THE NEVER-NEVER LAND.

All the streets are paved with chocolates
And spankings never hurt

And you can go in swimming all the day.
You can break the china plates

Or go messing 'round with dirt,

For then you'll know that Heaven's come your way.

CHO. Then you'll know (Deep bass: Yes, you'll know), Then you'll know (High tenor: Yes, you'll know), By the booming of the big brass band.

Oh, there ain't no harp nor wing

Nor the usual sort of thing

In the really, truly never-never land.

There's a thousand soda fountains

With a million free ice creams

For which you never, never have to pay.

There'll be lollipops in mountains,

Mud beyond your maddest dreams

When the real idea of Heaven comes your way.

CHO. For you'll know (Deep bass: Yes, you'll know), For you'll know (High tenor: Yes, you'll know), etc.

J. F. C., JR.

HOTEL CUMBERLAND

NEW YORK

BROADWAY, at FIFTY-FOURTH STREET SEVENTH AVE. CARS FROM PENNA. STATION

HARRY P. STIMSON, Manager

The Cumberland does more College Business any other Hotel in New York

than

HEADQUARTERS FOR YALE

HA

MOTIVES AND PARTINGS.

ARDLY a day passes without some friend informing you that he is about to enlist in Government service. Whether wisely or not is a debatable question and need not be discussed. But whether they are wise or foolish, they take the step and go forth to war. To some this is an indication of the essential frivolity and tendency for shirking that is considered part of the make-up of every college man.

To some these men who are leaving leave merely because they are tired of college work, because they crave excitement, because they are so blind that they do not see that their true duty lies with their studies. To others they appear to leave because they are actuated by motives sublime and inexpressible, because they desire to sacrifice themselves to duty. Both these views are extreme, both can be disproved to a certain extent, though each side can proudly point to an infinitesimal fraction of the whole and exclaim, "See!"

The man who believes that he is escaping a pitiless routine of work in joining the army is either an imbecile or a hermit, and our College is not composed of either. In electing to serve the country, one passes from a flexible and lenient routine to one inexorable and cast-iron. To believe that a man chooses the latter to escape from the irksomeness of the former is the height of folly. That those who leave us desire the exhilara

tion of active service, the glamor of the uniform, and the comfortable swagger of one who is doing right is undoubtedly true. All these things are undoubtedly attractive. But no one is deceived by any belief in the romance and beauty of war. That fallacy has long since crumbled in the mud and blood of Flanders, in the desolation of France. We realize that war means not excitement but dreary boredom, utter weariness and not well-fed enthusiasm. It is the abstract and the ideal rather than the concrete excitement, the spiritual rather than the physical awakening which entices us. That we should stick

to our books has not yet been proven. The country is in a quandary. If we desire to keep all that for which we fight there is danger that no one will fight, but that every interest declare itself vital. This we must avoid. It was the intellect of the American universities which headed the belief that we should fight for that which we held dear. Shall this intellect shrink from the task it has created and assign it to others? The intellectual argument for our share in the war cannot be ignored. It was the students of Germany who led the German people in the War of Liberation, in the concrete as well as the abstract. In our war of liberation should not the intellect insist on its right to serve?

Those who surround the ones who leave with a glamor of mysticism are equally wrong. Perhaps at the very base of a man's desire to enter his country's service is an unuttered ideal, a devotion to a cause which is just. So at the edge of his desire are the sordid moments mentioned above. This ideal colors a man's reasons, but is not a prime motive. The truth seems to lie between the quintessential ideal and the sordid urge.

Men leave because they feel that they should, they have a sense of duty. They have no illusion that they will escape, the most believe that they will not return. Many happy hours are spent in outlining the horrid details of the first reunion, the men with mechanical arms, gutta-percha noses, and automatic oesophogi. Or else they agree to assist in "pushing daisies," or "fertilizing one of the fairest fields of France." No. They do not believe that they will return.

Nor do they believe that they are heroes, that their actions are the result of tremendous beautiful ideals. They merely go because they feel that it is the part of every man and gentleman to serve the country actively in the hour of need. Unconscious of heroism they all will be heroes. God willing, they will return in safety. But if they do not return they will, as some already have, meet the common end with the clear and fearless gaze of gentlemen who have done that which they were in honor bound to do. We who as yet are unable to serve can only say that we envy them and that we await with impatience the opportunity which will set us free, not from the studies and intellectual duties of a university existence, but from a state of what is essentially inaction. Thought is nothing if not made concrete. Our ideals we already have, their execution is delayed and we greet those who are able to act, as men set free.

John F. Carter, Jr.