Fondly, in days past, have we gazed upon nine typewriters, five telephones, one picture (framed) of the 1898 Princetonian Board, and two copies of the 1924-1925 Who's Who and said: this is life, this is glamorous romance, this is newspaper work. But lately our fondness has given way to despair, our feelings have become saddened. And it's all because we must sit silently by and watch our office turn into a Lost Souls Department, a sort of Court of Last Resort.

Instead of being primarily a news gathering and disseminating organ, we have become first of all a depository for all sorts of riff--raff that knows no other harbor. Our desk drawers, our cubby-holes, our corners are cluttered up with eyeglasses, ladies, handbags, odd buttons and economic text-books. Our mail slots contain missives that no one else will claim.

We understand it is a style-book rule at the post-office that, whenever a letter or post-card arrives that the mailman doesn't know what to do with, it is to be delivered immediately to the Princetonian.

Things have come to a pretty pass, indeed, when the Official Campus Daily must suffer these degradations. We used to think that we were mighty scribes wielding a potent force in our community. But we're not. We're just a common depository for things nobody else wants. We're just a waste-basket in the great scheme of things. --Daily Princetonian.