The Storm Out of the cloud banked west it rolls Far o'er the moaning sea; Over the reef the bell buoy tolls Fitful warnings of sunken shoals, Telling of ship-wrecked, storm-tossed souls, Screaming and wheeling the gulls fly low Down drops the sun and the lurid glow Sport of the winds at play. Hark to the shriek of the squall that leaps Down from the inky sky! Woe to the bark whose pilot sleeps, Woe to the wife who vigil keeps, Woe to the sweetheart who waits and weeps, Woe ye, who fear to die. P. B. M. COMMENTS As we pointed out in a long Comment in our Thanksgiving number, at last a move has been made in the right direction-our football team is to have a trainer. This news ought to be a source of great gratification to all Columbia men, as one of the causes for our past failures on the gridiron has now been eradicated, and next year's team will be well taken care of. Though it is somewhat early in the year, the outlook for next year is, indeed, very encouraging. With the return of Mr. Morley as head coach, and numerous ex-Columbia players as his assistants, the team will receive the benefits of expert coaching. With an expert trainer, such as Murphy of Yale, the physical condition of the men will be carefully looked out for. The capable management will undoubtedly relieve the team from all financial straits, and provide an even and well-balanced schedrule. For the captaincy, we have a man known for his pluck and nerve, and whose experience as a member of two Columbia teams will be of much benefit to him next year. Thus the outlook for next year seems brilliant, and it is with great impatience that we await the opening of the next season, which we trust will put Columbia on a par with the "Big Four." What is the matter with the Trophy Room Committee? Last year when the Trophy Room was instituted, money was suscribed by all the classes and by others interested to buy a center case. At the beginning of Octoer it was announced that sufficient money to do this had been secured, but that is as near to the case as we have got. Until that case is secured the Trophy Room can be seen only by a laborious process of securing the key from Dr. Savage. It is to the interest of all up here to have the Trophy Room open daily, so we respectfully ask the committee to wake up and provide the center case. Morningside announces with pleasure the election of Herbert L. Stein, 1904 C., to the Literary Board. In Memoriam Cold as the marble That stands at her head, Unheeding the warble Of birds o'er her bed She knows not of sorrow, The heart that has bled, To-day nor to-morrowDead, she is dead! Peacefully slumbering Ye stars, on the sleeper Look down and may God Protect her and keep her As she sleeps 'neath the sod. That heart stilled forever Once beat against mine And Death cannot sever When hearts thus entwine. Yes, the House of God's treasure Holds one gem for me To take at my pleasure And Love is the key. When shall I meet her Again? Ah yes, when How shall I greet her? Kisses again? Hark, she is near me With soft angel tread; I speak-does she hear me? Dead, she is dead! PB M. T Patsy Passes HE day is chilly. A mist is rising and bleak drizzle is beginning to sprinkle the city streets. Under the light of the lamp-post at the corner stands a ragged boy-Patsy. "Tin cints fer feed, twinty fer papers tomorrer, tin fer keeps, and five fer a hot bologny," he mutters, as he lovingly fingers a handful of change. "A hot bologny at the dagoe's" and Patsy starts off briskly in the dreary darkness of the night. He whistles as he thinks of the joy of living, of the delights of a hot "bologny." Patsy is always whistling; he cannot help it; his lips simply pucker in that direction. What is he whistling? "Home, Sweet Home." A man and woman are sitting in a handsome drawing-room on Fifth avenue. They are sitting apart. The man's brow is clouded and the smile on his lips is unpleasant. His face is unnaturally pale and he snaps his fingers nervously as he rises and crosses over to the woman. Her curved lips are compressed in unaccustomed lines; her dark eyes are lifted coldly to the man's and her features harden as she gazes abstractedly at the Sistine Madonna which hangs on the opposite wall. "It's no use, Mae; an explanation is quite unnecessary. All right, Mary, I'll be late to-night. You need not wait up for me." He turns toward the door to open it, but pauses with his hand on the knob. A clear whistle comes up through the open window. The tender strains of "Home, Sweet Home" rise and fall to cheery rapid footsteps and then fade away in the distance. The man's hand falls from the knob and he crosses over to the woman who has already risen to meet him. A hungry boy is devouring a bologna sausage on the corner. Marjorie Hugban |