The Diary of a Freshman — Background and Themes

and he wants you to go right ’round and see him as soon as you can. And yesterday that little man—I forget his name—oh, you know, he’s the President of the Crimson—came to find out about something. He said you were the only one who could tell him. And then there ’ve been lots of young men to see about the football—oh, my, just crowds of them, and they all left notes. I ’ll run down and get them, and then I ’ll put up your bed."

After she left, I said good-night. It’s awfully late, and I have to get up early, to be in time to register.

I wonder who he is. I hope he didn’t think I was fresh. I don’t believe he did, though, for as I was going he said,—

"We ’re such near neighbors, you must drop in when you haven’t anything better to do."

Mamma’s train must have passed Utica by this time.

Well, I ’ve learned a lot of things during the past week, that are n’t advertised in the catalogue. If I ’ve neglected to make a note of them until now, it has been my misfortune, and not my fault.

We registered on Wednesday morning—Freshmen have to register the day before college really opens—and I confess I was a little disappointed at the informal way such an important act of one’s life is done. In the first place, as you can drop in any time between nine A.M. and one P.M., you don’t see the whole class together. Then the room we registered in might have been in the High School at home. I don’t know what I expected exactly, but it certainly was n’t a bare, square room, a desk on a low platform, some plaster casts, and a lot of plain wooden chairs arranged in rows on an inclined plane. However, when I think the matter over, I don’t see what else they could have.

A dissatisfied-looking little man with a red necktie sat reading a newspaper at the desk when I went in, and near him—reading a book—was a younger fellow who looked as if he might be a student. There were piles of registration cards on the desk, and after I had stood there a moment, not knowing what to do, the little man looked up absently from his paper, handed me some cards with a feeble sort of gesture, and murmured in a melancholy, slightly trembling, and very sarcastic voice,—

"... This gentleman is come to me With commendation from great potentates, And here he means to spend his time awhile."

Then he yawned, and took up the paper again. The young man, without apparently thinking this remark in the least odd, closed his book on his thumb so as not to lose the place, and gave me another card, saying in a perfectly businesslike voice,—

"Please fill this one out, too." I sat down at a bench to write, and just then five or six other fellows came in. One of them was the good-looking chap (with the pretty mother) who rooms in the same house with me. I hadn’t seen him since the day I signed my lease. I listened to hear if the little man at the desk would spring anything weird on them; but as they went right up to him, and took cards as if they knew all about it, and retreated to the back of the room, he didn’t have time. They talked and laughed a good deal, and once they got into a scuffle, but the instructors didn’t even glance up. I finished answering the questions on my cards, and was reading them over, when one of the fellows behind me said,—

"I’ll ask him—we live in the same house;" and the handsome one came and sat down beside me. There was something they did n’t understand in making out the cards, and the first thing I knew, they were all gathered around me examining mine. I felt quite important. But the next minute I felt equally cheap.