And hot a tin pan newly scoured
Placed on the blazing hearth,
And hot a boy's ears boxed for doing
That which he hadn't orter,
But hotter still is the love I bear
For Professor Sanborn's daughter.

with chorus as before.

I threw down lovely flowers and timidly thanked them. They applauded,
sang a rollicking farewell, and were gone. If I could have removed my
heart painlessly, I believe that would have gone out too. They had
gone, but the blissful memory! I leaned on the window sill, and the
moon with its bounteous mellow radiance filled my room. But listen,
hark! Only two doors beyond, the same voices, the same melodious
tones, and alas, yes, the same words, every verse and the same
chorus--same masculine fervour--but somebody else's daughter.

A breakfast comment: "It's a terrible nuisance this caterwauling in
the middle of the night in front of the house!" For once I was silent.

Many distinguished men were invited to Dartmouth as orators at
commencement or on special occasions, as Rufus Choate, Edward Everett,
John G. Saxe, Wendell Phillips, Charles Dudley Warner, and Dr. Holmes,
whom I knew in his Boston study, overlooking the water and the gulls.
By the way, he looked so young when arriving at Hanover for a few
lectures to the Medical School that he was asked if he had come to
join the Freshman class.

There were also Edwin P. Whipple, the essayist, and Walt Whitman, who