Princeton Stories

by Jesse Lynch Williams

One day at the club he asked Dougal—he sat opposite—what he wanted with political science. Davis cleared his throat and said every preacher of modern times should know something of sociology, which was undoubtedly true. But that was not the reason. And somehow Linton guessed it.

It was twilight and the class had gathered together on the steps of Old North for their last senior singing. Only they were no longer seniors; it was "by and by" now, and they were out in the "wide, wide world." They huddled up close together as if half frightened at the thought of its being the last time.

There were but few undergrads. stretched out under the elms to listen, and most of these were the juniors—seniors they were now—waiting to rapaciously take possession of the steps the moment the present occupants marched off for their last supper together at nightfall. These and a handful of the out-of-town visitors were all that were left of the big Commencement crowds that had been gathering there every evening to hear the seniors sing. Sometimes they had felt that they would have preferred being left a little more to themselves, if it were possible, during the last days of college life.

But now this unmolested aloneness only added to their dreariness and made them feel the ghastly certainty of this evening's being the end of all. The grass was trampled and faded, and the crowd that had trodden it was gone. The bell in Old North belfry rang out painfully loud.

"Well, fellows, let's sing," said the leader, rising slowly. He raised his chin and then bobbed his head and started up, "The Orange and the Black," just as they had all seen him do many times before.

They sang as they had never sung before. It did not matter what were the words of the song. "They stole his wallet, they stole his staff," had nothing in it that was especially apropos of college friendships or the sadness of farewell, but the way they sang it, with the long-drawn "Ramski Ho," meant something. It was so full of association. And no one noticed this time whether the man behind him was on a key of his own. His only thought was, "When shall I hear Billy's good old bark again after to-night?" And when Sam's and when Ed's and Big Hill's and Little Hill's and where would be the fellow a year from now whose shoulder was next to his own.

During the past month or two the class of Ninety Blank had been drawn very close together by the thought of what was coming. They had never been very seriously cliqued up, but what there was of dissension was forgotten, and they were now one solid crowd. Fellows who had never anything to do with each other before except to say, "Hello, there, Ray!" and "Hello, Harry!" had taken to strolling around the campus together arm-in-arm talking about what they were going to do next year and wondering why they had never happened to see more of each other in the past, and regretting that there were to be no opportunities for doing so in the future.

But during the excitement of Commencement week, with the crowds of old grads. and of girls and the big baseball game and the concerts and Class Day full of its exhibition farewells in the church and around the cannon, and the teas and the big dance on Tuesday night, and the many other things that filled up every moment of every day and night—together with the responsibility of seeing to the entertainment of their guests—all this, and the feeling of importance at being the cause of so much color and sound had in a measure distracted their minds from the thought of what it all meant. But now all that was changed.

The last of the display ceremonies was finished. The class had their diplomas. It was all over. The rollicking old grads. with their many reunions and their old-fashioned cheers and their funny songs had left for the city and business again for a year. The girls and their mothers and their parasols had vanished like the chinese lanterns among the trees. The campus was almost deserted, and except for their own voices, was as still as a cemetery. Each man on the steps was realizing as he never had done before how glad had been those four years, and how startlingly fast they had sped by, and how much more these friends of his meant to him than he had ever imagined friends could mean.

Two of the number had been obliged to pack their trunks and depart during the afternoon without waiting for the banquet. The whole class were at the station to see them off. They did it in the old-fashioned way, with much cheering and singing, and the old custom of lifting them up and putting them through the car windows. Then after each man had shaken the hands of those departing, and said, "God bless you, Tommy," they had watched while the little train rolled down the grade and became smaller and smaller, and they cheered until the two men waving their hats on the rear platform were hidden behind the curve. Then they marched solemnly back across the campus again, and tried to go on with the packing of their own trunks.