'I know it must sound strange to you, so I will give you proof. In my rooms I will shew you a cutting from a newspaper, telling how our guns were stolen while we slept, and also a kodak picture a friend was fortunate enough to secure, shewing a big ape making off with my favourite Purdy.'

These proofs he did shew me, that very night, and of this I am glad, for without them I should not have dared to offer this narrative to the Editors of the Eagle.

G. G. D.

VAIN HOPES.

VAIN were my hopes, and all my love was vain,
A flickering candle held against a gale,
Born, like a sudden meteor to fail
And leave behind a fiery track of pain.
My storm-tossed spirit never can regain

The old sweet calm, that proved, alas, so frail,
When, like the silver star of evening pale,
Bright love shone forth, but only shone to wane.

The day is done. The sunset's ruddy light

Fades from the fir-stems. Duller grow the skies. But still the western heavens glimmer bright, Where far within, though vanished from mine eyes, Beyond the gleaming portals of the night,

Her spirit waits for mine in Paradise.

H. T.

THE DROWNING OF THORGILS.*

DROWN him, drown him in the lake,
Fell destroyer of the land,

Drown him for all Ireland's sake,
Quench the rafter-burning brand.

Sure a Viking loves the wave,
Loves the water fair to see!
Let it be the warrior's grave,
As it gave, so let it free.
Drown him with a mother's curse,
For the children he hath slain,
Drown him, we can do no worse,
Cannot pay him back each pain.
Drown him with a sweetheart's scream,
Drown him with a vengeful yell,
Let the flood above him gleam,
Send his cursed soul to hell.

See, he grapples now with death,
Death he hath so often given.
See, the waters drown his breath,
See, his soul departs unshriven.

Thorgils, fiend, our debt is paid,

Owel our vengeance shall complete;

Ne'er shalt thou in grave be laid,

Toss there. Ah! revenge is sweet.

R. O. P. T.

Thorgils (Turgesuls) is the most celebrated of the "land-leapers," Viking invaders of Ireland who, about the end of the 9th century, swept right across Ireland, plundering and destroying. The career of Thorgils was cut short in the manner above described. Loch Owel is in Westmeath.

VOL. XVIII.

MM

CAMUS ET CAMILLI.

Romani...pueros nobiles et investes...Camillos appellant...

flaminum praeministros.

Macrobius.

T was some time before they emerged from their temporary retirement, and began to stroll homewards along the towpath. But as the day was warm and the magnetism of the river as potent as ever, they decided to make the journey in "short pieces of paddling," as the Poet expressed it; in accordance with which resolution they called an easy at Grassy, sat down in an empty barge by the wharf, and lighted up their pipes again.

"Some day," said the Poet, kicking his heels against the side of the barge, "I intend to write a masterpiece about the Cam: but as yet I can't quite settle in what style to treat the subject. I might attempt it in the Grand or Historico-Classical style, bringing in Julius Caesar, and making him renounce the wish, imputed to him by Lucan, to discover the sources of the Nile, in favour of the more intricate problem of the direction of the Cam's flow, and then

Note by the Philosopher. This means "who are always calling on the Deans."

Note by the Poet. No, it doesn't. How could any one call on the dean "investis"?

Note by the Philosopher. "Investis" means "without surplice," stupid! Note by the Poet. Wrong again! It means 'qui breves deremigare solet.' The true reading is evidently "flammarum praeministros," "bonfireattendants."

Note by both. We reserve our dissertations until after the establishment of post-graduate degrees.

"Meddle not with Julius Caesar," interrupted the Philosopher: "remember the fate of the other Cinna." "Well," said the Poet, "suppose I try it in the Lesser or Itinerario-topographical style-something after this manner

First thrills the Little Bridge the expectant heart
With thoughts of needle and the eager start;
Next the Post Reach, and then the Little Ditch,
Where labouring oarsmen feel the incipient stitch;
To reach which goal oft madly strives the crew,
Ere ticks the stop-watch hand to eighty-two,
And from the towpath hears the dread refrain
"Just turn her, cox, and take her back again!"
Post Corner next where loud-tongued coaches roar
Stern admonitions unto two and four:

Then comes the Gut, where spurts the striving eight,
Where coxswains' shrilly tones ejaculate

The words of mystic import "Now you're straight!"
Next Grassy's bold protuberance we see,

Corner not well beloved of bow and three:

Then up Plough Reach the speedy ship doth run,
Where many a race is lost, and many won.
Now Ditton-stay! what power of speech have I
Wherewith to picture Ditton's galaxy?

The thousand beauties ranked beneath the trees,
The photographic "Now, keep steady, please!"
The ancient oars that cheer their College on,
The roomy barge, the tub-propelling don,"--

Then the Philosopher moved the closure and took the lead himself. "There are some branches of the aquatic art," he remarked, "concerning which we have not yet discoursed. Take the coxswain, for instance. Now the coxswain is a person for whom I often feel a large amount of sympathy. I once steered an eight myselfonly once, and then for but two hundred yards; for at the end of that distance my boat, and all others within reasonable range, were dissolved into their constituent atoms, and I, like the original Palinurus, found myself

in the water.

Still the experience gave me a great in

sight into the difficulties of a coxwain's position." "Ah!" murmured the Poet:

There once was a captain who steered,
But his second appearance is feared;
For two funnies, one whiff,

Three fours and a skiff

Are said to have quite disappeared."

The Philosopher took no notice of the interpolation, but resumed his discourse. "The only point in which a coxswain really scores an advantage lies in the fact that he is not obliged to train, and can accordingly jeer at those who are. But even this amusement is not without its dangers and should be but seldom indulged in, unless the coxswain be endowed with superlative nimbleness and given to early rising."

"An orthophoetosycophant, in fact," remarked the Poet, remembering the days when the Lent boat crews used to pull him out of bed.

"A judicious amount of training, too," continued the Philosopher, "would often be of no small advantage. What more pathetic sight is there than a coxswain who starts his career with not ill-founded hopes of winning distinction, and then begins to increase in bulk, his prospects sinking as his weight rises, till the vision of a 'blue' fades first to the less artistic white of a Trial Cap, and then sets altogether?"

it:

"Yes," remarked the Poet; "this is the manner of

I once was a light little cox,

The smartest that ever was seen;
For I stood but five three in my socks,
And weighed barely seven thirteen:
The figures I give you are true,

And I coxed in a club Trial Eight;
And they said I was sure of my blue,

And I was-till I went up in weight.