The ranks are as yet unserried. The freshmen march squad on squad, undecimated by the Keeper at University 4, from Yard to Union, from Union to Chapel. They will accomplish great things. In Wigglesworth C-12, in Thayer 53, they are telling one another eagerly, of what may be done. Four A's at November hours and Group I; time to spare for the new-found liberty; for Brattles, for the theatre, for opera, for football, for the Tent and a rag and a bone. Harvard is the world's greatest University.

In Dunster D-11, in Lowell R-22, everywhere the Sophomores gather. Sartorially superb, they speak glibly over the beer and pretzels. After all, why not? They are all candidates for honors, there is time, and when one knows the ropes. . Clever men break the bank at Monte Carlo. Harvard is a heritage for those--who know their way around.

At the Penthouse there are the Juniors. Three rounds of Planter's punch loosen guarded tongues. "My tutor says I've still a chance. . ." "Just slap the Bible and Shakespeare exams. . ." Two more years is a long time. Half over, and Harvard's better than a job.

Wine is the gentleman's drink, and the Senior will drink it, till he is anaesthetized sufficiently for the gin. Then, perhaps, he will speak, to a trusted fellow, of the one short year before he gets out of the damned place, God-willing, graduates.

The Vagabond sips his rhum at case. From an office in Time magazine he hears a voice. "Tutrinsically worthless," the voice says, "But you have to have it. It's like a necktie. Just a convention, a caste mark."