"For the good and the great, in their beautiful prime,
Through thy precincts have musingly trod--"
The roll of the national anthem died away and the veterans stood with
bowed heads while the chaplain pronounced the benediction. Then the
color bearer elevated the regimental flags, the drums tapped, and the
gray-haired soldier boys, in straggling twos, marched slowly out of
Saunders's Theater, through the flower-bedecked transept, and into the
broad sunshine of Memorial Day. Ralph and I lingered in our seats until
the crowd had thinned. In the flag-draped balcony above the platform the
members of the band were hurriedly departing with their impedimenta;
here and there little old ladies dressed in gray, were making their way
with tardy steps toward the side exit; while all around the theater the
open windows poured in a battery of mote-filled sunshine upon the
deserted benches. The air was heavy with the soft fragrance of the elms
outside, the faint odor of starched linen, of pine dust, and of flowers.
"There's a pair for you!" whispered Ralph, as an erect old gentleman
accompanied by a white-haired negro came up the aisle. "I wish I knew
who they were." He offered to wager large sums, based upon his alleged
capacity for divination, that they were an "old grad," a Southerner,
probably, and his body servant--"Old Marse" and "Uncle Ned." He
instantly saw visions of them as characters in a story he was writing
for one of the college papers. He is an imaginative boy.
We followed them out into the transept, and waited in the jog by the
entrance while they made the round of the tablets, the white man reading
the various inscriptions to his companion, who now and then would nod as
if in recollection, and once furtively wiped his eyes with a frayed
red-bordered silk handkerchief. The last we saw of them, they were
picking their way across the car tracks of Cambridge Street in the
direction of the Yard.
All the long spring afternoon, as we lay on the grass with our backs
against the tree trunks, pretending to study, but really only watching
the little gray denizens of the Yard intent upon their squirrel
business, Ralph was making up stories about "Old Marse" and "Uncle Ned."
I don't believe the chap read a line of his Stubbs on "Mediæval
Architecture," and he was very loath to join me when I dragged him to
his feet and said that it was time for supper.
Darkness had fallen when, two hours later, we joined the group of men
gathered under the elms around the main entrance of Holworthy, where the
Glee Club had assembled for one of its evening concerts. Everywhere the
old buildings gleamed with light, for the examinations were on, and each
window had its cluster of coatless occupants, who from time to time
vociferously participated in mournful, lingering calls for "M-o-r-e."
The odor of pipe smoke mingled with the sweet, humid breath of the grass
and the subtle perfume of professors' gardens from distant Quincy
Street; in the western sky a crescent moon, just peeping from behind the
tower of Massachusetts Hall, shyly nestled in the tree tops; while
between the great elms we could look, as we lay flat upon our backs,
into an infinity of faintly twinkling worlds. Between songs you could
hear the creaking of the pump in front of Hollis Hall, and the tinkle of
the cup upon its chain as it was tossed heedlessly away by the thirsty
wayfarer after he had availed himself of its humble services. Ralph and
I, joyously entangled in the anatomy of a dozen classmates, drank in
with rapture the never cloying melodies of "Johnnie Harvard," "The
Miller's Daughter," "The Independent Cadets," and "A Health to King
Charles," none of which old favorites escaped without a second
rendition, and it was well on to nine o'clock when with a last
Here's a health to King Charles,
_Fill him up_ to the brim!
the assemblage broke up, in spite of savage disapproval from the
windows.
Then only did we surrender to our miserable apprehension of the
imminent, deadly "exam." in Fine Arts 4, and with the earnestly avowed
purpose of really mastering the difference between a gargoyle and a
lintel before we retired to rest, reluctantly mounted the stone steps
recently vacated by our musical brethren. Our room was Number 10, the
first as you go in on the right, and the flickering gaslight in the hall
showed that the door, in accordance with inviolable custom, was still
ajar.
"Wait a second while I light the lamp," I remarked to Ralph, and,
feeling my way across the room to my desk, stood there fumbling for the
matches. As I did so I was startled to hear a voice from the darkness in
the direction of the fireplace.
"I beg your pardon," it said. "I'm afraid I have usurped your room, but
the door was open and its invitation was too attractive to be refused."