On the main Bulletin Board of Lowell House there is now hanging a little strip of silk. It is not a large or particularly brilliant spot of color but it represents all that is implicit in the name of Lowell House. It is the Lowell House tie. It will, perhaps, not add much to the sartorial splendor of the carefree house member. It will not spruce up the drabness of last years grey flannels. But it will convey a jaunty mark of distinction. In the drawing rooms of Back Bay hearts will palpitate as the Lowell tie swings into the receiving line, and in after years the little slash of color will mean as much to the Riviera as does now the cry of "Roinhart".

There is nothing very bad in finding that Lowell wears well, nor is there anything particularly starting in the discovery. When gamins form a club in the old house at the corner they borrow a sheet from the family linen closet and paint an ominous skull and cross bones on it, or they select a secret pass word, or they conceive a now hand shake. It is all such jolly fun and so confusing to the other club round the corner. At times organizations are even formed for the sole purpose of endowing them with such delightful devices, and pretty soon the only thing that remains is a rather soiled sheet with some charcoaled smears. Perhaps not the only thing for the girl next door may hide under her pillow at night the sacred horseshoe nail ring, the talisman of the clan.

But are ties enough? Might not they find there way into the tar barrel along with the charcoal sheet? They might, And anyway does a noose around the neck convey the full meaning of Lowell House? So rumour has it that there may be a bauble cast in deathless bronze which neither moth nor dust can corrupt, something a little distinctive on the watch chain. But this is only rumour and Harvard must wait until at last Lowell House will find some charm.