A WISH Oh, to be a gypsy maid— A little woodland maid! Oh, to be a gypsy maid — Lulled by sighing pines to sleep: With the whole world for a home, AMY GRACE MAHER. Miss Humphrey was a match-maker by instinct rather than by avowed profession. Any woman can be a match-maker. All that is required is a sum A Climax in Match-Making mer boarding-house and a knack of scattering hammocks and rustic chairs about in sweet secluded nooks so as to appear as if they came there by accident. On Miss Humphrey's premises there was not a bench that would not accomodate two persons and not one that would comfortably accommodate three. The same was true of the little boats that rocked on the lakeside at the foot of Miss Humphrey's terrace. Yet if you had intimated to Miss Humphrey that you thought her a match-maker, she would have looked at you with dismayed, reproachful eyes. It doubtless brought her a sense of satisfaction when the guests who had come to her summer home one by one went away two by two, but she never regarded it in a personal light, nor thought of herself as instrumental in its accomplishment. On the whole she was an unselfish believer in the doctrine that a company of two is ideal, as a result of which she was never known to intrude. But to-day Miss Humphrey's gentle soul was unusually perturbed, and this perturbation was caused by no small matter. It was late in September, and only two idlers lingered at "Osweganocheegog", Miss Humphrey's summer resort. They had been there all summer and had come to be known as the Philosopher and the Butterfly. The Butterfly's approval of the Philosopher was equalled only by his disapproval of her. It was this that pained Miss Humphrey. She could not understand it. People of opposite tendencies, she had always heard, were admirably suited to one another. Yet that afternoon she had been grieved on coming out of the house to find the Butterfly embroidering at one end of the long piazza, and the Philosopher smoking at the other. The situation was rendered all the more pitiful by the fact that the Philosopher was to depart on the morrow. Miss Humphrey sighed, but true to her old policy of withdrawal, got a book and followed the path along the lakeside through the woods. The path started near that end of the piazza at which the Philosopher was sitting, but it is unlikely that he saw her, for his eyes were closed. After a time Miss Humphrey sat down to read. The book, however, failed to hold her attention, for presently she found herself thinking about the pair on the piazza at home. "It is a shame that he can not be more polite to her," she reflected. "Of course, being so much older-but a man ought to be older." Just then she descried a row-boat approaching slowly, keeping in the shade near the shore. Her face brightened. She had misjudged him, she thought in qnick self-reproach, and after all he had invited the Butterfly out for a row. But as the boat drew nearer she saw that it held only the Philosopher, and her heart hardened against him. She bent her eyes upon her book. The dip of oars came nearer. She did not look up. Then the keel struck the pebbly shore, and a moment later the Philosopher was standing before her. Miss Humphrey did not look up. There was a long pause, then the Philosopher said: "There is a matter which I must speak about before I go." Miss Humphrey looked up, but there was something in the Philosopher's eyes which made her feel strangely dizzy. "You-you paid your bill, Mr. Lowell," she said. "Carolyn !" His voice was low and reproachful. Humphrey's brain whirled and her temples throbbed. thought she was losing consciousness, and could scarcely understand what he was saying. 66 Miss She 'Why have you always avoided me? I love you. You know that I love you. Can you never care for me?" Her head sank back against a tree and her eyes closed. "Oh, I have told you this too suddenly! Blunt fool!" cried the Philosopher. "Don't try to answer. Only think." And in order to help her think his arm encircled her. When Miss Humphrey was able to think she decided that this was a very easy solution of the problem of getting the Philosopher a wife, though she would never have thought of it. Later, when they came to look for the boat, it had drifted far out upon the lake, but the Philosopher said that they would stroll homeward through the woods and go for it after supper. And if Miss Humphrey had been doing such things for twenty years she could not have done them more simply and naturally. A maid came out, when they reached the house, with a note from the Butterfly. Miss Humphrey took it with a little pang of compunction, for she had entirely forgotten the girl. The note explained that the Butterfly was awfully sorry not to say good-bye, but her fiancê had come to take her home, and would Miss Humphrey please find check for board enclosed. Miss Humphrey breathed a sigh of content, and assuming her new station with the ease and grace of a connoisseur, handed Charles the note to read. INEZ HUNTER BARCLAY. IN DE SPRING Dey comes a time when dis heah earf When ev'yt'ing am young an' green An' de apple orchards smile Till yo' can't hol' in no longa, An' yo' laff so loud an' long Dat yo' scares de muvva bluebird In de middle o' huh song. Den's de time yo' feels yo's young once mo' Dough yo' haid am white's snow, ETHEL FANNING YOUNG. EDITORIAL "Some are born great; some achieve greatness; and some have greatness thrust upon them." It may be desirable to be born great, and satisfactory to achieve greatness, but how vastly more gratifying is the thrill of having greatness thrust upon one! It is so much pleasanter to be sought than to seek; so much more comfortable to sit back with folded hands and reflect that this thing gravitated uncontrollably to us and that our dignity and reputation are unimpaired by any striving after it. This attitude is essentially feminine and is due in part to a sensitive reserve, a nice reticence, and a shrinking from any form of publicity or self-advertisement. It is a perfectly proper feeling at times when it takes the form of discreet silence as to society preferences, and is greatly to be encouraged, but it is quite another thing when it hampers effort in legitimate lines of college activity through fear of failure and resulting comment. There are certain occasions, of course, when a frank announcement of endeavor is necessary. We must play basketball openly to make the team, and we must undertake the dramatic trials to obtain a part, but all manner of sensitiveness and self-consciousness overwhelms us in our literary work, and prevents a great deal of material from ever reaching the MONTHLY through the proper medium of the MONTHLY box. This failure to offer available work may have back of it a lack of interest or ambition, but it is caused in the main by a disinclination to be known as a candidate and possibly a disappointed one. Then too, the knowledge that some contributions have been definitely asked for, fosters the feeling that it is better to wait to be asked than urge the claim of our own work. The casual remark, "I don't care much for it myself, but they wanted it in. No, it wasn't in the box; I never have put anything in the box," plays havoc with a group of possible contributors. Exactly the opposite of this stand-offishness prevails generally at men's colleges where the election of editors is regulated entirely by the amount and character of published work. Candidates offer their contributions freely, grumble as freely if they are refused, record their opinion of the editor's ability, and then try again. A man is always more impersonal in his college relations than a girl. He does not spend so much time in wondering what an instructor thinks of him personally after a disappointing examination paper; he knows pretty well that the instructor isn't thinking about him at all, and that his failure has not been to the faculty but to himself and his own responsibilities. It would give much healthier and freer expression to our own powers if we too could lose sight of the personal element to a greater extent. We magnify our failures and their effect upon other people. We do not enjoy the, white envelopes on the bulletin-board that proclaim the return of unavailable material; we avoid meeting the editor whose name was affixed to the rejection slip; and if she is an intimate friend we may even refuse to offer our tender verse for her too familiar criticism. A little of this feeling is only natural, but carried to such an extreme it becomes exaggerated and absurd, and detrimental to the success of any organization or magazine. We shun all attempts at direct achievement but wait for greatness to be thrust upon us, and so necessitate a continuance of the old way of asking for material that happens to be known. The only way in which a college magazine can be an expression of the college as a whole and a medium of recognition for all literary ability is through the active coöperation of the entire college and the multiplication and variety of material offered. To render this coöperation easier, the MONTHLY box has been taken from the Students' Building and placed outside room twelve, Seelye Hall, beside the English theme-box; the bulletinboard system of return is to be abandoned, and as far as possible solicitation is to cease and selection to be made from the material offered. And just as it has been said that "War needs. three things, money, money and again money," so it is true. that a magazine needs material, material and again material, and it is earnestly desired that the college will recognize that the content and reputation of the magazine depend not upon a certain clique or class, but upon the interest and support of the entire student body. |