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In Brownell's room Steve carefully took a position as far distant from Tom as was possible. There was a lot of talk and a good deal of fun, and in the end Steve found himself chosen one of a committee of five to call on the principal and request the permission they desired. At a little after nine he walked back to Billings alone.
Now read my friend Baker Brownell's "Sunday Afternoon": "The wind pushes huge bundles Of itself in warm motion Through the barrack windows; It rattles a sheet of flypaper Tacked in a smear of sunshine on the sill. A voice and other voices squirt A slow path among the room's tumbled sounds. A ukelele somewhere clanks In accidental jets Up from the room's background."
In the alert, confident young man in the English mess-jacket, clean-shaven and bronzed by the suns of the equator, the detective saw no likeness to the pale, bearded bank clerk of the New England city. This, he guessed, must be some English official, some friend of Brownell's who generously had come to bid the unfortunate fugitive Godspeed.
I think I have known more than one young man whose doctor's sign proclaimed his readiness to serve mankind in that capacity, but who hated the sound of a patient's knock, and as he sat with his book or his microscope, felt exactly as the old party expressed himself in my friend Mr. Brownell's poem "All I axes is, let me alone."
At eight he went over to Al Brownell's room in Torrence, not because he was especially interested in the project to be discussed, but because he had agreed to attend the gathering and was glad, besides, to get away from Number 12 Billings. Life in Number 12 didn't promise to be very delightful for awhile, he thought dolefully.
"I think it's a good scheme," answered Tom. "And we might get one over on the 'varsity, too. I mean we'd have our banquet and lots of fun whether we won from Claflin or not, while the 'varsity, if it loses the game, doesn't enjoy its banquet very much, I guess." "Well, will you fellows come around to Brownell's room to-night after supper?
In the art world the Cubists' crazy work drew the attention of the public long enough for it to be seen how spurious and absurd it was. Brownell's war poems turned out to be little more than brief fireworks. Joaquin Miller, where is he?
Saintsbury's A History of English Literature in the Nineteenth Century. Kennedy's English Literature, 1880-1905. Walker's Greater Victorian Poets. Brownell's Victorian Prose Masters. Payne's The Greater English Poets of the Nineteenth Century. Perry's A Study of Prose Fiction. Benson's Rossetti. Noyes's William Morris. Trevelyan's Life and Letters of Macaulay. Morrison's Macaulay. Barry's Newman.
Oliphant's Literary History of England in the Nineteenth Century; Beers's English Romanticism in the Nineteenth Century; Dowden's Victorian Literature, in Transcripts and Studies; Brownell's Victorian Prose Masters. Tennyson. Various good editions, Globe, Cambridge Poets, etc.
I think I have known more than one young man whose doctor's sign proclaimed his readiness to serve mankind in that capacity, but who hated the sound of a patient's knock, and as he sat with his book or his microscope, felt exactly as the old party expressed himself in my friend Mr. Brownell's poem "All I axes is, let me alone."
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