my pillow the grateful coolness to my heated brow augured well
for a speedy drowsiness and a quick passage to the happy land of
dreams. But soon the events of the day, the vexations and an
noyances, the mistakes, the thoughts of duty undone, of promise
unfulfilled came trooping through my brain, Fife seemed a fail
ure, an unequal and a hopeless contest. In vain I strove to close
my eyes and picture peaceful scenes of restfulness, the gentle
flow of some far-off mighty river moving in majesty to the sea, the
rippling mountain stream swerving into some cool quiet eddy, and
the sighing monotone of the pines in the still moonlight. It was.
to no purpose. Again and again the same line of thought re
turned, accusing, harrowing, regrets for the past, forebodings for
the future.
Two hours had passed ; ’twas getting worse. Suddenly I rose,
dressed hastily, and was soon in the open air. The change was
grateful. If there were no rest within there was without. The
clouded moon shed but a feeble light, and the balmy air but gently
moved the fast withering leaves. Mechanically I wandered away,,
and my feet fell into familiar paths. The quiet and repose of in
animate things, the curious light effects, and the hushed silence
all about engaged my attention, turned the current of my thought,,
and ‘‘ a chord of my memory woke. ” As I strolled across the
campus one spot after another recalled some long-forgotten scene..
Here is the tree that ’B7 planted on Arbor Day of their Freshman
year, It is growing well: May its shadow increase. Here was
the old ' ‘ ellipse, ’ ’ the pride of “ Ford Carvill. ’ ’ Only a faint baud
in the sod shows where it lay, for it and its master have long since
passed away. But, involuntarily, I pause. Before me looms up
the cold gray limestone wall of the “big ship on the hill,” as the
speaker at the dinner once said. Its windows are dark, save here
and there where a faint light shows that perhaps some student is
still grinding away at tomorrow’s work. I pass in at the open
door. How strange it seems! Memory quickens. Instinctively
I feel for the sanded wall and look for the old stairways. They
have been gone—these how many years, but I put out my hand,
cahtiously, the cherry balusters may be greased. Yes ! ’twasthat
little—slippery eel, you know. They say he’s a judge now, and
a “tall sycamore” in the party. He’ll be Governor some day,
probably; maybe President. Who’d a thought it? “But tall
oaks from little” *** Ah this—yes, this is third. I thought
it was fifth, my legs were so tired. It didn’t used to be so. Why,
The Free Lance,
[November,