8
THE STUDENTS JOURNAL.
but an instant; for with deep, oratorical tones and familiar gestures the ghost pointed scornfully at the heaps of paper on which the clerk had labored so hard and said, I, S. P. A., for many a weary week have fought a heroic fight against ignorance, prejudice, and self interest and in behalf of law and of the rights of poor but honest students. I have won the victory. Like all good spirits, as my work is accomplished, I am now ready to return to my etherial home and it was only to see that my work was fully accomplished that I waited till to-night. Only the work now lying finished upon your table was needed to complete my task. I have succeeded. I have rescued the down-trodden and oppressed students of this university from your clutches at last. Farewell!
"And with a parting grimace the ghost started to go, but as it was brushing past him the clerk made ready to strike at it. Suddenly coming to, however, he found himself on the point of hitting the night watchman, who was on his hourly round of the buildings and had touched the clerk to wake him.
" 'Why Mr. M----,' he cried, 'you have been working over time!"
" 'Hello Z——, replied Mr. M——a little sheepishly, 'yes, I wanted to finish writing those checks to pay back the library fee to the students since the Supreme Court has declared it unconstitutional.'
"And as Mr. M—— walked home in the cool night air, he wondered whether Eli Cann or the Student's Protective Association would ever learn of the dream he had."
[In order to maintain the unities of this story, it may be well to suggest that this was written somewhat after the manner of Edward Bellamy in "Looking Backward." Some professor may tell this tale some time.]
Renaissance.
She longed to live; how can I leave her so?
Alone, alone; the wavering shadows grim
And chill creep on to where the distant rim
Of earth lies black beneath the lingering glow.
A solitary limb sways to and fro
Athwart the sky, half blurred by tears and dim,
The night breeze sings a melancholy hymn
Of perished hopes—a monody of woe.
Thy light is gone, and yet it cannot be;
The silence of those hopes speaks to my soul.
Oh thought sublime! If thou but breathe in me
Thy glorious dream of life, my being thrill
With love so deep, I consecrate the whole
Of self, thy nobler purpose to fulfill.
CLARENCE SOUTHWICK.
X