IT was in the early part of the summer, and I was still a Freshman, in blissful ignorance of the result of the year's work.

One evening, as I was loitering about the entrance to the ball-room of one of the hotels at Saratoga, wishing that the thermometer would try the effect of a cold bath, I saw R., a college friend of mine and in the Senior class. He is a nice fellow, and good-looking; but, owing to the absence of those airy nothings usually indulged in by men of his age, his appearance is somewhat youthful.

His first question, after the customary "How are you?" was whether I knew any good dancer to introduce him to.

"Ah!" said I. "There is a young lady here from Boston, - splendid dancer, nice talker, and - "

"Introduce me, please," interrupted R.; and so I did.

My seat, after a while, happened to be directly behind them, and I overhead the following.

"Well, Mr. R., how do you like Cambridge?"

R., rather astonished at a question that he thought had vanished with his Freshman year, replied: "Cambridge? Oh! I like it immensely. If it were not for Chapel, and one or two other things, it would be perfect."

"Now, I hope," said Miss A., "you won't haze the poor Freshmen next year. It would be mean, as you were not hazed yourself."

Meanwhile, R.'s face was a study. At last a light broke upon him, he saw that she had mistaken his class, and resolved to carry on the joke, so replied with due solemnity, -

"Oh, of course we shall not."

"Do you know, Mr. R., I like Freshmen much better than any other class; they are so gentle and fresh."

"Well, really."

"That is, I mean, fresh from the airs and bad habits contracted later on."

"Thanks; you pay the Freshmen a great compliment. Meanwhile, may we not improve the music?"