the trial of the "co-eds." Franklin had prepared his solution just as agreed, and the two men found the two girls in the laboratory, just as they had expected. "Now for the final test," said Langford, as they approached the girls' desk and the prepared solution. "Are you ready?" "All ready," replied Franklin, in a whisper. "Here she goes." "Here she goes." He extended his hand toward the beaker as if making a gesture, and as if by the natural force of gravitation a large diamond ring dropped from his finger into the solution. Langford recognized it at once as the magnificent ring he had often admired on the finger of “Frizzle" Manderson, and which he had just seen lying upon her desk. She saw it at the same instant and cried out in evident alarm, “ Arthur Franklin, what have you done? Save it, quick." Langford's inborn gallantry unconsciously prompted him to plunge in his hand and save the ring. Just before his fingers touched the liquid, however, he thought of the agreement. He thought of the acid, of its effect upon his shapely hand. He paused and glanced in the direction of the girls. His eyes again met "Frizzle's." Not a word did they say. He thought he saw an agonized look there, and his gallantry overcame his good sense and in he plunged his hand clear to his sleeve, securing the ring. He held up his hand as he did so. It was of a brilliant yellow color, as gorgeous as the yellowest sunflower. He gazed at it in dismay. He gazed at it in dismay. Franklin gazed at it in surprise. He looked at the hand; he looked at the girls. They could hold in no longer, and burst forth into paroxysms of laughter at the discomfiture of Langford and the surprise of Franklin. "Potassium chromate gives a bright yellow color, Mr. Langford," Miss Bowers demurely exclaimed. "But we did n't speak to him, Mr. Franklin. We'd like to attend the supper, too, if you please," "Frizzle" remarked between her fits of laughing. "Oh, it won't harm you any," said Miss Bowers, noticing Langford's anxiety about his transformed member. "We were on to the plan and substituted chromate for the acid." The two men looked at each other in horror. "But my ring!" "Frizzle" suddenly cried out, thinking of it for the first time. Well, that's pretty well variegated, too," Franklin observed dryly, with alternating glances at the ring and the hand. "Woe to that tell-tale eaves-dropping George," exclaimed Franklin, his face brightening as he told Langford the whole affair. "He laughs best who laughs last," replied the baseball manager. "Johnson will pitch to-day, we will win the game, and George will lose his money." The game was won. Franklin, Langford, George, "Frizzle" Manderson, Miss Bowers, and another lady witness of the dyeing, banquetted that night. "Frizzle" lost her ring, George his money, Franklin paid for the suppers, and Langford sported a livid yellow hand for weeks. O. H. S. John Handy's It was Memorial Day and John Handy was sitting on the doorstep of his little house in Newcastle, the Mecca of fishermen on the New Hampshire coast. John had returned from a long cruise only two days before, and as he had saved considerable money from his last trip, he was dressed in his best clothes in honor of the day. This fisherman's home was modest but neat and picturesquely situated. The waves at high tide almost reached the front doorstep, and the parlor windows looked out upon the broad expanse of ocean. It was what might be called an ideal home for a fisherman, who always desires to be near his " beloved bonny blue water." Upon this particular day the ocean appeared strikingly like a mirror on which sparkled the golden sunlight, and the sky sent down its deep blue reflection to mingle with the gold. Here and there the uninterrupted vision was distracted by a stray gull or even a little sandpiper flying leisurely over the smooth surface of the deep. Just beyond White Island Light could be faintly seen the lazy fishing-smack, drifting slowly with the tide, the sails vying with the crew as to which could be the more lazy. While John Handy was straining his eyes to decipher, with the aid of a glass, the vessel's name, I startled him by a "Good morning, John; can't you leave the ocean for a single minute?" "Wal," said he, "I callate I ken if I hev ter, but it's purty hard fer me." "Yes, but to-day is Memorial Day, and you ought to go up-town and see the procession, and then help them put flowers on the graves of the soldiers." "I aint got any flowers fer soldiers; all my flowers are a-goin' on my sister's grave over in yonder plot there." "Your sister, John?" said I. 'Why, I never knew you had a sister." "Wal, I did hev one," said he, "and yer never see a better one than her, either. I hev been thinkin' uf her all the mornin', and if she aint goin' ter hev bands and guns, she's a-goin' to hev the purtiest flowers in all the village." "Why, John, do tell me about your sister; I never have heard of her." "Haint yer?" said he. "Wal, yer see, 't wuz this way: my old man was a sea-dog like me, and he wuz workin' hard ter raise three little kids, an elder sister, and ter feed his wife. It wuz purty hard fer father, and I callate more 'an once there wuz nothin' ter eat in the house. While father wuz away on a long trip to the Banks mother took sick and died, poor soul! I did n't know it then nor fer years after, till Uncle Bill told me uf it, but she called my lassie sister Nell ter her bed and told Nell ter be a mother ter us kids. Wal, ordnerily that would n't 'a' meant much ter a smart, willin' girl like Nell, but at that time she hed a feller who wuz goin' out west to Bosting or some other place, and he wanted to take Nell the wust kind. Did Nell set sail along with her feller and leave us kids ter go under? Not much; Nell wuz n't made uf that timber. I callate it kinder broke her heart, but she stuck true ter her mother and stayed with us kids and lanched us inter men with all sails set, that's what she did. By then she hed past the marryin' time, and we made her a fust-rate bunk here in this cabin till she set sail fer a better harber than we cud give her. Yer ken have yer heroes and bands and guns and them things, but I'll hev yer understand they hev been some heroesses in this world, and my sister wuz one of 'em. They aint no monerment onter her bunk now, but me and Jim and Tom hev hoisted a little piece uf stone that can't be beat hereabouts, if it did take us six years ter raise her. I callate I'll spend my Mumorial Day over in starboard plot there, and yer ken foller the bands and guns if yer want ter." John Handy had finished, and his face presented a strange appearance from the mixture of tear-stains and tobacco juice. I myself was touched by his story and by the gentle heart beneath the rough exterior, made so by contact with most unrefining influences. How plainly I still see the whole situation when I took my departure! With the rough fisherman sitting alone on his door-step, the fishing-vessel, the sky and water, a picture was formed which cannot be transferred to the parlor wall but which has forever impressed itself on the endless and sensitive canvas of memory. R. K. M. ARLINGTON AT SUNSET. O happy valley, nestling in the hills! Thy spires now pierce the glory of the west; I look on thee, repose my spirit fills, God's peace hangs o'er thee, over thee His rest. Sarnus and Hipponax. THE shepherd Sarnus passed his life upon the mountains that rise to the west of the fair Boeotian plain. The city was far below, and with his simple wants he was content to love the hills that were his home. In the summer, the morning star saw him rise from the grass and move among his sheep, calling them by name and leading them through pleasant valleys where the clear streams came down from the mountains. And sometimes when they had grazed long in the same valley, he would lead them on over rocky heights, where he must have great care to guide the leader safely, that the blindly following flock might have no chance to miss a step and fall. Yet Sarnus did not dread these high places, for even while his agile limbs explored the path and his arms gently aided a bewildered lamb, his eyes ranged over the world that was spread before him, and his heart leaped in his bosom. And when the wintry sun had sunk below the mountain peaks, the shepherd watched awhile at the door of his fold for the stars, whose names he knew not, but whose thoughts he knew, and blew with stiffened lips a few rude songs upon his syrinx. One afternoon when Sarnus lay upon a verdant slope and watched his grazing flock, the birds sang merrily overhead, and the ground mole pushed his furrow undisturbed, for only the shepherd saw the stranger coming up the mountain-side. The man was clothed in white and wore a fine robe which somewhat encumbered him in climbing. In his hand he carried tablets and a style. When he had come where Sarnus was he greeted him with scant civility, and with a gesture toward the plain he said, "I am Hipponax, the poet of yonder city. Canst thou tell me where I may best see the morrow's sunrise? Thou art a fair clown to look upon, but show me whether thou art stupid or no." Then Sarnus led him to one of those bright pools in the rushing stream, and when they had refreshed themselves and the sun was low, the sheep moved slowly up the mountain and the poet accompanied their guardian. The shepherd longed to talk with him, to hear of the city on the plain and its people, but most of all of the poet's songs; but Hipponax walked on in silence and scorned to have conversation with an untutored rustic, for had not the cultured citizens of his home laurelled him for his writings, and was he not now to compose his master-lyric, inspired by the far-famed beauty of the Parnassian sunrise? When they had come to where a great rock jutting boldly out from the mountain-side was near at hand, the shepherd broke off boughs of hemlock and wove a shelter for the poet. He himself lay down outside and long looked up into the summer sky before he slept. When the earliest light of morning shone above the mountains that rose beside the sea to the eastward, and while the plain below was yet deep in starlit shadows, Sarnus wakened the sleeper and led him to that high outlook. Then he lingered that the sheep might graze near by, for he fain would hear if any golden word should drop from the poet's lips. And when the haze of gold and rubies brightened, and the mountains were transfigured with the sun's foreshadowed rays, he softly blew a vaguely wandering melody upon the seven reeds of Pan; and the awakening sheep, too, greeted in their way the dawning light. The poet, who had been busy with his tablets and his eyes, looked away from the rich sky and came to Sarnus; and his heart had not the sunrise in it, for he said, "Come, lead away thy sheep, that I may write my greatest poem in praise of nature and the gods." Then Sarnus answered him, " Art thou a poet?" The other was well pleased, for he did not understand. "Hear, if thou wilt, whether I am a poet," and he read from his tablets what he had been writing. Therein Sarnus heard much of Phoebus and of swarthy Memnon's mother, but it was not the dawn. The sheep led the way down again to the pleasant valley, and when the sun was high the shepherd saw his night's companion make his way from the heights and then across the fruitful plain to where the city stood. When the summer passed and the grass withered and was covered with snow, the city mourned for Hipponax, and the sculptor Eus made a statue of him and set it in the marketplace; and the sheep, also, on the hillside missed their master, who had loved to lead them over the high ridges; but his place was not filled. Then in that other city the poet was walking and beholding all the works of beauty that were there, but there was none that us had graven, neither any on which he perceived the names of those who carved the finest images. There was one name upon them all, but the letters of the name were not in Greek. While he wondered at these things he heard an unknown melody, and a singer was chanting a most perfect song, but it was not in his iambic rhythm nor in the measures that his rivals sang, but surpassed the measure of them all. Then said one to him when he was sore perplexed, "Is not the poem greater than that of Hipponax? for it is the heart of a man, and God himself hath been the maker." The voice was from the midst of the poem, and the words were the voice of Sarnus. THE ROBIN IN THE SPRUCE-TREE. Through arabesques of frond-like, dusky leaves, Whence, stopped by spruce boughs in its earthward flight, Sifts down in narrow, yellow bands the light, Listen! a song its sweet first phrase achieves — A song that all the morning's joy receives Into its carols gushing forth in might, Like as a mountain stream, with rocks bedight, Laughs, and its crystal, foam-flecked breast upheaves. Hark, hark! How clear, how fresh, how jubilant! More filled with ardor of celestial fire! WILLIAM STRUTHERS, in the Transcript. 20 A CHANGE OF MIND. He offered me his heart and hand, And so I wrote a little note, "Dear Jack," it ran, in sweet design, "In love is 't fair to change one's mind?" "Tis," he replied, "and I've changed mine." 20 Mr. Skinner's Lecture. RECITATIONS were suspended the last hour on the morning of May 9, and the students, faculty, and friends of the college met in Goddard Chapel to listen to an address on the drama, by Mr. Otis Skinner, one of America's prominent dramatic artists. The following is a résumé of Mr. Skinner's remarks: I feel the honor conferred upon me by being able to bring something from the stage to the precincts of the church. My views of art may have in them something for you. I want to ask you to meet me on my own plane. The most important factor of my own art, and indeed of mother art in general, is the factor of beauty. This is not a new and untried theory, but was the principle of the earliest artists. But let us see what a development has taken place in the attitude of professors of art and literature towards this potent factor of beauty, which is common to all art. There is in it a catholicity which applies to one and all. So this, as the view of the dramatist, is not a biased view. Of late, certain developments in literature. are most potent as pointing out the tendency of modern art. The writing of Heinrich Ibsen has made a strong impression, and the influence of his position is everywhere felt. He is a man of thought, of brain, and on account of these very intellectual features of his work his influence is the more dangerous. These professors of art point to any commonplace thing in every-day life and say, This is nature, this is what really is; and these things they take for the subject of their story or play, but they do not take the best and highest view of life. I do not wish to condemn the true realism, but I do wish to distinguish between so-called realism and naturalism. Realism is the word which is coming to be applied to the worst, the pettiest, and most commonplace circumstances of human life. It opposes romance and imagination, and ignores everything that appeals to the highest faculties of man. It ignores beauty, and seeks, first of all, reality. It has no sympathy for the romantic phases of life. In this era of intellect we all are too apt to neglect the realm of beauty. A late foreign painter reproduced in detail the reality of the horrors of the battlefield. People looked, admired, shuddered, but went away and did not come again. They admired the skill of the artist, but they could not love and worship his works. In pagan Greece and Rome we see the very height of art. Greek art represented the ideal beauty of nature. Venus of Melos, Apollo Belvedere, are Greek types of ideal beauty. They were not at variance to nature, but were a high form of nature. So Grecian men and women living in the light of this highest beauty were led to a development of the beauty in their own lives. Outward forms of beauty appeal to our own higher natures and inspire us with noble principles. In my own branch of art I can recall the influence of this factor of beauty upon those professors of art with whom I have come in contact. Never was man more gentle or with higher ideals or more perfect life than Edwin Booth. Joseph Jefferson, Lawrence Barrett, Helena Modjeska — these lives were all under the influence of the highest ideals. The new school shows the ugly and commonplace. It argues that the revolting and ugly have a place in art to teach lessons. We do not ignore the ugly and revolting, but to make them the principal thing, to make the stage the debating society for right and wrong, is not art. Shakespeare knew this, and he put the dark side in the right place. He used it as a means and not as an end. He always represented the lofty, the ideal side of life in framing his dramas. If he pictured the vices of men and women, he treated noble natures that more than offset these dark spots in his picture. These new dramatists will not allow us to soar; they want us to cling to the common, every-day things of life. Truth is not always beautiful. Truth itself sometimes is mean and ugly. To those of you who are best versed in the law of our land the fact is known that truth, when used with bad intent, may be libel. These professors of art are libelling art because they tell what is the ugly, the injurious to art. The question is often asked, " Is Shakespeare read and appreciated now as he once was? When at Stratford one is impressed by the fact that there all is Shakespeare. Thousands of pilgrims journey every year to worship there. One does not go to Trinity Church to worship, but to Shakespeare's tomb. All this is done for the man who idealized beauty. Yet how few of those who visit Stratford go to the grave of Oliver Cromwell. He was the destroyer of beauty, not the creator of it. This idea of realism is not new. We find it in the paintings of the Pre-Raphaelites. Everything in their art is real, real blood and real horror. This was the art of the fifteenth century. But it would not last. In the paintings of Raphael and of those of his time the ugly was left out and beauty alone was kept. These we adore; but the others, though we admire, we cannot love. In concluding, I want to make a final plea for beauty. The realists of to-day are powerful. They are learned and intelligent men. We who believe in and patronize art will, I hope, not give up the ideal conceptions, the true appreciation of beauty, for the novelties of the realistic drama. It is too holy, too grand a structure for us to cut up into mere business blocks. Mr. Skinner closed by giving a reading of the trial scene from "The Merchant of Venice." Exchanges. THE pleasure derived from the year's perusal of exchanges is certainly great enough to repay one for the many hours spent in their examination. The majority of our college magazines are deserving of unqualified praise; perhaps the best conducted are the Brown Magazine, the Southern Collegian, the Nassau Literary Magazine, and the Williams Monthly. The Brown |