BORES.

OF tunnels I don't mean to write,

Although I think perhaps I might

Say something of the Mont Cenis

Or Hoosac Tunnel that should be

Not out of place. By bores I mean

Those of the genus homo, seen

In every quarter of the earth;

And though there were of all else dearth,

I'm sure you 'd run across some bores

On all the peopled mundane shores.

At college, too, they will crop out,

And at all times they stalk about;

And though they somewhat younger are

Than those in other spots we meet,

Their youth and freshness don't debar

These bores from being quite complete.

I sit in study in my room

(Too often spared by Goody's broom),

And strive some tardy work to end,

When some one knocks. In comes a friend.

He takes a seat: aside I lay

My book, and comment on the day.

My friend (we 'll call him Jack for short),

One of the endless-talking sort,

Is quite afraid that it will rain

Before the summer comes again.

He then goes on to tell the news, -

How Thunderbolt has got the blues,

And Jones was warned in Pol. Econ.,

And Smith got only 91;

And as for Brown, Jack really fears

He won't get through in quite four years.

Then he goes on from point to point, -

How Fell has sprained his elbow-joint,

And will not be allowed to row

For fully one whole day, or so;

And how the Faculty intend

The voluntaries to extend.

And do I think that Yale will win

When base ball games at length begin?

And have I heard the rumor yet

That two to one is being bet

Upon the plucky Freshman Crew?

I then reply, "No, Jack; have you?"

And then he confidential grows,

And tells a secret that he knows;

But first he begs me be discreet,

And asks me nothing to repeat,

For trouble might at once ensue

If what he tells is really true.

Jack next relights his cigarette

(His visit's far from ended yet),

And talks of college gossip more,

And of the champion walkers' score, -

Of actresses, and plays, and girls, -

Until my cerebellum whirls.

At length, thank Heaven! he starts to go,

But stops a moment, just to show

A letter from Ned Filagree,

Who left his class in '73,

And went to some outlandish place,

To buy a ranch and sheep to raise.

Another hour thus drags away

Before Jack really says "Good-day."

And he has scarce departed when

Tom Tough, one of your silent men,

Comes in, and stays an hour more.

He is a very harmless bore,

Who does not try to be thought funny,

And ends by borrowing some money.

An easy-going fellow he,

Blessed with convenient memory,

To recollect or quite forget

If you or he is still in debt.

But still he does n't pretend to know

Where all the idle moments go

Of Thingumbob and So and So.

I might proceed, and next portray

A dozen others in this way,

And show how many bear the taint

Of Boredom's dull, unpleasing paint;

But I prefer to say no more,

Lest I should also be a bore.