fins on the side of an eastern hill. All at once Mary felt a tear trickle down her cheek; another followed and another; in a moment she was sobbing.

After a while, through the blur of her tears, she saw a tiny spot moving along the highway. She dried her eyes hastily. It was her father. The brilliant red of his shirt had always been unmistakable since her childhood. With a glad cry she jumped up and ran down the side of the mountain.

The following afternoon Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong came and took Mary to drive with them in their carriage. When they returned to the cottage the old lady and Mary were in tears. "And you think that you will not change your mind?" Mr. Armstrong coughed suspiciously.

The girl nodded in mute confirmation.

"We will come out again in several days."

A few moments later the old couple were gone.

The next morning Mary arose when the dawn was still grey on the hills. She looked at the clothes on the chair beside her bed curiously, as though they belonged to some other person, then taking them carefully, packed them all in a large trunk, which stood against the wall. From a little unvarnished chest of drawers she took other clothes and put them on-an old dress, coarse wool stockings, a burlap apron. And, finally, from the corner she pulled out two heavy wooden-soled clogs.

Outside, she smiled down at the double hoof-marks which she made behind the house where the dust was still damp with dew. "I think," she observed a moment later, "that those turnips will need hoeing."

Then she passed through the doorway and began ranging little sticks of wood in the oven.

E. T. Webb.

A PORTRAIT.

A golden beam-light as a child's caress,
Fell softly on the fair, pathetic face;

So white, so sad, so full of gentle grace;
And lingering, touched the quaint, high-girdled dress,
Of oddly fashioned, simple loveliness

All pale old-rose, and ivory-tinted lace.
And from the lilac shadows' soft embrace,

The portrait stood in all its loneliness.

The wistful lips might almost speak, it seems,-
Whisper the tale the pleading eyes would tell :
Eyes that have searched so long and never found;
Such tired eyes, so full of broken dreams;

But darkness comes to break the fairy spell;
The wistful lips are still in silence bound.

Newbold Noyes.

NOTABILIA.

THE OLD LIBRARY.

There is a row of dowels running up each detached corner of Linsly Hall, the middle section of our tripartite library building. Attention seems to be paid to these dowels only when two red-haired truant pages use them as a ladder and view the landscape from their lofty perch, or when a laughing crowd urges on a sheepish candidate to the ascent of a supposititious Mont Blanc. But these bits of angle iron, presumably sinister only in their unsightliness, have a real interest for us. They herald the doom of the Old Library, at once the oldest of the college public buildings, the one most hallowed by association, and, in many ways, the most beautiful. The Old Library is to be torn down, and the rows of dowels, that now jut out into the empty air, will sometime fit between the stones of a building more worthy, in size and utility, than its predecessor, to stand beside such useful buildings as Chittenden and Linsly.

Perhaps, in many minds, the Old Library has come to be identified with these other two, but it can be seen alone in all its beauty as one enters the Campus through the Phelps Gateway. It stands exquisitely framed in the Gothic arch, with the two big aggressors excluded. On a warm, moonlight night in early Fall the Freshmen, as they enter the Campus for the first time, can see it thus; and thus have all Freshmen, since the class of 1846. How the first damp snow clings among the ivy tendrils on the absurdly delicate towers and softens their exact outlines! Then the evergreen vines and the sparrows keep the building cheerful through the whole winter, until the buds begin to open and it is really alive again. Happy are those who used to mount the north-entrance brown steps, worn six inches deep while the stately approach to the main entrance looked as if it had never been trod! Those dusty, choir-like galleries were idiotically prodigal of storage space, but what places they were to crouch and read, by the light through the translucent diamond panes, books of romance and travel.

It was our stronghold of romance. Perhaps it was not very practical; perhaps not even very healthy. The windows were not always half-open to admit a hygienic flow of air, nor did the readers step out every hour to "fill their lungs with good, snappy ozone." The Old Library was a relic of that age before men who expect to use their brains had begun to work up their physical condition to the point where their bodies get used to demanding consideration. That was the age when men would say, like Evarts of the first LIT. board, that they never exercised, and expected to dry up and blow away when the time came. Evarts did, at the age of eighty.

Along with the change in our ideas of hygiene has come a change in our ideas of a university education. How antiquated were the views of Newman and Arnold, who were so much concerned with the externals of a university! How idiotic would a man be to say of Yale, even if he could, as did Arnold of Oxford: "And yet, steeped in sentiment as she lies, spreading her gardens to the moonlight, and whispering from her towers the last enchantments of the Middle Age, who will deny that Oxford, by her ineffable charm, keeps ever calling us nearer to the true goal of all of us, to the ideal, to perfection— to beauty, in a word, which is only truth seen from another side?—nearer perhaps than all the science of Tübingen. Adorable dreamer, whose heart has been so romantic!"

No, where efficiency stalks in at the door, hallowed antiquity, mellow tradition, and romantic beauty, the only attributes of the Old Library, fly out at the window. It is with modern life, as Professor Beers said in his centenary lecture on Thackeray of modern literature: "The tide has turned away from the contemplative and toward the unremittingly effective." No doubt the classes from 1852 to 1879, whose ivy was planted against the walls of the Old Library, are ashamed of the old-fashioned sentiment that moved them to put it there. Such old fogies as the eleven surviving members of the Class of 1852 may object to the destruction of the building. But, anyhow, their ivy died long ago. Of course the class secretaries can preserve the stones with the numerals cut in them as a matter of record.

Like these stones, the Old Library is useful only in preserving records, so we are going to tear it down and put up in its place

a bigger edifice that can preserve more records. Then our oldest public building will be Alumni Hall, or, if that too be gone, Herrick Hall; both are eminently useful buildings, fit to typify the up-to-date efficiency of the state universities which are encroaching on Yale so fast with "all the science of Tübingen." Their buildings are handsome and they themselves are wealthy. But with all their wealth they cannot buy antiquity, tradition and romance. These are the three things that we, comparatively penniless, are throwing away.

S. C.