Wellesley College II.

A second visit to a college like that at Wellesley is of far more interest than a first. Now accustomed to the well bred and lady like notice taken of us by the fair undergraduates, we can appreciate to better advantage our fair surroundings. After a highly interesting walk about the grounds we enter the main building and at once find ourselves in an interior that is luxurious to one who is accustomed to the hard benches and plain walls of Harvard. We enter the Browning room. There is an Amherst man over there. We stare at him. He becomes confused, but our further triumph is cut short by the questions of the fair ones. "Do you have rooms like this at Harvard?" "Oh, yes," we reply, as we gaze aghast at the oil paintings, damask curtains, satin upholstery, and statuary that surround us. Here a suppressed sneer is heard and we at once move out into the corridor. We go to the library, a wilderness of black walnut shelves, glass doors, carved tables, Ouida's novels, and long haired grinds. We snub the library, but maintain silence when we are informed that "you can get in, even after four o'clock." Another corridor, a door; we enter, and the first object that meets our eye is a black, battered beaten, Brimless beaver with the magic legend upon it, H. '85, Below the hat is suspended a bottle, a cologne bottle we conjecture. About the broken handles of the wreck of what once might have been a campaign torch are tied three filthy rags. What visions these symbols conjured up! "Is he, is he dead?" I murmur. "Oh, no, the faculty forbade-." Here we hear a smothered yelping as of some one in pain, but are reassured, the somewhat astonished, to hear that "it is only my pup that I have with me for a day or two." We expected much, but not this. Wellesley girls keeping dogs! We look about us and feel at once at home when we catch sight of the frequent recurring name so familiar to our eyes, the classic "Bohn." We feel at once that we are in good society. Upon the walls are hung three fragments of a brown cane, a sign of "Ayer's Cherry Pectoral," a tennis racket, a heliotype copy of the University of Pennsylvania's famous challenge, a broken base ball bat, a baby's slipper, and a Yale man's hat. A strange collection. But what is that in the corner? It appears like a collection of visiting cards, I draw near, "Miss B-is requested-." I sadly turn away. But can it be that this is not in Cambridge? I could well believe this to be one of the rooms in the "Annex" here at Wellesley, never. I am torn from the familiar surroundings and again traverse a corridor. The Chapl! We pass on. We enter an elegant and commodious elevator, are raised many stories and at last enter the Museum. Here are arrayed in all their princely magnificence the immense stores of dried plants gathered by the sophomores last spring. But the Museum is a disappointment, yet as our friend said, "it is young you know." We enter the Chemical laboratory, but feel constrained by the size of the room and depart. We pass from room to room, hall to hall, gaze at this and wonder at that, until in sheer exhaustion, we descend to earth again. We pass out thro' the "Reception Room." We look about for the Amherst man, but with a shiver we become conscious of the gaze of a pair of stern eyes that bespeak the man of blue, and remember that we must hurry to the depot if we do not wish to miss the train.