I took a walk with the school-girl after breakfast. I am not going to tell you whether it was the long path or the short one. Our conversation was pleasant; unfortunately, it was not one that concerns either you or me.

I may, hereafter, tell you something more that occurs at the table. I hope you have liked what I have said, but if so, don't repeat it: the rest of the world may not be as good natured as you.

If you want to enjoy life, board yourself; you will have to adopt the motto "live to eat," for it will take your life-time to provide for such an appetite as this régime creates.

E. G. H.

Oh! it is hard to live when tired of life;
When sick and weary with its toil and care,
The soul is troubled with a secret strife,

And sinks with burdens that it cannot bear.

The darkness fades as soon as morning wakes,
And fresh is all that stirreth with the light;
But on my soul the morning never breaks,
Without some cloud to chill, or frost to blight.

The sun oppresses with its burning beams,

I faint at noonday sick with pain and fear;
The brightness blinds me, and at heart it seems
But little worth, to stay and wander here.

The path before is over dreary sand,

No trees to shelter, not a spot of green!

Oh, God! a stranger in a desert land,

Hath need of soothing from a hand unseen.

And when the silent night is falling round,

The world seems peaceful and is hushed to rest;
'Twere even sweet to slumber in the ground,
If that could still the raging of this breast.

But darkness deepens, and the cloud hangs low;
The night is chilly, and the dew is cold.
The world asleep? I am awake with woe,
Yet fear the dawning as the hours unfold.

I cannot watch and wonder at a star,
In all the sky there is not one I see;
Serene they're shining still, above, afar,

But not a single ray comes down to me.

Yet, 'mid the strife, while these my sorrows are,
With my whole being throbbing like the sea;
At morn a light, at noon a shade, at night a star,
Comes the sweet thought, Oh God! I am with thee.

J.

Our Sailors.

ποντίων τε κυμάτων

ἀνήριθμον γέλασμα,

I dreamed of the summer sea. Not when we had strolled together in the dying twilight, and had seen the first rays of the stars glitter on the sleeping tides, for it was not to "the many rippling laughter of the music of the sea," I listened then, and the words I read upon the hard white sand, tide waves never traced there, though, when the moon rose, they had hid them.

Nor, when we sat, at noon, in the cool shade of a sheltering rock, where the sea-breeze fanned us, did I watch only the surf and the rolicking bathers, or hearken in silent musing to the grand roar of the breakers' surge that now and then rolled in to the highest reach and dashed our faces with its showery spray. There was little romance in my dream.

The crew had been at Capt. Brooks' all the morning, our last day there, "black-leading" the boat, and after the last finishing touches had been given to the smooth surface from kelson to top-streak, we had turned her right side up again, that the fresh varnish might not blister. So, while the others were bearing a hand in carrying out some boat from the narrow winter quarters of the cellar, or laughing at the eager Freshmen who were vainly endeavoring to extricate some old barge, (newly purchased), from the perplexing intricacies of Thatcher's storage,-I climbed up to the loft and lay upon the roof of the shed, enjoying in "solitary grandeur" a quiet cigar, in disobedience of race rules-and looking down upon a scene amusingly animated. Yet

those fellows, blundering there over that old tub, by the best of practice heavy rowing, will soon learn to pull their new shell against our crack oars. That deep narrow cockle-shell, they are spending so much admiration upon, is the ill-fated Volante. They will laugh at its round log-like sides before they graduate. Calthrop is laughing at it now-to his boys.

There I lay up on the roof beside the old canvas covered spyglass which has watched the first boat round the buoy, in so many a Yale race—the sleeves of my flannel boat shirt rolled up to my elbows, and my hands still black with copal and lead dust. But I gazed out over the still bay, through the light wreath of the smoke, and through the vapory haze that seemed but a veil to cover the fair face of the harbor-whose winds and waves were sleeping-and I dreamed too. A boatman came from across the water-much unlike the ancient mariner. Young, almost boyish, his light foot and the broad shoulders, the stout arm his blue shirt covered, told me he was a boatman, as well as his hard brown hand that clasped mine with a good-natured grip, that almost crushed my fingers. It is a wonder it did not wake me. He told me of Yale's first race-the training-the boats-the stroke, and said our quick stroke system is still wrong—then showed me how it must be altered-and the model of our boats changed. This information is of course private-except to the Commodore. He considered Calthrop's ideas on the subject orthodox, but when I showed him the account of "An English boat race," he smiled rather ironically, and said. it was foolish to throw away one's hat-that a "bump race" was only a scrub at best, and nothing to "along side," as at Putney on Thames. And while he was was making some dry remarks about keeping cool-the boats and yard seemed to vanish, and I was showing him our practice.

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It is morning then, early morning, the air keen and bracing, the dew brushes off in sparkling drops, if you touch the grass by the walk. A short run together up Tutors' lane," takes the place of our ordinary four mile stretch, which is too much for the day of the race. After a sponge bath, we sit down to breakfast with a huge appetite, and the rare beefsteak and eggs disappear at a rate which would alarm any but boating men, and which raises the market price at every mouthful.

The juices of the meat run almost red, and Stroke, as he passes his plate for the third cut, quietly asks for "a little more of the gore." After breakfast we walk briskly to the boat house, where they are

already putting the fresh lead on the boat. The air is as clear as before breakfast, but the wind is south-east and in puffs, and those light feathery clouds are a little ragged.

Put on the lead boys, polish her up to the gunwales! We shall have a spanking breeze and white-caps enough by ten.

So goes the morning, till carefully launching our boat, each in place "Push off! Ready! Port give way! Give way all!" and we are off.

Down the river on a spirt to warm up a little-then round by Rikers' and through the draw-out into the open bay. There! that's racing water for you, long enough and broad enough-no sickly yellow river. On this course " bumping" is ruled foul, and, when the full ebb covers the mud shoals close in, it is ocean water that floats us, and the waves curl and their foam-crests flash with the lustre of the real briny sea, which gives vigor in the very breeze.

What a crowd on shore! more than one of those handkerchiefs are waving at us,—and, as each race-boat comes up, its own club cheers. The French yacht shows her colors as we pass, and see the bonnet strings flutter from her deck-"Ready oars! Peak!" so answering her salute we pull leisurely by and saluting the Commodore, take position (by lot) outside. There are all colors of boat shirts about us -some on shore with the ladies, some in boats, some by that line of carriages, some in the sailing crafts that are every where dashing about. But here, in line, are no "pale blue jerseys," nothing but white-white duck pants-white close fitting knit shirts-white skull caps. It is the boats we must distinguish.

Inside, next the Commodore, that little sharp four oar, with those bearded fellows, is pulled by men from the scientific school. We give her twenty-four seconds handicap. The next, that strawcolored boat, with the beautiful rise of the bow, is a St. John's built boat, celebrated as winner of more than one race, and called a splendid sea boat. Here next us is the champion of last year, also a fine weather boat, with a new but powerful crew, and our boat long and low is straight as an arrow on the keel, (you can see her timbers as you sit here in her), but wide on the gunwales amidships, and you see the sheer of her sides, and how each of these rolling swells lifts her. How those white caps outside will toss her!

Now what are we racing for? for we have no "head of the river." Do you see that flag in the Commodore's hand, a little the coarsest and most weather-beaten piece of blue bunting you ever saw, and

nailed to an old green staff? "Pioneer Yale No. 1." That is the first flag that a Yale boat ever carried. The winners are to keep it as the "champion flag," until they are beaten or graduate. And it is for that old blue bunting, that we are ready to pull as long as we can see to keep stroke. There! now we are in line-"Back a little!" That's it! No coxswain holds to a stake. The little four oar and ours carry none. That is the flag boat right off the bow, a point or two to leeward. See the stripes flutter-just a speck at a mile and a half. "Keep her so! steady!" The Commodore rises "Ready all!" "Give way!" Do you feel that spring from the oar-blades? Is it not worth your training to feel that one bound-the bound of your heart and the boat together? But those rising bows and quick deep strokes win the start from us. Did you say the crowd cheered? That is for the four-oar. But we do not hear it for we are behind and pulling like mad for the lead. "Steady men!" "Steady and cool!— you are pulling wild. Strong and together!" Now our shoulders come back with the real old swing-long in the reach and quick on the feather"-and our long sweeping strokes are beginning to tell-the fouroars' bow just opposite the waist thwarts, and the St. John's stem for stem with us.

Steady and hard." We are beyond the wharves and now we catch it. "Feather flat against this wind!" Swash-sh—sh—the bowsman gets a drenching, and now the waists, but only a few drops in the bottom. "Not a miss-stroke now for your lives! Careful men!"

Steady and hard again for half a mile more, stem and stem-the four oar hugging close, and "Now men we must turn the stake boat first while our low bows favor us-Jump her! Hard! Hard!" and away we go, springing to the oars with a vigor that strains every muscle from hand to shoulder, and from shoulder to foot.

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But they throw themselves to the spirt with all their strength, and it is only inch by inch that we draw away from them. "Now work! Hard and strong! Hard!" It is here that shoulders and thighs, and training, and pluck tell. They cannot stand this with us, and their stroke is flagging. Now there is a boat's length between us, and now another. 'Hard for one more! Pull now with a will!" and "Hold water starboard! Hard a Port! Careful as we go round, steady!" Never mind the splashing, the cold spray only gives us a fiercer glow. We only ship a hat-full or so, and round the stake boat with a clear length start -though the sheer of the keel makes those lifting bows there turn as on a pivot.