At this time of the year, no part of the college grounds is so beautiful as Holmes Field, especially when a game is going on. In the foreground, the noble Law School building, further in perspective, the graceful gymnasium, the feathery foliage of the willows, and the tower of Memorial in the distance, all go to form a charming picture. Everything-save one-is beautiful and satisfactory to the eye; the turf is faultlessly smooth and green, the track carefully rolled; the brilliant costumes of the players are in striking contrast to the emerald lawn on which they stand; the benches are filled with radiant beauty, and everything is deliciously calm and soothing to our artistic feelings. But, while lounging in the shade under the walls of the old Pudding building, we notice that after all something is lacking in the scene. We try to think what it can be, and finally we discover it. Right before us stretching over a hundred yards of ground, the walls of the Jefferson Laboratory raise their giant and rigid outlines; their harsh effect lessened by no attempt at any concealment of their hideous nudity. As we rise with a sigh because the field cannot be entirely beautiful after all, we breathe a wish that our landscape gardner would only train a little ivy up the north end of that building, or plant a few young elms in front of it, that its Puritan severity may be a little softened for future generations.