The Harvard Narragansett season has opened on Plympton Street. Crowds roar and shout as favored entries speed down the home stretch, carrying the hopes and silver of many an enthusiastic bystander. The quiet of a Sunday evening gives way to the carnival spirit of a gaming crowd (Mass. Racing Commission please note). Not yet equipped with the full paraphernalia of the track, a shrewd Good Humor man would do well to seek such a lucrative location before the monopolistic possibilities of concessions are exploited.

Best obtainable seats are window ledges in Adams House, while on the street below the swelling roars of the proletariat echo and re-echo from the cavernous walls of Randolph and Russell like raging surf. Even the toffs, ensconced high above, share in the racing fever, as Budweiser can chases Ballantine and Croft madly down the street. These preliminary races, according to track veterans, may send Con. or Am. Can to record highs on the exchange, as the relative merits of the steeds are discovered. The dark blue of Pabst has not yet proved itself a winning color over the dappled brown of Scotch Ale, and upsets by unknowns may occur momentarily, according to the best advices.

Track hazards, in the form of parked autos and strong winds make handicapping more difficult than at Jamaica. But spectators, with one voice, declare that the gentle (third-floor) rain from heaven, which tastes much like beer, makes the Harvard course not only faster and more slippery, but it also tickles the palate more than the ordinary Jamaica downpour.