EDITOR'S TABLE. Agamemnon scowled ferociously as he read through the heaps of thricecondemned manuscripts and marked them with the "See me's" and "Please revise's" and "Good stuff's" that betray the novice. Atropos was not there. She had departed on the trail of the Business Board, armed with a writ of assistance and a shotgun. Chloe bent her fair head over a heap of foolscap scrawled with rare cuneiforms-she said it was a little poem. Thus spoke Zoe, emboldened and embittered by experience, "See here, girls, we've just got to get out the January number." "Why?" sub-acid-ed Agamemnon. "It isn't March yet, is it?" "The College will stand a lot, but it won't—” "The College will stand for anything!" said Chloe. "It said so in the News." "I don't care fudge for what the News said!" screamed Zoe. "I believe that a monthly paper should be a monthly paper instead of a—" "Daily joke?" suggested Agamemnon. "Well," said Chloe, "what are you going to do about it?" "Do? I can't do a thing. I rely on your support to back me in my attitude against Aggie." "How ridiculous!" said Agamemnon. "I've been writing a little poem," said Chloe. Both knew enough not to speak. Useless! "Do you want to hear it?" continued Chloe, waving her mistresspiece at the pitiful pair. No answer. "All right! I'll read it! It's called Amaryllis. "'Amaryllis (What a word!) Rhymes with trellis. How absurd!'" “Why don't you try free verse?” inquired Agamemnon. Zoe drew Chloe aside and whispered gently in her rosy ear. "But 'trellis' doesn't rhyme with 'Amaryllis.' It would have to be 'tryllis' or "Amarellis'." "That's just it!" retorted Chloe. "How absurd!' It is absurd." "But it doesn't rhyme!" protested Zoe, dumbfounded at such casuistry. "You might as well try to rhyme 'time' and 'crime,' or 'old' and 'bold', or 'you' and 'glue.' Heavens! What have I said?" Zoe collapsed in a heap on the floor, uttered little inarticulate cries, spoke of "rhymes" and "crimes," of "January numbers." "Poor girl!" sobbed Chloe. "She lisped in numbers, for the numbers came.' "So they have!" remarked Atropos, entering with the bloody scalps of two business heelers. "Here's the January one at last!" ZOE. HOTEL CUMBERLAND NEW YORK BROADWAY, at FIFTY-FOURTH STREET SEVENTH AVE. CARS FROM PENNA. STATION Kept by a College Man Headquarters for College Men Ten Minutes' Walk to Rooms with Bath Special Rates for Teams and Students HARRY P. STIMSON, Manager The Cumberland does more College Business than other Hotel in New York HEADQUARTERS FOR YALE MAN THE ISLAND OF REFUGE. AN has always sought Utopia-and the quest for a Spiritual City is continual and ceaseless. The Happy Islands, the Abbey of Theleme, the New Atlantis-who has not trod their paths in ecstasy, and wakened with an aimless ache at the heart for the unbearable beauty of what is not and cannot be? It is this which books give us, and music, and the arts; a dwelling place for our strange dreams and wandering, purple fancies; a glimpse of unattainable perfection; an island of refuge. And great indeed is our need for such an island in this time of iron. We muse, or we read, or we listen-the intensity of one sense cloaks the outside world as if with sleep -and we have slipped through the gate of horn, the gate of true dreams, and are walking the streets of a sacred and immortal town. It has passed, the strain, the labor, the knowledge of the abomination of war, and we move in a town of melodious name among its gracious and gentle men and women, the fellows of our company. And there is home in the air and adventure. Perhaps it is not well that such instants should last, come very often, even. But when they do come they furnish a true katharsis, a cleansing of the soul. Also they lure with a quite ridiculous hope of earthly fulfillment. Never in body shall we see that fortunate isle-but "Perhaps.. says the brain, "perhaps... There was that time by the three hills at sunset; we very nearly had it that time-and do you remember the two weeks in Sicily and the hour in the white room at Carmel?” -And we are only too eager to be deluded, if we may but return there again. Every man finds his desire there—and there are all the good and honorable things we know and remember-friendship, and the pitting of oneself against odds, and ale in tankards by the fire, and pale gold twilights and evenings chill with stars. Nor is body or soul abased or deformed after the manner of men. For the small hot irritations of the flesh there are angry and clamorous fellowship and love like the fair strife of two equal and contending flames. And there is peace and laughter and immortal laziness-the sleep and content of the rain or the earth and their vigor and splendor, immortal likewise. Such is the island of refuge, a haven bitter to forego. For the war-it has only brought our island closer to usit has made us strain all effort not toward living there out of the world, but toward bringing the world within the compass of its walls. Consciously or unconsciously, it is for Utopia we are fighting-and over our heads is the Banner of the City of God...and the tattered gonfalon of Don Quixote. It is needless to say we shall not attain-we knew when we began our cause was frustrate, we knew not and shall not know it hopeless. "Perhaps," we say, repeating idle visions of the soul, "for our children-or our children's children-". For us it is enough that through the smoke, the confusion, the useless and wanton sacrifice, we have seen gleam bright and vanish for an instant those white walls we know of-and the way to them lies forward, and in the last agony of assault. Stephen Vincent Benét. WAR SECTION SONNET. I'll seek you now no more so tirelessly, That you exist, and that there comes a time So far the voyage has been very pleasant. We have had heavy weather all the way, but no storms. Curtis R., who claimed he wouldn't be able to look a grape in the eye if there was any motion at all, has scarcely been seasick at all-and as for Shorty S., who made the same claim-he has invited disaster on every possible occasion by ordering lobster, oysters |