had for the price of a day's work in the kitchen or the street,
for lack of love of whom many a luxurious home is a dull and
solitary spot, breeding misery and vice. Now the modern college
is especially equipped to introduce its students to such literature.
The library is at last understood to be the heart of the college.
The modern librarian is not the keeper of books, as was his
predecessor, but the distributer of them, and the guide to their
resources, proud when he increases the use of his treasures. Every
language, ancient or modern, which contains a literature is now
taught in college. Its history is examined, its philology, its
masterpieces, and more than ever is English literature studied
and loved. There is now every opportunity for the college student
to become an expert in the use of his own tongue and pen. What
other men painfully strive for he can enjoy to the full with
comparatively little effort.

But there is a second invigorating interest to which college
training introduces its student. I mean the study of nature,
intimacy with the strange and beautiful world in which we live.
"Nature never did betray the heart that loved her," sang her
poet high priest. When the world has been too much with us,
nothing else is so refreshing to tired eyes and mind as woods
and water, and an intelligent knowledge of the life within them.
For a generation past there has been a well-nigh universal turning
of the population toward the cities. In 1840 only nine per cent
of our people lived in cities of 8,000 inhabitants or more. Now
more than a third of us are found in cities. But the electric-car,
the telephone, the bicycle, still keep avenues to the country open.
Certain it is that city people feel a growing hunger for the
country, particularly when grass begins to grow. This is a healthy