of Yale, to renew allegiance. It has come to be an institution
that he, standing on the steps of his house, should make a short
speech to each class. The rainbow of men, sweeping gloriously
down the city streets with their bands, dissolves into a whirlwind
at the sight of that well-known, slight, dignified figure on the
doorstep of the modest house--this is a thing which one who has
seen it does not forget; the three-minute speeches, each apt to
its audience, each pointed with a dart straight to the heart of
class pride and sentiment, these are a marvel. Few men living
could come out of a such a test creditably; only this master of
men and of boys could do it as he does. For each class goes away
confident that the president at least shares its conviction that
it is the best class ever graduated. Life might well be worth
living, it would seem, to a man who should hear every year hundreds
of men's voices thundering his name as these men behind the class
banners.

Six weeks after the disaster of the Oriel mine it was commencement
day in New Haven and Johnny McLean, his broken arm in a sling,
a square of adhesive plaster on his forehead, was back for his
Triennial. He was mightily astonished at the greeting he got.
Classmates came up to him and shook his hand and said half a
sentence and stopped, with an arm around his shoulder; people
treated him in a remarkable way, as if he had done something
unheard of.

It gratified him, after a fashion, yet it more than half annoyed
him. He mentioned over and over again in protest that he had done
nothing which "every one of you fellows wouldn't have done just
the same," but they laughed at that and stood staring in a most