MY father is a lawyer. When I left home last fall for college, he said: "My dear boy some time you may be in want of advice such as I cannot give you. If that is the case, go to the best lawyer in Boston and state your trouble to him. Some men, and many women, like to send their sons to parsons. But I tell you, a lawyer knows forty times as much about the world as a parson does."

I told him that I was much obliged, but that, as he knew, I was not very apt to take advice. You must mark, though, that I couched this in far gentler terms than the words I here put down.

Well, I had got on very well without advice through my Freshman year up to the time when the Elective Pamphlet came out, but then I was plunged in doubt as to what to take. It would have been easier if I had any tastes, but beyond ice-cream and soda, I don't think I have any.

I thought of taking Chemistry 1 to find out how to make soda; but a friend told me that he knew no more of Chemistry after taking the course than before it, which discouraged me. And so on through the whole pamphlet, there's not a course which I have n't heard spoken against. (I must say, however, that the only objection to Botany was that it tired one so to get to recitation).

Then, on the other hand, every course, even in the Mathematics, had a couple of admirers, and it being known that I was searching for knowledge, there grew up a sort of free fight on the electives in my room, at which I was moderator, and while one grind yelled in one ear the praises of the Hitopadeca, one on the other side recited Beowulf, and another screamed the theory of Quaternions down my neck.

At last, one morning, I remembered, as I dressed myself, my father's advice; so I took the morning car into Boston, cutting my Latin. I remembered that my father said, "Go to the best lawyer," so I walked around in contemplation of the office, and at last went to the man who has the best room in Sears Block. That was the handsomest building, by long odds, and, thought I, the men who can afford it ought to be the best men.

I had my electives with me, with remarks as to their hardness, which I had gleaned from the members of the higher classes, pencilled on the margin.

I stated my case and gave him the book. He began at the beginning, but after a few pages he suddenly stopped, and looked up at me. "Are you fond of reciting?" said he.

"No, I dislike it excessively."

"Read this carefully." And he pointed to a scrap from the Advocate which I had stuck in.

I read aloud from where his finger was: "'If a student takes an elective over and above the required number of hours, and does not specify which is the extra, he is allowed as many "cuts" a week as he has extra hours -' But, my dear sir, I knew that before."

He did not intend to listen to me, but said, "How many recitation hours are there in a week?"

"Why, four plus three are seven, seven times five is thirty-five, plus two is thirty-seven."

"Well, you'll be a Sophomore next year, won't you?"

"Yes."