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.
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.
