Editor’s Table
The Climax.
It was past twelve, on make-up night. Two hundred odd contributors were clustered about the window of the Lit. office in which the Table of Contents was to be posted. The Yale Literary Renaissance had converted into a mob-scene what had been formerly a nocturne embracing a window, a lamp-post and a deserted middle-ground.
A general tensity prevailed. There was, to be sure, a certain amount of thoughtless jostling and crowding. The Yale Literary Magazine seldom publishes more than ten pieces, of which approximately seven are by the editors. This fact tends to whet outside competition, and introduces an element of curiosity and despair.
The Anti-Climax.
Inside the office, Richard Cory, Ahaseurus, Bukis, The Egoist, and Mr. Benson were all sound asleep. In this unguarded moment of repose there was little if anything about their countenances which indicated the Intellegensia. I am glad to say that the only one of these gentlemen who was superior enough not to snore was
Mr. Benson.
Yale Lit. Advertiser.
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of
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