Harvard men have never been over-fastidious about the shine of their shoes, but a most cogent reason now exists why even the punctilious no longer have clean and softly refulgent surfaces on their brogues. In their thrice-weekly pilgrimages to the venerable rooms of Harvard Hall, undergraduates are, in time of thaw, confronted with a problem which would try the complacence of the most nonchalant. For some unknown reason no boards have been placed over the much used thirty foot path leading from Harvard Hall to the drive.

After the first influx of students has paced over this ground, the path remains in such a succulent and oozy condition that only the most courageous dare traverse it. Professorial dignity is scattered to the winds when the unfortunate faculty members who teach in Harvard Hall try to avoid the mud of one path by navigating the brook let leading towards University Hall.

One doesn't mind leaping puddles and dodging the splash of autos as he crosses the Square, for there is at least an even chance of reaching the other side without going in above the ankles; but somehow it doesn't seem equitable that Fate has inevitably decreed the sacrifice of neatly pressed trousers and well shined shoes at the altar of learning.