THE STUDENTS JOURNAL.
5
Summer Sketches.
"WELL," remarked the old man, as he discovered his offspring comfortably ensconced in a leather cushioned chair in a corner of the library on the first day of his return, "I suppose you're home to stay."
A silence followed this blunt welcome, during which the household prodigy submitted, with the utmost complacency and nonchalance, to a scrutiny that omitted nothing from the neglige profusion of his hair to the neatly shod foot perched on the onyx stand. The freshman's manner was original and disconcerting. The old man lighted a cigar.
"What can you show me," he dryly inquired, "for all the money I have spent on your education?"
A shade of sadness passed over the boy's countenance. He could think of nothing he had learned. In deep humiliation he shook his head. Suddenly he looked up, hope beamed from his eyes. He reached for the cigar; he took a puff.
"See there!" he exclaimed with pride.
Four lovely rings of smoke rose curling through the air.
It was his first diamond—a present from his uncle; and he loved it, loved it as only one could who knew its every spark and gleam. His heart had gone out to it, it had become a part of himself. Many a night by his study lamp he had dreamed over its myriad colored scintillations—like a symphony of light—drinking in its ever changing splendor with an intoxication that only increased his dipsetic delight. In an ecstacy of admiration he had placed it at every angle to catch the play of fire; in abject devotion, to gain new points of observation, he had submitted himself to undignified positions and assumed every conceivable attitude; he had fondly gloated over his coruscating idol from every side and slavishly followed it about the room to find some shadowy corner in which there would blaze forth a more dazzling gleam of red or blue or white. All the affection of his youthful nature was centered in the jewel of mysterious worth.
Was it any wonder that now he glanced nervously up and down the street and hesitated before he passed in beneath the three gold balls? They offered him sixty cents, and he took it—for he was broke.
"You knock."
"Yeth, me knock."
There was a whispered consultation just outside the door and then came the faintest tap, tap—only two. The senior looked up, half vexed, his pen poised in the air. He had given explicit instructions to his mother that he should not be disturbed and now his inspiration was lost. It was not to be endured. He turned about. The suppressed tone and lisping voice of the two year old
touched him in an indescribable way and conflicting thoughts chased through his mind. They had scarcely seen him since his return and he was not unconscious of the pride and awe with which they regarded their big brother.
He opened the door. Two loving faces looked up into his; a tiny pair of arms held out a plate of luscious cherries. He watched them toddling hand in hand to the stair and as they again looked smiling back he threw a parting kiss.
It seemed awkward; he had never done so before, but he felt better afterward.
This precocious youngster of seven years, who bears the names of two distinguished scientists of Kansas University, prefers out-door sport, and may frequently be seen, with a broomstick for a gun, skulking around hedges, fighting imaginary enemies, or surprising unoffending hens and their broods by his lusty Indian-like yells. The other day he was taking particular delight in rolling a large box about the yard, beating on it with a stick when an old lady came along. She had a severely inquisitive air and was evidently a member of a society for the suppression of vitality in small boys from the way she asked, "What are you doing, little boy?"
"Nothin'," he replied with a wild flourish as he gave the box a drive that sent it end over end.
Either the glow of excitement in the young heathen's eyes or the dull thud of something within the box aroused the old lady's suspicion and she inquired, "What have you got inside?"
"Got a cat," he yelled as he leaped on the box and dealt it a resounding whack.
With impressive horror in her tone the overinquisitive old lady exclaimed, "You cruel boy, don't you know it's naughty to torment a poor cat that way? You ought to be whipped; what if a man should come along and put you in a box? Let it out right now."
But the young wretch only gazed at her with an expansive grin.
"Why don't you let it out?" she added snappily. "It's been dead two weeks," said he.
And as the old lady passed on he gave a wild whoop that would have done credit to a Comanche on a war dance and kicked the box into the back yard.
The young man certainly had literary abilities. There is not a particle of doubt on that score. He had pondered the matter thoroughly and was firmly convinced of it. And now as he mentally reviewed his well balanced sentences, his harmless metaphors, his pale descriptions,—all the "pink of perfection" a la Lyly's Euphues, he became still more enamoured of them and vaguely wondered why his chosen vocation had not brought him craved distinction and pecuniary success. He drew forth a letter from his breast