are not wanting in brains.
Cornell entered in four of the six contests, and won four prizes--one
second and three firsts. Two of these first prizes, be it observed,
far outrank the others as tests of scholarship--namely, those in Greek
and in mathematics. No shallow theory of luck will explain this sudden
and remarkable success. The older colleges will do well to inquire
into causes, and to ask themselves if their young rival is not
possessed of a new power--if sturdiness of character and independence
of thought are not more efficient than mere routine. After all, is it
surprising that the institution which is most liberal should attract
to itself the most progressive minds?

JAMES MORGAN HART.

SONNET.

I saw a garden-bed on which there grew,
Low down amid gay grass, a violet,
With flame of poppy flickering over it,
And many gaudy spikes and blossoms new,
Round which the wind with amorous whispers blew.
There came a maid, gold-haired and lithe and strong,
With limbs whereof the delicate perfumed flesh
Was like a babe's. She broke the flowering mesh
Of flaunting weeds, and plucked the modest bloom
To wear it on her bosom all day long.
So in pure breasts pure things find welcomest room,
And poppied epics, flushed with blood and wrong,
Are crushed to reach love's violets of song.

MAURICE THOMPSON.

THE HOUSE THAT SUSAN BUILT.

Susan--Susan Summerhaze--was twenty-nine, and had never had a lover.
You smile. You people have a way of smiling at the mention of a maiden
lady who has never had a lover, as though there was a very good joke
in the matter. You ought to be ashamed to smile. You have a tear for
the girl at the grave of her lover, and for the bride of a month in
her widow's cap, and even for her who mourns a lover changed. But
in each of these cases the woman has had her romance: her spirit has
thrilled to enchanted music; there is a consecrated something in her
nature; a tender memory is hers for ever.

Nothing is so pathetic as the insignificant. Than a dead blank,
better a path marked by--well, anything, perhaps, except dishonor. The
colorless, commonplace life was especially dreary to my Susan, because
of a streak of romance--and a broad streak it was--that ran from end
to end of her nature.

It's another provoking way you people have of laughing at romantic
young women. Sentimental, you call them. I tell you it's the most
womanly thing in the wo