h class baby and each frat baby, and
I've been looking around this past year for a place where we can buy
them by the dozen.

Weddings! Why, man, a co-educational college is a wedding factory. What
of it? As far as I can see, Old Siwash produces as many governors,
congressmen and captains of industry to the graduate as any of the
single-track schools. And I notice one thing more. You don't find any of
our college couples hanging around the divorce courts. There is a
peculiar sort of stickiness about college marriages. They are for
keeps. When a Siwash couple doesn't have anything else agreeable to talk
about it can sit down and have a lovely three months' conversation on
the good old times. It takes a mighty acrimonious quarrel to stand a
college reunion around a breakfast table. Take it from me, you lonesome
old space-waster, with nothing but a hatrack to give you an affectionate
welcome when you come home at night, there is no better place on earth
to find good wife material than a college campus. Of course I don't
think a man should go to college to find a wife; but if his foot should
slip, and he should marry a girl whose sofa pillows have the same
reading matter on them as there is on his, there's nothing to yell for
help about. Ten to one he's drawn a prize. Girls who go through
co-educational colleges are extra fine, hand-picked, sun-ripened,
carefully wrapped-up peaches--and I know what I'm talking about.

How do I know? Heavens, man! didn't I go through the Siwash peach
orchard for four years? Don't I know the game from candy to carriages?
Didn't I spend every spring in a light pink haze of perfect bliss? And
wasn't all the Latin and Greek and trigonometry and athletic junk
crowded out of my memory at the end of every college year by the face of
the most utterly, superlatively marvelous girl in the world? And wasn't
it a different face every spring? Oh, I took the entire course in
girlology, Sam! I never skipped a single recitation. I got a Summa Cum
Laudissimus in strolling, losing frat pins, talking futures and
acquiring hand-made pennants. And the only bitter thought I've got is
that I can't come back.

You'll never realize, my boy, how old Pa Time roller-skates by until you
go back to a co-ed college ten years afterward. Here, in the busy mart
of trade, I'm a promising young infant who has got to "Yes, sir" and
"No, sir" to the big ones, and be good and get to work on time for
thirty years before I will