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 remind roe of those experiences in the Greek class.  Every bluebird I see does that for me.  The good old doctor, one morning in early spring, rhapsodized for five minutes on the singing of a bluebird he had heard on his way to class, telling how the little fellow was pouring forth a melody that made the world and all life seem more beautiful and blessed.  We loved him for that, because it proved that he was a big-souled human being; and pupils like to discover human qualities in their teachers.  The little professor may have heard the bluebird’s singing, too; but if he did, he probably thought it was serenading him.  If colleges of education and normal schools would select teachers who can delight in the song of a bluebird their academic attainments would be ennobled and glorified, and their students might come to love instead of fearing them.  Only a man or a woman with a big soul can socialize and vitalize the work of the schools.  The mere academician can never do it.