You could not attack or rally him without some bright reply. Horace Gray, afterward the judge, went shooting one day and met Curtis as he was coming back with his gun over West Boston Bridge. Curtis asked him if he had shot anything. Gray said, "No, nothing but a hawk in Watertown. I stopped at the Museum as I came by, and gave it to Agassiz." "I suppose Agassiz said 'Accipter,'" said Curtis. When Professor Greenleaf resigned his place at the Dane Law School, much to the regret of the students, it was proposed to secure a likeness of him for the lecture room. There was some discussion whether it should be a bust or a picture, and if a bust what should be the material. Curtis said: "Better make it Verd Antique. That means Old Green." Dr. Beck once required his class each to bring a Latin epigram. Dan Curtis, who was not very fond of work unless it was in the line of his own tastes, sent in the following: Fugiunt. Qui fugiunt? Galli; tunc moriar contentus. "What is that, Curtis?" said the Doctor. "Dying words of Wolfe, sir," replied Curtis. "Ah," said the Doctor with great satisfaction. He thought it was Wolf the famous Greek scholar, and thought the epigram highly to Curtis's credit. I have still in my memory a very bright poem of his. I do not think I ever saw or read it written or in print. But I remember hearing it read in one of the college clubs more than fifty years ago. He has Longfellow's style very happily, including the dropping from a bright and sometimes a sublime line to one which is flat and commonplace, as for instance in the ode on the death of the Duke of Wellington. Meantime without the surly cannon waited, The sky gleamed overhead. Nothing in Nature's aspect indicated That a great man was dead. This is Curtis's poem: Wrapped in musing dim and misty, Sit I by the fitful flame; And my thoughts steal down the vista Of old time, as in a dream. Here the hero held his quarters, Whom America holds dear; He beloved of all her daughters, Formerly resided here. Here you often might have seen him, Silvery white his reverend scalp, Frowned above a mighty chapeau Like a storm-cap o'er the Alp. Up and down these rooms the hero Oftentimes would thoughtful stray, Walking now toward the window, Stalking then again away. By the fireside, quaintly moulded Oft his humid boots would lie; And his queer surtout was folded On some strange old chair to dry. In the yard where now before me Underclothes, wind-wafted hang Waved the banners of an army; Warriors strode with martial clang. These things now are all departed, With us on the earth no more, But the chieftain, noble-hearted, Comes to visit me once more. In he comes without permission, Sits him down before mine eyes, Then I tremble and demnition Curious thoughts within me rise.