34 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN
a
Y first recollections are naturally, in general, of the old Gym, and particularly of my
entrance examinations. I remember most distinctly, not my first examination,
but that fateful day when I essayed to write my entrance English paper—on Edmund
Burke. It was not a day to be forgotten. It was a stormy afternoon, with the rain dashing
in through the swinging windows, and it was five years since I had read Burke’s Conciliation.
Moreover, I was struck at once by the incongruous juxtaposition of Miss Donnelly and the
parallel bars. It was a triumph of intuition, but there is nothing like English, especially
entrance English, for sharpening the wits.
The intervening time is blotted out between that effort and the day when I was guided
into the maze of little upstairs offices for physical examination, heart-and-lungs, and vaccina-
tion. The three operations as they were there and then performed are blurred together
in my mind, and I cannot remember for how much of the time I sat amazed in a toga.
Then there was that day of trials, the day when I struggled over the horse and manip-
ulated a wand under the inquiring eye of Miss Applebee, who thereupon put me in B,
light and heavy, with hopes of my improvement. There was ever that peculiarity
about my gymnastic situation; always there were hopes of me. I was strong and willing,
and, as Miss Applebee continued to remark, looked as if I had sense. Miss Applebee’s
