The Indian clubs in the window-place,
As the firelight flickers upon the pane,
Seem Freshmen full of innocent grace,
And the statuettes on the low bookcase
Become "Port-peelers" twain.
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Dick starts, and with rapid, restless stride,
He paces the chamber to and fro.
Like a lion caged, he chafes in pride,
There is a world of joy outside,
Within a world of woe.
But hark! a voice at the keyhole near,
The voice of a friend it seems to be,
Is calling and whispering in his ear,
"Junior Dick, why 'grind' ye here?
Come on a 'bat' with me!"
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