One of the drawbacks of Bostonians is the lack of a true sense of humor. The assistant professor of mathematics at the Technological School once told me that he comprehended infinity. A large order, but he was perfectly serious. While they are willing to claim such an advance in one direction, they sometimes seem to have no realization of the advance of the civilization of this earth. One of the younger members of my family—upon moving to Richmond, Virginia, two or three years ago—was admonished by an elderly spinster of Boston to “be sure and be kind to those poor heathens in the South.” She meant the negroes!” Boston is a city apart. It has nothing to do with the rest of the country. Twenty years ago my mother, like all good Bostonians, stopping at the Murray Hill Hotel here in New York, said: “Only think, Edward, there are thirty Cabots sailing to-day on the same steamer.” She was much shocked when I remarked, “I hope it is a strong ship.” Dr. Samuel Cabot’s house was always a revelation to me. It was full of stuffed birds in glass cases. He was not without a sense of the ridiculous, however, for when he was persuaded to go to see a picture by his brother Edward (whom all the women worshiped for his artistic tendencies), he said about this painting—entitled “Peace”—of two birds building their nest in the mouth of a cannon: “That’s just like Edward; both his birds are male.” This desire of ignoring sex was paramount in many learned and otherwise delightful folk. I remember William Ware and had great respect for him, but I had to laugh at him. He was an architect of ability and a professor at Columbia, loved by his pupils, but the kind of man who had no respect for any idea that was not fifty years old—so that it was certain to be absolutely true before he taught it. He told me once that he had never been able to see any reason for women’s existence. It must have been this side of his nature which caused him to go about with a small hammer and eliminate all evidences of sex from the newly arrived Greek masterpieces for the Boston Art Museum. He could not see anything incongruous in the fact that the fig leaves (cast by the workman in the Museum) were of a different color from the statues. Strange type of mind—and yet he had cleverness and a certain wit. My aunt had asked her husband to invite Professor Ware to dinner, but, thinking my uncle might forget the message, wrote a letter in addition. The professor answered both. The letters are records of brevity. Dear Sophy: Yours with pleasure, W. W. Dear James: Yours as to your wife, W. W. Chapter XIII: The Players