My boy replied with tiny frown (He'd been a year at Cavendish), 'I'd rather dwell in Oxford town, If I could have my wish.' 'Now, little Edward, say why so; My little Edward, tell me why.' 'Well, really, Pa, I hardly know.' 'Remarkable!' said I: 'For Cambridge has her "King's Parade," And much the more becoming gown; Why should you slight her so,' I said, 'Compared with Oxford town?' At this my boy hung down his head, While sterner grew the parent's eye; And six-and-thirty times I said, 'Come, Edward, tell me why?' For I loved Cambridge (where they deal-- How strange!--in butter by the yard); And so, with every third appeal, I hit him rather hard. Twelve times I struck, as may be seen (For three times twelve is thirty-six), When in a shop the _Magazine_ His tearful sight did fix. He saw it plain, it made him smile, And thus to me he made reply:-- '_At Oxford there's a Crocodile_;[1] And that's the reason why.' Oh, Mr. Editor! my heart For deeper lore would seldom yearn, Could I believe the hundredth part Of what from you I learn. [1] Certain obscure paragraphs relating to a crocodile, kept at the Museum, had been perplexing the readers of the _Oxford Magazine_ for some time past, and had been distorted into an allegory of portentous meaning. UNITY PUT QUARTERLY[1]. By A. C. S. The Centuries kiss and commingle, Cling, clasp, and are knit in a chain; No cycle but scorns to be single, No two but demur to be twain, 'Till the land of the lute and the love-tale Be bride of the boreal breast, And the dawn with the darkness shall dovetail, The East with the West. The desire of the grey for the dun nights Is that of the dun for the grey; The tales of the Thousand and One Nights Touch lips with 'The Times' of to-day.-- Come, chasten the cheap with the classic; Choose, Churton, thy chair and thy class, Mix, melt in the must that is Massic The beer that is Bass! Omnipotent age of the Aorist! Infinitely freely exact!-- As the fragrance of fiction is fairest If frayed in the furnace of fact-- Though nine be the Muses in number There is hope if the handbook be one,-- Dispelling the planets that cumber The path of the sun. Though crimson thy hands and thy hood be With the blood of a brother betrayed, O Would-be-Professor of Would-be, We call thee to bless and to aid. Transmuted would travel with Er, see The Land of the Rolling of Logs, Charmed, chained to thy side, as to Circe The Ithacan hogs.