Today the first mid-year is staged. The scene has been painted, the time set, the prompters are prompt. The angelic orchestra, under the disguise of a Faculty, has strummed up the blue pencil instruments. The programs, officially printed on yellow, have been numbered and are waiting. All is ready. Where are the actors? Only the actors are missing. They have forgotten their lines. Or perhaps they never learned them.
All that eleventh hour and twelfth hour and three A. M. cramming may do; all that tutors may accomplish; all that prayers may bring to pass, has been done. Nothing remains but to bow the head, to receive the traditional crown, or the more familiar axe.
But be comforted, you hundreds who go today to the inevitable destruction. You are not alone butchered to make a Faculty holiday. The editor also has examinations.
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