themes and criticized them; sometimes he discussed books that he had been reading; sometimes he read poetry, not because contemporary poetry was part of the course but because he happened to feel like reading it that morning; sometimes he discoursed on the art of writing; and sometimes he talked about anything that happened to be occupying his mind. He made his class-room an open forum, and the students felt free to interrupt him at any time and to disagree with him. Usually they did disagree with him and afterward wrote violent themes to prove that he was wrong. That was exactly what Henley wanted them to do, and the more he could stir them up the better satisfied he was.
One morning, however, he talked without inter ruption. He did n’t want to be interrupted, anc the boys were so taken back by his statements tha they could find no words to say anything. The bell rang. Henley called the roll, stuck hi class-book into his coat pocket, placed his watch 01 the desk; then leaned back and looked the class ove)
“Your themes are making me sick,” he begar “nauseated. I have a fairly strong stomach, bu there is just so much that I can stand—and you hav passed the limit* There is hardly a man in th class who has n’t written at least one theme on th glory that is Sanford. As you know, I am a Sar ford man myself, and I have my share of affectio
