a conversation between the heads of the Latin and Greek departments. “I can make a pun on any word you will propose,” said Professor Colcord. “How about the name of my horse?” replied Professor Norton. Quick as a wink came the response, “If I had him here I could hit him with me-fist-awful-easy.”
My year in Claremont was an unusually rainy one, and for a time all the lower part of town was under water from outbreaking springs. It was welcomed by John McCall, the boy who drove the bus, as a providential means of extending the usefulness of the public conveyance. Every night he took the bus to the point now called the corner of Second Street and Alexander Avenue, unhitched Bret and Amos, and left it standing in the water all night, so that the rims of the wheels might swell enough to retain the tires the next day.
On Sundays the bus must forego its day of rest in order to take Claremont to Pomona to church, the former town not yet having a church of its own. We enlivened the long, slow drive home, more than an hour in our slow-going chariot, with calling up memories of all the good things to eat we had ever known or imagined. We were none too well fed at best and Sunday dinner came late. It is certain that we did not suffer from over-feeding, but, on the other hand, I suppose our minds were all the clearer for our restrained diet.
This was the time of the beginning of things. The Pomona College Literary Society—high sounding name—had begun its career. Debates, papers, three-
