Haverford College - Record Yearbook (Haverford, PA)

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discovered. We venture to quote it, with proper acknowledgments, as a bit of allegorical advice to all sprouting authors whose ambitions have not yet been nipped in the bud. Why, Cow, how canst thou be so satisfied. So well content with all things here below, So unobtrusive and so sleepy-eyed. So meek, so lazy and so awful slow? Dost thou not know that everything is mixed; That nothing ' s as it should be on this earth; That grievously the world needs to be fixed; That nothing we can give has any worth ; That times are hard; that strife is full of care Of sin, of trouble and untowardness; That love is folly, friendship but a snare? Up, Cow! This is no time for laziness. The end thou chewest is not what it seems. Get up and moo! Tear ' round and quit thy dreams. P. S. Are you a cow? [Mount Holyoke.] 128

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can speak with greater authority than he. Jay endeavored to scale Parnassus by means of his Obser- vations on an Open Fire,, but found the walking- rather rough. After one or two spasms of literary criticism, he jumped into notoriety as the author of The Cheerful Liar. Some there were who claimed that this was autobiographical, others, that it was the cry of the damned, but the worldly wise shook their heads and said it was both. Lucius ' jibe at Browning was an essay of merit, but it was not alleviated by any too great amount of lightness of style. It was during this time that we made our flying raid into the field of fiction. The burning fires of the gentle passion which had been dammed back since we renounced Poetry now burst into new blossom in a series of love stories. Shoep was the chief offender in this matter, and the emotions which he handed out were vivid enough to have been his own, but perhaps they were only projected. Arnold gave us a droll story on Monkton Ridge, somewhat after the French manner of sparing no details, however shady. In a fit of somnambulism Eben brought forth a storiette on the Detective ' s Umbrella, and followed it with Jepson ' s Jeopardy, which was unexpectedly funny. But our crown of rejoicing in the fiction line is Vic ' s novel, The Illusion of the Moth, which is now wending its serial way through successive numbers of The Haverfordian. How it is going to end, no one knows, not even Vic, but that is a small matter. Compared to it the Decamerone is a collection of nursery tales, and our friend, Elinor Glyn, as innocent as a baldheaded babe. In the matter of editorial wo rk we feel that we have done something worthy of recollection. When Vic seized the helm, The Haverfordian received a remarkable injection of vigor into its some- what senile veins. He took that venerable institution in hand, and by his efforts it became one of the best college magazines in the country. In his Exchange Column he showed that there was one field in which we could excel, and established there a standard to which his successors have found difficult the approach. (Except Jay himself, who wrote this article and is modest as a mushroom.) As to the two other periodicals mentioned, the Middle Barclaij Squirt has long since lapsed into innocuous desuetude, but the Weekly is with us alway, even unto the bitter end. It is a by-product of Dave ' s brain, and is the official organ of his Policies. Its columns furnish us an interesting reminder as to what happened the day before yesterday. When Dave gets into editorial action, sparks, spelling and grammar fly to the winds. Occasionally in its pages he too essays to flght to Parnassus, but he (and the rest of us, too) usually discovers that his winged Pegasus is but a cow in a cage. Speaking of cows reminds us of that gem of purest ray serene which ever an exchange artist 127

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iloubag ICunrI) 3lnsptrattou This inspiring poem was written by a member of our Class. It is an inspired poem on an inspiring subject. Hill Hep Hep Living the step Over the gleaming sand Twinkle the waves Whose water laves The wood lake ' s peaceful strand. The delightful Hep. Hep, Hep. of the first line shows how inspiring such a simple thing can be. When you read the second line and catch the meter, go back and read the Hep, Hep, Hep all over again. You will have to do it fast to make it rime. You see, this poem is a fast poem — almost breath- less. Twinkle the wave. ;. What a refreshing line is TiriukU- the wares! Supposing it were The leaves twinkle — how much ditt ' erent that would be. Then the next line would have to end with binkle or dinkle. Pensonally we prefer T ir inkle the wares because it brings in the word oc(s, and lares is such a nice word. For instance it would not be polite to tell a man to wa. ' th his feet, — but nobody would mind having to lave his feet. A clean man laves twice a day. A lave room is a bath room, hence the soft sound of s in the word lavatory, as in scissors. Wild in the wood Sparkles the blood Home-planning ' ncath the bltic The wood r.hnck digs Crackle the twigs As we pass n-here the wood doves coo, 129