The privilege par excellence of the graduate is to say "I remember . . ." The undergraduate does not remember anything; he has no right to remember: his is the world of daily routine and ordinary values. But once--on Commencement--he has passed through the Portals and the rub and grime of the present are things of the past, his imagination starts its work of transforming and softening these ordinary values. Then, with a new note in his voice, he begins quoting "I remember when . . ."

The striking thing is how often the "old grad" draws upon material as the bases for his recollections entirely outside any courses he had in college. He recalls vividly his experiences in the Glee Club, or on the Crew, or playing football--but his continuous day-in and day-out class-room work seems to him frequently fused into one vague and blurred memory.

Often this memory is more like: "Oh yes I know that Professor. Don't you remember that time he stumbled off the platform?" than a recollection of any brilliant lecture.

It is in storing up a stock of the future "I remembers" that the "outside activities" of undergraduate life are of most value.