Between the Rainbow Ice Cream and the Calcareous Fromage, a member of the class of '08, who could not Sing, arose and did so. Then each Guest had to take a Tablespoonful of Cafe Noir and two Cigars selected by a former Student who had promised his Mother never to use Tobacco. It was now 10 o'clock and time to go Home. Those who had started to tune up along in the Afternoon were dying on the Vine. Others, who had tried to catch even on the $3 Ticket, felt as if they had been loaded with Pig Iron. Up at the Long Table enough Speakers to supply a Chautauqua Circuit were feeling of themselves to make sure that the Manuscript had not been lost. Each thought that he was the Orator of the Evening. The Committee had put on the Toast Program every one who might possibly take Offense at not being Asked. Also they had selected as Toastmaster a beaming Broncho whose Vocal Chords were made of seasoned Moose-Hide and who remembered all the black-face Gravy that Billy Rice used to lam across to Lew Benedict when Niblo's Garden was first opened. After every 30-minute Address he would spend ten minutes in polite kidding of the Last Speaker and then another 10 Minutes in climbing a Mountain Height from which to present the Next Speaker. Along about Midnight the Cowards and Quitters began crawling out of Side Doors, but most of the Loyal Sons of Old Bohunkus propped themselves up and tried to be Game. Before 1 o'clock a Member of the Faculty put them on the Ropes with 40 Minutes on projected Changes in the Curriculum. At 1:30 the Toastmaster was making Speech No. 8 and getting ready to spring the Oldest Living Graduate. Protected by all the Gray Hair that was left to him, he began to Reminisce, going back to the Days when it was considered a Great Lark to put a Cow in the Chapel. The Toastmaster arrived home at 3 A. M. and aroused his Wife to tell her that it had been a Great Success. MORAL: If they were paid $3 a Head to stand for it, no one would attend. HE SHOULD HAVE OVERSLEPT One Morning a Precinct Parasite owing Allegiance to a Political Party of Progressive Principles went around to the dinge office of a Fuel Supply Co. to pull off the customary Fake Primary. He was met at the Door by a broad-faced Lady of benevolent Mien and black Ribbons on her Nose-Glasses, who told him to use the Mat and not track up the Place. "What is the Idea?" asked the alcoholic Henchman, looking vainly about for Bottle-Nose Curley, Mike the Pike, and Smitty the Dip, who always had been his Associates in the sacred Task of registering the Will of the People. Instead of the old familiar strong-arm Phalanx, he saw a Bevy of plump Joans who were hanging Chintz Curtains, arranging a neat design of Sweet Peas around the Ballot Box and getting ready to fire up a Samovar. When he glanced into the Polling Booth and saw that it was draped with Doilies he nearly had a Hemorrhage.