122
The University Courier.
LITERARY.
Negatives.
Although a great deal has been said about feminine sympathy, the subject has been by no means thoroughly exhausted. Incidents illustrating the wonderful activity and ubiquity of this so distinctively feminine quality are of such common occurrence that any unpractised eye cannot fail to discover them. Just the other day the writer accidentally stumbled on a case in point—a case in which a new and pleasing turn was given to an old and overworked subject.
A visitor to the museum, evidently troubled with heart disease, had fallen over in a faint, near the Mississippi street entrance to the campus. Moreover, he had bled profusely and, taken all in all, presented a very ghastly appearance, as, carried by two of our athletic students, he was taken to Dr. W. for treatment. The doctor soon brought him around by administering the proper restoratives, and went on with the class in hygiene. The affair naturally occasioned much comment, and upon my way over to the main building a young lady asked me what the excitement in Snow Hall was about. Having been an eye witness to the whole occurrence, I was proceeding to give her a detailed report of what had happen—how the man had fallen across the sidewalk, how the blood had rushed from his nose, etc., when she broke in with, "Yes, yes, Mr. X—, I know all that; but was he a nice young man?"
I was walking along at a great rate, in order not to be late to class, when I met J—at the foot of the hill. I perceived that he was awfully tickled about something, and said, "Well, what is it?"
"What is it," he repeated, as if surprised at my question, "why, what do you mean?"
"Oh, come, now, don't try to play the 'innocence racket' on me. There is something the matter, I can see it sticking right out of your face."
"Well, I'll tell you, but remember it is a secret. It's about this English Composition class. The critic who corrects my themes just slashes them to death; nothing suits him. But I'll fix him. In the paper I am about to hand in this morning, I have whole paragraphs taken from Thackeray; kind of sub rosa, you understand. Now the critic will tear Thackeray all to pieces, and I'll have it on him."
“On who? Thackeray?” I broke in.
"Naw, on the critic, you idiot. The fact is, I am almost sure that I know who corrects my papers. Then, you see, when I get my paper back, I'll go up to Mr. Critic and spring my joke. It will simply daze him and I will have my revenge."
"Yes, that will be immense," I responded. Be sure and let me know how it comes out." With that I left him.
Two days later, just as I was coming from chapel, I met J—at the head of the stairs. "Well, how about that joke?" was my salutation.
"By George! I had forgotten all about it. The paper was returned to me this morning, but I haven't looked at it. Let's go down to the basement and see the criticism; then we'll come up and I'll strike the critic."
Down to the basement we went, J—giggling and chuckling all the way. Going into a side room he pulled the paper from his pocket and began to read. As the reading progressed, the chuckle changed, first to a nervous laugh, and then to a low moan. "I didn't expect to fool him," he said. "Who are you talking about?" I asked. "Just read it, you'll see," and he handed me the paper. And I read, in that almost illegible writing that used to adorn the outside of my freshman and sophomore themes, the following: "Really, your paper is good and bad by turns. Haven't you received an inspiration or two from the author of 'The Virginians?'
SILENCE, under some circumstances, may be golden, but it is often a valuable cloak for ignorance. The conservative are not always so from principles of modesty.