ABSENT-MINDEDNESS
This story is told of an absent-minded professor at Drew Theological Seminary. One evening while studying he had need of a book-mark. Seeing nothing else handy, he used his wife's scissors, which lay on the sewing-table. A few minutes later the wife wanted the scissors, but a diligent search failed to reveal them.
The next day the professor appeared before his class and opened his book. There lay the scissors. He picked them up and, holding them above his head, shouted:
"Here they are, dear!"
Yes, the class got it.
Deep in a ponderous calculation, the professor leaned over his desk. One hand held his massive brow; the other guided the pencil.
Suddenly the library door was flung open, and a nurse entered, smiling broadly.
"There's a little stranger upstairs, professor," she announced, of course referring to the very latest arrival.
"Eh?" grunted the man of learning, poring deeply over his problem.
"It's a little boy," remarked the nurse, still smiling.
"Little boy," mused the professor. "Little boy-eh? Well ask him what he wants."
A story is current concerning a professor who is reputed to be slightly absent-minded. The learned man had arranged to escort his wife one evening to the theater. "I don't like the tie you have on. I wish you would go up and put on another," said his wife.
The professor tranquilly obeyed. Moment after moment elapsed, until finally the impatient wife went upstairs to learn the cause of the delay. In his room she found her husband undressed and getting into bed.
"How will you have your roast beef?" asked the waiter.
"Well done, good and faithful servant," murmured the clerical-looking diner absent-mindedly.
See also Habit; Memory.