it could be none other than she who worked the
miracle at Mory's--must have clucked like a braggart when the smoking
dish came in. The dullest nose, even if it had drowsed like a Stoic
through the day, perked and quivered when the breath came off the
kitchen. Ears that before had never wiggled to the loudest noise came
flapping forward when the door was opened. Or maybe in those days your
wealth, huddled closely through the week, stretched on Saturday night
to a mutton chop with bacon on the side. This chop, named of the
southern downs, was so big that it curled like an anchovy to get upon
the plate. The sheep that bore it across the grassy moors must have
out-topped the horse. The hills must have shaken beneath his tread.
With what eagerness you squared your lean elbows for the feast, with
knife and fork turned upwards in your fists!

But chops in these modern days are retrograde. Sheep have fallen to a
decadent race. Cheese has lost its cunning. Someone, alas, as the
story says, has killed the hen that laid the golden egg. Mory's is
sunk and gone. Its faded prints of the Old Brick Row, its tables
carved with students' names, its brown Tobies in their three-cornered
hats, the brasses of the tiny bar, the rickety rooms themselves--these
rise from the past like genial ghosts and beckon us toward pleasant
memories.

Such was the zeal in those older days which the members of the Lost
Digamma spent upon their quest that belated pedestrians--if the legend
of the district be believed--have stopped upon the curb and have
inquired the meaning of the glad shouts that issued from the upper
windows, and they have gone off marveling at the enthusiasm attendant
on this high endeavor. It is rumored that once when the excitement of
the chase had gone to an unusual height and the students were beating
their Tobies on the table, one of them, a fellow of uncommon ardor,
lunging forward from his chair, got salt upon the creature's tail. The
exploit overturned the table and so rocked the house that Louis, who
was the guardian of the place, put his nose above the stairs and
cooled the meeting. Had it not been for his interference--he was a
good-natured fellow but unacquainted with the frenzy that marks the
scholar--the lost digamma might have been trapped, to the lasting
glory of the college.

As to the further progress of the club I am not informed. Doubtless it
ran an honorable course and passed on from class to class the
tradition o