I might have turned to the Litt.D.'s, but I
didn't suppose they would care to bother with a little thing like
that.
In college I studied Greek and, in fact, won a gold medal for my
agility in ramping through Mr. Xenophon's parasangs. That medal is
lost, so far as I know, and no one now has the remotest suspicion
that I ever even halted along through those parasangs, not to mention
ramping, or that I ever made the acquaintance of ox-eyed Juno. But I
need no medal to remind roe of those experiences in the Greek class.
Every bluebird I see does that for me. The good old doctor, one
morning in early spring, rhapsodized for five minutes on the singing
of a bluebird he had heard on his way to class, telling how the
little fellow was pouring forth a melody that made the world and all
life seem more beautiful and blessed. We loved him for that, because
it proved that he was a big-souled human being; and pupils like to
discover human qualities in their teachers. The little professor may
have heard the bluebird's singing, too; but if he did, he probably
thought it was serenading him.
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