So every Tuesday night about a dozen boys climbed our hill to rediscuss
the subject of the seminar of that afternoon--and everything else under
the heavens and beyond. I laid out ham sandwiches, or sausages, or some
edible dear to the male heart, and coffee to be warmed, and about
midnight could be heard the sounds of banqueting from the kitchen. Three
students told me on graduation that those Tuesday nights at our house
had meant more intellectual stimulus than anything that ever came into
their lives.

One of these boys wrote to me after Carl's death:--

"When I heard that Doc had gone, one of the finest and cleanest men I
have ever had the privilege of associating with, I seemed to have
stopped thinking. It didn't seem possible to me, and I can remember very
clearly of thinking what a rotten world this is when we have to live and
lose a man like Doc. I have talked to two men who were associated with
him in somewhat the same manner as I was, and we simply looked at one
another after the first sentences, and then I guess the thoughts of a
man who had made so much of an impression on our minds drove coherent
speech away. . . . I have had the opportunity since leaving college of
experiencing something real besides college life and I can't remember
during all that period of not having wondered how Dr. Parker would
handle this or that situation. He was simply immense to me at all times,
and if love of a man-to-man kind does exist, then I truthfully can say
that I had that love for him."

Of the letters received from students of those years I should like to
quote a passage here and there.

An aviator in France writes: "There was no man like him in my college