Barr Smith, a keen critic herself, fitted in with me admirably, and what I owed to her in the way of books for about 10 years cannot be put on paper, and in my journalistic work she delighted. Other friendships, both literary and personal, were formed in the decade which started the elementary schools and the University. The first Hughes professor of English literature was the Rev.

So then George hopped right up and drew a fine figure on the board and lettered it, and was just about to set down and study the book, as I could see, because he was eyein' the professor and expectin' that some of the others would be called on first, and while the professor was watchin' somebody else demonstrate, he would study up. But it happened wrong: George was called on first.

"Hey, you haven't got back, have you?" taunted Ned, noting the flecks of foam on his pony with disapproving eyes. "Me back," grinned the Indian. "I see you are," replied the Professor dryly. "Where's the rope?" "Yes; we don't care so much about seeing you, but we want that rope," added Ned emphatically. "No got um."

"I I might, with less noise," the professor suggested. "Hope my paper doesn't bother you. This is the only place I have to read since I gave up my room, you know."

I did want to help you ..." "Thanks," Charley said honestly. "... But that's the way things are, I suppose," Professor Lightning said. "Maybe some day you'll realize." Charley shook his head. "I'm afraid not, professor," he said, and Professor Lightning shook Charley's foot, and left, and Charley went back to work in the freak show, and for a while he didn't even think about Professor Lightning.

You should have seen the way he looked at the Professor just now. Oh! I wish the Captain had let me punch his head. I'm sure it would have cleared the air a lot." As it chanced, Shadrach was destined to get his head "punched" after all, but by another hand. It happened thus.

His exposition of some of the misconceptions on which Professor Huxley has based some criticisms upon the writings of Comte, strikes us as especially forcible; and the whole course of lectures proves Professor Fiske to be one of the clearest and most able of American thinkers.

The professor was a riddle to him. He represented no type which had come within the orbit of his experience. With the arrival of the champagne, the professor became almost eloquent. He leaned forward, gazing stealthily down at the round table. "If I could tell you of that girl's mother, Mr.

"When you looked through the keyhole last night, are you sure that the Professor was still alive?" "Why, yes, sir; of course I couldn't say so surely. I thought he was reading or writing, but oh, dear Lord! there he was this morning, nearly twelve hours later, in just the same position." Johann shivered at the thought that he might have seen his master sitting at his desk, already a corpse.

I tell you, you can say what you like, that fellow sold himself to the devil; he can be in six places at once." "So you sent the Marquis off, I understand," asked the Professor. "Was it long ago? Shall we be in time to catch him?" "Yes," answered the new guide, "I've timed it all. He'll still be at Calais when we arrive."