WHEN one's work as editor on a college publication such as the TUFTONIAN is done, and he lays down the responsibilities of office, the first feeling of ved by one of actual regret that the many happy hours that have been spent in e publication are ended. The trials, however, of one who would edit the ch a way that it shall acceptably fill its double function of literary journal and ter than one who has not attempted the task can imagine. So long as the which he is of necessity placed continue to exist, it will be difficult for an cellent material he may have at his command, to make anything more than a nal of the TUFTONIAN. And yet the present difficulties must continue until es of sufficient size and the loyal alumni of sufficient number to insure the urnals on College Hill, a monthly of a purely literary nature and a weekly news matters. When this time comes, there will be ample talent in the colplications that will be very creditable to our institution.

it year we have been content to follow, for the most part, the well-beaten paths e gone before, now and then turning aside to make such improvements in ontents as an inherited financial embarrassment would permit. We have no of the support which the students have given the TUFTONIAN during the year, ot been all that might be desired, yet it has been all that, under the circumexpected. And right here it ought to be said that the most gratifying feature of eview it, has been the steadily increasing interest that has been manifested in ɔnth to month, an interest which has made it possible for the editor to exercise ›n, using what seemed suitable and rejecting much that, although in cases of 1, was not fitted for the columns of the TUFTONIAN. This is as it should be, ll heartier support for the editor of the next volume, and gives promise of a

time when there shall be a good-natured competition among the students of the college for places in the literary columns of the TUFTONIAN and on the editorial board.

An interesting phase of the increase of contributions by the students is illustrated by the amount of verse which it has been possible to present this year and the number of different writers represented thereby. This may, in part, be attributed to an experiment made by Professor Maulsby in an English literature class, several members of which he requested to write verse in the Spencerian style for presentation to the class. The results were in one or two cases given in our columns. But aside from the verse received in this way, much has come to us from different sources,- some of it in the shape of sonnets, which have received high praise from competent critics. This form of contribution cannot be too much commended.

After all, the presentation of literary and news matters is not the only purpose of a college journal. If the TUFTONIAN of the past year has succeeded in making any alumnus of Tufts more loyal to his alma mater, or has been able to bind together more closely for the common good of the college the student body, the editors will feel that the paper has served the highest purpose of its existence, and that their labors have not been in vain.

In his admirable address before the students of the college, Mr. Otis Skinner made a strong plea for the element of beauty in art, severely criticising those of the Ibsen cult who would bring to our attention in literature and the drama, under the name of realism, all that is revolting in human life. He could scarcely have chosen a better theme on which to address college students, who, by their contribution to art and support of it, are able to prove an important factor in determining the taste of a community. Nor, strange as it may seem, is the appeal for the ideal in literature anywhere more needed than among college men. Every lover of the beautiful who is in any degree familiar with the college press, has noted with no little dismay the tendency of the average student contributor to literature to allow his thoughts to wander in the darker paths of life and among those morbid scenes which, while they may be real, are in no way elevating to the reader nor indicative of high moral conceptions of life on the part of the writer. We are unacquainted with the psychological reason for this phenomenon, unless, with Mr. Skinner, we agree that the realistic school is a highly intellectual one and appeals to people of intelligence who fail to recognize the spiritual element in the most commonplace things of life. But whatever the cause of this is, it is time that students who are preparing to make literature themselves or to criticise that which others make, should learn that literature is an art, and that in order to be permanent it must contain that element of beauty which characterizes the productions of every form of true and enduring art.

"Here comes Langy, ask him,” said a third.

And a num

ber of others sitting and lounging about grunted out some half-intelligible greeting as John Langford entered his room one evening after his usual after-supper stroll.

"Yes, you 're just the man we 're looking for, Langford," said the first speaker, without giving him opportunity to reply to any of the numerous greetings. "We want to get some pointers on the prospects for an early future. You are a poet and a philosopher; what do you think about it?" "I don't think,” replied the newcomer, as he threw his hat at the lounge and dropped down into the nearest chair.

"No, but to talk business," said another, who was puffing away contentedly at a long pipe, "what are the prospects for to-morrow's game? Who are you going to put in the box? We want to win a littlemon.' out of the job, and if you are going to play Pete' Cole, we 're going to put our pennies on the other side."

"How do you suppose I know who's going to win?" Langford replied, snappishly.
"Hollo! what's the matter with his Nibbs to-night?" some one inquired, facetiously.

"Nothing," Jack replied, a little less coldly. "Can't a man tell you the truth without your thinking there's something the trouble with him?”

"Stop your wrangling," said the man with the pipe. "What we want to know is who's going to pitch to-morrow. Come off your high horse and give us a tip, Mr. Manager."

"I have n't seen the trainer yet, and besides, you must think I am soft to give away the makeup of the team to-day," was the response from Langford, and rising, he sauntered into the adjoining room and began overhauling some bills and papers.

"What 've you been doing to your room-mate, Franklin?" some one inquired.

"Did he get plucked in chemistry?" asked another.

"I don't know," Franklin, who occupied the room with Langford, replied. "He's got a spell, I guess. Something's gone wrong somewhere. You fellows may as well give up; you won't get anything out of him to-night. He'll let the cat out of the bag by and by of his own accord if we let him alone. If you fellows are dead anxious to find out to-morrow's battery, I can tell you how we can fix it."

"How's that?" eagerly inquired a half-dozen voices.

"Spring it quick, Frankie," exclaimed George, a leader of the gang, drawing closer to Franklin in his eagerness.

Franklin, drawing a few long puffs from his meerschaum to be sure that it was lighted, carelessly threw away his lighted match and continued, "One of you fellows-George, you're small, you'd be a good man for it-might skip into my closet there, and lie low until he comes out and tells me. He'll do it sooner or later, unless something very extraordinary has happened." "Good suggestion, old man, I'll do it," George replied. After considerable arranging of coats and hats, many whispered consultations and much tip-toeing about, George was finally safely stowed away in Franklin's small closet, with the door open just enough to furnish air and a passage for the sound.

Hardly were the preparations completed when Jack Langford returned to the room, sat down to his desk, and began to write. The assembled throng of news-seekers, after a few more ineffectual inquiries to keep up appearances, and a round of good-natured bantering, one by one departed.

For some time after they had gone Franklin and Langford both sat in silence, the one reading, the other writing. Finally Langford, as Franklin had prophesied, broke the silence with, "Peter J. Cole; there, that's the last order I have got to write to-night."

"So Cole is going to play to-morrow, is he?" inquired Franklin, trying to smother his selfsatisfaction at having found out the all-important fact.

"Yes, Johnson is laid up with a stiff elbow and Cole is the next best man. I did not tell the gang for fear that their betting against the home team would discourage the men."

Having now succeeded in obtaining the desired information, George began to be anxious to escape from his voluntary prison, and Franklin could hear him writhing about and sighing. The next thing for him to do was to contrive some way to get Langford out of the room. A spell of silence followed. It was not long, however, before Langford broke in with, "What blamed fools some of these co-eds' are!"

Why, what's the matter with the poor things now?" Franklin asked in surprise. "Oh, they have n't any more idea of decency in some things than country hoodlums. This blamed propriety that they pretend to stick to disgusts me. It's so inconsistent with commonsense! The idea that they must not speak to any one to whom they have not been formally introduced is pure conventionalism of the worst type."

“Well, what 's stirred you up on that point? Somebody been cutting you?" asked his companion, with increased interest.

"Well, you might call it that. The fact is, I have not had such an insult since my Freshman year," replied Jack. "You know what 'Frizzle' Manderson said about me the other day. I told you, did n't I? Did n't tell you? Yes, I did too. You have forgotten, or, more likely, you did n't pay any attention to what I was saying. Well, she told George she thought I was elegant,' and said she wanted to know me. So the next time I met her on the street after

George told me this of course I thought of what she said, and I felt conscious that she knew I was thinking of it. Our eyes met, and I raised my hat in the most approved fashion. She smiled and bowed all right, and I thought the ice was well broken. I met her again to-night and of course thought she ought to recognize me, so I waited for her to bow first, and she went straight past as stiff-necked as a post. They are the most snobbish set that ever walked

this Hill."

"I guess that is true enough," replied Franklin. "But you know they have to be particular about those things, Jack."

"I know that, but the inconsistency of the thing is what makes me tired. Now I know 'Frizzle' Manderson almost as well as I know my sister. No one has ever given me an introduction to her, to be sure, but I know her whole family and have heard about her and seen her ever since we were kids. And there's Miss Blakely. I never have seen her but a few times, and she always bows to me when I meet her."

"That may all be true, but they must draw the line somewhere, and etiquette places it at an introduction."

"Hang etiquette and use commonsense, I say! If you feel acquainted with a man, speak to him; if not, don't. You would say, I suppose, that if a girl should see a man in danger of falling from the edge of a precipice and could save his life by warning him, she ought not to do so unless they had 'met,' as society people say.”

"Why, strictly, I suppose as a society woman she should not, yet in an extreme case like that it would be criminal not to. She would overlook all requirements of etiquette. No one could think of such a thing at such a time," replied Franklin.

"Now you are going back on your own theory. Draw your line and stick by it, you say. If you make an introduction the key to a girl's tongue, she would not be able to speak in this case. She would allow him to go to his death when a word could have saved him, and that would be the same as murder. Then your etiquette that you boast of sanctions murder! Well, if that's what society customs are I am glad I am not a society man."

"You had better brush up your logic," retorted Franklin, a little out of patience.

"Logic to the dogs!" replied Langford, hotly. "The fact remains the same— girls, and the 'co-eds' especially, are blamed fools in such matters. To test the case, I'll bet you that there are n't two girls in this establishment whom I have never met who would speak to me if they saw me approaching danger."

"Ph! you are talking wildly to-night, Langford; you don't do them justice. I do not believe there are two girls here so narrow that they would not speak to any man in order to save him trouble."

"Well, suppose we try it then, if you don't believe it. Just to make it an object, I'll wager you a supper at any place in B that I can select two co-eds' who will not even look at me," Langford added.

"Put 'er there. It's a go," said Franklin, extending his hand to shake on the agreement. Forgetting all about the closet prisoner, Franklin entered eagerly into a discussion of the arrangement of the plan, and it was finally agreed that on the following day he should go to the laboratory where "Frizzle" Manderson and Miss Bowers were working and in their presence prepare a strong solution of acid in a large glass beaker, requesting them not to disturb it. Then Franklin and Langford would casually walk past and Franklin would accidentally drop something in when the girls were near by, and Langford would courteously make a pretence of plunging in his hand to rescue it, evidently thinking it was only water. When they had the plan all marked out it was late and they both retired directly. Hardly were they safely out of the room before George made his escape from the closet, vowing under his breath to get even with Franklin for what had seemed like an intentional lapse of memory, in keeping him so long confined.

The morrow came, and George and his confederates, with whom he had shared his baseball information of the previous evening, were busy all the morning placing bets against the college nine. Langford was greatly disgusted with them, and asked their reasons for such flagrant disloyalty, only to be answered with a laugh or a joke. So the day wore on until the time came for