We live here at college, as it were, in a desert; and so we will live as long as co-education is not countenanced by the Harvard authorities. All the tender, gentle sides of our natures are neglected and grow up like reeds in a sandy soil, getting only a mere existence. Deprived for a time of association with the fairer and gentler sex, we grow manly and (in a sense) harsh, and not mild, gentle, forbearing. So, then, whenever we find the monotony of our desert life broken by some pleasant oasis with its shady groves and fair flowers, with its restful hospitality, we are entranced; for a time we think ourselves in a different world, where, indeed, we really are; and, when we push on again into the desert, we first think and then write of our past pleasures. Wellesley, Lasell, and Boston University, nay, even the Annex, have given refreshment to many a Harvard traveller, and doubtless will refresh many more to come; but not of them but of still another oasis would I write, of one that is just as refreshing, just as hospitable, just as shady, with its sparkling springs of gentleness and beauty just as cool and recuperating,- the New England Conservatory of Music in Boston.

My first visit to the Conservatory was made quite recently on the occasion of an "Informal Reception, Art School and Loan Exhibition of Paint tings," as the invitation read. Perhaps I had to fish for my invitation; but then fishing is not always an unpleasant sport. I caught a good sized fish; and with it came up such snags and grasses as a couple of sweet-scented cards, and trailing along after them a note. Of course I threw none of this booty back into the water.

Although not announced in the invitation, the first feature of the evening's entertainment was a concert of some length and of a good deal of excellence. What especially pleased me in this concert was a selection by Mr. T. Adamowski, violinist, and the singing of Heine's short poem, "Du bist will eine Bluma," by the tenor, Mr. T. C. Bartlett, to music by Liszt.

The concert, which by the way was held in the dino-concert, or concertodining, hall, having come to an end, the next thing to attract my attention was the Art School and Loan Exhibition of paintings. It was hard to study very carefully any of the pictures on account of the constant crowding of the guests. One of the paintings, however, took my attention for some time. It was entitled, "Waiting for Breakfast." A little girl stood before a stove watching a woman, presumably her mother, fry buckwheat cakes. The title and the plate of cakes (resting on the front edge of the stove) sent my thoughts like a flash to Memorial with its Friday breakfasts. I knew in an instant that the artist had obtained his models from the Memorial steward, which, perhaps, explained very well why the painting was not a success. The prominent artists represented in the exhibition were William Willard, B. Champney, and Charles Sprague Pearce. Others were Pallik, Beta, S. Conti, and J. M. Gaugengigl. A painting by the last entitled, "It is good," was valued at $3,000.

The work of the students themselves, while, perhaps, not as excellent, was yet quite as interesting. Some of the plaques and of the painted china ware were very fascinating and exceedingly well executed. Much of the work in the Art School department was in the line more of studies than of paintings with any prominent meaning. The visitor was amused at seeing in almost every third or fourth picture an old skull with high cheek bones; and, when the model itself was found in an out-of-the-way corner, it was like coming upon an old friend. The sculpture, of which there were several very good pieces on exhibition, was still not equal in excellency to the painting; but, of course, this is not surprising. The evening's entertainment on the side of art, as well as in every other way, was a great success.

In this report I have said nothing about the gaiety and beauty and conversation; but in my silence I would not imply indifference. Unquestionably the charm of the music and all enjoyment in the works of art were more than doubled by the presence of a fair companion and interpreter. Between all the lines that I have written I would have the readers of the CRIMSON insert whatever of sentiment and sweetness their own experiences will justify.

At 9.30 P.M. a bell rang, and a little before ten all the guests reluctantly took leave. As we passed out at the door, our thoughts were veritably lowered from the sublime to the ridiculous; for a smooth faced youth was there giving out circulars and catalogues to all who left the hall. Men are men everywhere. A church basement is often made into a grocery store; and a delightful evening's entertainment is turned into a means of advertisement and a seeking after pecuniary profit.

OMEN.