There are two million bricks in the twin smokestacks of the ex-power plant, and each one must receive personal attention before its relations with Harvard University can be severed. A brick is like nothing else in the world. It cannot be suspended, for a well-established precedent rules that each brick must be placed firmly on the top of another. It cannot be placed on probation, because one small laugh would bring down the house. From the moment when it enters the kiln as an amorphous piece of clay with possibilities, a brick is doomed to be fired. It is thus poetic justice that decrees that its career should be ended by a process known as "burning under".

Some will waste their sympathy on the bricks. Some will ominously compare the rumble of their falling to the sound of the tumbrils passing through the streets of Paris. However, the best thing to do under the somewhat destructive circumstances is to offer a constructive suggestion. According to the present plan, only one chimney is being demolished at a time. This is sheer favoritism. For many years the Stadium's millions have never seen the without the other. Every year some Freshman writes a letter about how nice it would be if they were permanently united. To preserve this touching relation, gangs should work on both chimneys at once, and in a spirit of friendly rivalry throw bricks at each other until the work is completed. The first man to reach the ground alive would receive a two cent bonus as well as a gold medal from the Woman's Republican Club bearing the inscription: "You're a perfect brick."