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front of him.

Resther cared little about dinners eaten indoors beside the hot wood fire, and Charlie, much as everyone made fun of him, had his advantages.

Resther's afternoon was as arduous as his morning. In the evening, he remembered an errand down in Saulnierville. So he harnessed up the colt which he had broken in that spring, to the best carriage and asked Zenai to ride along with him. He had also placed some liberal baskets of cherries which Zenai had certainly never picked, beneath the seat. The colt started off at a brisk trot, far in advance of the other carriages. Zenai looked back and smiled at Resther.

"Your colt is very fast," she said.

Resther clucked to him proudly and the colt went faster. Charlie was slapping the reins on the old horse's back but the old horse tossed his head derisively and jogged on at the same steady pace. He had none of that fine sense of rivalry and emulation which urged him to outdo the colt. Resther glanced over his shoulder.

"Charlie can't beat the colt," he said.

There was a group of children on the grass beside the road. "We will throw them some cherries," said Zenai.

That is what the cherrying parties always do on the way home and the children scramble after them as if cherries were the one aim of life. Zenai had just leaned forward to pull a basket from beneath the seat when she heard an awful cry.

"Mother, mother!" called a little girl. "Come to the door quick! Here's a wedding procession going by!"

And it looked like a wedding truly. In Acadie the bride and groom ride sheepish and blushing in an open carriage along the road at the head of a procession of more open carriages, filled with youths and maidens. There is no place in Acadie for deprecating elders at a wedding.

Zenai blushed as red as grandpère's reddest cherries; the mother came running to the door and all the children stopped playing and gazed at the two young people in the carriage.

"Zenai," whispered Resther, "shall we make a wedding procession ?"

But Zenai had leaned forward and filled her little hands with cherries, She now threw them broadcast over the grass,

"Les cerises, enfants !" she cried.

The children scrambled and the mother called back into the house,

"It is only Charlie Saulnier's cherrying party, Marie.”

But Zenai was saying reproachfully:

"Oh, Resther! Before those little ones!"

R. B. D., '02.

IN DOUBT.

Would you but know the maiden fair who stole my heart for her collection?

Would you but know the maiden dear who cuts it up for her inspection?

Would you but know the maiden sweet who mangled it in stern dissection?

Would you?

I'm sorry I can't tell. You see
All girls look so alike to me.

But, should you know this maiden fair, whose conduct sadly needs correction;

Yes, should you know this maiden dear-enough to aid in her

detection;

Ah, should you know this maiden sweet. I think she'd have my whole affection.

Should you?

You see I'm worrying quite a bit

My heart's so cut up over it.

B. A., '02.

A FRESHMAN NARRATIVE.

He was only a freshman and freshmen amount to very little in this college world of ours. But still he had the right stuff in him. We all found that out before the season was over. Wilcox prepared at St. Marks, and naturally we thought he was one of those fellows who shout, "Play hard, fellows," all the afternoon, and then go in to eat their bread and milk and tell how cockingly well Willy So and So played that afternoon. College men judge hastily and rashly, and so did we judge him.

You tackle

It took but a week to see our mistake. Every afternoon he was out in his torn, ragged, canvas suit, and every afternoon he lined up with the second eleven. Sometimes he played tackle, sometimes at guard, and once the coaches put him in at centre, but always on the second team. And do you know what that work on the scrub eleven means? a man and throw him in his tracks; the coaches curse you because you didn't throw him back. You throw a man back, and the coach swears because you didn't throw him back farther. If there is anything that will try a man's nerve and tell what he is made of it is practice on the second eleven.

For two hours every night young Wilcox went through all this. He was battered this way and pushed that; he was trodden upon, and knocked down like a stick of wood; and then after all came the bitter, scolding words of the coaches.

Practice over, he would go in heartbroken, resolving never to touch a football again. The next night he would come out and do the same things over, and rejoice in them. For foot. ball is a pleasure to most players.

Through all this training Wilcox passed, and came out the better man for it. A man can bear all those experiences and live to tell of them with pleasure. The plucky boy improved daily, and the head coach, that most condescending of mortals, even went so far as to say that he might make the varsity if he lasted to be a senior.

The season drew on to its close and still Wilcox had not played a game. It was the night before the game with Trinity, the last, the game of the year. As Wilcox lay in his bed that evening, little did he dream that the next day he would have

that longed-for chance to make a name for himself, little did he think that on the next evening his name would be on the lips of every man in college.

The next morning after chapel Wilcox stopped before the bulletin board to read the line-up for the game. "Left-endRemick, Left tackle-Carleton-Left-guard; What was that next? "W-i-l-c-o-x." The writing became one confused tangle of black and white. He could see nothing but those six letters. He looked again; there seemed to be no mistake. He caught sight of the manager just then coming out of the library and dropping his books he rushed across the campus. "What's that mean, my name on the line-up?" It was all straight. Cash. man, the regular guard, had been called home that morning by a death in the family, Knox was in the hospital and there was none but Wilcox left to play guard.

Wilcox never knew how he passed that morning. Sometimes he thinks he went in town to get that pad he had wanted for a month, then he is sure he took a long walk in the Fells, and again he remembers "flunking" in German I. But the dinner hour came at last and the boy sat between the captain and the head coach to be filled with rare beef and words of wisdom.

The advice they gave him in that short hour would fill a volume. He listened, and heard not a word; other things bothered him just then. He couldn't for the life of him remember whether his signal to run with the ball was forty-four or forty-six, and was the guard hole nine, and the tackle seven, or was it just the other way.

And those two long hours of eternity after dinner. He undressed at once and sat in his room wrapped in his dressinggown. In the next room the fellows were playing cards and he heard the little quarterback's cheery laugh. Downstairs the great, lazy centre was playing pool, while at his desk his roommate was calmly studying French. "Were these men never nervous?" thought Wilcox. Freshman, they are just as rattled as you are, only they have learned not to show it. So will you in time.

At last they werc dressed and on the field listening to the final words of the coaches. Then they lined up ready to receive the kick. In that one long minute of suspense his

thoughts travelled a thousand miles. He saw his far-away home and his little brother, who would read the morrow's papers with mingled pride and anxiety. He recalled all the marvelous stories about the strength of the man opposite him. about the half-back's swiftness and the slugging of the center He trembled like a leaf. He could scarcely see the mass of people who cheered from every side. A coach nodded cheerfully to him as he caught his eye, and then the referee blew his whistle, the ball sailed straight through the air into the halfback's hands. His opponent ran into him full tilt, and he blocked him short in his tracks. He was no longer the same man; not a muscle trembled, his head was clear and he was the eleventh part of a well-trained machine fighting for the love of his college.

The battle waxed fierce and strong. Neither side could make decisive gains. Once Wilcox got the ball from a fumble in a scrimmage, and ran as he never ran before towards his own goal. Fortunately he went outside and was called back, or he would have scored against himself. And deeper humiliation no man ever suffered. He thought he had lost the respect of every man in college. The he heard Smith, a wise old senior, "Oh, he's rotten, why don't they put Perry in?" But he had heard the coach that very morning tell how he had done the same thing, and so he worked still harder instead of losing his sand. The first half ended with no scoring by either side. With the advice of his classmates, the cursings of the coaches, and think ing what he could do to redeem himself, Wilcox managed to keep up his spirits between the halves.

The game went on with more or less success for the crimson and gray. "Five minutes more to play," shouted the referee and those five minutes dragged on until they were hours. The ball was on their opponents three-yard line. "5-63-45," rang out sharp and clear. The fullback caught the ball and plunged straight into Wilcox's back. Twenty-two strong, sturdy men. were piled up into one shapeless heap. But down underneath the pile Wilcox found the ball lying loose and hugged it to him like a long-lost friend. He laughed as he saw the goal line a foot behind him. By his side an agonized whisper, "Oh, God, I've fumbled." The harsh, heavy breathing, a groan, a curse,

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