er than he was, undertook to throw
snowballs at him one day as he went by. Whereupon Curtis
marched up to the biggest boy and told him if another snowball
were thrown at him he would thrash him and he might pass it
over to the boy who did it. The result was that Curtis was
not troubled again.

You could not attack or rally him without some bright reply.
Horace Gray, afterward the judge, went shooting one day and
met Curtis as he was coming back with his gun over West Boston
Bridge. Curtis asked him if he had shot anything. Gray said,
"No, nothing but a hawk in Watertown. I stopped at the Museum
as I came by, and gave it to Agassiz." "I suppose Agassiz
said 'Accipter,'" said Curtis.

When Professor Greenleaf resigned his place at the Dane Law
School, much to the regret of the students, it was proposed
to secure a likeness of him for the lecture room. There was
some discussion whether it should be a bust or a picture,
and if a bust what should be the material. Curtis said: "Better
make it Verd Antique. That means Old Green."

Dr. Beck once required his class each to bring a Latin epigram.
Dan Curtis, who was not very fond of work unless it was in
the line of his own tastes, sent in the following:

Fugiunt. Qui fugiunt? Galli; tunc moriar contentus.

"What is that, Curtis?" said the Doctor. "Dying words of
Wolfe, sir," replied Curtis. "Ah," said the Doctor with
great satisfaction. He thought it was Wolf the famous Greek
scholar, and thought the epigram highly to Curtis's credit.

I have still in my memory a very bright poem of his. I do
not think I ever saw or read it written or in print. But
I remember hearing it read in one of the college clubs more
than fifty years ago. He has Longfellow's style very happily,
including the dropping from a bright and sometimes a sublime
line to one which is flat and commonplace, as for instance
in the ode on the death of the Duke of Wellington.

Meantime without the surly cannon waited,
The sky gleamed overhead.
Nothing in Nature's aspect indicated
That a great man was dead.

This is Curtis's poem:

Wrapped in musing dim and misty,
Sit I by the fitful flame;
And my thoughts steal down the vista
Of old time, as in a dream.

Here the hero held his quarters,
Whom America holds dear;
He beloved of all her daughters,
Formerly resided here.

Here you often might have seen him,
Silvery white his reverend scalp,
Frowned above