"When the matin bell is ringing,
U-ra-li-o, U-ra-li-o,
From my rushy pallet springing,
U-ra-li-o, U-ra-li-o,
Fresh as the morning light forth I sally,
With my sickle bright thro' the valley,
To my dear one gayly singing,
U-ra-li-o, U-ra-li-o."
Then seven or eight strong musical young voices came in on the warbling chorus, and the boy at the window listened enchanted and enraptured, feeling the subtle charm of it all and blessing fortune that he was a youth and a student at Yale.
The charm of the new life he had entered upon was strong, and it was weaving its spell about him—the spell which makes old Yale so dear to all who are fortunate enough to claim her as their alma mater. He continued to listen, eagerly drinking in the rest of the song as it came through the clear evening air:
"When the day is closing o'er us,
U-ra-li-o, U-ra-li-o,
And the landscape fades before us,
U-ra-li-o, U-ra-li-o,
When our merry men quit their mowing,
And along the glen horns are blowing,
Sweetly then we'll raise the chorus,
U-ra-li-o, U-ra-li-o."
The warbling song died out in the distance, there was a rush of feet outside the door, and Harry, breathless and excited, came bursting into the room.
"I say, old man," he cried, "what do I think?"
"Really, I don't know," laughed Frank. "What do you think?"
"I—I mean wh-what do you think?" spluttered Harry.
"Why, I think a great many things. What's up, anyway?"
"You know Diamond?"