College Noises.

Among the phases of Harvard life which that philosopher, "Nemo," has not touched upon, is the multitude of noises, perfectly well known to the collegian, but which beat harshly on the ear of the untutored visitor. Let us go again to the room of our dear friend Snodkins, of whom we have heard so much, and spend a quiet evening with him. Snodkins' room is in Holyoke and looks out on the well which adorns that classic building. Sitting down before his cosy fire, listening to his pleasant chat, we think, "lo, how charming is a college life; so quiet, so peaceful, so free from care." This thought has hardly passed through our minds, when a horrid noise re-echoes from the wall, rolling from story to story with wild clamor; at last it dies away, and when silence reigns again we gasp, with dismay, "What on earth was that?" "That," says Snodkins, taking his cigarette from his lips, and blowing fragrant little rings of smoke into the air, "that is a man who bought a drum before the election, and who practices it yet; sounds rather loud in the well, doesn't it?" Loud, we should rather say it did; does he hake any more noises like that, we want to know? "Well," says Snodkins, "it may seem rather steep at first, but I have got used to it; had to, in fact. After a few months in college, noises affect one very little. I used to think they were terrible, but bless you I don't mind 'em now at all." We begin to have a dim apprehension that college life is not so quiet after all, and we ask Snodkins to tell us more about the subject. "Well," says he, "the drummer's chum played the fife before the procession, and that was excruciating, I admit; especially with a bones accompaniment. But that's over now, thank Heaven," and he sighs with relief. "Other noises," he continued, "are not so bad, nor so numerous. There's the Glee Club member, to whom it is quite a pleasure to listen, except when he has a friend who is learning to yodel; then there's the whistling freshman, always at the oldest air he can find, and always on the wrong key: the man who comes in at 2 A. M. from an expensive spree, and makes the halls echo to "Michael Roy," is unpleasant and not uncommon; the man upstairs who is getting up his muscle, and who dreps thirty pound dumbbells on the floor, is another variety. All tend to perfect repose and rest of mind. The janitor making the fires at 4 A. M., the click of the letter box in the early morning, and the peripatetic student overhead, who studies by the lap, are minor and soothing noises." We thank Snodkins for his courtesy; rise, bid him adieu, and leave the room just in time to hear a party of six or eight go tearing through the hall, and down the stairs, four steps at a time, yelling at the top of their lungs. "Stop," says Snodkins, thrusting his head out of the door, "that's the worst kind of all; a lot of sophomores going to the theatre."