e had
fondly hoped. We notice paths running in all directions,--some go
straight to the top of the mountain, others stop at different places
along the route. Only the future can decide which path each shall
take. We have a grand field of labor before us, in this hill of
knowledge which we have been traversing for the past eight months.
There are still rich and undiscovered resources of knowledge, which,
brought to the light, would make the art a perfect one and us perfect
in it. Now it is time for us to separate. Some of the more ambitious
of us will, by dint of hard and unremitting labor, reach the pinnacle
of our hopes.

Others, less ambitious, will be content to spend their days in the
peaceful valleys of quiet usefulness. But, before we separate, let us
each resolve that we will never, by act or word, do anything which
might reflect discredit on this Association, to the members of which
we owe a debt of gratitude which we can never hope to repay except by
doing our very best, and so bring honor upon those who have done so
much for us and upon the Institution which they uphold.

The Class of '91 is now like the waves of the sea:

On the bosom of the ocean,
Dance the wavelet's glittering band;
With a slow and fairy motion
Moving onward towards the land;
But that reached, they burst and sever,
Bound no more by beauty's spell,
Thus, we who have toiled together,
The goal reached, must breathe farewell.

Here endeth the simple annals of the Class of '91.

Class Poem

BY MISS MARION C. BURNS.

_Class of '91._

We extend a hearty welcome
To you all, both old and young,
Who have come to aid in sending off
The Class of '91.

We beg you will be generous
In judging us to-night,
See not the faults nor blunders,
But keep the good in sight.

This class you see united here,
To-night will have to sever,
But where to go, Ah! who can tell?
And shall it be forever?

Here, many a pleasant hour we've spent,
But now we soon must part,
And yet the lessons taught us here
Shall dwell deep in each heart.

In after years we'll fondly think
Of pleasant times gone by,
And when we're treading other paths,
The memory'll dim each eye.

Our teachers we have sorely tried
As any one might see;
At last they've succeeded in teaching us