night, when the long shadows stretched across the fields, and the
evening glow faded from the west, she watched down the lane as
she watched years ago; and her heart asked, " Will he ever re
turn ?"
Again the April days have come and gone. Again the ar
butus blooms on the hillside, but no one comes to seek for the
pink clusters beneath the whispering pines; and alone, they bloom
and fade, and die. At nightfull the silent moon rolls slowly over
the dark rim of the wood, and the stars come out one by one,
while the familiar sounds from the meadow fill the warm evening
air as of old. But no one watches down the lane. No fond
mother is waiting for a loved one's return. Far away under the
southern skies the moon looks down on a mound of fresh earth
where a brave heart is sleeping; and another mound on the hill
side, where the falling apple blossoms drift, covers the fond heart
which ceased to beat when the message came, " He will never
return."
IT is the opening of the Fall Term. The newly made Senior
walks slowly over the campus, his hands in his pockets, and
head bent down, his whole attitude one of deep thinking.
His thoughts ?—Well, they are his own.
• His solitude is broken by a voice, a voice breezy as a day in
Spring, when all things are green. " Hello !" says the voice.
The Senior turns around, angry at having his thoughts disturbed,
and sees—a Freshman.
The Freshman does not notice the scowl on the face of the
upper classman.
" What course are you taking ?" again says the voice:
The question is greeted with a look of amazement, and the
Senior mutters to himself, " Most thundering fresh 1"
.4 .01 .0
THOSE SENIORS.
THE NEW.
H. A. HANSON.