The Conant scheme for studying history in one's spare time has breathed fire and fury into history for history's sake. Puttering about the uttermost parts of the University last week-end we stumbled on a scene that made our heart leap up to behold the prophetic power of the President's plan. For in one of the scientific research labs on the other side of the River--the kind of place one never goes to but which makes the University famous--we took part in a tingling drama in American historical development.

As a matter of fact in that quiet and secluded den of science, far from the madding maelstrom of university life, we passed the most hair-raising quarter hour we've yet known. For innocently accepting an invitation to witness a short operation on a cat, we had no sooner crossed the threshold of the formaldehyde-filled room when the coils of drama closed round us like an octopus and didn't let go till we left in a state of exhaustion, bloody and quite bowed.

Now if you've never experimented on cats, don't do it, and especially don't go near an historical puss. For our professor friend had begun to name his laboratory beasts after the Presidents of the United States, and this is fair warning to one and all to beware.

Unlocking the lab door, the professor proceeded us into the room screaming "Franklin, Franklin", at the top of his professorial lungs. Franklin poked his nose out from behind a can of refuse, exhibiting his magnificently scarred coat of fur and his blood clotted ears, fresh from the back alley arenas of Boston's catdom. Grabbing the beast by the nape, our host handed him to us to hold--unpleasant, because Frankie's claws were sharp as steel and busy every second. The professor meanwhile doused a cotton wad in ether on which to deposit the beast, and on top of both was placed a large bell jar, like the dome of Grant's tomb. This not without blood-curdling howls, and scratches, and a beady look of the eye as sour as the Ancient Mariner's as the beast passed out.

The next job was to keep Frankie out of trouble during the operation, and we were quickly handed a Campbell's soup tin stuffed with ether-soaked cotton to hold like a cone over the animal's nose. But it was no go. For Frankie was tough, and soon revived. He took one look in our direction to assure himself that the opposition was coming from the same quarters as before, and acted.

He kicked our hand and the soup can off his snout. Blood flowed like a waterfall. He jumped to his feet and wriggled free from the professor who tried to grab him as he leaped to the floor. He spat malevolently at both of us. And he fled with a shriek of triumph through the open door.

"Characteristic performance, that, kicking over the traces", we observed washing the blood from our wounds.

"Characteristic, hell no!" returned the professor. "That was Franklin the First,--Franklin Pierce."