The day of the gullible freshman is past. The salesmen who in the years gone by have waxed wealthy on the profits garnered from the wallets in Encina hip pockets are this year sitting in their darkened rooms, holding their heads in despair, or looking to the heavens for the mauna that once poured forth so willingly.

Can it be that we are entering upon a new era in University history? Can it be that the new yearlings are smoother, more sauve, more gifted with a knowledge of this world and its ways than their predecessors?

Behind the horn-rimmed spectacles and tousled head lies there a cooler mind, a more capable brain than reposes beneath the nobler brow of these who have gone before? Certainly those unfortunate head-holders who are loaded down with overhead in belt buckles and monogrammed suspender buttons can testify that the men of '38 are utterly impervious to even the most provocative of inducements.

Dare we look into the future if this graduation from the collegiate bourgeoisie to a higher sophistication goes on? Will our beloved Stanford rough drop into the limbo of forgotten might? Will we see no more paper airplanes sailing in the Assembly Hall? For surely a freshman smooth enough to resist the attacks of those veteran Encina salesmen could never become rough enough to go unshaven and smoke a cigar.

And then the invasion of poise and polish would be complete, Stanford, the Harvard of the West. Who can tell?