

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