Page images
PDF
EPUB

THE TUFTONIAN.

EDITORIAL BOARD.

ARTHUR MAYNARD BOUTELLE, Editor-in-Chief.

1902.

RAY BARTON MANBERT,

RUTH BURLEIGH DAME.

1903. CHANDLER MASON WOOD.

With this number THE TUFTONIAN makes its bow to the new century and extends a hearty New Year's greeting to the college. Congratulations, too, upon the closing years of the century just passed are most decidedly in order. The facts brought to light by the new catalogue, commented upon elsewhere, are a revelation to some of us, who had not fully realized the tremendous strides in progress which the college has taken, especially in the past decade. Since her birth, a scant half century ago, Tufts has ever been progressive, never being behind, and in several important educational reforms leading the way for other and larger institutions. Intellectual progress has been the key to success in the century just passed, and our college, under wise and competent guidance, has come up through the years, to a position, both as regards educational facilities and number of students, which insures her a place among the larger institutions of learning in America.

Just before the recess we were forcibly put in mind of the changed conditions by the inauguration of a custom prevalent in large colleges and universities: the public awarding of honors by the faculty, The ceremony was most impressive and by its

very formality marked the cessation of that intimacy between student and instructor which has always existed at Tufts and which, however desirable, is possible only in a small college.

We must ask the indulgence of TUFTONIAN readers for again taking up the question of literary contributions to the paper, but as the college year proceeds, and the editors are forced again and again to make up its pages from limited sources, this topic appeals to us as one important in a large degree. Considering the college from a numerical standpoint, it must appeal to every one, to whom the state of affairs is known, that the number of contributions in comparison to the number of registered students is grossly disproportionate. While, in saying this, we realize that not everyone in college has the ability or inclination to write, yet the high grade of work in the English department must argue for a greater number of men and women who can do this work than has yet been made apparent to the board of editors.

It is not only unjust but disloyal to the college to refuse the support of its publications by contributions, and it certainly ought not to be within the province of any student of literary ability to criticise the literary worth of the paper unless he or she has made some honest effort to raise and strengthen its character.

A. M. B., 'OI.

[blocks in formation]

Rebounding cushion centresole.
Ventilates the shoe at every step.
Prevents jar to nerves and spine.
Distributes pressure over foot sole.
Spreads wear evenly over shoe sole.
Damp-proof-clean-dry-springy.

The Resilia Shoe Co.

177 Tremont St.

Boston

THE TUFTONIAN.

Vol. XXVI. FEBRUARY, 1901.

No. 5

THE VAGABOND.

One fair morning when the breath of June was in the air and the wind, setting from the north, had cleared the heaven of the few wisping clouds that lay, like straws, across it, it befell that I, a wanderer and a taster of life, stood upon a little hill, in freedom and at the tip-top of fortune, staring at the world.

My voice is my pittance and my substance, for I, like many another ragged and bedecked straggler on the road, sing for my pleasure and my purse.

The course of the highway was my chief intent, for I was ward bound," as seamen say. I followed with my eye the winding road as it led with fanciful mood among its elms, a fitful and careless way.

It was a road I liked. It was none of your steady-going roads that plow straight away like cart horses and suggest nothing of adventure. It was none of your kings' highways with a mailcoach and a beggar to surfeit with. It was a road that wandered like myself, little caring whither but to have something of excitement or pleasure on't, and with the bubbling enthusiasm of a new day's play I was for it.

At my back lay the rolling heath, red-brown at the start of spring, and to the south a pleasant valley and a glimpse now and then of white water, where a brook crept silently.

I had been at the green fair at Holingshead, a roaring, ropeswinging, cheat-and-lie sort of a place, and with a fat purse in my pocket and a sheriff at my heels I had left for the south. I

H

knew it was warm and pleasant at the Blackfriars and I could almost taste the ale at the White Horse.

Scarcely had I stepped away through the furze toward my path when I heard a piercing whistle from the hillside at my right. I stopped and listened, turning toward the place whence it came. There was intense silence and not a soul in sight. Again it sounded, and I thought from among some rocks hanging in ragged projection down the slope. I was not mistaken, for directly I saw a head bound with a red cloth peer out at me and a long hand beckoning.

I slid my hand over my dirk handle and started for it. I felt no fear, for I had a quick wrist and a stout heart for a boy. As I came near a fat, ragged beggar clambered out, cocked his arms and looked at me curiously. He who had beckoned also rose from his concealment and greeted me. He was a tall, swarthy cut-throat looking devil with a nasty air of murder somehow clinging to him. I waited for him to speak, and he smiled in the friendly fashion of a thief to a thief.

"We meet again," said he, showing a beautiful set of teeth in his sinister grin.

"To my pleasure," I returned, touching my ragged cap to the lie of it.

"What luck?" he queried, looking at me narrowly.

I shrugged my shoulders.

"There's a swinging job waiting for you, my lad," said he. "Your friend died at the Red Lion at midnight. I had it from the hostler."

"So," I replied, indifferently, "he was a soft fool and his purse was as empty as his head." I spoke warily for I had chances at a lame head on my own account, should he know the contents of the belt under my jacket.

"What is your direction?" he asked, lowering his voice.

"I go to France," I replied carelessly, for I tell my mind to no

one.

"Speedily ?"

« PreviousContinue »