The Nightmare

"Etliel Vane" sends ns a poem, "AVhy Does Swcet Slunibor Slum My Eyes?" Why? Sit down here, Ethel, where we can tickle yotir rosy ear vrttïi the iaxed end of a short mustaohe, whilo we wliisper to you that when a gii'l scarcely li yi-ai-s old eiits m 8-o'clock Klipper of cola tongue, broilod steak, saH Hraokèoel, fried potatoes, doughnnts, cold apple pie, fried eggs, fresli peaches, a ati'cie of watermclon and one or two cups of coffeo, horriiied slumber "will pack its trunk and climb ónto the first train that will take it furtluwt away, and all the poetry in the Baptist College won't bring it back to yon for a weck. Don't ask any more such commdrums, Ethel ; these are stirring, earnest times, that thrill with ])ciil and impending danger, and our lyro is tuned to loftier strains.