Temple University School of Medicine - Skull Yearbook (Philadelphia, PA)

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an opportunity, Dr. Hamilton, but I want it recorded for all posterity to know that on my word as an honorable hare, I did not break your gall stone, I never spilled a drop in 24 long hours, and I wasn't even there when the mercury ran out on the floor. It had been my custom to slouch comfortably in whatever accommodations were available, but on what do you sit if there just

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familiar with the arts I firmly believe that the world's most famous pantominist has a serious rival in the Anatomy department; but I must confess I could never follow Dr. Kimmel's energetic lectures from my back row seat. It had been my custom as an actor to indulge in midnight snacks, but what could be more diverting or relaxing than a 10. o'clock coffee after a 9 o'clock class. The most surprising crowd gathered in the cafeteria in fewer minutes than you could shake a Huber probe at. Yes, Dr. Hamilton, we're coming! Please don't shut the door. Don't lock us out! You were late once yourself, I know. Don't forget I'm invisible. The leading character in the fourth floor drama of 24 hour specimens was a master of bottles and surveyor of pipettes with a wee bit of Texas in his drawl. There was a man of precision and integrity who could outmatch the best of us on a meniscus. Never did I think I would have such

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isn’t an accommodation? The walls were hard, the desks were even harder, and the floor—well!! My only solace was the knowledge that Drs. Robinson and Van Slyke had stood long hours before me. Remember those tense moments of waiting as the doors opened slowly at the deadline hour of five and we rushed in impulsively to our familiar desks and grabbed the tell-tale papers which we opened stealthily in the privacy and quiet of the locker room. Confounded!! They keep telling me he adds points at the end of the year! Triphosphate crystals. Next! R.B.C.’s Next! Hyaline casts. Next! There's a chapter in every story that strikes closest to home, but the next one was really banging on my rabbit's door. Perhaps I should call it, Let sleeping dogs lie. At any rate, I made it! That's right, Physiology, the era of smoked drums, dull instruments, and exasperated Oppie. It was the suddenness of it, and not the grades, that sent me into neurogenic shock. Of course, pop quizzes were no real challenge to my thorough understanding of a subject that was explained so lucidly and logically by an enthusiastic Dr. Oppenheimer, or that was outlined so descriptively into subhead little (a) under Roman numeral II under capital A. I didn't mean to cough, Dr. Greisheimer. It’s this Philadelphia weather. Guess I'll never get used to it. My lab book wasn't approved? Impossible! I read every reference, outlined every experiment, answered every question. There must be some mistake. Oh, the graph! Well, you see, it was getting rather late and I had an exam to study for—they never miss a trick, do they? The diagnosis? Thrombosis of the lenticulostri-ate branch of the middle cerebral artery. And remember the tympanitic notes that bounced off the last row of Erny Amphitheater. This gentleman sounded pretty terrific, but how long would it take to learn the language? CVA, BMR, 17