A few days after, the boy heard the bells tolling; saw a sorrowing throng pass through the village street; followed, and saw two forms laid near together in a quiet corner of the country churchyard. He heard the weeping people speak of love, of retribution, of mercy; heard them speak of a wife, his wife—who had been thought dead, but lately discovered—discovered, when his love was another’s; heard them speak of a heart, his heart, broken by anguish; heard them speak of a child, his child and hers—a child, who had died when she died.
And the boy heard, but he did not understand.
Do not ask me where Goose Point is, nor in what year these foregoing episodes occurred, for I would prefer not to tell you; but, hearing with the ears of a child, seeing with the eyes of a child, I relate their sadness in the language of a man; for their impressive stamp, undimmed by time, is still vivid upon the tablets of my memory.
THE TRAINING OF A UNIVERSITY CREW.
BY FREDERIC A. STEVENSON,
Captain of the Yale Crew, ’88.
VERY few among the many thousands who witness the annual boat race between the universities of Yale and Harvard on the Thames at New London, appreciate what the preparation for that event means. Of course, nearly every one has heard that the crews have been in training, and from the newspaper articles that come thick and fast about the time of the race, has formed certain vague and often erroneous ideas as to how that training is effected.