A SENSE of the eternal fitness of things would seem to dictate that the papers should leave Memorial Hall in peace; but complaints have been pouring into us in regard to the short supply of food furnished. The supply of turkey or grapes or milk, or, in fact, of anything more or less palatable, has a strange proclivity for giving out just at the wrong time. The Crew men say that one cannot get decent meat when one happens to come in at a quarter past six, and that this has been often the case, our own personal experience can testify. To be sure, the Steward never refuses to give us something to eat; but, frankly speaking, pork and ham and pressed hash are not exactly the kind of diet most men have a craving for. The pears have been miniature brickbats, and the grapes not always what they should be. Another grievance comes, however, from the opposite quarter. Certain men, who presumably work in Boylston Hall, will persist in coming into Memorial, and sitting down to table with a respectable set of men, when they are reeking with vile chemical odors, the offensiveness of which they seem to ignore.