diplomas modeled on an Amherst one, in which we granted ourselves the degree of “Haedi (kids) in Artibus.” These we distributed at our class supper, served in Mr. Brackett’s bar room. On this occasion our class prophet established her claim to be a seer for she said, speaking of David Barrows:
“What are you, priest, poet or philosopher?”
“I am in the P’s at any rate,—purveyor.”
“Of mental merchandise,” said his sister.
“Allow me,” said a merry voice at my elbow, “to introduce Mr. Barrows, H.A., B.A., M.A., D.D., LL.D., Ph.D., president of ... college, the leader of young shoots in the way they should go.”
Perhaps Vere Metkiff was a suggestor rather than a seer, and it may have been this prophecy that set the boy in the path to the presidency of the University of California. I observe, however, that he is still minus the proposed degree of D.D.
The next day a boy and girl sat all day on the stairs of Claremont Hall and crammed Roman History out of two brick-red primers, and in the afternoon took two college entrance examinations, to meet necessary requirements. And they both passed. And perhaps they know as much Roman History now as if they had spent months instead of hours in its study.
And so the year ended, and I left to go east to college as had been planned for me so long as I could remember. But had there not been stiffer backbones than mine at home, I think I would have been a member of that first class at Pomona.
My friends did not forget me, and twice I hurried
