One of the new buildings this year is the C. L. S. C. office. This is a very neat structure, and greatly appreciated by those having in charge the C. L. S. C. It was usually crowded during office hours. About five hundred members of the Circle were present during the Assembly. One hundred and sixty-five joined the Class of 1887. Thirty-eight members of the graduating class were present and received their diplomas from the hands of Dr. Vincent. The Class of 1884 are thoroughly organized, and are looking forward to a grand time when next year’s bells shall ring in their festal day. As usual, Mrs. Rosie M. Baketel had charge of the C. L. S. C. office. This is her third year in this position. She is one of the hardest workers on the grounds. The presence of Dr. Vincent is always an inspiration to a Framingham audience. Though compelled to return to Chautauqua after the opening, he gave us a grand “send-off,” and his presence and labors when he returned again were greatly enjoyed. ONE OF 1882. HOW WE CAME TOGETHER. [The following poem, from Counselor W. C. Wilkinson’s volume, recently published by Messrs. Charles Scribner’s Sons, tells the story of the author’s first meeting with a friend of his, who is also a friend of every reader of THE CHAUTAUQUAN—the Rev. John H. Vincent, D.D. The friendship thus formed, not less than twenty years ago, endures yet between the two as vivid as ever. It is bearing fruit not then anticipated in the associated labors which they perform for the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle.] Thorwaldsen’s Lion, gray and grim, Rock in his rocky lair, On who would rend his lily from him, Glowered out with dying glare. I mused awhile the sculptured stone, My pilgrim staff in hand; Then turned to hold my way alone, And lone, from land to land. But God had other hap in store: Even as I turned I met A manly eye ne’er seen before— I seem to see it yet! Vanish the changeful years between, Like morning-smitten rack; As, morning-like, that crescent scene Comes dawning swiftly back. Again, above, that mellow noon And soft Swiss heaven doth yearn; Frowns still on us in pilgrim shoon The Lion of Lucerne. Once more each other’s hands we take, The pass-words fly betwixt; Though slack the speed that speech may make, When heart with heart is mixed. I see the green Swiss lake asleep With Righi in her dream; We cross the lake, we climb the steep To watch the world agleam. The paths are many up the slope, And many of the mind, We catch the flying clue of hope, And wander where they wind. The paths are fresh, the pastures green, In walk or talk traversed; The Alpland meadow’s grassy sheen With many a streamlet nursed,