Kansas University Weekly.
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into his being. The scent of the warm breeze reminds him of the opening chestnut buds upon the hill at home, and the waves are but waves as they wash with saddening moans among the piers. Slowly the rosy star drowsily dims in the growing dawn, and the night-lamp's flare in the yet night-blackened corridor, has become a smouldering spark.
Quickly crossing the room, he unbars and opens the barricaded door, and then again resumes his watch at the window. He hears a steeple clock strike and he counts the strokes. Five. Another hour, and the boys with "extras" will be crying his crime in the streets. At last the sun rises above the horizon, and its rays, gliding across the water and over low roofs, light with a soft, warm glow, the bowed head and saddened face of the man at the window. His eyes are closed, for he is praying.
At last clamorous foot-steps and excited voices rise from the street, and resound upon the stairs. The man at the window turns around and waits. They are coming to take him, and they will find him ready.
—ROBT. E. EVERETT.
Character Sketches.
[The following articles were written by members of the Advanced English Composition Class]
Last fall when doing business in Kansas City, I was suddenly called to Philadelphia. Soon after leaving the Hotel Savoy for the Union depot, my attention was attracted by a large gentleman in the cable car who wore a long heavy overcoat and who had a salesman's large traveling case. Shortly after the train was made up the same gentleman hastily entered the coach, still wearing his overcoat, although the day was quite warm, and breathed a sigh of relief as he dropped into a seat.
His face looked as though it had been boiled, and the perspiration was running from every pore. After feeling in all his pockets two or three times he found a handkerchief with which he mopped his face. Then he looked at his watch and wondered whether the train would
ever start, though it lacked twenty minutes of the schedule time. When he took off his overcoat, I noticed the familiar badge of a commercial traveler. His conduct seemed very singular for a drummer. He would get up, change his seat, raise and lower the window, look annoyed, and the next moment sing to himself and look unutterably happy.
When the conductor came to him he put his hand in the pocket where he evidently expected to find his mileage book. For a moment there was a look of surprise as he drew a yellow envelope, then broke out in a hearty laugh and continued his seach for the book. The whole car became interested and the various seats where he had been sitting were examined. At last, to satisfy the conductor, he looked in his pocket book where he found a ticket to St. Louis although up to this time he had insisted that he had a mileage book. The conductor impatiently told him to remember where he put the ticket as he would need it again before he got to the end of his journey.
Every little while he would reach into an inner pocket and draw out a Western Union envelope. The first time he did so we were disposed to be sympathetic thinking that he had met with some bereavement, but his conduct soon led us to believe that it was something altogether different. He would cautiously draw out the paper, slowly read the message, then lay back his head and laugh aloud. This was repeated so many times, that the appearance of the envelope was sure to provoke a smile among the passengers.
When the conductor came to take up the tickets another search was made. Pockets were turned wrong side out, and the grip was unstrapped and its contents gone through. At last from the inner pocket the Western Union envelope was brought out. Folded together were message and ticket. As they were being separated, the conductor caused the whole car to laugh by pronouncing a single word of the message.
S. O.
Once there lived in the beautiful little village