A SLOW creaking of the stairway, a shuffling of feet in the corridor, the scraping of a basket along the wall, a gentle knocking at the door.

"Come in."

"Yes, sah, yes, sah. What will you have this evening, sah? Fine as silk, sah, fine as silk."

It was old Noah Pinkney — Uncle Noah — making his evening rounds with his assortment of pies, cakes and sandwiches.

Every Dickinsonian of the past sixteen years can remember Uncle Noah. I scarce need draw the picture. You may have forgotten the binomial theorem, you may no longer remember the laws of heat, you may not be able to locate Tycho's star, you may not know the difference between mercurous chloride and mercuric, but you do remember Noah Pinkney. Heavy set, a well shaped head on good shoulders, his short curly hair and mustache turning gray from its once jet black, a broad grinning mouth showing two rows of shining ivories so common among the Negro race, an old slouch hat on his head, his right arm encircling the handle of a basket and his left hand grasping his covered bucket, and his everlasting "fine as silk, sah. Dickinson sandwiches, fine as silk."

In the winter you can find him in his little three room house down on West street beyond the Armory. The first room has a long counter along one side on which are two glass cases full of bread and buns, ham and butter, cakes and pies and pretzels. On the wall behind are some shelves containing a few jars of peppermint stick slowly crumbling to decay, flanked by an unframed print of Lincoln freeing the slave and a certificate of membership in the colored Odd Fellows, both somewhat the worse from fly-wear.

The room in the rear is about eight feet square and contains a wide table which just leaves room for a narrow aisle from the front shop to the kitchen beyond. The table is adorned with two high lamps, a flaming red cloth, two bottles of ketchup, a jar of mustard and the evening paper. There might be but one lamp on the table, the ketchup bottle might be empty, the mustard jar missing, but the evening paper is always there. Uncle Noah's customers are college men, they are supposed to be intellectual — they must have the news. And so you read the paper while you are waiting for the oysters which Aunt Noah is frying in the little kitchen beyond.

Mrs. Pinkney — ah, you must know her — she is Uncle Noah's other half. You can never get into her kitchen for it is only big enough to hold the stove, the oyster dish and herself. She is slightly broader than long, with a face that is all smiles and all wrinkles and dimples — ebony smiles and ebony wrinkles and dimples — and a little knot of crimpy hair tightly drawn at the crown of the head. Such is Mrs. Pinkney as she deftly lifts an oyster out of the pan of sizzling lard and lays it between the two layers of your bun for Noah to transfer to you as you sit by the red table cloth.

Here Noah can be found every winter evening, busy with his customers as they drop in at odd hours. "Ham, Uncle, without butter." "Oyster, Noah; two big juicy ones. Oh, don't be so tight, open up the refrigerator."

"Yes, sah, yes, sah; in a minut', sah. Don't get flustered, sah. Keep your pants on, sah."

In the spring time, when you can stretch your lazy bones on the wall across from Denny and bask in the sun, you will find old Noah stationed at the East College gate. To his stock of provisions is added a wheelbarrow containing an ice cream freezer and a pile of dishes and spoons.

"Here you are. Furst of th' season. Fine as silk, sah."

"What flavor this morning, Noah?"

"Choclut, sah, choclut, most delicious, sah."

"Don't like chocolate. Give me a pretzel."

"Yes, sah. Better take three. Three fur two cents, Mr. Ford."

"Uncle, remember that cent you owe me. Couldn't change a dime for me yesterday. I'll just take a pretzel for it."

"Oh, yes, yes, sah. All right."

I wonder how many pretzels should be put in the profit and loss column of Noah's ledger — supposing he had one — by the "You owe me a penny, Noah," or "I'll pay you tomorrow," pilferings.

But the students love old Pink. Many a man gives his change in return for Noah's viands and lives to remember it with a bad case of dyspepsia. He may cuss the stuff he ate but never the seller.

What an enjoyment it is to slip down to Pink's on a winter night, after an evening of studying, or more probably something else best left undefined, and drive away all sleep for that night by swallowing a raisin pie, a vanilla cream and an oyster sandwich with plenty of tomato ketchup. A Welsh rarebit is a good sleep inducer compared to such a mixture.

How, too, you like to loiter a moment beside Noah's stand at the fence when on your way to class, and buy a pretzel or a ginger cake to keep yourself awake during the next hour.

And who is more enthusiastic than Noah on the field when some big game is to be played. Down the line of crowded bleachers he comes, baskets and buckets in hand, "Dickinson pretzels, Dickinson sandwiches. Fine as silk. Born to-day, sah. Buy a sandwich and cheer the team, sah." And Noah himself cheers the team — cheers till he is black in the face.

Ah, you Dickinsonians, proud may you well be of your old college, fondly may you recall in memory the friends of your day as I do mine of mine, musingly may you remember the June day when you received your sheepskin from Reed, or McCauley, or Dashiell, or farther back, wistfully may you look forward to the next June day when you will journey back to old Carlisle and to the old college and see the youngsters of the present join your alumni ranks; and when you do come to revisit your old haunts and renew your old friendships you will not forget to give a warm grasp of the hand to the old provider of your nightly feeds, Noah Pinkney.

From Dickinson Doings by Boyd L. Spahr. Mount Holly Springs, PA: Mount Holly Stationery and Printing Company, 1900, pp. 55-61.