Dickinson College - Microcosm Yearbook (Carlisle, PA)

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The Confessions of an Eavesdropper. e, n T'S been so long, that I can scarcely be held for all the details, and if my memory fails me altogether at times, I shall have to supply the vacancies from n1y imagination. I do, however, remember that it all ocurred one sultry, unseasonable, midwinter night, during my Junior year. I even recollect how I had been spending the evening, for that had a direct bearing on what was to follow, which was so remarkable and unusual. QI don't know who teaches Psychology there now, but when I went, it was old Dr. Gooding. He was a great one to relate all your thoughts in mental chains, so to speak, as it were, in the main. If he's still alive, he'1l rejoice to feel that some of his sound precept still lingers in the dusty brain cells of an old grad J. But to resume. You see I'm getting so old and feeble now, that it's most difficult for me to pin my attention continuously upon a single subject, but I shall make my best attempt. Let's see. O yes, I was stating that I even remembered what I'd been doing that evening. Well, I had been over to the Library and while rummaging among some antique volumes, had found one by an old German scholar of the Sixteenth Century. It was, I saw, a book of necromancy, in which were set forth such curious and altogether novel ideas, that I took it to my room, though its poor, old back was sadly broken and the dust of many decades was clinging to its edges. One thing he asserted that I had never heard nor even thought of before-a belief that there was a certain degree of animation in apparently lifeless objects, and that doubtless they held communion with each other, according to a method of their own. l It -was late or rather early as I emerged onto the campus to get a breath of fresh air before retiring. My head was teeming with the novel speculations of my German friend, and I suppose for that reason the great, shining clock in Denny Tower looked really human as it pointed to half-past one-time for all well intentioned folks to be in bed. The clock was right, for no one but burglars, drunks and Sophomores were expected to be seen upon, the campus at such a witching time of night. Of cou'rse, there was old Robert too, but he doesn't deserve a place in such an infamous category as I have made, for he always wore a policeman's uniform, and by the warning glow of his cigar, told prowlers the way not to go. Even as I stood there, I saw him enter his room and slam the door, and I knew that he had yielded to the desire for jes one little snooze. Old West, We Love Thee.

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blade of grass on the campus was harmed by the invader from the Southland. Since those days, the old College has marched from victory to victory. During the administration of President McCauley, co-eds made their appearance upon the campus. This awoke the anger of old Dr. Harman, who for so many years put Dickinsonians through a course of sprouts in Greek and Hebrew. The co-eds have very magnanimously named their literary society after the one who would have closed the doors of the College upon them. The material equipment of the College has constantly interim- view-nom: Hall. increased. South College was built in 1834. This building would make a magnificent appearance if it were where nobody could see it. East College was built in 1836, and throughout all these years has given its inhabitants ample opportunity to develop into good track men, since they get exercise ad vzauseam, climbing its five Hights of stairs. Tome, Bosler, and Denny, which as old West had done a century before, rose from its ashes like a rejuvenated Phoenix, are evidence that to-day Dickinson is making history as truly as she did in the past. But no sketch of Dickinson would be worth while unless it at least noted the mighty part which the two old literary societies have played in the history of this venerable institution. The Belles-Lettres Society was founded in 1786, and the U. P. three years later. They have grown up with the College and are one of the most important factors in college life, and have ever furnished embryo orators many opportunities to orate on The Roman Eagle, The Starry Flag, The glories of our nations, and also upon what Ben Tillman calls the general cursedness of things in general. Nevertheless, in giving honor where honor is due we must not forget that these literary societies have been the main instrumentality in developing the orators who have made Dickinson famous. Now, gentle reader, it is time for the historian to lay aside his pen, send his history to the press, and receive the congratulations of his admiring friends. Our history, as you may readily see, is very incoherent, but we received our coher- ence diploma long, long ago, at the end of our Freshman year. We have merely taken a little journey through the past, but more than ever before do we feel proud that we are Dickinsonians. Our love for this, our old college, is deeper and stronger, our appreciation of the lives and sacrifices of those who have made its history is more earnest and sincere, and the more we know of our College I the greater is our love for it, and through lifc and unto death we pledge our allegiance to old Dickinson. Library View- Bosler Hall.

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Iwas just about to slip in again as quietly as I had come, when a deep, persuasive sound swelled out across the trees, so much like a real, human voice fthough on a very large scalej, that I stopped and looked around in wonderment. Yes, somebody was talking, fora voice was inquiring, Say, Old West, is it safe to talk now? and after a moment another, more ancient and sedate, replied, Yes, I believe so. But keep a watch out for those stu- dents who just went up the street. They'll be back and catch us, if you're not careful. Robert just turned in as usual, and so we're alone. I leaned back in the darkness against a tree trunk, too amazed to more than barely breathe, and fearful, lest those, whose very voices were so solemnly impressive, should spy me out. Now it was another that sounded forth directly over my head, it seemed, and spoke in a high, cracked voice, that reminded me strongly of that of the French professor we had when I attended College. I almost forget now, but I think his name was Super. They called him the Lithomes of Dickinson-whatever that means. Perhaps some of you may be curious enough to look it up. But there I go on another of my tangents. I listened carefully, for this was so near at hand that I couldn't be mistaken. The spirit of Old East was communicating with its consorts, and I was the unbidden guest, the eavesdropper. I felt guilty, but dared not stir for fear of detection. I wish, it went on to explain, that you and South wouldn't talk so much these nights. I've all I can do to make up for the sleepl lost at the first of the year, when scraps were frequent, and they threw beds and pitchers and cannon-balls down my poor stairs. And then there's Levy and his violin ! Do have a little pity ! All the others f for I saw they all had joined inj began to laugh, but Bosler interrupted and bade them cease, for if he hadn't the violin to endure, he had at least to put up with Davenport's horn six mornings every week, which would sadly disturb him, if it were during sleeping hours. Thus they went on in a droll and clumsy kind of way, bantering one another and taking sides on every discussion. My dread of exposure had now disappeared, and intense interest had taken its place. As is customary with old people, they soon waxed reminiscent, and from some things they said, I should judge that they lived chiefly in the past and derived all their satisfaction from retrospect. Of course, Denny must be excepted, which, wretched thing, had but little past on which to gloat. If she hadn't held a prominent place in And Levy's Fiddle, Too I9