EDITOR'S TABLE

"False standards! Artificial life!" This is a common criticism, upon which many an outsider claiming to consider impartially the advantages and drawbacks of a college community lays his greatest stress. College, he says, is at its best a sidetrack of life, a busy and important place, it is true, but still switched off from the main road, where the big runs are made, and great lives, like mighty engines, sweep past on their way through the world. It is when we forget that we are still in the workshop that we make our mistake. The various trials of speed and other preparations must not be thought of as the race itself.

There are many ways in which the overestimation of college achievements manifests itself. We all know how the pins and dramatics and athletics dwindle down in importance when we are at home, and come in contact with different and more fundamental interests. In a slightly varied manner, false emphasis is often laid upon the literary work put forth by undergraduates. Where many try, and comparatively few succeed in any way, it is natural to overestimate the worth of the work as literature. The performance itself is cried up, the meaning of its promise (and that is surely the important part) is forgotten. Yet it is the rare exception in college work that can be measured by the standards of the outside world and meet with any recognition. It is natural that this should be so. We are studying English now to learn how to write, and we must not expect to build permanently when we have not yet mastered our tools.

The advantages that would accrue from a shifting of interest are many. If writing were considered more often as a practice for expression of one's self, of one's vision, what a harvest of interesting essays and tales the MONTHLY box would yield! Fads and commonplace plots, would grow happily fewer,

and more work would be stamped with the true interests and ability of the writer. The tendency to produce certain stories because they take well, because they can be used for printing or reading in various courses, would be effectually lessened. He and She need wander no more through most of women's college magazines, saying amorous nothings between many soulful pauses. Little Harold and small Alice could take their supper in the nursery undisturbed, their college sister no longer listening to every word of their guileless chatter for copy. In retired ease the cowboy and the miner could recuperate, after the landslides and prairie fires they so nobly endured at the hands of the Western collegiates. The poor, thread-worn sonnet might rest in peace for a time. It is not that attempting such stories is without its uses; it is only when they are produced to the exclusion of so much else that would be interesting and convincing that these questions might appear timely. Are we writing because our subject is popular and can be used, or because we have something to express and wish to express it well?

In reading through the many college periodicals, where presumably the best work is printed, it is surely not unfair to say that their interest lies more in their promise of future power than in any artistic merit of their own. There is no danger in remembering that we are still learning to understand and to handle the various stops; there is peril of mistake in losing our perspective and fancying ourselves in full control of the machine.

It is remarkable how little good verse has appeared in the March and April issues of the college magazines. Some essays of value, many attractive stories, and bits of description that are both vivid and captivating, make the reading pleasant; but where is the flood of song that we have expected to overflow the periodicals in these days of spring?

Among a number of excellent essays "The Passing of Absolute Leadership", in the University of Oregon Monthly, is commendable for its note of wide interest. It gives a clear account of the evolution of leadership, from Charlemagne, "who, with inexorable dictatorship, spoke to the masses", to "Lincoln, of Republican principles, himself of the masses, and speaking for them".

A thoughtful article in The Radcliffe Magazine discovers that the decline of national spirit in English poetry marks the limits of her present poetic greatness. In fact, the question whether there is any great literature in the process of production-or for that matter ever will be-seems to trouble many. The Bruonian takes comfort in the thought that at least "we are paving the way for a great outburst of literature tomorrow".

Stories and sketches are to be found in abundance and in excellence. Mary Ellen", from The Minnesota Magazine, is a charming bit of character portrayal. She reminds us of wayward Rebecca as she rushes away to the woods and defiantly vows that she will never, never come back.

"Then Aunt Elmira raged and reviled while Peter plunged in, shouting terms of parley as he went. After a bit he returned. "Well?' asked Aunt Elmira.

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"She'll come out,' answered the boy between chuckles, 'an' go home if-'

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"""Well ?'

"If she won't have to shell peas, while she's at your house-' """What?'

"Shell peas, ner chase chickens, ner do patch work, ner-I forget what else, only you're not to whip her neither.'

""Well!!" said Aunt Elmira. She faced about and marched to the house. 'You make tracks for home,' she ordered the Meers boy, who still hovered, tremendously amused by the situation. When within the house she lit the lamp, pulled the curtains close, and sat resolutely down to a piece of knitting. Once she arose, went to the kitchen and drew the apple switch out of the wood-box, glancing grimly at the clock as she did so. It was nine o'clock.

"We'll see,' Aunt Elmira said aloud."

"Maiden Versus Machina", from The Radcliffe Magazine, is a strong love story, of the sort it would be pleasant to see written more often. "Material for his machine, or a ring for his sweetheart!" It is too hard a choice for the young inventor. He likes to eat his cake and have it, too; but the false diamond is accidentally detected in an X-ray exhibition, and in the bitter hour that follows he finds that he cannot serve two mistreses at once. The scene with the machine, before he sends it crashing into fragments, is well done.

Among the descriptive sketches, "Little Canada", from The Radcliffe Magazine, and "A Child of the Canyon", in The Wellesley Magazine, are most striking. The latter is a touching portrayal of a child's love for what she deems her own discovered spots in nature.

"Little Canada" is a city within a city, leading a life of its own.

"The wobbly tenements of Little Canada are separated by alleys, never over six feet wide. Crowded clothes lines, strung from house to house, shut out the air, shut in the damp. Children swarm in the alleys, their bright dresses giving startling touches of color to the damp darkness. The Canadians have no desire to shop outside their own quarter. The shops, which occupy the lower floors of many of the houses, supply all their needs, ranging from the white casket and 'burial slippers to the hideous, much-liked Lamprey eel.

"In the people of Little Canada, a mixture of French and Indian blood gives rise to perplexing contrasts. The Indian shows in the coarse, straight hair, high cheek bone and wiry build; the small stature, bright black eye and vivacious manner are French. The women, when young, are pretty, with that natural white transparency of skin which arsenic produces artificially. They have the inherent love of the French for dress, but their taste is corrupted by the Indian love of hideously bright colors. They are light-hearted, dirty, improvident, but better workers than the men.

"On the narrow bit of grass along the canal, old people and women with babies stroll or sit. They do not mind the penetrating odor nor the slimy green walls. Children dance to the music of a hurdy-gurdy in the circle of electric light. Over on the dump, by the falls, the young people are gathered. The breeze coming down the river is cool. Here and there a bonfire of refuse throws a red light on little girls and men. The tinkle of a goat bell is heard. Shrill voices and excited laughter are softened by the rush of the rapids.

"To-morrow work begins at six; to-night the Canadian is at play."

ALUMNÆ DEPARTMENT

THE SONG OF MY HEART

I made a song that the folk shall sing
When home their hero comes,
When out the scarlet guidons fling
At the roll of many drums;

I sang of the foes that his sword has slain
In the hurricane of war,

I sang of a nation with loosened chain

And mightily broken bar;

I sang of the strain of the central fight,
And the charger flecked with foam :
And this is the song they shall sing to-night,
When their hero he comes home.

But the song of my heart I could not make
Though men should kneel and pray ;

Oh, the lips may sing though the heart may break,
But the song must needs be gay!

I'll sing the din of the battle-field,

The night of the battle-blow;

More terrible things than sword or shield
The song of my heart should show!

My song be sung where the brave lights shine

All down the banquet-hall!

A song for the lips that quaff the wine,

Not having known the gall!

When veiled with darkness was all the sky,

Nor dared we hope for morn,

Together we trod it, thou and I,

The way of the Crimson Thorn;

Thou and I together, soul by soul,

The thorn-stings grew delight;

Come sting, come blindness, we knew our goal;

What cared we for night,

Thou and I? Then, my steps made pause;

A star on thy forehead shone:

Thy hands, they are serving a brighter cause :
I-I am here alone.