A GAME OF PURE CHANCE.

A familiar type in our midst is the case-hardened gambler, the grimly smiling sport-lover who courts Dame Fortune all he can, the man who confesses with a devilish expression that he "likes to take a sporting chance". He need no longer go in town for the tense mental exhilaration of matching nickels to see who shall pay the fares, for within the six or seven walls of the maligned Hemenway Gymnasium is a bowling alley, where he will find both physical exertion and the most delightfully fickle uncertainty. The alley resembles a relief map of the state of Nevada. The balls have little devils in them, and they skip and prance from upland to meadow, while the timid pins, across the divide, stand firm as a Central American army. At the noisy bouncing approach of the enemy, the timid pins, like a Central American army, shiver and fall. One can make a tolerable score without hitting a pin. Chance is everywhere: in the lop-sided balls, in the undulating alley, and in the gutters at the side.

But however stimulating this game may be, we know of many men who go to the Gymnasium to bowl. A little money spent on these alloys now would improve a most inadequate equipment and not necessarily delay the hoped-for New Gymnasium.