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Kansas University Weekly.
the influence of papers upon the college may be immeasureably great.
Unfortunately, here, this requisite is practically lacking. We do not pretend to discover the reason for such a state of affairs, which can be excused only upon one ground—the failure of the papers themselves in their purpose. But it is open to dispute whether either a half-hearted interest, or a cold disdain, is the proper method of cure. The papers may be of mediocre merit, but they can never be improved, and their influence can never be felt, until they become recognized by the college for what they are.
To the average man, then, the college paper seems of little worth. He is conscious of its existence, and sometimes, from a sense of duty, he is prevailed upon to subscribe; but here, for the most part, his interest ceases. His tongue is ever ready to find fault, to criticise, even to sneer; but rarely is he kind enough to praise.
Possibly this is merely an artificial position, and at heart there may be a sane realization of the truth of the matter. But this attitude, general as it is, be it real or assumed, certainly kills all influence which the college papers might possess outside a very small circle of active supporters.
To these, the editors and contributors, the papers are of inestimable value. It is an education, in a little way, to be connected with a college paper. Many journalists owe much of their success to the work that they did in college, and many authors have begun to master their art while they were yet undergraduates. But it is a serious misfortune that this influence, great as it is, should be confined within so small a space, with so little opportunity, as there is at present, for it to be spread abroad. The error exists, however, and the remedy most surely lies in the hands of those who now gain the least. - Ex.
Literary.
Greater Love Hath No Man Than This.
I was always a strange child; perhaps it was because I was lame, perhaps it was because I was born with an old head upon young shoulders, perhaps it was because the men that came to Big Jim's saloon were so rough that they terrified me into stupidity. I do not know.
Big Jim was my father; my mother was a mere memory to me, almost a dream; but even yet my heart leaps with longing and love as I think of that dark winter's day when last she pressed me to her bosom, and begged father, with the saddest of eyes, to be good to me.
Then we came out here to Arizona; and father did try to be good, but it is so hard in such a wild place. I know he tried, for he used to take me upon his knees at night, and together we would sit before the fire and talk of our sweet memory. But a change took place, father got to staying out late at night,
and when he came home he looked so wild and strange that I was frightened. I could not understand. One night he did not come at all, and I lay in my little bed, sobbing and praying until day break, then I hobbled down the street with anxious, beating heart, fearing and yet hoping. There, in a ditch I found him with red, bloated face, and bleary bloodshot eyes. Then I knew. I think it was at that time, that I became so strange. I could not cry or sob, for a dull, stupefying numbness came over me, and my tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth, and my heart seemed frozen with pain.
After that, father seemed better of his terrible disease, and he stayed at home with me, sometimes talking about my beautiful mother, and sometimes gazing at me in sad silence. Once I saw him bury his face in his hands, and great, despairing sobs shook his form. My little heart swelled with sympathy-for a man's sob is the saddest sound on earth-and I slipped my arm