Professor Winter told us where our 50,000 ideas were laid up in our brains
(I am sure that I have not 50,000 in mine). One might have deducted
49,999, and still, with that little one left, I was not able to understand
the half of what he said.

Another wonderful thing he told us was, that there are five thousand
million cells in our brain, and that it takes about ten thousand cells to
furnish a well-lodged perception. How in the world can he know that? I
think he must have examined his own ten thousand cells to have discovered
all this exuberance of material. The President looked bored, and I am sure
everybody else wished Professor Winter and his theories (because they
can't be facts) in the Red Sea.... After this _seance manquee_ I was
asked to sing. Poor Mr. Lincoln! who I understood could not endure music.
I pitied him.

"None of your foreign fireworks," said Mr. Trott, in his graceful manner,
as I passed him on my way to the piano. I answered, "Shall I sing 'Three
Little Kittens'? I think that is the least fireworky of my _repertoire_."
But I concluded that a simple little rocket like "Robin Adair" would kill
nobody; therefor I sang that, and it had a success.

When the gaunt President shook my hand to thank me, he held it in a grip
of iron, and when, to accentuate the compliment, meaning to give a little
extra pressure, he put his left hand over his right, I felt as if my hand
was shut in a waffle-iron and I should never straighten it out again.

"Music is not much in my line," said the President; "but when you sing you
warble yourself into a man's heart. I'd like to hear you sing some more."

What other mild cracker could I fire off? Then I thought of that lovely