Lights in a skeleton of steel glimmer above Mt. Auburn Street, where thirteen hundred men, thirty thousand tons of concrete, and fourteen hundred tons of structural steel are casting Harvard into another mould. Under the shadow of the new the past looks upward or averts its eyes. An idea, a gift, a burst of undergraduate wit, an impassive digging of foundations and overnight a Unit has changed the skyline, like the house that Jack would have built if he too had had ten million dollars.

There is something awe-inspiring about such efficiency. When the Freshman walks to morning classes even the mud on his shoes is a tribute to progress and seems only vaguely out of place in venerable Sever. Perhaps tomorrow morning will dawn on the completed Plan, with rhododendrons sprouting, the dadoes displaying a natural wood finish, and a piano recital in full swing. When this tomorrow arrives and the finished product, treated with muriatic acid and delicately dressed in English Ivy, appears before the undergraduate, he may find it palatable after all.