AT THE CORNER OF LOVERS' LANE
thought scathing, beholding them printed in bold type. Even those attacked rather liked it, though they pretended otherwise. The invectives were worded in the old-fashioned, stilted style of sarcasm—perhaps a relic of the Rake—very broad, very unmistakable; nothing subtle about it, so that he who ran (or tore them down) could read. But we thought it very good. The Sophomores annually forbade in their proclamation the carrying of canes, wearing of silk hats, smoking of pipes, etc., which Freshmen wouldn't dream of doing anyway, and printed it in vivid green ink; very cutting. The Freshmen procs. generally came later and said—I've forgotten what, but very much what last year's Freshmen said. Nowadays there are no such things as Rakes or procs.—and yet some old grads. maintain that college life is degenerating.
So much by way of accounting for the presence of these lads at this romantic spot—the name of the place was Lovers' Lane—at this absurd hour when they might well have been in bed. For indeed, most of them
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