(Ed Note: Miss Masters is a young lady who has been on parties of almost every sort in almost every sort in almost every college in the country. And when we say parties we mean parties. One of the editors went on a party with Miss Masters and he hasn't come back yet; consequently she has kindly consented to write this article for the Crimson on Harvard House Parties.)

Harvard House parties are simply divine, as most of you people know. There are absolutely no restrictions on those boys, or their girls either, for that matter; and some of the experiences I have had on Harvard House parties, with or without clothes--I mean correct clothes, of course, you silly-would make a very interesting story.

I went on a party after the Yale Game in . . . . . House, for example, where a delightful time was had by all. All of the boys wore those beautiful Crimson dressing gowns that we girls love so much.

HOST POURS SCOTCH AND SODAS

Well, the host started pouring scotch and sodas at about three-thirty. By four-thirty we had cut out the soda but the scotch was still being ordered from a dealer in Harvard Square and consumed, case after case, as fast as it was delivered. By five there was no more good scotch in Harvard Square, and you know those Harvard boys, they just will not drink poor scotch. So they ordered a couple of gallons of gin. Soon that was gone too. One of the tutors suggested draining the alcohol out of his radiator, but there was a Radcliffe girl there who didn't like straight alcohol, and threatened to put on her overshoes and go home if they started serving it.

J. REGINALD BURLINGAME STAGGERS IN

About that time J. Reginald Burlingame, or Reggie, as I called him after a few minutes, staggered in. He is the son of C Worthington Burlingame, who owns practically half of Chicago and Denver, you know. It was obvious that Reggie had been drinking.

"Where the hell's the scotch, you moll!" he said, seizing the Radcliffe girl by the hair and dragging her from the sofa, upsetting three or four cozy couples in so doing.

"There ain't no more scotch," she cooed softly into his ear. "There ain't no more scotch; let me go, you big palooka."

ANGERED BECAUSE NO MORE SCOTCH

"What! No scotch! Who's giving this brawl anyway?"

The host presented himself timidly and told Burlingame how sorry he was there was no more scotch. Burlingame faced him, a cold cigarette hanging limply from his flabby lips. His eyes locked tired. He had just finished giving his all for Harvard against Yale on the gridiron. But he wouldn't tolerate gin or alcohol when breaking training. They are so fastidious, those Harvard boys.

DRAWS KNIFE

"Listen, rat! Who do you think you're talking to anyway?" So saying he pulled a huge knife from his pocket. HE struggled vainly for some minutes to open the blade. Finally he hurled it through the window sending a shower of shattered glass around the room. All the other boys and girls laughed. They thought Burlingame as pretty funny.

At length, after swearing for a few minutes, he seized an empty bottle that was standing on the mantlepiece and broke it off about half way, leaving the neck and a jagged edge in his hand. He turned to the host.

MUTILATES HOST

Well, the host-tried to get away, but Burlingame was too fast for him. He seized him by his flying dressing gown, hurled him to the floor, kneeled beside him and gouged the broken bottle around in his face.

A tutor stood up and said that he didn't want to make himself obnoxious but that he thought the thing had better stop. The girls and boys all hooted him down and began to make bets on how long the host would live after Burlingame had finished with him. I tell you they're awfully jolly, very, very jolly out at Cambridge. Those boys just take everything as a joke. May be that's why a certain Boston Debutante is so definitely that way about three or four of them and doesn't mind proving it.