As in April’s pleasant weather all the four rolled on to Cambridge, did they swear eternal friendship; and alighting from the rumble, pledged each other in great beakers, drank each other’s healths in “dogsnose;” sought the portals of the college where they had matriculated, crossed the sunny green quadrangle, and betook them to their chambers; parted tearful on the landing, and betook them to their chambers.
* * * * *
Then they severed at the doorway; but by devious ways returning, met again before the doorway.
Then with scowling brows they entered; and the barmaid—most impartial of the race of British barmaids—sweetly winked in turn upon them till their hearts within them gladdened; and they drank the luscious “dogsnose,” and their friendly vows repeated, till with arm-in-arm close linking they once more the dim quadrangle crossed, and all was wrapped in silence.
* * * * *
D. Christie Murray.
The Song of Progress.
Should you ask me, “Why this hubbub?
Why this coming strife of parties?