HARVARD IN MAY.

I PROPOSE to devote this article to the amenities of college life in May. We have been told a great many times what a delightful month this is in other places, but Harvard has certain beauties of its own at this time of the year that are worthy of record, and would be sufficient even for a tolerably long epic. First, of course, here as everywhere else, we have this delightful spring weather, these beautiful days with the mercury reaching after ninety, and your spring suit still at the tailor's. Then these charming evenings, occupied in grinding for the annuals, when the science of entomology thrives, and the Melolontha vulgaris holds a desperate flirtation with the Musca domestica on the leaves of the Latin dictionary. In the daytime how we enjoy our recitations! I fancy that in the way of lecture-rooms we have something which cannot be found elsewhere. I will wager that the air in the rooms in the top of University is patented by the Faculty. It is the hottest, closest, and foulest gas that ever was breathed by human beings. Add to this the most uncomfortable benches ever built by a carpenter, and you have a lovely picture of Harvard luxury. When cooped up in those historic attics, how I envy the manipulator of the peaceful lawn mower!

Freed from this nuisance, I try to get an idea of when my annuals come; an undertaking that requires me to crowd and push with a lot of others, in order to get a chance to see a notice which, when I do see it, tells me that my examinations all come in the same week. Highly gratified by this pleasing announcement, I go to lunch, to be entertained with the eternal talk about J. Cook and the Boston Transcript, the same remarks that I have heard every day for a week. By this time I am pretty well disgusted with life, and rush away from lunch to cool my body and my temper with a sherbet at Belcher's. Here I am met by a classmate, who talks about the war in Turkey. What do I care about Turkey? The other day I thought I ought to take some interest in it; so I sought out a newspaper that had a huge map on one side of it, and went to work to find out all about it. I began by reading an account of the Russian advance; the first town I saw mentioned was Kars. Keeping to my intention of getting up the war thoroughly, I turned to the map to see where this heathen citadel was situated. After looking for a long time in the wrong place, I was successful, - a result which I had expected would give me a great deal of pleasure. But when I came to compare my feelings after finding Kars with my state of mind before its discovery, I could not perceive that I felt any happier. In fact, I did not feel so happy; for now, whenever I heard any one mention Turkey, I had an insane desire to talk too. The natural and melancholy result was a mortifying exhibition of my ignorance. Truly, thought I,

"A little learning is a dangerous thing."

All this mortification comes from knowing where Kars is. I put my map and newspaper in the waste-paper basket; and, study being out of the question on such an oppressive afternoon, I betake myself to my lounge and try to get a nap. I am having the most delicious doze you can imagine, dreaming, yet conscious that I am dreaming, when, after delivering a kick at the door that nearly breaks it in, the noisiest man in the class enters, slams the door, seizes me by the shoulder, and wants me to go to walk. I give a grunt which I think ought to be a sufficient hint that he is not wanted; but, entirely unabashed, he gives me a lecture on the subject of exercise, saying that there is nothing like a fast walk in hot weather to take off a man's extra flesh. As if I had any flesh that wanted taking off!

He then takes a pair of Indian clubs that I bought in my Freshman year, and swings them in dangerous proximity to my heated head. At last, thank Heaven, he goes, whistling all the way down stairs. I wonder why it is that people always whistle in the entries of the College buildings. They do not whistle in the Yard, or in their rooms; but, when going up or down stairs, every one thinks he must whistle the best he knows how.

Left alone, I manage, by the force of will, to overcome the sounds of the cornet in the room below, of the piano in the room above, and the sparring-match next door, and drowse away the afternoon in dreaming of the seaside and summer flirtations.

W.