102 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN
AM honoured with this subject, gentle reader, not because I know anything about it,
but because I am good-natured, and the editors know where I am. No B.M. B.A.
could have had less experience in it. I delayed my course in science until Junior
year, in case I might die first—and would have held back still another year had I not
feared collisions between Lab and tutoring in German. My choice of Physics was shame-
fully influenced by the silver lining of no Wednesday Lab. (I did not learn about the
problems until later.) Four hours a week for two semesters—and yet I am to tell 1911
Rock and Denbigh all about Laboratory!
You might infer that I do not care for scientific pursuits. On the contrary, I now
delight in them, and my great regret is that they were not my Majors. But it took this
Junior year of Minor Physics to open my eyes—and then, alas! I had embarked beyond
return upon the broad shallow seas of—well, the Romance languages. I call them that
in the hope some one may be ignorant and hence impressed. When I give French and
Spanish as my Majors I am unfailingly answered with jeers. It is a cross Aggie Murray
and I must bear together.
It was my early training that was at fault. At boarding-school we were so busy
trying to fulfil the B.M. requirements in English and Latin Prose Composition that a
simple subject like science was shoved aside. The class in Physiology at which I assisted
