“If you had studied Greek you’d be less frivolous,” remarked Julia, as Clarissa picked up a slip of paper with printed questions that fluttered from one of Pamela’s books. Clarissa read aloud from the paper:
“‘IX. Write on the results, to logic and ethics, of the work of Socrates, and the impression which it made on his contemporaries as illustrated in “The Clouds.”’ Is it strange,” she commented, “that Pamela is half in the clouds and here? ‘Write an account of the life and professional activity of Lysias.’ It would be more seasonable to write an account of the professional activity of the catcher on the Harvard nine. Throw aside this foolish paper, Pamela! Why, the heading says, ‘Divide your time equally between Lysias and Plato.’ Your aunt in Vermont ought to know about this.”
“Don’t crumple it,” cried Pamela, flushing under this badinage. “I save all my examination papers; that was a mid-year.”
“To make a scrap-book?” queried Polly, who had joined the group. “Excuse my smiles, but it seems so comical to care tenderly for examination papers. Why, I tear mine up, and throw my blue-books into the fire. Lecture notes are more entertaining. Clarissa’s, for example! Clarissa, if your notes in History 100 should be published, they would contribute greatly to the gaiety of nations. You must not let them fall into the hands of the profane.”
The lecturer in History 100 had a rather original method in dealing with his subject. His style was colloquial, and when in his opinion the occasion demanded it, he used expressions that bordered pretty closely on slang. Nevertheless, he had a fine command of his subject, and that he was a valued member of the Faculty was shown by his standing near the head of his department. That he shattered some of the idols that his students had worshipped did not lessen the value of his teaching. After expressing his own views fully (and sometimes jocosely), he would always refer them to numerous books, by reading which they could inform themselves on the other side of the subject. Although open, perhaps, to some criticism from an academic point of view, Professor Z (for so he was nicknamed from one of his most popular courses) was a stimulating instructor, and his Radcliffe students set a high value on what they learned from him.
Nevertheless, Polly and even the sedate Pamela were almost convulsed with laughter as Clarissa read from her note-book what she claimed to be one of Professor Z’s lectures. “Stage directions,” as Clarissa called them, had been used very freely. “Here he frowned.” “At this point he stroked his moustache and looked inexpressibly bored.” “At quarter-past three he told us that he thought that Cromwell did not deserve any further attention, at least from him, and that we’d all be happier for a little respite from Puritanism. Whereupon he left us—fifteen minutes to the better.”
“How would you like Professor Z to see your note-book?” asked Polly mischievously.
“Why, I shouldn’t care. I never do behind any one’s back what I could not just as well do before his face. The worst, I suppose, that he could give me would be a ‘D;’ but I think, on the whole, that he would be rather amused that I had had sufficient interest to take notes at once so literal and so copious.”
“Yes, but don’t let that book fall into the hands of outsiders. They might feel that we were not under sufficiently serious influences. You New Englanders are so serious.”
“Julia’s the only New Englander here. You mustn’t be too severe,” said Polly.