chequered light of the plum tress that is neither sun nor shadow.
Generally you will find him reading, and when I tell you that at the
end of the grass plot where the hedge is highest there is a yellow
bee hive with seven bees that belong to Dean Drone, you will realize
that it is only fitting that the Dean is reading in the Greek. For
what better could a man be reading beneath the blossom of the plum
trees, within the very sound of the bees, than the Pastorals of
Theocritus? The light trash of modern romance might put a man to
sleep in such a spot, but with such food for reflection as
Theocritus, a man may safely close his eyes and muse on what he reads
without fear of dropping into slumber.

Some men, I suppose, terminate their education when they leave their
college. Not so Dean Drone. I have often heard him say that if he
couldn't take a book in the Greek out on the lawn in a spare half
hour, he would feel lost. It's a certain activity of the brain that
must be stilled somehow. The Dean, too, seemed to have a native
feeling for the Greek language. I have often heard people who might
sit with him on the lawn, ask him to translate some of it. But he
always refused. One couldn't translate it, he said. It lost so much
in the translation that it was better not to try. It was far wiser
not to attempt it. If you undertook to translate it, there was
something gone, something missing immediately. I believe that many
classical scholars feel this way, and like to read the Greek just as
it is, without the hazard of trying to put it into so poor a medium
as English. So that when Dean Drone said that he simply couldn't
translate it, I believe he was perfectly sincere.

Sometimes, indeed, he would read it aloud. That was another matter.
Whenever, for example, Dr. Gallagher--I mean, of course, old Dr.