n all the histrionic annals of the college, a thing to make
Will Shakespeare himself rise and applaud from his high and far off hills
of Paradise.

Certainly Tony's class knew, past any qualms of doubt, and made no bones
of proclaiming its conviction that there never had been such a wonderful
"As You Like It" and that never, so long as the stars kept their seats in
the heavens and senior classes produced Shakespeare--two practically
synonymous conditions--would there ever be such another Rosalind as Tony
Holiday, so fresh, so spontaneous, so happy in her acting, so
bewitchingly winsome to behold, so boyish, yet so exquisitely feminine in
her doublet and hose, so daring, so dainty, so full of wit and grace and
sparkle, so tender, so merry, so natural, so all-in-all and utterly as
Will himself would have liked his "right Rosalind" to be.

So the class maintained and so they chanted soon and late, in many keys,
"with a hey and a ho and a hey nonino." And who so bold or malicious, or
age cankered as to dispute the dictum? Is it not youth's privilege to
fling enthusiasm and superlatives to the wind and to deal in glorious
arrogance?

It must be admitted, however, in due justice, that the class that played
"As You Like It" that year had some grounds on which to base its
pretensions and vain-glory. For had not a great stage manager been
present and applauded until his palms were purple and perspiration
beaded his beak of a nose? Had he not, as the last curtain, descended,
blown his nose, mopped his brow, exclaimed "God bless my soul!" three
times in succession and demanded to be shown without delay into the
presence of Rosalind?

As we know already, the great stage manager had not come over-willingly
or over-hopefully to Northampton to see Tony Holiday play Rosalind.
Indeed, when it had been first suggested that he do so, he had objected
violently and remarked with conviction that he would "be
da--er--_blessed_ if he would." But he had come and he had been blessed
involuntarily.

For he had seen something he had not expected to see--a real play, with
real magic to it, such magic as all his cunning stage artifice, all the
studied artistry of his fearfully and wonderfully salaried stellar
attachments somehow missed achieving. He tried afterwards to explain to
Carol Clay, his favorite star, just what the quality of the magic was,
but somehow he could not get it into words. It wasn't exactly wordable
perhaps. It was somethin