Well, divisionals are over, and seniors are the happiest of creatures. They have either flunked or passed. What's done is done. So why worry? At least that's the way juniors, sophomores, and freshmen think seniors ought to feel, for with them matters are quite otherwise. With these unfortunates what's done is not done. And worse still, the ghost of what's undone rattles its bones and joins forces with the specter of what's yet to do. It Robert Browning had been the true optimist and friend of mankind he is reputed to be, he would have written:

"Grow bold along with me!

The worst is yet to be,

The last exam for which each course was made.

The time is far too short.

What then? Come, be a sport!

You know but half: then bluff the rest; nor be afraid!"

But Browning didn't write it. In fact, no one wrote these words of comfort and wisdom. So the student is left to shift upon his own devices.

The season of the year calls for expansiveness. It is in harmony with the nature of things that, at a time when the flowers of the field and the birds of the air are all heeding the supreme injunction to come forth and multiply, the student should be put to the same necessity. Multiply is the word of the hour. Multiply by two, four, six, or a dozen--the more the better: for it is certain if the student remains the single unmultiplied individual he is at present, he will never get his work done. The season puts a premium upon those freaks whom nature has endowed with duplicate organs and personalities. If one had the heads of Hydra, he would need them all. Theses are falling due like the plagues of Egypt, and the gods that send them are just as inexorable. Professors, struck with the thought of so much to be done in so little time, are suddenly moved by an overpowering liberality. Instead of paltry chapters, they assign volumes. And all the while, the day of doom approaches.

Way must final examinations come just at the time when, as Eastman has so fittingly said: "All outdoors invites you"? What sunshine! What calm, delicious window, looks out at the moon rising through the trees, and muses. "In such evenings! The student stands at his a night as this Troilus sighed his love toward the Grecian tents where Cressida lay. . . . In such a night did This-be fearfully o'ertrip the dew . . . In such a night stood Dido with a willow in her hand . . . . In such a night . . . . I'd mortgage my immortal soul to be free in such a night. Yet in such a night to be compelled to study! Ugh!" With murder in his heart he turns his back upon the moon, for that way madness lies: And back he goes to juggle dead men's thoughts deep dug from books in such a night!

In this hour of his greatest need the student turns hopefully, imploringly to Dame Science who is never loath to promise whatever one pray ask. With culinary laboratories where he can eat on the run, with strychnine and other things not to be mentioned to stimulate exhausted brains, she thinks to wait him over the great divide. In vain the student cries that they are not enough! Could be but do without sleep for three weeks, perhaps held make the grade Dame Science empties her pockets all to no avail, for she has not yet compounded tablets or synthetic sleep.