THE DIARY OF A DANGEOUS MAN

Nov, 23. It is what I feared. The comrades in New York are beginning to question the success of my mission. Little do they realize the crass ignorance, the mountains of disbelief and unbelief, the seas of deliberate indifference through which I have had to struggle even to cause my presence here to be noticed.

Today Comrade Ratsky arrived. He believes that all humanity is in a vise and we the enlightened, are the only ones to be extricated. A good man, but I fear his presence here.

Nov. 24, Comrade Ratsky spoke to me of the crying need for reform among the capitalist infested railroads. Only a week ago he was forced hurriedly to leave Providence. He managed to board the Federal for New York unnoticed and, finding unoccupied a section reserved for one of the vice-presidents of the road, he crept in and pulled together the curtains.

In these cramped quarters he was compelled to lie for four hours. He did not dare sleep for fear of being carried on to Washington. Indeed, as he expressed it so poignantly, what better proof is needed of the perfidy of the railroads? So obscurely were the stations sign-posted all along the way, the he was actually obliged to strain his eyes at every little jerk stop to perceive whether or not it was New York.

Nov. 25. Comrade Ratsky coincides to the letter with my opinion of Harvard. The great thing, he says, is to make them realize what we think of them. We must do something big, something enduring. Today, accordingly, as we sat through a tedious hour in Harvard 6, Comrade Ratsky called my attention to a part of the bench before him. Here he had smoothed a place with his knife and had inscribed deep, heavily-pencilled lines: "All of you here are but a herd of garbage swilling pigs. You shall rot in your stagnant tracks!"

He looked at me with a confident smile. "This will wither them!" he exclaimed. At last a permanent record of our contempt where all will see it. This is a triumph!

Nov. 26. Comrade Ratsky and I have been eager to find some results of our masterpiece. We were the first to reach the class-room this morning. The inscription was erased. In its place some one had written: "There's my jolly English gentleman!" More stupid indifference; or perhaps could it have been sarcasm?

THIS SUMMER FICTION

(in the manner of Punch)

Scene: Window seat, gules and sofa, azur. Two seniors couchant.

First, reading aloud: "'Lord Henry's cameo-like features relaxed themselves into a smile. What the deuce is a camco-like picture?"

Second: "Oh a dirty look on white ground. He hadn't shaved, that's all."

"Your true pessimist," remarked Col. Bygad sententiously, "in only an optimist in an advanced stage, everything is bound to turn out so much better than be expects."

These young Yale freshmen ought not to be censured too severely. After all, the thought of three more winters in New Haven. R. SIMULANE

I hate to speak of matters long buried, such as Pocahentas bones and Lampy's idea of a baseball game, but it does seem to me that a recent error of punctuation on its pages should be partially corrected. It declares "the final score stood 3 to 2 for the Lampoon"; but it left out a dash. The sentence would be "The final score stood 3 to 2 for the Lampoon".   FELE. G. BOON

"Hot stuff!" remarked a student on June third as he finished his report comparing Milton's Hell with Dante's inferno.