The annual complaint - (vide CRIMSONS for seven years back) - is here again, just a little in advance of the first of December. The water works in the gymnasium are again out of order. We have been told by the goody - that is to say, the cleanly, - that when they come in hot and exhausted from a foot-ball game and wish to bathe their bruised limbs in tepid steam and ease their wounds, nothing but the coldest of water can be had to solace them water so cold that it parches the skin and cracks the muscles and sends a man tottering out to the bleak entry prematurely aged like an Arctic explorer. Not so with the rugged stoic who delights, like Caesar's Germans, to lave his sturdy limbs in ice water; the streams of Socrate have turned hot ere he reaches the bath, and he may count himself happy an he is not scalded alive like a miserable shellfish. Dear Masters, why should these things be?