A professor in one of our large universities recently complained that college students of the present day are so woefully ignorant of many things that they could reasonably be expected to know. The exciting cause of the professor's outburst was an attempt to get from his class some information about Chanticleer. He was met by conservative and judicious silence until one youth, who was not quite sure, ventured the opinion that it was a popular song sung by Jane Addams. Of course such an answer would irritate a Chicago man, and justly too, when we consider that Miss Addams is what made Chicago famous. But the wail of the professor provokes the question: Where do all the scholars and thinkers of the world come from? What keeps up the breed? What is it that fills in the ramshackle, ill-jointed, unpromising frame of much of our school product, and returns us so much of fine manhood and womanhood, and so much of the sound learning and ability of the working world? We must, I think, admit that the world is fairly furnished with men and women, intelligent and useful, whom no college can claim. And every college has its quota of dunces who may never be anything else. My professor made no discovery of an alarming decadence, for what he complains of has always been true. We should not be pessimistic about youth, and we must be fair to our schools. They make better what we send them, but they have no science of alchemy. Many men and women find their inspiration in schools. But after the largest measure of allowance, it will be conceded that the amount of scholarship and efficiency in the world far exceeds the output of our scholastic plants. There are more of such people than schools produce, and the surplus must be accounted for in some other way. This surplus comes, somehow, from that vast throng who are, in a sense, the forgotten children of modern education--those hundreds of thousands who fall out of the ranks in school days, and yet who persist and find themselves without the help of the schools. It is very fortunate that this is so, for otherwise we might have to abandon some of our weightiest political maxims. The world is governed by proverbs, but as a rule of action, a proverb is as dangerous as dynamite. It is as useful as a club in a political campaign. But Dr. Holmes was right: proverbs should be sold in pairs so that one may correct the other as a counter irritant.