112

104 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN







Never to be forgotten was the change in Lab brought by the second semester. We
had been dealing with Mechanics and Heat,—with weights that swayed ponderously, with
rods that expanded noiselessly, with simmering liquids that were slow to boil. Our
supervision had been of the indulgent, lenient consolatory type. But after Midyears,
Electricity flashed before our startled minds. I sauntered into Lab the first of February,
expecting a reposeful afternoon, and stood spell-bound at the threshold. Students crouched
feverishly over their work, influence machines crackled and roared, sparks flew and wires
leapt about, and in the midst of the tumult—«xara xparepyy topivny—darted a violent
flame-coloured creature, who fairly vaulted over tables and chairs shouting: “How |
you gettin’ on? How you gettin’ on? No, no, no, that won’t do at all!” Before I had
time to dodge behind a pillar he bore down upon me: “Well, Miss Egan, this your idea
of gettin’ here on time? Eleven minutes past two!”

Here ends my own direct experience in Lab,—a meagre record. Of course, every
Freshman, directly or indirectly, takes Minor Biology, so all-pervasive is the atmosphere
it creates, so widespread the fame of its Lobster and Rabbit Days. Into the exclusive
precincts of Major Lab I have ventured but once. Louisa Haydock’s elder sister came to
see me and together we climbed Dalton stairs for a glimpse of our budding scientist at
work. She was indeed at work. It was Sheepshead Day this time, and the air was filled
with clamours,—‘“ Louisa, come break my jaw for me!” “Louisa, I can’t get this saw
through my skull alone!’ To and fro darted our muscular darling, her hands steeped in
gore, severing feature from feature of the timid sheep. Not for high vaults alone were
these mighty forearms bestowed!

My only connection with Post-Major Lab was negative—namely a persistent and
unavailing effort to draw another scientific friend from its clutches. It submits to no
vulgar limitations of time. After a prolonged Friday evening discussion over Catharine’s
fruit basket, I would suggest luxuriously, “Breakfast about ten at the tea-house to-morrow,
Mary?”’—only to receive the halting answer, “If my chicken slides have jellied,” or “If
I can wait so late without breakfast—Dalton opens at 7.30 to-morrow, and Daddy said he
would have five frogs ready for me.”

But who am I to dispute the superior claims of frogs? Indocti discant et ament memi-
nisse periti.

May Maraaret Eaan.