Pet monkeys and turtles as pets in Harvard dormitories are no longer news, but a lazily affectionate three foot water snake as a solace to weary hours of study is at least unusual.

On the fourth floor of Winthrop House, somewhat out of sorts with the world just now because it is shedding its bluish-grey skin, but still "very good-natured and clean," coils G. Edgav Folk's healthy specimen, perfectly willing to show off to visitors by wrapping itself around its master's arm while its darting tongue increases its tempo.

Once rid of its skin, the reptile will resume its menu of dead goldfish, which its Sophomore master wheedles from the ten-cent store, and will resume its role as Exhibit A in Mr. Folk's lectures on snake-lore.

His room-mate was a "little upset" last year at the prospect of being so intimate with the heastie, but this year's neighbors seem to take it in good part although the plot may thicken if Barnard's enterprising snake-fancier his wish to add an eight-feet pine snake and a bos-constrictor to his little family.