Editor’s Table

Han and Cherrywold came across the campus together.

“What do you think of our first issue?” asked Han.

“Well,” replied Cherrywold, “a little thin, to be sure, but very fine goods—and mostly home-made, at that.”

“Yes,” mused Han, “and this one shall be better. I look forward to a short and pleasant evening.”

So saying, they approached the luxurious and delicately heated office confidently and in the best of spirits. But oh, what enemies lurk in the dark places ever eager to strike a treacherous blow at the Muse! In the window of her palace hung a filthy, yellow sheet advertising that altogether despicable sport of debating. With a mighty oath both jammed their keys into the lock, tore to the window, and stamped upon this latest outrage. That done, with spirits not altogether as calm as before, they sat down to wait for the others, who were, of course, late. In a short while they were joined by ante-moral, pro-subjective Rabnon. The conversation turned, purely by chance, upon bastard sons. The question before the house was: Whose was the greater—Aaron Burr’s or Elihu Yale’s? So rife became the argument that Cherrywold was dispatched to follow up certain clues and obtain further information upon the question. In a short while he returned greatly excited and out of breath. A number of prominent men had been interviewed—one of whom, though it may be hard to believe, was a professor. It was, however, decided to withhold the verdict on this remarkable case until the following month. As we go to press, new evidence is pouring into the office, owing to our expert secret service department, and we fully expect to startle the world by an announcement of momentous import at a near date.

In spite of this coup, our spirits were sorely tried by the sudden entrance of Mr. and Mrs. Stevens—one hour late! Due to the latter’s persuasive smile, we controlled our language. Beside, one must be cautious in the presence of three aliases. Cherrywold re-read Han’s poem for the tenth time.

“On reading this more and more,” he remarked, “I like it less and less.”

“Then read it less and less,” suggested Mr. Stevens. His wife tittered approvingly.

After that there was comparative silence, broken only by the muttered threats of Cherrywold each time he pulled out his watch. Another half-hour smoked by. Suddenly out of the darkness there appeared in the doorway a halo. With badly shaken nerves, all stared wildly at the light. Suddenly the hushed expectancy was broken.

“Well, if it isn’t little sunshine,” cried Rabnon. “And two hours late at that!”

“Then he’s the cause of all this daylight saving muddle,” asserted Mrs. Stevens. “Land sakes! Who’d think it to look at him?”

“My gosh!” yelled Cherrywold. “Aren’t we ever going to get down to work? If the rest of you don’t stop your giggling there won’t be any May issue. Now, Han, what do you want after this title; I suppose dashes?”

“No, thank you,” replied Han sweetly. “I’ll take dots.”

Eventually something was done, but no one knew exactly what nor cared much, for by that time it was far into the night and we were all three-quarters asleep. Some unknown person by the name of Briggs likes to tell people how to ruin a perfectly good day. He better look to his laurels, for he’ll have to go some to beat a new series, entitled “How to ruin a perfectly good evening,” by

CHERRYWOLD.