He might have been a Rooshian, a Frenchman. Turk or Rooshian, or an Eye-tal-l-an. But in spite of all temptations he remained, or became, as the case may be, a Republican. And he went to Boston in his old clothes and several busses, and down the streets which know him, perhaps, in the soberer black and white of evening, dress he flung roses and other things riotously with the throng to the greater glory of a Presidential candidate.

One doesn't look for reason in a parade, just as one doesn't look for rhyme in a campaign song. The seeker after truth who inquires here for that which above all things beareth away the victory must ask of the winds which far around with fragments of confetti and cottonballs strewed the streets.

There he might find it. It's a pity, almost, that Presidential campaigns don't come oftener. Harvard undergraduates seem to have lost the faculty of lifting themselves out of themselves among familiar surroundings, and grave doubts have arisen as to the possibility of any sublimation of the student personality. But six weeks have wrought a revelation. Anyone who has seen--and heard--his friend who is wrapped up most of the time in thirteenth-century Italy become a member of the electorate will admit it.

After all, there aren't as many riots as there used to be, and the police record is slimmer than it was. Probably Dogberry would be the first to bless that occasional political phenomenon that lifts so many to their hind legs for one good howl.