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about half an hour before sunrise.

We left our unaccustomed

bed, and saw the whole incoming of the day. The earliest rays of the advancing sun tinged the summit of the distant Mt. Washington.

"Night's candles are burnt out, the jocund day

Stands tip-toe on the misty mountain-tops."

We see Night gather her dusky robes and flee to the west, and day rules again. Ours was no common fortune to enjoy such perfect sunset and sunrise scenes. Either was doubly worth all our pains in making the excursion.

At eight o'clock we bethought ourselves of home. The limbs of Micrus groaned at the long walk before them and fain would have borne him to the cars, but his pride overcame all scruples and it was determined to attempt to walk back to Concord. To carry out this scheme we must descend on the side opposite to that by which we came up. Of the downward path we knew nothingthere was none to be seen. Below us was a forest ravine. The belt of wood seemed to extend about a half mile and then the land was cleared. This seemed the easiest way, and Typhlus suggested it. It was agreed upon. We noted the position of the sun and the direction of the clearing, and it was well we did so. Passing down the rocks we reached the edge of the forest.

One that has never experienced a mountain jungle has no idea of its difficulty. There is a tangled underbrush, so rank that one can see but a few rods ahead. Across your path at all angles, lie the corpses of the fallen patriarchs of the forest, fallen years ago, and now bleached and decaying. Here indeed is death in the midst of life. From the mouldy stumps of the dead hemlocks, ivies and corrals are springing green. From the fallen trees, hard, sharp stumps of branches broken off long since, threaten at every stumble to impale the luckless wanderer. It is, in short, the most uncompromising, ill-natured thicket that one can imagine. Into such a labyrinth we plunged. On we stumbled, straggled, struggled, resting every twenty rods or stopping to collect the

pieces of Typhlus' eyeglasses, which he had broken on the summit, but by much troublesome care managed to keep upon his nose, when he was not picking up the pieces. Finally he lost them forever in a brook in the depth of the jungles. But there is no great loss where there is not some small gain. Though deprived of clear vision, he was no longer troubled with the spiteful lenses. By the direction of the sun we steered our way. It seemed endless. Micrus was in despair. Typhlus, the advocate of the plan of descent, thought mountain distances deceptive, felt somewhat tired, but would not confess it. After an hour and a half in this woful maze, we saw the clearing a few rods ahead, and broke from the woods with a glad shout. Though we would not have been persuaded to retrace our steps, now the experience was past, we would not have parted with it for much. Hence our path was comparatively easy. Continuing down the ravine we struck the regular path and soon were on the level earth again. We were so wearied by our fatiguing through the forest and the descent of the mountain that we gave up our walk to Concord, yet plodded on for twelve miles to the nearest station, where we arrived at six in the evening. A few hours later we were dreaming again the scenes of our journey.

C. E. F.

ADRIFT.

I sang a song o' yesterday,

(Which sadly I deplore)

For heart and pen waged merry war

As whether I sang to Esther, say,
Or sang to Elinore.

To Esther I inscribed the lay,

But Cupid came before

The second line was hardly o'er,

And led my heart another way,—
I wrote to Elinore.

And now there is the deuce to pay—

I'll carol never more—

The name, alas, the wrapping bore
Was in mistake writ Margery

Instead of

THE STRIFE.

R. B. M., '02.

That was a fierce little battle between the wind and rain yesterday. For several hours,-for a week, in fact, were the truth known, preparation for this contest had been going on. The wind, more impetuous than its opponent, had been blustering around and telling us all about it, while the rain sat, scowling down from the clouds above the horizon. But when at length the rain did descend to fight it out, with the enemy already on the field, the scene was worth the seeing. Rain and wind flew in every direction, covering the earth till one could scarcely make one's way through them. The wind with a fierce battle-wail would push its foe back, while the rain, less noisy but more spiteful, sent its darts through the wind in a way that told. And the outcome of it all? That was the strange part. They both were so completely vanquished that not a vestige of either was left on the earth.

E. H. S., '02.

MISS WHITNEY'S ROMANCE.

Abner Gray's oxen had broken out again! Abner knew it the moment he came from his house on that bright September morning and became conscious that his two great, hulking pets did not, as usual, adorn the landscape in the vicinity of the pasture bars. They were always there waiting for the "bran mash" which Abner always brought to them, as a special favor, when he turned the cows out. There was but one way to account for their nonappearance. I say, Abner 'knew' that they were out, and his assurance was made doubly sure by the dark oppression which came over his spirit when he thought of their probable destination, the flower beds in Miss Whitney's front yard! "Ef they got outer thet gap t' I meant ter put up yisterday," muttered Abner as he went about the milking, "they couldn't go nowhar else." He put up the pasture bars after the cows and went back to the house with an expression of deep concern on his honest face. "It's this consarned livin' alone, 'n doin' women's work," he muttered as he clumsily went about the preparation of his simple breakfast. “The' ain't no man livin' 't ken wash dishes 'n keep his fences mended 't the same time."

Breakfast over, he shouldered an axe and started up the road toward Miss Whitney's house, keeping an eye on the fence, which ran parallel, to find the place where the oxen had broken out.

Miss Whitney was Abner's nearest neighbor. Ever since, ten years before, the Whitneys (father and daughter) had moved from a neighboring town to the farm joining his, he had taken a lively interest in their welfare. As time wore on this interest had increased and had centred in great part about Miss Whitney, herself. There was no doubt who was master in the Whitney household. Miss Whitney had, from the first, taken exclusive command. Her father, who had been almost an invalid for several years, gladly left the management of the farm to his masterful daughter, and when they adopted the Herrick boy, after his

father was killed at the saw mill, there was little change in the regular discipline. One or two slight jars occurred and young Lucius Herrick came to know his place fairly well and to appreciate the difference in consequences to himself should Miss Whitney address him as "Lutie" or as "Lute Herrick!"

She could hardly be called either young or pretty, but under all of her sternness she had a tender heart, and to Abner Gray she was all that could be desired. To be truthful, Abner had come to his fortieth year with very little experience in the ways of the little mystic god. As he expressed it: "I never was much of a hand with women, 'n some way they most all of 'em got by me when I was younger."

He had been "sparkin' " Miss Whitney now for almost exactly eight years. For six of these years his courting had never gone beyond a game of checkers with her father, with an accompaniment of sidelong glances, but she had no other suitor and Abner was sure she understood him. Then his mother died and he grew bolder under the stimulus of his absolute need of a housekeeper. Six months before, he had almost asked the all-important question. She knew what he meant and did not discourage him. For a few short weeks things went swimmingly on the new footing and Abner was about ready to actually ask her if it wouldn't be a good thing to make the two adjoining farms one (he thought this the best way to put it), when of a sudden a new and young minister came to the village church and Abner's troubles began. The week after his arrival the minister called at Miss Whitney's. He was an extremely well bred and attractive young man, and somehow, day by day, after that call, Abner felt that he was losing ground. The church needed money. Miss Whitney at once subscribed twenty dollars and the minister came up to supper.

Abner walked on up the road, pondering all of these things, and his frame of mind was far from cheerful.

As he had expected, the oxen had found the weak spot in the fence, and his heart sank still lower as he saw the great hoof-prints

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