hat with a sob subside.

No! but more fateful than the restless deep,
Whose crested hosts rise high but fall again,
I hear, in solemn and portentous sweep,
The slow, deliberate marshalling of men.

No monarch moves them, pawns to gain a goal;
They felt a fever rising in the soul.

_Literary Monthly_, 1909.

PROPHECY

HORACE HOLLEY ex-'10

All verse, all music; artistry
Of cunning hand and feeling heart,
All loveliness, whate'er it be,
Is but the hint and broken part

Of that vast beauty and delight
Which man shall know when he is free;
When in his soul the alien night
Folds up like darkness from the sea.

For e'en in song man still reveals
His ancient fear, a mournful knell;
Like one who dreams of home, but feels
The bonds of an old prison cell.

_Literary Monthly_, 1909.

ASHES OF DREAMS

PHILO CLARKE CALHOUN '10

Jane always called him the professor, a name which that individual
accepted without comment, as he did everything else. In fact, since he
had been possessed of titular rights, but two people had ignored
them--his mother and Mary. His mother had been dead--oh, a very long
time, and it was nineteen years and some months since Mary had
followed her. When Mary had died people said that Jane was coming to
live with the professor; Jane came, and now people said quite
unthinkingly that the professor lived with his sister. Jane was
high-minded, also strong-minded; her hair was very thin and very
straight, a fact for which she was sternly and devoutly thankful. Jane
was stern and devout in everything--even in cooking preserves. To the
professor, Jane had been surrounded by a sort of halo of preserves,
ever since he had recovered from his awe of her unapproachable
angularity as to allude to her before admiring play-mates as the "old
maid."

When the professor had married, Jane had strongly disapproved--Mary's
cheeks were much too pink, her hands much too soft, and her ways of
life led her into the flowery meadows of the world and the flesh, if
not the devil. The professor had been infatuated, and the year or so
of married life seemed only to augment such infatuation, and
incidentally Jane's ire. Well, the golden year was over, and the
little butterfly had gone to its rest, fretfully, fearfully. And then
Jane wrote; wrote that the professor needed somebody to superintend
him, to see that he did not take cold, and to cook his preserve