The annual horde of Freshmen having duly arrived, being now, it is hoped, somewhat acclimated to Cambridge smoke and Harvard airs, the college year is well under way. The only remaining formality necessary to a successful opening is the return of the upper-classmen.

In contrast to the advent of the Freshman, the upperclassman arrives in Cambridge officially unnoticed. He has put aside the buoymant brightness of the youths who, making their college debut, are full of hope for the four golden years. He betrays no interest in the novelty of his surroundings. He has long outgrown the state of credulity that indicates inward illusions and is peculiarly attractive to book-agents and purveyors of pressing contracts. The upperclassmen returning passes through the Square unremarked. He belongs in it, for another year at least, like the Pill Box.

But if the upperclassman is doomed to comparative insignificance it is because he welcomes it, being glad to sink into his surroundings and show that he belongs there. He is in good company, and once the usual questions have been exchanged about the vacation just over, the ground is cleared. The year begins quietly. It comes in like a lamb.