THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 177
Farewell to the Librarp
(Last Day or Lecturgs, 1911)
DON’T know why I have been chosen to speak on these steps unless it is that the class
wished to pay me a tender tribute in recognition of my judicious use of this building,
and wanted me to hand down to the coming classes my secret of preserving the Library
impressions in all their pristine freshness.
Far back in the haze of Sophomore year I heard a learned psychologist who said, “A
pleasure too oft repeated eventually becomes a pain.” I have taken great care to heed the
warning of this law with respect to the frequenting of the Library. For this reason the
impressions of each of the four years do not overlap and obliterate each other. They are
as clear as the numbers one, two, three, four, and I shall always keep them safely in that
corner of the mind from which things don’t slip out.
My first blessed memory was in Freshman fall when I heard my first great sneeze go
thundering about the lofty ceilings. In those days there was no paint and gilt to subdue
a fine echo. It could roll from beam to beam like a wave from the deep, while the sneezer
sat cowering in a terrified heap, waiting for the noise to stop, and wondering how many
earnest Seniors were commending her vocal apparatus to the everlasting limbo.
My second great remembrance was in Sophomore year when I first had the courage
