told his friends that Jimmie Henley was human, not like most profs. And
he worked at his writing as he had never worked at anything, running
excepted, since he had been in college.

The students never knew what to expect from Henley in the class-room.
Sometimes he read themes and criticized them; sometimes he discussed
books that he had been reading; sometimes he read poetry, not because
contemporary poetry was part of the course but because he happened to
feel like reading it that morning; sometimes he discoursed on the art of
writing; and sometimes he talked about anything that happened to be
occupying his mind. He made his class-room an open forum, and the
students felt free to interrupt him at any time and to disagree with
him. Usually they did disagree with him and afterward wrote violent
themes to prove that he was wrong. That was exactly what Henley wanted
them to do, and the more he could stir them up the better satisfied he
was.

One morning, however, he talked without interruption. He didn't want to
be interrupted, and the boys were so taken back by his statements that
they could find no words to say anything.

The bell rang. Henley called the roll, stuck his class-book into his
coat pocket, placed his watch on the desk; then leaned back and looked
the class over.

"Your themes are making me sick," he began, "nauseated. I have a fairly
strong stomach, but there is just so much that I can stand--and you have
passed the limit. There is hardly a man in this class who hasn't written
at least one theme on the glory that is Sanford. As you know, I am a
Sanford man myself, and I have my share of affection for the college,
but you have reached an ecstasy of chauvinism that makes Chauvin's
affection for Napoleon seem almost like contempt.

"In the last batch of themes I got five telling me of the perfection of
Sanford: Sanford is the greatest college in the country; Sanford has the
best athletes, the finest equipment, the most erudite faculty, the most
perfect location, the most loyal alumni, the strongest spirit--the most
superlative everything. Nonsense! Rot! Bunk! Sanford hasn't anything of
the sort, and I who love it say so. Sanford is a good little college,
but it isn't a Harvard, a Yale, or a Princeton, or, for that matter, a
Dartmouth or Brown; and those colleges still have perfection ahead of
them. Sanford has made a place for itself in the sun, but it will never
find a bigger place so long as its sons do