It was a picture of a girl, all legs and dress and eyelashes, a well-developed blonde in black openwork stockings and a low bodice, and this particular blonde peeped over a black lace fan.

The pantechnicon was running away. It had perceived the wrath to come and was fleeing. Its guardians had evidently left it imperfectly scotched or braked, and it had got loose.

There is work enough—and too much—without this voluntary labor. The confinement during the bright sunny hours of the day is irksome and dispiriting; and it may be fairly questioned whether less would be learnt, if the study hours were reduced from nine to seven—especially as the greater part of these nine long hours is devoted to Mathematics. The cadets have a shorter word for it; they call it swat—a monosyllable which may puzzle the etimologists; but we believe it to be a corruption of the word sweat, and as signifying that a knowledge of mathematics is only to be acquired with much toil—with much sweat of the brow—a sufficiently expressive, word it must be acknowledged.

So have they hamstrung the valor of the subject by seeking to effeminate us all at home.