"I guess I'll go in and take a last look around," Esther said, and she went into the building. She sat for a minute in her seat in the empty chapel. Then she went into the recitation room across the hall, and thrilled again to see the demonstration of the forty-first, signed "E. M. P.”, on the blackboard. The grammar class had met, and next her example was neatly diagrammed the sentence, "Our affections are our life." She went into the library and opened the door cautiously. Leora Baxter stood in the middle of the room, with "Temperance Work in America" in her hands, and she closed the book quickly. Marilla called loudly from outside, and Esther ran down the basement stairs and out at the back door. Her father was waiting, and she climbed into the wagon, and as they drove away Esther turned at intervals and waved at Marilla, who was watching her out of sight. When they had gone through the village Esther's father looked at her suspiciously. "Did you do as I told you about the Prentiss feller ?" he asked. "Yes, Father," she said submissively. "Then I don't see why you brought all your traps, I'll have 'em to take back in two weeks. I don't know as they's any need of your stoppin' now," he added apologetically. Esther made no answer. As they neared the turn at the foot of the mountain her father spoke again. "You're goin' to have a new scholar at the seminary," he said. "Who's that?" Esther inquired politely. "Young Herrick," he replied. "He's threatened with the eddicational fever, too, goin' to start in next term." "He'll have to take grammar," Esther commented. "Well, I'm glad I can study logarithms," she said with a relieved sigh. She leaned back to catch a glimpse of the seminary, and they turned to go down the long Whitby hill. LAURA MARY ROGERS. THORNLESS ROSES Alone in Memory's dusky bower NINA ALMIRALL. THE WILLOW A willow, white against the sky And a sky as blue as the hare-bell's flower; A scent of spring, and you and I To know the fullness of the hour. THE MATCH-BOX BRIGADE There is a little regiment Of soldiers fierce and bold, For mother says they only need Their fighting blood is always up, LOUISA FLETCHER TARKINGTON. MY LOVE'S EYES. If you've watched the golden yellow sands As the sun broke free from a cloud's gray bands If you've seen how they leap into life and flash Then you've seen my love's eyes when she laughs, ETHEL WITHINGTON CHASE. EDITORIAL College girls have a reputation for being an especially jolly, happy-go-lucky set. The sense of the "Glory of living, exultant to be" is nowhere found more in abundance, and yet, judging from the literary material offered to the Monthly, this feeling seldom chrystalizes, or takes literary form. Is it all converted into so-called animal spirits-carried off in mere voice power? The butterfly view, which sees nothing of the world but a glistening exterior, shows itself in masses of storiettes and light verse. "The blues," a soggy, indigestible mood at best, thinks itself poetry as soon as it appears. The realization that "Life is real, life is earnest," is overwhelmingly represented in different literary forms. Although every college girl occasionally looks at her surroundings through some one of these pairs of spectacles, the general impression of the college girl given solely by the voicing of these moods would be incomplete and unfair. It seems strange, after seeing a large number of girls feeling deliciously nonsensical, and inventing topical verses with the spontaneity of the days of the old ballads, to think how little really good, healthy nonsense is offered in literary form. That good nonsense is being recognized in the outside world is proved by Carolyn Wells' Nonsense Anthology, and by the continued popularity of Edward Lear and Alice in Wonderland. Although the mention of classic nonsense writers in this connection might seem almost like saying, "Shakespeare wrote plays. Go thou and do likewise!" it is meant with no such intenNonsense writing, to be successful, needs as much a particular and individual way of looking at the world as any other form of literature, but we believe that there are a great many nonsense inspirations wasted at college that might give a truer, saner idea of college life than too many desperately serious productions. The Editorial Board wish to announce that owing to the resignation of Amy Esther Stein on account of illness, Abby Shute Merchant has been elected to take her place as Business Manager. The Editorial Board request that henceforth all contributions be placed in the box outside the Monthly room in the Students' Building. EDITOR'S TABLE To fuss, according to Mr. Webster of the Unabridged, is to make much ado about nothing; but little did that eminent establisher of limitations think how many rôles this ingénue of Anglo-Saxon would have to play. To begin with, it was as proper and useful a little intransitive verb as one could wish to find, attending to its own affairs with never a thought of taking an object or anything which did not belong to it, but, alas, it was not incorruptible. We may never know what evil associates led it astray, but, to follow its depraved course, we must plunge into the depths, into the awful abyss of slang. Here we find it taking unto itself an object for the base purpose of thrusting upon it all that burden of "much ado" which it had, formerly, to support by itself. In this phase, it will be remembered that a few years ago, to "fuss a person" meant to arouse a wholly unwarrantable state of nervousness in said individual; a pernicious practice truly, but one could still recognize some traits of the once innocent little verb. The connection with the next phase is harder to see, but one feels that it must have been easily accomplished somewhere in those mental processes in whose dominion logic has no place. At any rate it seems to be a step upward, as though our verb were seeking to regain its lost prestige. However, it can never be received on the same. social level on which it began its career. Although it again stands for "much ado about nothing," the old relations are not the same, they are strained. But let us do what we may to trace its course from its last meaning. Those who used it as the transitive verb defined above evidently found that practice such a delightfully unprofitable one that they rewarded their faithful verb by applying it to all delightfully unprofitable conversation. We need not specify. For all who speak correct, up-to-date slang such phrases as Faculty-fussing, Man-fussing, Senior-fussing, Junior-fussing, etc., convey abundant significance. They are otherwise known as various forms of killing time. Time is a patient thing; it never offers any resistance to being killed, and it is surely not its fault if the weapon turned against it be a two-edged sword, whose other side cleaves the executioner. The remark has been made by a member of a certain other collegiate body that the type of story representing this curious practice may be found more abundantly in the pages of the Smith College Monthly than in other college periodicals. To reply with the argumentum ad Hominem, we might say that one usually finds what one looks for. However, the "retort courteous" will serve our purpose; we consider the cited observation incorrect. If the Monthly has two storiettes where another has but one, it will also be found that the Monthly has two serious essays to one of the other college periodicals. Far be it, however, from the Monthly to defend the writing of storiettes. In fact, all other forms of contribution are more welcome. The distressing fact remains that the fashion at present, both in under-graduate and non-collegiate atmospheres, tends towards "fussing", in social and in intellectual intercourse. It lies not within the province of this department to criticize the employment of anyone's time, but surely we may suggest that ink, paper and printing-presses were made for better things than storiettes. THE QUEST There's a Dreamer abroad in the day's young dawning, The world calls cheerly, and life's in its morning, A god is the Dreamer's guide. The broad fields are green, and the gardens fair, The Dreamer smiles as he goes ; And ever, above and about him, the air Is sweet with the breath of the rose. There's a Lover a-speed where the grasses are growing, His heart will not let him bide; He hastens afar where the pale buds are blowing, A god is the Lover's guide. Here flit dancers with silvery feet,-and there But no toil is too strong for the Lover to bear, |