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These preps say that the thought of examinations
frightens them out of their wits; but it seems to me
that it excites their imaginations. If with them this
mental faculty continues to grow, they will eclipse
the fame of the ‘Wizard of the North’ as a historical
romancer.”
“Well, you’ll have the distinction of being known
forever as the inciter and director of prize romanc
ing,” was the consoling rejoinder. “Roger Ascham’s
name is remembered because of his renowned pupil.”
“Now I have something clever to relate,” remarked
the president, who had been a silent, but amused,
listener. “This morning Miss M stopped me. My
face must have looked ominous for I was greatly dis
turbed over the reported misconduct of a coterie of
eight girls. ‘Suppose I should tell you,’ said she ser
iously, ‘that, during the Psychology examination
yesterday, Olga Keith was seen handing a closely
written sheet to Christine Cannon. What do you call
that?’ ‘That,’ I answered with heat, ‘is a grave mis
demeanor. Those girls must come before the acade
mic council at once.’ ‘Now, don’t get excited!’ she
laughingly said, ‘for that supposed case shouldn’t be
called a “grave misdemeanor,” but —“Cannon-aid-
ing.” ’ ”
“That’s refreshing. Give us something more of the
same kind, can’t you?”
“Two of my Hebrew pupils—Miss C. and Miss P. —
have cut classes this week. To my doleful ditty,
‘Where, oh where, are the Hebrew children,’ came
the answer, ‘Not “gone up to the Promised Land”;
but ’neath piles of papers buried.’ One day while they
were reading the first chapter in Genesis, Miss P —,
with a mischievous glance at her fellow-student, ask
ed me, ‘Does this suggest to you thoughts of the Re
naissance?’ ‘No, why should it?’ was my reply.
‘Well, since Miss C — and I belong to the class cham
pioned so strongly by Booth Lowrey—that of “old
girls”—our beginning the study of Hebrew is, what
the Renaissance was —a revival of learning in the
middle ages.’ ”
“From Dr. W —, the witty and wise, I have un bon
mot to report.” ’Twas Miss T — who spoke this time.
“Mathematician and scientist though he is, his hu
mor is delightful and he’s always good at repartee.
What’s his latest scintillation?”
“Dr. E —, the European traveler and lecturer, is a
friend to the W — family. When he was here re
cently Lilian W —■ asked him to dine with them on
Monday when her father does not teach. Mrs. W—
had been sick and Lilian was desirous that the visit,
and the preparation for the visitor’s entertainment,
should be a surprise to both mother and father. The
negro woman, engaged to help that day, failed to
come. Miss D — and I, hearing of the dilemma in
which the young hostess found herself, went over
and offered our services. Shut up in the kitchen,
we intriguers were ‘busy as cranberry merchants,’
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Lilian peeling potatoes, Miss D — chopping celery for
salad, and I getting the plump chicken, that had been
stripped of feathers, ready to ‘smother.’ ‘Carve that
chicken, carve it to the heart,’ I was quoting with
fine dramatic effect, brandishing the keen carver as
if it were a Toledo blade, when the door opened, and
Dr. W — looked in. His face expressed amazed as
tonishment. ‘You, Miss T —! I didn’t know you’d
ever seen inside of a kitchen! What are you doing?’
‘Just ripping a chicken up the back,’ I answered.
‘That,’ said he, his eyes twinkling merrily, ‘is what
I call fowl play.’ He withdrew, leaving a laughing
trio.”
“That sounds exactly like him. But I’m curious to
know about that dinner. Honestly now, was it a
real success?” asked the president.
“The doubt implied in that question is unworthy of
you. Why should women, because they have some
knowledge of art, of Latin and Greek, and of modern
languages, be ranked as ‘ignoramuses' concerning
cookery'or any necessary branch of domestic science?
Any knowledge acquired tends to make the possessor
thereof quicker witted, more capable of forming a
correct judgment, and more able to act aright in any
emergency that may arise. George Eliot and Mrs.
Browning, the most pronounced ‘blue stockings’ of
the last century, were both efficient house keepers.”
“Yes,” meekly assented the president, “ ‘I ain’t de
nying it’; but —my question is still unanswered.”
“Know then, you doubting Thomas, that dinner” —
with impressive emphasis—“was a delight to the eye,
and a joy to the palate. The smothered chicken was
a picture and a poem all in one. From the soupe
velontee through all the daintily served courses, even
to the coffee, which was as Polly, my old black mam
my, used to say, ‘clear as a Christian,’ that dinner
was a brilliant success—’artistically, gastronomically
and linguistically. At his feasts, Nero had more roses,
but he could not have had more beautiful ones than
those that adorned our table. We served no peacocks’
tongues, and costly wines cooled in snows brought
from the Apennines, as Cicero did at the banquet
prepared for Caesar. There were no astonishing sur
prises like those Petronius describes as having been
given at the dinner of Trimalchio, the nouveau riche;
but the ancients did not have Lilian’s pretty, paint
ed china dishes. Their food could not have been
more appetizing, nor was it, I fancy, quite so whole
some as was ours. Dr. E —, accustomed as he is to
the best hotels of Europe, not only complimented
the menu highly, but also gave the visible proof
of genuine enjoyment which a hostess always appre
ciates, he ate heartily. ‘A feast of reason and flow
of soul’ continued long after the meal was ended,
and, when the guest departed, Miss D —and I helped
to wash the dishes and make dining room and kitch
en immaculate before returning to the college to re
sume our pedagogical roles.”
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“I’m more than ever convinced that, In spite of per
verted, distorted, misapprehended, and highly em
broidered facts of history—both sacred and profane;
in spite of the apparent mental aberrations indulged
in sometimes by the ones instructed, the instructors
in this institution” —here the president bowed low to
the assembled group—’“the instructors, I say, are
very highly accomplished and very versatile person
ages. Fortunate the school with such a faculty!”
There was a chorus of thanks. “With such encour
agement we can make ‘the young ideas shoot’
straighter next time.”
MARY PETTUS THOMAS.
THE METROPOLIS FROM THE GREAT BRIDGE.
When I take my way across Brooklyn bridge to
reach my abode in “the city of homes” as Brook
lyn is often called, I sometimes stop midway the
great bridge and take a bird’s eye view of the
panorama before me. The air is clear, dense clouds
of smoke do not hover over New York as over the
cities of the west where soft coal is burned. On one
hand, is Brooklyn—“the bed room of New York” —
with its million and a half of people; on the other
hand is New York, with its immense buildings and
its greater business interests. A little to one side,
is the financial district of the city. There, hidden
among towering structures, is Wall street where
fortunes are made and lost in a day, wh£re a divi
dend paying investment property, worth a million,
is capitalized for ten million, unloaded on the public,
placed in the hands of a receiver, then reorganized
to work the same scheme over again—a continu
ous performance which yields big profits to its
promoters every time it is worked.
Underneath me, pass the ferry boats and the
steamers of the Sound —big craft and little, now and
then, a gunboat on its way to the Navy yard a mile
up will be seen creeping along like a half sleeping
monster. To the Southwest is the statue of Liberty
and Governor’s Island with its soldiers, and El
lis Island where is constantly landed the stream
of immigrants which we don’t want, and Stat
en Island, seen through purple haze. Across
the Kill Von Kull from Staten Island is Bayonne
and from this point of land (the end of that great
backbone which is the elongation of the wonderful
Palisades that guard the Hudson) rises the tallest
chimney in the world. From it pours a great vol
ume of smoke, the bane of the dwellers on S|taten
Island. On the other side of the island is that
neck of water known as The Narrows, through which
pass the great steamship liners on their way to crdss
the mighty water track to the shores of the old world,
as it is called, though every day there are fresh
evidences that this western continent was th*
scene of a civilization older than Egypt or Assyria.
New York City. F. L. ORTON.
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