Four years is a long time to wait, but everything must have an end. The Senior's day has come at last. For him the sun shines, for him the fountains and bands play, for him the girls smile and on their prettiest dresses. And for the first time in the last two weeks he is able to enjoy it all. His tickets of many colors have been distributed for better or for worse; his packing boxes stand ready in the hall; he has ended the bother of reading endless notices by memorizing the entire program for Commencement Week. All the relatives are here and Aunt Fanny has been discreetly installed on Brattle Street.

What cares the Senior if the June sun brings beads of perspiration to his brow? Tomorrow, or Friday, the cares of the outside world will settle upon him; today he is carefree among the confetti. As he parades in joyous camaraderie or basks on the warm turf within the Stadium, the kaleidoscopic scenes will become part of a tender and ever youthful memory. And as the events of the day march by, he looks forward with growing delight to the last scene of all--the refreshing shower that falls upon his parched brow as the clock of Memorial Tower strikes midnight. In fact, as the poet has so aptly said,

"What is so rare as a day in June?

Then, if ever, come perfect days."