"I'd rather not say."
"I really have to get to school, Daddy. I'll let you know tonight what Mr. Hopkinson says about the Nittany Lions."
"On the other hand, I'm perfectly willing to reveal the line-up of the 1947 Kansas City Blues. They had Cliff Mapes in center field, of course. And in left, Hank Bauer, always referred to as 'rugged ex-Marine Hank Bauer.' And Eddie Stewart in right. Good old Eddie Stewart . . ."
I passed all the other courses that I took at my University, but I could never pass botany. This was because all botany students had to spend several hours a week in a laboratory looking through a microscope at plant cells, and I could never see through a microscope. I never once saw a cell through a microscope. This used to enrage my instructor. He would wander around the laboratory pleased with the progress all the students were making in drawing the involved and, so I am told, interesting structure of flower cells, until he came to me. I would just be standing there. "I can't see anything," I would say. He would begin patiently enough, explaining how anybody can see through a microscope, but he would always end up in a fury, claiming that I could too see through a microscope but just pretended that I couldn't. "It takes away from the beauty of flowers anyway," I used to tell him. "We are not concerned with beauty in this course," he would say. "We are concerned solely with what I may call the mechanics of flars.""Well," I'd say, "I can't see anything.""Try it just once again," he'd say, and I would put my eye to the microscope and see nothing at all, except now and again a nebulous milky substance--a phenomenon of maladjustment. You were supposed to see a vivid, restless clockwork of sharply defined plant cells. "I see what looks like a lot of milk," I would tell him. This, he claimed, was the result of my not having adjusted the micro-