g; no cards; no
theatricals; a yearly concert at commencement, and typhoid fever in
the fall. On the Lord's Day some children were not allowed to read the
_Youth's Companion_, or pluck a flower in the garden. But one old
working woman rebelled. "I ain't going to have my daughter Frances
brought up in no superstitious tragedy." She was far in advance of her
age.

I have always delighted in college songs from good voices, whether
sung when sitting on the old common fence (now gone) at the "sing out"
at the close of the year, or merrily trolling or tra-la-laing along
the streets. What a surprise when one glorious moonlight night which
showed up the magnificent elms then arching the street before our
house--the air was full of fragrance--I was suddenly aroused by
several voices adjuring me, a lady of beauty, to awake. I was
bewildered--ecstatic. This singing was for me. I listened intently and
heard the words of their song:

Sweet is the sound of lute and voice
When borne across the water.

Then two other sweets I could not quite catch, and the last lines sung
with fervor:

But sweeter still is the charming voice
Of Professor Sanborn's daughter.

Two more stanzas and each with the refrain:

The prettiest girl on Hanover Plain is
Professor Sanborn's daughter.

Then the last verse:

Hot is the sun whose golden rays
Can reach from heaven to earth,
And hot a tin pan newly scoured
Placed on the blazing hearth,
And hot a boy's ears boxed for doing
That which he hadn't orter,
But hotter still is the love I bear
For Professor Sanborn's daughter.

with chorus as before.

I threw down lovely flowers and timidly thanked them. They applauded,
sang a rollicking farewell, and were gone. If I could have removed my
heart painlessly, I believe that would have gone out too. They had
gone, but the blissful memory! I leaned on the window sill, and the
moon with its bounteous mellow radiance filled my room. But listen,
hark! Only two doors beyond, the same voices, the same melodious
tones, and alas, yes, the same words, every verse and the same
chorus--same masculine fervour--but somebody else's daughter.

A breakfast comment: "It's a terrible nuisance this caterwauling in
the middle of the night in front of the house!" For once I was silent.

Many distinguished men were invi