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ARTH has not got a worse place anywhere,

Dull is she not of wit, who can pass Bi,

A subject awful in complexity,
The Bi Lab now is filled with maidens fair..
The beauty of the college, bowed with care.
Cats, lobsters, and rabbits, worms and amoebas lie
Open unto the nose and to the eye
All new unpickled in the fragrant air.
Ne’er will the instructor let me keep
In its first splendor what I draw so ill;
Ne’er saw I, never watched that microbe creep!
My pencil glideth at its own free will:
Oh, soon my very classmates are asleep
And all the time the clock seems standing still.

M. V.

Dangerous Daps

PRING! Japanese cherry trees blooming by the Lib; May-Day poles on
Merion green; Charlie-Horse all over the campus—this is Spring. Rancocas
picnics where one paddles up a New Jersey stream in company with many

shirt-sleeved men and shop-girls in middy-blouses, under every bush a picnic in full
swing; trolley cars, ferries, and trains home—this is Spring. Senior singing on
Taylor steps, evening raids on P. T.’s garden, where one stumbles over all the other
people who have come to do the same thing; promiscuous picnics in all the hollows
on campus—this is Spring. George’s Ford; an unsteady trip to a far-away brook;
swimming in ice-water and nothing else; seventeen punctures on the way home,
and a cold the next day—this is Spring. An accentuated indisposition to attend
lectures, resulting in over-cutting among Freshmen; tea-house hounds, hot on the
trail of iced-tea and strawberry sundaes; suitors on Sunday with the usual young
man’s fancy—this is Spring. Seniors, making the best of the last few weeks of a
misspent life; Juniors, electing each other for official positions; Sophomores as
ever trying to exhibit a belated passion for their sister class; Freshmen under
foot everywhere—this is Spring. War-worn editors, begging for contributions to the
class-book; classes reuning under every tree with class competition still continuing,
only now the criterion instead of athletic points is children; the lawn mower
chugging on endlessly—this is Spring.

Perhaps you thought that Spring was restful; perhaps you imagined that it

consisted of birds and breezes and all the things of which the poet sings. Gentle
reader, think again.

Emrity ANDERSON.