"How young they are; how ridiculously, persistently, impossibly, incessantly young they are!" is the inevitable comment of the man or woman who goes back to a college function three or four years after commencement. For instance, last night at the Hasty Pudding Club, where the Harvard Dramatic Society gave its fall production, there were all the same sights usual just a year or two ago. There was the eagle-eyed mama, chaperoning her daughter; the wild company of the mild, harmless, and altogether blameless Harvard boy who sat on the other side of mamma and imagined he was seeing life.

There, also, was the group of girls who went alone, and looked down, from the heights of the hard student, on the handsome girls of their class who sallied to the party in company with the unexplained representative of his sex, man. There also, pitiable in the eyes of her who lives in the world, were the dean's assistants of the girls' college, just as placid and calm and unstirred by great living as they were four years ago. All was the same with them, strictly academic, all the same except a few pounds of added avoirdupois.

"How young they are," was the inevitable comment, "how young, and how remote--from all the pulsating, beautiful things, which make the heart to beat and the wrinkles to come. After all, how foolish a thing is a college. Lord a Mercy, was I ever--so remote--as these." Boston Record.