Whether the authorities of University Hall demand the occupation of the new student's father for some esoteric purpose of their own, or whether it is needed just to prepare an annually expected press release, may never be known.

At any rate, the Class of 1939 crashes into print with a father who is the "proprietor of a Turkish bath," an institution which we had always connected with the Gay Nineties, but which apparently still flourishes. This sets one Freshman apart from the many sons of "executives in corporations and large business concerns," who have not yet been sufficiently soaked by the tax collector to deprive their sons of a Harvard education. The fervent New Dealer expects that this condition may be on the way to correction next year. So far 101 Freshman sons of this group can still hold their heads up with the sons of "93 lawyers, 67 doctors, 79 merchants and one pawnbroker."

One Freshman each has been contributed by "a big game hunter, a missionary, a detective, a brewer, a governor a milkman, a state supreme court justice, a ship cleaner, a special agent for federal bureau of internal revenue" (not James Cagney), "a weaver, a mayor, and a welfare director." Whether University Hall's failure to lump this matter with "a Y. M. C. A. director" was accidental or a reflection on Y. M. C. A.'s welfare capacity is not known.

Among others are sons of '48 teachers, half a dozen deans" (plain and fancy assorted), "45 bankers and brokers" yet at large, "34 engineers," both civil and insolent, and "18 clergymen," including one bishop, the latter being cancelled out by the son of "one radio announcer." But despite the A. A. A. and the Conant prize fellowships, only five farmers' sons escaped plowing under to reach Cambridge.

No president's sons dignify the Freshman roster this year, but the son of a "retired rear admiral" and one of a "federal coordinator of transportation" lend gravity to a scene lightened somewhat by the son of a cartoonist. The son of a psychiatrist and the son of a chiropodist run the anatomic gamut from head to foot. The year's mystery man is the son of "a paving-cutter," an occupation with a slightly sinister sound to these of us, who always thought that pavements got that way from traffic.