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By D. G. G.

Schopenhauer is delightful about the first of January when mid-years and other pleasures serve to sins one into the manifold morbidities of mundane moroseness--and Schopenhauer. Comes spring--or rather comes the thought of spring, and Schopenhauer returns to his shelf while Robert Herrick's measures tread the mind, and day dreams take the place of nightmares. A silly soul, indeed, has phrased it thus--

Comes spring apace, a daintiness distilled

Through Cambridge streets, so dull, so winter killed,

With here and there a rivulet swift gushing,

And there and here swift taxis swifter rushing

To carry young barbarians vis a vis

As spring inclines the pedant heart to tea.

So dances many a minion of the college

Whom spring diverts from desecrating knowledge--

And pins his little wagon to a star

Which twinkles far from Widener--very far.

In truth it was probably this spring fever sort of thing which spoiled my critical faculty completely the other night when I dared the rigors of Radcliffe long enough to see Benavente's "School for Princesses". For I rather liked the way it was done. Of course the heroine's continual pegieggedness was a trifle diverting for one who wished to concentrate on her regality. And the court gallant, the Duke of Asperin or Whatnot, might have done a little less bubbling about and made a few of his words intelligible. Yet those are the things which give amateur dramatics these Piquancy. I liked the play and the close of the second act was really theatrical. Though how the audience could laugh at some of the things they did is more than I can understand. Probably spring had them in its clutches--for Baccardi and Agassiz have as yet remained alienated.

But the college up Brattle is broadening. I saw many a maid, and none of them staid, when I visited the Splendid Georgian on my return from the Idlers' mid-winter or early spring or whatsoever production--and they came from Radcliffe. I know because they had escorts and ate very little. The usual female occupant at the evening tables at the Georgian eats very much. "Say, I guess I'll have a chicken salad sanwidge--Yeah, coffee."' No, you can't fill the poor working girl. Yes, I was surprised to see so many young college women in the place--and was quite delighted. A study in contrasts--or are they--is always amusing. Especially when two of those burly brothers in blue--the kind that read the Lampoon begin to extract certain indiscrete yeomen from the crowded mist. Oh! for a maestro to paint the Georgian at evening. What a work, what a glorious achievement for any artist. "Aw, come on, big boy, you're wanderin'. Lay off the bowkays. Spring aient here yet."

But it is. Just as surely as a chorine poises her little finger by pure reflex action when she holds a tea cup. Which reminds me that one of them lost her poise the other night at the Lair on Lansdowne street when a gentleman stroked her head with a ginger ale bottle. Now Emily Poste aside, I cannot believe that a real gentleman would do a thing like that. Of course there are times when it would be intriguing. Haven't you wished you could place just a small bottle. Now Emily Poste aside, I cannot believe that a real gentleman would do a thing like that. Of course there are times when it would be intriguing, Haven't you wished you could place just a small bottle upon the head of some recalcitrant lady to silence her for a few minutes. You haven't? How odd. It makes them look so happy. For never is one so beatific looking as when beneath a lily and the tears of his friends he dreams of Elysian bars.

But you think me inconsistent--when I have put Schopenhauer away with moth balls. I don't blame you. Far be it from me to emulate the gentleman from Lansdowne Street, especially in the spring and when ginger ale bottles are so expensive.

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