him a moment from his purpose. Far from it. The next morning he would appear as blithe as bird on bough and proceed to unfold a brand new plan for securing an endowment fund. Can anyone think for a moment that a spirit like that can die or even fail? I do not think it can fail whatever happens to the endowment. The ideas which he wished to perpetuate have gone forth to all the world and ideas are hard to kill. By this, I do not mean that the school should not have a home of its own. I think it should. But I am more interested in the development of the great idea itself than in the buildings which might house it.

I would like to see the School of Expression take its place as the leading school of literature and expression in the world with the emphasis equally on Literature. I would like to see the School win a place for itself as unique in the field of literature as the London School of Economics, for instance, has made for itself in the field of economic science.

There is serious constructive work ahead of us, my friends, if the School of Expression is to be placed on any such basis; but I am convinced that with wise plans, skillful leadership, and the wholesouled cooperation of the student body it can be accomplished.

CROSSING THE BAR
TENNYSON

Read by MRS. B. D. HUNTINGTON

"Sunset and evening star,

And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar,

When I put out to sea;

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

Too full for sound and foam,

When that which drew from out the boundless deep

Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,

And after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness of farewell,

When I embark;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place

The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face

When I have crost the bar."

OLIVE SCHREINER

Read by ETHEL PRISCILLA POTTER

One day it was my privilege to sit in a class on Elliptic Pantomime, which Dr. Curry was conducting. He was dealing with the philosophy of expression, of pantomime in general, and elliptic pantomime in particular. From this his electric mind leaped to the philosophy of M. Maeterlinck, and he instanced that remarkable book, "The Life of the Bee."

I shall never forget that hour, for Dr. Curry treated that book with a touch allegorical. I never hear bees nor think of them without a keen remembrance of that experience, and so I bring to you tonight an allegory by Olive Schreiner "A Dream of Wild Bees."

A mother sat alone at an open window. Through it came the voices of the children as they played under the acacia-trees, and the breath of the hot afternoon air. In and out of the room flew the bees, the wild bees, with their legs yellow with pollen, going to and from the acacia-trees, droning all the while. She sat on a low chair before the table and darned. She watched the needle go in and out; and the dreary hum of the bees and the noise of the children's voices became a confused murmur in her ears, as she worked slowly and more slowly. Then the bees, the long-legged wasp-like fellows who make no honey, flew closer and closer to her head, droning. Then she grew more and more drowsy, and she laid her hand on the edge of the table, and leaned her head upon it. And the voices of the children outside grew more and more dreamy, then she did not hear them, but she felt under her heart where the ninth child lay. Bent forward and sleeping there, with the bees flying about her head, she had a weird brain-picture; she thought the bees lengthened and lengthened themselves out and became human creatures and moved round and round her. Then one came to her softly, saying, "Let me lay my hand upon thy side where the child sleeps. If I shall touch him he shall be as I."

She asked, "Who are you?"

And he said, "I am Health. Whom I touch will have always the red blood dancing in his veins; he will not know weariness nor pain; life will be a long laugh to him."

'No," said another, "let me touch; for I am Wealth. If I touch him material care shall not feed on him. He shall live on the blood and sinews of his fellow-men, if he will; and what his eye lusts for, his hand will have.'

I touch, I lead to a high hill where all men may see him. When he dies he is not forgotten, his name rings down the centuries, each echoes it on to his fellows. Think-not to be forgotten through the ages!"

And the mother lay breathing steadily, but in the brain-picture they pressed closer to her.

"Let me touch the child," said one, "For I am Love. If I touch him he shall not walk through life alone. In the greatest dark, when he puts out his hand he shall find another hand by it. When the world is against him, another shall say, 'You and Ï.' And the child trembled.

But another pressed close and said, "Let me touch; for I am Talent. I can do all things-that have been done before. I touch the soldier, the statesman, the thinker, and the politician who succeed; and the writer who is never before his time, and never behind it. If I touch the child he shall not weep for failure."

About the mother's head the bees were flying, touching her with their long tapering limbs; and, in her brain-picture, out of the shadow of the room came one with sallow face, deep-lined, the cheeks drawn into hollows, and a mouth smiling quiveringly. He stretched out his hand. And the mother drew back, and cried, "Who are you?" He answered nothing; and she looked up between his eyelids. And she said, "What can you give the child-health?" And he said, "The man I touch, there wakes up in his blood a burning fever, that shall lick his blood as fire. The fever that I will give him shall be cured when his life is cured."

'You give wealth?"

He shook his head. "The man whom I touch, when he bends to pick up gold, he sees suddenly a light over his head in the sky; while he looks up to see it, the gold slips from between his fingers, or sometimes another passing takes it from them." "Fame?"

He answered, "Perhaps not. For the man I touch there is a path traced out in the sand by a finger which no man sees. That he must follow. Sometimes it leads almost to the top, and then turns down suddenly into the valley. He must follow it, though none else sees the tracing."

"Love?"

He said, "He shall hunger for it—but he shall not find it. When he stretches out his arms to it, and would lay his heart against

light play. He must go towards it, and he must travel alone.” "He shall succeed?

He said, "He shall fail. When he runs with others they shall reach the goal before him. For strange voices shall call to him and strange lights shall beckon him, and he must wait and listen. And this shall be the strangest; far off across the burning sands where, to other men, there is only the desert's waste, he shall see a blue sea! On that sea the sun shines always, and the water is blue as burning amethyst, and the foam is white on the shore. A great land rises from it, and he shall see upon the mountaintops burning gold."

The mother said, "He shall reach it?"

And he smiled curiously.

She said, "It is real?"

And he said, "What is real?"

And she looked up between his half-closed eyelids, and said, "Touch."

And he leaned forward and laid his hand upon the sleeper, and whispered to it, smiling; and this only she heard—“This shall be thy reward-that the ideal shall be real to thee."

And the child trembled; but the mother slept on heavily and her brain-picture vanished. But deep within her the antenatal thing that lay here had a dream. In those eyes that had never seen the day, in that half-shaped brain was a sensation of light! Light-that it never had seen. Light-that perhaps it never should see. Light-that existed somewhere!

And already it had its reward: the Ideal was real to it.

HE ACTED WELL HIS PART

REV. DAVIS WASGATT CLARK, D.D.

The trite top line of the old copy-book comes to mind"Honor and shame from no condition rise." It would seem there are some in these parts who would fain deny the axiom. They are those folk whom Oliver Wendell Holmes wittily and twittingly called the New England Brahman caste. But there has just closed a career in this city which aside from all incidental and personal phases is worthy of note as an illustration and proof of the familiar saying. A lank, penniless, friendless lad, of no "condition" and from the mountains of Tennessee, has just with indefatigable industry and dauntless spirit, practically single-handed, carved out a niche for himself in the cold granite front of New England society.

Samuel S. Curry came to Boston just as John T. Trowbridge did to New York. The latter said he came as an up-state boy to New York with a pocket full of poems and a brain full of ideals but wondering how he was ever going to make a living.

The analogy between Trowbridge and Curry is not quite perfect, for the latter came to attend the School of Theology of Boston University and he instantly found a "friend" in that peerless faculty, two of whom still survive as if to show us what the others were like. With true Methodist evangelistic fervor he gave himself in spare hours to city missionary work, as the students do to this day. He found a "flop hotel," a dank, horrid cellar, where men paid five cents for a spot to lie down on.

Just at this juncture began the friendship between Phillips Brooks and Curry, which lasted for life. One evening the latter was telling the rector of his experience when the older man broke in with the exclamation, "Curry, I'd like to go with you. Come to the house tomorrow night!" When Curry called, the vestry was in session and an officious official said, "Dr. Brooks is very busy, he is very much engaged!" Just then “S. S.” heard that "voice," ever dear to those who have once heard it. It was saying: "Gentlemen, I have an appointment with that young man. I'll approve the business you transact in my absence. The next moment Dr. Brooks was in the hall and reaching for his hat, and the two swept out arm in arm to the North End and down into the fetid air of the cellar, ill lighted with its smoking lamps. Phillips Brooks stood a moment, the splendid specimen of perfect manhood towering above those human