Boston's brilliant functions always attract a hoard of gate-crashers, worthy and otherwise. There were no crashers at the Conant Inaugural. Yet Colonel Apted was unable to prevent one person without an invitation from slipping through the police cordons and witnessing the ceremony.

Mrs. Conant did not crash, she just slipped in. "I did not get an invitation," we heard her confide to an ancient man of the faculty, "but I just came over to see, and brought the children."

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Tired of trying to find romance in the Romance Languages, a friend of ours left his bed and board in Eliot House last year and spent the school year in Paris, studying these languages at the Sorbonne. He took four stiff courses, worked very hard, and returned with a report card of a B, two C's, and a D. On registration day he made a triumphal entry into the Dean's office to be welcomed home. But Mr. Hanford produced a musty statute about lowering the grades of exchange students. The year at the Sorbonne, hard work and all, netted him a C, two D's, and an E.

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We are amazed at the quiet efficiency with which the 7 o'clock bell ordinance has been repealed. There is no more ringing of bells early in the morning now than there is "bolsterous music or playing upon drums," (as the parietal regulations put it), at night. Yet last year it took a tinpan obligate to suppress the Sunday morning cartoonists of Lowell House Tower. Even now, we live in continual dread of the Russian Bells, which might start at any minute, announcing the decreasing sobriety of Lowell House tutors. Perhaps President Conant might decree another act of mercy and cut these bells.