NOTABILIA.

THE Yale student may sleep in a luxurious dormitory, may worship in a beautiful chapel, may exercise in a palatial gymnasium, may while away the ennui of an illness. in a comfortable infirmary. But three times a day, when he must needs eat and drink, he withdraws within an old brick structure, which has been condemned as unfit for the swinging of Indian clubs, and which has as a consequence, been transformed into a dining hall. Perhaps he is then reminded of Memorial Hall at Cambridge, with its graceful architecture, its hallway adorned with statuary, and its spacious restaurant with ample accommodations and modern equipment. Rather, however, than mourn over the narrow pantries and cramped quarters at Yale, he envies the men of future classes, who shall dine in a more superb edifice, just as he looks back with pity upon those who ate their undergraduate meals in the thirties and forties. In reality, forgetful of his predecessors, and regardless of his successors, his one desire is to live as sumptuously as a simple menu and a low price will permit.

The University, or more definitely the Management, of the Dining Hall has a similar object in view to furnish nearly five hundred men with wholesome board at a nominal price. The theory is coöperative, but as a matter of fact there are two parties concerned, having apparently the same aim, yet working in direct opposition, and often manifesting a mutual unpleasantness. These two parties are the Management in power, and the men who board at the Hall. The result is obvious. The student looks upon the Commons just as the mechanic looks upon the corporation whom he serves. The undergraduate fails to realize that the Dining Hall is carried on with any regard for his interests. The standard of the cuisine suffers from this lack of harmony. If the student complains when he is given tainted meat or impure water, he may receive

little satisfaction; and finally becoming tired of useless objection, he abandons the Commons to find some other boarding place. The Management also naturally wearies of complaints which are sometimes unreasonable, and sometimes couched in unhappy phrases. Moreover, as there is always a long list of men waiting to secure seats, the occasional withdrawal of a student seems of little consequence. Yet all these difficulties are by no means insurmountable. A happy solution of the problem ought not to be very complex. Why should not the students and the Management be allied in some tangible way? A restaurant operated solely in the interests of the students of Yale ought to be managed by the students of Yale.

The plan at Harvard commends itself. It has proved successful in a practical test. A small committee consisting of members of the Faculty, and of students elected from the Dining Hall constitute the managing board. This committee has entire control of Memorial Hall. It might be feasible to adopt such a measure here, even as an experiment. A committee for example, of ten men, four of whom should represent the Faculty, might undertake the work. This committee would superintend and thus coöperate with the force conducting the Commons, while it would assure harmony between the hitherto conflicting elements. It should bear the brunt of the daily complaints, while its duty should also be to guarantee order, and to improve the service. The finances of the Dining Hall should also come under its immediate supervision. Acting in these different capacities, its main object would be to maintain the standard of the Commons.

Nor does it seem chimerical to picture some of the results of such a plan. The fact that the Commons was managed by the student body as well as for the student body would insure order; it would sift the complaints down to the few criticisms which might be justifiable. But little hard feeling could survive. The main result

would be that the food and service would reach a maximum of excellence proportionate to the weekly rate. And a general result would be that the Yale University Dining Hall would be patronized not only by the poorest men, or by those whom a lack of means might prevent from going elsewhere, but by students of all sorts and conditions, who would be glad to get wholesome and palatable food, however simple it might be.

-Every one who has ever been to Limson's Bend knows Jerry Limson. The summer boarders who overrun the small sea town in the hot weather know his slouching gait and awkward figure as well as they know Mott's cottage, which stands at the end of the bar. He is quite as much of a landmark. The road that comes from Wheelville, four miles away on the railroad, leads through bush and bog, and finally shoots out and across the marshes, between the tall bush grass, with all of Limson's Bend spread out in glory before it. At the eastern end of the bar stands Mott's cottage, with its green and red sides resplendent in the sunlight. A row of lowgabled houses with rambling red roofs and fantastic chimneys sturdily faces the seashore, from Mott's, around the bend to the mainland, making a bold front against the surf that splashes at its feet. The narrow jolting road that leads along

the back of the cottages, terminates at the steps of the village store, with its sign nailed up over the door post, whereon is to be read "Jerry Limson, Grocer."

The summer boarder, who hauls his row-boat up on the sand and carries the anchor-stone to the bush above, comes up to the door step. The settee at the front of the building affords shelter from the heat of the sun. A listless hot air drives the flies buzzing about the windows. The blue of the Sound is as still as glass, with not a ripple to be seen, except the lap of the tide on the shore below. Old Jerry sits in his doorway, his huge boots spread out before him, his slouch. hat pulled down over his eyes, his sunburned face only half emerging from the depths. He is whittling a stick for a door latch. A lazy, shaggy poodle lies on the grass, breathing heavily, opening his one eye now and then to observe his master, or thumping his tail on the hot step beside him. Far along the shore towards Mott's a group of figures are clambering about on the rocks, and off on the Sound, on the bank of the only island to be seen, a sailboat hangs listlessly. A man, quite Lilliputian in the distance, is trudging along the road from Mott's. These are the only signs of life.

The summer boarder spars at a fly that hums about his head. The shaggy poodle cocks his ears and watches the game with interest. The fly disposed of, the boarder turns his attention to the Bend, and counts the few trees that shade along the row of cottages. "What makes Limson's Bend so attractive to summer boarders, Limson?" he asks. Jerry puts his head on one side and darts a swift glance at a gull that swoops from the island.

"I dunno," he says: "lest it's Limson."

E. S. O.

Not far from the delightful, picturesque old town of Quebec is the pretty Canadian village of Charlesburg and a short distance above the church there, stand the ruins of the formerly magnificent Château Bigôt. The view from the site looks out over the broad, historic St. Lawrence at the undulating land to the south, while to the north stretches the vast wilderness that extends unbroken to Hudson Bay. There is visible the long line of farm-houses and cultivated land leading to Quebec, and every now and then the French farmers. can be seen jogging contentedly along in their charrettes to the market in the city. Occasionally an Indian from the settle