II
Rochambeau College was denominational and of the blue Presbyterian order, under the care of the Synod. This connection was, however, almost purely theoretical and we were very much left alone to our own devices so long as no attempt was made by the President or members of the Faculty to blow loud heretical trumpets. Most of the members of the Board of Trustees were good fellows, mildly interested in the church and very much interested in educating young men. This real interest was manifested in an unmistakeable manner by their steady contributions to the College finances which at this time were not in too flourishing a condition. Not a few of the Trustees were depriving themselves of luxuries and even necessities in order that the Faculty might have decent living conditions. Not all the members of the Faculty appreciated this, but I did. Most of the members of our Board were earnest men worthy of respect and I, for one, did thoroughly respect them. The President, Dr. Camden, was a genial old chap, prone to discover all sorts of excellencies in the members of his Faculty and active in proclaiming them to the Board and to the world. He used the same methods with the students and was able to rule without despotism.
Some of his methods were, however quite near the border line which divides the good from the bad, and aroused the condemnation of some more rigid members of the Faculty who were rich enough to be independent. In most cases his makeshift measures were made necessary by lack of funds, and were, therefore, forgivable.
On my return home I found a letter awaiting me, and next morning, after my first class had recited I went to see the President. He came peering into the room with a frown on his face. On recognizing me his face lighted up and he advanced with both hands open and a beaming face.
“My dear Brown! I am so glad to see you.”
“I came over, Doctor,” said I, “to see whether you would be so good as to advise me? I have just had an offer from Ashton University, and am undecided what I had better do. I like my work very much here but they have offered me more money.”
“It is very good of you, Brown, to come to me at once and I appreciate it. I should be very sorry to have you leave, and if you will tell me whether a small addition to your salary will induce you to stay I will ask the Trustees to add, let us say, $200.00 to your allowance. But now, my dear fellow I must ask you to do me a favor. You know that Professor Last is to leave us at the end of the year and I want you to teach Metallurgy. Only two lectures a week for one term, you know?”
“But, Doctor, I am not posted on Metallurgy.”
“Oh, but I feel sure you can do excellently well. It is very simple. You put the ore and fuel into a furnace, light the fire and there you are. And Brown! now we have settled that, I want you to take tea with me to-morrow evening. I must try to see more of you. I must see that you are taken care of.”
I laughed, thanked the Doctor, said I would come, and took my leave.
The next evening six people sat down at the President’s table: the Doctor and his wife, his niece, Kitty Camden and her brother Searles, Miss Hetty Poiret and myself. Kitty Camden was tall and stately while Hetty Poiret was quite small, with a rather shy manner and a sweet smile. Searles was younger than his sister, rather boyish in manner but a nice ingenuous lad. He was tall like his sister and nervous; his hands twitched, and he threw out his head from time to time as if his collar hurt him.
“There are several ages represented here,” said the Doctor, “I think I must tell my frog story.”
“Oh, no, Henry!” said his wife.
“Do, Doctor!” I broke in, “I have never heard it, and I like your stories.”
“There, Helen,” said the Doctor, “you see one person likes my stories.”
“We all like them, Doctor,” said Hetty Poiret.
“Well,” he began, “there is a place down below Philadelphia where the Schuylkill empties into the Delaware. The shores are low, flat and marshy. Tall grass grows down to the river’s edge; and here the tiny little frogs gather in the shallows as evening falls and peep shrilly: Schuyl—kill! Schuyl—kill! Schuyl—kill!
“Further up the river a creek flows in. There are trees along the bank. There is a very narrow beach with the banks rising abruptly and prevented from falling in by the tree roots. Here the middle-sized frogs gather in the evenings and call in middle-sized voices: Wis—sa—he—con! Wis—sa—he—con! Wis—sa—he—con!
“Further up, the stream is deeper. There are high banks which shelve off rapidly into deeper water. Along the edges solemn shadows form as the sun sets, and here the big bullies gather and croak in solemn tones: Man—yunk! Man—yunk! Man—yunk!”
“I like that story,” said Helen, “it is cute.”
“Yes, I like it, Doctor, that’s a good one,” I said.
“You never told me that one before,” said Kitty Camden, reproachfully.
The Doctor laughed. Then he began telling us about his travels. His wife had accompanied him, and occasionally she broke into the narrative to remind him of something he had forgotten. I have forgotten most of what he told us but I remember one part clearly. He said they had traveled over the Splugen on the Via Mala in a one-horse victoria driven by a black-browed, surly Italian. Coming down the southern slopes they passed through great groves of giant chestnuts. Nothing else would grow there, for immense rocks covered the surface and made cultivation impossible. These trees bore crops of the large Italian chestnuts with which we are familiar from seeing them on our fruit stands. These are gathered by the peasants and stored in bags in the lofts overhead until they are well dried. They are then taken down and beaten with sticks. This breaks the hulls which are winnowed out. The meat is then beaten to flour in mortars and polenta or mush made of it which forms almost the only food of the peasants.