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THE little dingus I have on my desk, my only condescension to the computer age, is pretty good for estimating loose hay in the mow, but I don't seem to get accustomed to the way it lops off zeros. Dollars and cents. Well, four times \$1.25 comes to \$5.00. But my little dingus brings that off as just \$5, so the two zeros representing no-no cents remain somewhere in the incredible innards of the computer. It should not be so, and I speak from a position of strength. I learned early that zeros are nothing to bandy about. There was this professor of mathematics . . . . I owe that professor more than I can ever express, because alone and single-mindedly he weaned me from all interest in his subject, until I came through college serene and pure to step into the world and amount to something. I rejoice that he spared me a mathematical life. True, I can do a few simple things, like estimating loose hay in a mow (handy once a year at Candlemas), and sometimes I can make sense out of the grocery tab, but figuring a transit of Venus is beyond me and I am glad. I remember that professor gratefully and shall speak about one of his oddities.

The class I had with him met three times a week, on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday at 8:30 a.m. We in his class, most of us, would come from (then) compulsory chapel and arrive at the classroom building in a group. But he would come from his home, walking through a grove of pines, to arrive by a back door, so that when we came in from the front he would be arriving at his desk. Now, it happened that a man from the village who was employed by the college as a janitor would park his automobile on the edge of this grove, where it was out of the way, almost out of sight, but on the path this professor followed. So as he came along with his head down, probably pondering on Fermat's Last Theorem, he would step aside, walk around the parked automobile, and return to the path.