TO-DAY I'm sitting up for the first time, and in as much as I can't smoke and won't read, because it makes my head spin so confoundedly, the long, dull hours of the afternoon have dragged very wearily. I got my sofa moved to the window, where I had a prospect down the Yard. But as an all-day spectacle the Yard is not a success. I'm going home to-morrow to convalesce, and I rejoice, meanwhile, to watch the hurrying to recitation of those whom the rainy weather has not induced to cut. Presently this little bustle is over, and nothing varies the dreary, brown monotony of the steaming Yard, except here and there the bright green spot which denotes the passing, verdant Freshman, or the umbrella of the chance passer as he picks his way round the deep and treacherous puddles, - a succession of which compose the "stone" walk, - or trudges courageously through the mud of the other ways. The trees are waving their bare branches dismally to and fro, and groaning at the rude embraces of the north-wind.

What a desolate scene! I think I could write some verses on it that would equal that dreadful howl of grief I read somewhere the other day. If I can crawl to the table, I'll get it. Here it is, - let's see how it goes. No author given, - but it's called A Wail, - yes, "very like a whale," as the Swan of Avon has it!

"June without roses my life is, -

A hive without its bees;

Salt that has lost its savour,

Spice that retains no flavour,

A summer day without a breeze.

Ah, woe is me!"

I've seen that "roseless June" idea somewhere before, but the spice one is original enough to make up for it. Next:-

"One thought makes life worth keeping,

And takes away the pain

Of existence without pleasure,

And of work that gains no treasure,

Of precious moments spent in vain, -

The thought of thee!"