THE FRESHMAN’S DREAM.
What do I see on the window-sill
Where the moon-light strikes so clear?
What are those strange little white-bodied things
That grimace and mock and leer?
They frighten me with their uncouth forms,
And their ghostly, menacing, looks—
What, can it be that there I see
Mathematical imps, from my books?
Over the plain of my moon-lit bed
They come trooping silently;
They gloat and grin, as pale and thin,
They balefully gasse on me.
I tremble and strain ’neath the counterpane,
As they form in many a ring;
Then they whirl and prance through a meaningless dance,
And while they are dancing, they sing:
“We are algebra-imps, trigonometry-elves,
Calculus-sprites, and spooks
Of innumerable lines, terms, functions and signs
You have crippled and killed in your books."
Now I awake, but imps, elves, sprites and spooks
Are gone from bed and sill;
Yet I hear their song as they flit along—
A song that bodes me ill.
“We will have our revenge, you blundering fbol"—*
The chorus redoubles in force—
“You’ll ‘fail to pass,’ you’ll be ‘dropped from your class,’
You’ll flunk in every course!"