170
The University Courier.
Law School Notes.
W. W. Winter spent Sunday at his home in Lecompton.
Oscar Rains has returned from Chicago; says the Fair is great.
A. V. Sharp and wife spent Sunday visiting friends in Lawrence.
Still discriminating against the Law School we did not get our proportion of bunks in the calaboose on Hallowe'en.
F. B. Wheeler, in a talk before the Kent Club, on the subject, "What's the Matter with Jerry?" says "Jerry stands, as Columbus and Julilleo, far in advance of his age, a persecuted, maligned, misrepresented advocate of a great principle which must ultimately prevail."
The Juniors were treated to a quiz in constitutional law on Wednesday.
The final examination on Torts Thursday. The mighty Seniors realize for the first time this year that they are still frail mortals.
The Phi Psis have at last purchased their long talked of Chapter House, and are now the happy possessor of the old Bassett place which they bought last Saturday. The house is a large brick dwelling, containing rooms enough to accommodate fourteen boys, besides parlors, library, dining room and kitchen. The grounds are large and handsomely located, having a frontage on Louisiana of 200 feet, and running through to Indiana Street. The place is quite a valuable piece of property, and, with the improvements the boys expect to put upon it, it will be one of the finest places in Lawrence. Chapter Houses have been much talked of among the "frat boys" during the last few years, but this is the first permanent step in that direction.
There are two or three of the professors who habitually hold their classes from five to ten minutes over the hour. Besides being a waste of time on account of the students knowing that the time is up and consequently wishing to go and not listening to what is said, it causes them to be marked absent from their next class.
LITERARY.
Rita.
The deep shadows are creeping through the thickets and woods of a tangled Mexican forest, and it grows darker and darker as the florid faced sun sinks slowly behind the distant snow capped peaks of the Cordilleras.
A narrow path leads through the brush and thick undergrowth, and if we were to follow it for a short distance, we would come to one of those natural clearings or glades, made by some wild hurricane felling a giant tree, which has carried with it in its fall a number of younger trees and saplings. The glade is only a small space, hardly thirty paces long; but it seems like a big room after the closeness of the dense jungle.
At the end of the clearing, sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree, is a man clad in rough hunting clothes, which have been torn by the thorns and brambles in many places. A broad brimmed hat of native manufacture is on the ground in front of him, and a rifle is leaning against the tree by his side. His head is resting in his hands, and his whole attitude shows great weariness.
He sits in this position for sometime, but at last straightens up and looks about him. A lingering ray of sunlight shines on his face; and a bright red spot in his cheek and an unnatural brightness of his eyes show that he is in the clutches of the terrible Mexican fever.
As it grows dark, the hunter puts on his hat, and, taking his rifle, starts on his way. He follows the path very slowly for the light is getting uncertain and he is growing weaker and weaker. He is about to give up the struggle and stop where he is, when he sees the faint glimmer of a light through the trees. The sight puts new life into him, and he hurries as fast as he can towards the friendly gleam. He goes only a short distance when he comes to a small clearing and sees a hut at the farther side. He staggers painfully towards it, and finally reaches the door and knocks; but before it is opened, he sinks to the ground too weak to stand. The