Worcester Polytechnic Institute - Peddler Yearbook (Worcester, MA)

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the same sentences had described and amused preceding classes for years before. And what does it matter? It served a purpose and kept us good natured through the remainder of the hour, which was worth a great deal. He was our best-beloved then, and won our undy¬ ing devotion by his loyalty to athletics; winning or losing, he was always cheery in his out¬ look for the Future, —the teams which we would turn out when we obtained better facilities,— the remarkable showing we were making under existing conditions, and his enthusiastic recitals of the attitude of the Alumni at the last banquet he attended; how they hung on every word about the struggle the teams were making under such adverse circumstances, how they cheered and clapped in appreciation of our efforts, and the joy with which they too looked forward to the Gymnasium. It was Coombsie who made himself immortal by his single-umbrel- lad attack upon the struggling mob before Boynton Hall, and like the warriors of old, “his mighty weapon rose and fell with untiring strength upon the awed and helpless enemy, who in their efforts to escape the fell blows of this most mighty of warriors, turned and trampled friend and foe beneath their feet, that they might escape the havoc of his terrible progress.” And how we smile when we remember his annual lecture upon smoking and his poor misguided plants who did their darndest to make him embrace the noxious weed. Can you imagine him Sunday morning seated before his plant-stand, a rubber bulb in his hand, lustily forcing air through a pipe that he may, without injury to himself, smoke to a suitable death the vile lice which would 26

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life and interest to the dullest subject on earth,—History of Chem¬ istry,—and his interest in the work of the individual. ND whose voice is it that A 1 first salutes the Freshman, after the President has told them how ignorant they are and how hard they must labor to retain a foothold on the Hill? “Coombsie’s,” comes the answer. “Correct, Archibald! Go to the head of the class.” Zelotes Wood Coombs, A. M., but to us he is and al¬ ways will be, Coombsie. It is not without reason that he is called “the Freshman Profes¬ sor” for he is the one member of the Faculty who is privileged to feast upon their mistakes and ignorance, to guide their unwary footsteps, to lecture them upon their childishness and comb their matted thoughts. Shall we ever be able to forget his lectures? Oh yes, we have practically done that already; but never will we forget their occurrence, with their invariable opening of “The themes are coming in with commendable regularity,” and the running fire of comment on the previous week’s themes. The bulletin board which was always “coming up the Hill”, the “vice” in the shops, the “principle idear,” “I would due,” “English decent,” and similar errors furnished material for his discourse. “Who I Am, and Why I Came to the Institute,” has furnished us with food for reflection ever since its writing, and “A Classical or Technical Education” is still an undecided point in our minds. The mere fact that “the beetle-browed villain” and the “fero¬ cious dog” were both old and decrepit before we ever heard of the Institute was a trifle that we failed to consider. We did n’t realize that the “apple orchard” on the “Walk to Wachusett” had been plundered every year, until any self-preserving farmer would have cut it down and sown buckwheat in its place, nor did we know that 25

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o destroy his pets? How foolish he made us feel, when he loosened up one morning and told us what he thought about our artistic efforts on the stonework of the Institute, and did n’t he get us out with scrubbing brushes and chemicals to remove the marks of our childish¬ ness? We’ve often wondered whether it was the earnestness of his lecture on that subject or the indignity of scrubbing stones and cement that made such a lasting impression on us, for never again did our numerals decorate (?) the property of the Institute. Many things will make us stand by Coombsie, long after his Beowulf and his other dead pets have been relegated to the realms of oblivion, for he won our affection at a time when we were lonely and unacquainted with the mysteries of Tech, and his cheery greeting, every man by name, will live long in our minds. ,NE of the professors with whom it has been our mis¬ fortune not to become acquaint¬ ed is Harold B. Smith, head of the Department of Electrical Engineering. He is a graduate of Cornell; he first became head of the Electrical Engineering Department of Arkansas State University, remaining but a year, when he accepted a position with the Elektron Manufacturing Co., and a pro¬ fessorship at Purdue University. In 1896 he came to W. P. I. and under his efficient manage¬ ment the course developed from a mere side-study into a full- fledged department. A two years’ leave of absence was granted him shortly after our arrival at the Institute and his absence continued during the whole of our course, thus denying us the privilege of contact with one of the brainiest and most influential men on the Hill. P ROF. French, the elongated head of the Civil Engineering Department is a product of New Hampshire where he was brought up on tacks. Correcting for temperature stresses he has an elevation of something like seven feet above his abutments. Before he came to 27