e a
soul from perdition.

Be it said to my shame, that I do not know what even an A.B. means,
much less the other degree hieroglyphics. Sometimes I receive a
letter having the writer's name printed at the top with an A.B.
annex; but I do not know what the writer is trying to say to me by
means of the printing. He probably wants me to know that he is a
graduate of some sort, but he fails to make it clear to me whether
his degree was conferred by a high school, a normal school, a
college, or a university. I know of one high school that confers
this degree, as well as many normal schools and colleges. There are
still other institutions where this same degree may be had, that
freely admit that they are colleges, whether they can prove it or
not. I'll be glad to send a stamped envelope for reply, if some one
will only be good enough to tell me what A.B. does really mean.

I do hope that the earth may never be scourged with celibacy, but the
ever-increasing variety of bachelors, male and female, creates in me
a feeling of apprehension. Nor can I make out whether a bachelor of
arts is bigger and better than bachelors of science and pedagogy.
The arts folks claim that they are, and proceed to prove it by one
another. I often wonder what a bachelor of arts can do that the
other bachelors cannot do, or _vice versa_. They should all be
required to submit a list of their accomplishments, so that, when any
of the rest of us want a bit of work done, we may be able to select
wisely from among these differentiated bachelors. If we want a
bridge built, a beefsteak broiled, a mountain tunnelled, a loaf of
bread baked, a railroad constructed, a hat trimmed, or a book
written, we ought to know which class of bachelors will serve our
purpose best. Some one asked me just a few days ago to cite him to
some man or woman who can write a prize-winning short story, but I
couldn't decide whether to refer him to the bachelors of arts or the
bachelors of pedagogy. I might have turned to the Litt.D.'s, but I
didn't suppose they would care to bother with a little thing like
that.

In college I studied Greek and, in fact, won a gold medal for my
agility in ramping through Mr. Xenophon's parasangs. That medal is
lost, so far as I know, and no one now has the remotest suspicion
that I ever even halted along through those parasangs, not to mention
ramping, or that I ever made the acquaintance of ox-eyed Juno. But I
need no medal to remin