seen Brutus’s failings, Antony’s shortcomings, and the injustice towards Caesar, we are prepared to meet the latter’s child with a certain amount of generosity.  We want to atone for what has been done.  His father was upright, noble, and all a Roman should be.  Yet he was despised because of his physical weakness.  Now, we have a Caesar who is still better,—a strong, healthy Roman citizen.  In other words, a man possessing strength, health, hope, faithfulness, a clear conscience, and a noble fearless heart.  We have one who could have held the Roman Empire together with the bonds of his strong will ; not enforcing slavery, but distributing peace and freedom.
But, he would have been like Antony!
H. D. Palmer (Form VA).
The Hikers
(After  Mr.  Walter  de  la  Mare’s  “ The Listeners. ”)
“IS there anybody there?” said the Hiker,
Knocking on the farmhouse door ;
And his walking‑stick noisily tapped the cobbles
Of the farmyard’s corn‑strewn floor.
And a chicken flew out of the hen‑roost,
Above the Hiker’s head:
And he smote upon the door a second time
“Is there anybody there?” he said.
But no one descended to the Hiker
No head from the dusty sill
Leaned over and looked into his red eyes,
Where he stood begrimed and still.
But only a brood of feathered listeners
That dwelt in the farmyard then
Stood listening in the warmth of the sunlight,
To that voice with a boom like Big Ben.
Stood eyeing the back‑breaking knapsack on the
Path going down to the stall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the blistered Hiker’s call,
And they laughed at his quaintness of garb the
Their chuckles answered his cry,
While the horse in his stall neighed comment
On the picturesque Hiker awry.
And he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, his heart like lead:
“Tell them the ramblers rambled too fast,
So I came to crave a bed."
Never the least peck missed the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell thundering on the oblivious upturned tails
Of the clucking chickens’ wake.
Ay, they heard his feet on the cobbles,
And the sound of nails on stone,
And how the sighs surged softly backward,
When the trailing stick was gone.
D. B. Powell (Form VIA.)