i wonder if his head aked really so he coodent make a speach or if he was scart. i bet he was scart.
school commences monday. father hasent asked once about my diry, so i aint going to wright enny more.
THIRTY YEARS (OR MORE) AFTER
On looking back over the pages of the “Diary” it appears to me that some sort of an amende honorable is due to those citizens now living, and the relatives and friends of those now dead, whose names have appeared in the “Diary” and who have, so to speak, been handled without gloves. That I have been neither mobbed, nor horsewhipped, nor sued, nor prosecuted, but that I have enjoyed many a good laugh with—and have received many pleasant words from —the victims, and their friends, is good evidence that they, and their more fortunate brothers who have not been therein mentioned, have taken the “Diary” in the very spirit in which it was published, that of affectionate and amusing retrospect. And it is indeed with affection that I recall those men, at that time in their prime. That I could not then understand the reason why they did not fully enter into and appreciate the spirit that prompted me and my boon companions to transgress so many rules, laws, and statutes is not surprising. Boys seldom can understand it. But, although I now fully appreciate it, I often wonder at the spirit that prompted so many of those men in after years to show me so many kindnesses, so much encouragement, and such great forbearance.
So many inquiries have been made of me about that cornet, the soul-filling ambition of my early years, that I feel that the uncertainty in regard to that delightful instrument ought to be cleared up. I never did save up enough money to buy a cornet. I haven’t to this day. But many years afterwards, when my ambition had been turned into other and equally profitless channels, upon the death of a dear friend his beautiful cornet was sent me. I have it now, as the neighbors and the members of my family can testify fully and with deep feeling, if called upon.
H. A. S.
A good many years ago, during my college days, it was my custom and that of my room-mate, Brown of Exeter, to make our room the gathering-place for Exeter boys, both “stewdcats” and homesick Exeter youths then filling positions in Boston. It happened that frequently undergraduates from other towns and cities came in at these Saturday evening gatherings and it was a matter of wonder to them that we had so much to talk about in relation to our native town; and it was their frequent remark that “either Exeter is a remarkable place, or you are a remarkably loyal set of fellows.”
That Exeter is a remarkable place is an axiom, and no better evidence of the fact can be found (were evidence necessary to sustain an axiom) than in the loyalty that every citizen displays, and the sincere love that prompts every one who has ever come under the spell of our dear old town to revisit her at every opportunity.