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The night was dark, so dark; the wind was cold, so cold.
The Juniors had left the warm library with great reluctance.
When he fell into an ambuscade of Seniors then he knew
what others had known for a long time. He was such an
easy mark; he needed a lesson to help him see when his
eyes were open, - his understanding also needed stimulating.
He got it.

A ten mile tramp on a stormy night is under ordinary
circumstances conducive to thought. But if one's hands are
strapped behind the back, and the footsteps are arbitrarily
measured by a short length of rope; if the road is rough and
unaccustomed, and if no friendly light cheers the halting
homeward way, but only the pale, frosty twinkle of the dis
tant city lights is visible, then the stream of consciousness
flows on unchanged, undiverted.

One Junior thought for quite a while.


Some juniors wondrous bold
A daring plan contrived
Some seniors to enfold
In fell and hungry clutch
And rounded up a motley mob
About our buzzing Wyer cage.

Among this cow'ring host
Were dancing Nielsen, loud,
And swaggering, fond of boast,
With Kellogg, gone astray,
Thornbury, bootless bluffer wild,
And many another lesser light.

All through that evening sad
They chased each other 'bout
Instilling courage mad,
Around that library door;
The while four seniors calmly sat
And lessons conned in perfect peace.

The gong rang ten.
Four seniors outward marched.


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