But simply in liis love to grow.
While thus I stand and contemplate
The wondrous nature of the flod
Whose word all beauty did create
And put in man the mind to laud, —
A light breaks through the western sky.
Where parting clouds are moving fast,
And blinking stars attract my eye,
Instilling thoughts of regions vast.
I now discern th’ horizon’s form,
Where clouds concealed the setting sun
Whose beauty is a changeful morn
Of splendors from the heavens won,
The sky is half relieved of clouds,
And Nature’s frown is soon dispelled.
Of myriad stars, the dim light crowds
Around me while in awe I’m held,
forgetful of the night’s cold air,
I linger 'nenth this henv'nly smile;
Forgetful of the world's despair,
I love this hour that's free from guile.
The entire arch is now a dome
Beset with brilliants large and small.
What untold wealth in Nature’s home!
What pictures deck its azure wall 1
There ancient sage, with fancy wild,
Outlined most strange and curious things:
Uellecling him as a mere child
Whose fancy raised him on its wings.
High in the southern sky I see
Three stars that shine with equal light,
In one straight row. They seem to be
The most attractive stars to-night.
Orion's belt is marked by these;
Three others fix his hanging sword.
The first three, —spanning two degrees,—
A yard-stick for the heav’ns afford.
A little to the south and east,
An azure field of grent extent,
I see, —in all this astral feast, —
The brightest of the firmament.
All beauty brightens by a name,
And Sirius is this brilliant star.
I seek for others known to fame
And find them ere I wander far.
Beyond Orion, slightly west,
In constellation Taurus, can
1 see amid a starry nest
A bright called Altiebaran.
And ere I move my eyes from these,-
The llyads of an ancient day,—
1 spy the group of Pleiades ;
And turn upon my homeward way.
THE FREE LANCE.
FROM all appearances it is evident that the
world does’nt wag to suit Mr. Hob
Porter. Of all men, a Junior in college ought
to be the happiest, but such is not Bobby’s
present condition. His burden bears his head
down upon his breast, and as he walks slowly
toward the college building, he looks neither
to the right nor left, but walks carefully in the
passage-way cleft by his proboscis.
It may be that he is thinking of the Kinetic
Theory of Gases, and it “more may be’’ that
he isn’t. Whatever his thoughts be, his self
absorption is immense, for as he passes a com
panion, his only reply to a cheery “ Hello,
Bob,” is a short snort.
Kind fate leads him up the winding stair
way and to the door of his study.
He opens the door wide and makes a bee
line for a lounge at the far end of his study, and
throws himself down on it with a loud snort
of mingled disgust and despair.
At this somewhat eccentric manifestation on
the part of the usual cheery and smiling
Robert, his room-mate Chester Berg, looks up
from his Political Economy long enough to
imagine the cause of the trouble.
To his quiet and considerate question, the
only answer is a deep-toned growl, so he ap
plies himself again to his book.
Silence reigns for a few moments, and Berg
is startled by a series of muttered imprecations
verging closely on profanity.
With a laudable determination to learn the
cause of the trouble, he lays down his book
and opens fire.
“ What’s the matter, old boy,” he says,
gently,
“ Nawthing," is the encouraging answer.
“ Come off.
“ Naw, dry up,” with tremendous vehemence,
followed by a long incoherent speech, the only
intelligible words being “she” and “why in
thunder.” This is enough for Berg however,
and he tumbles to the fact that his room mate's
“PITY TIS, TIS TRUE.”
Yes there is. Sick?”