The years between divide the Senior from the Freshman like a grand canyon, sometimes. Until a day or two ago we didn't realize how ripe and mellow, free from care and worry, three years and odd months at Harvard can make a fellow. With our thesis half completed and a ticket on the Monarch of Bermuda in the drawer, life was nothing but a brave new world of dreams. Yet suddenly a tale of horror struck a note of tragedy into our symphony of pleasure, stark tragedy crashed mightily about our cars.

Four years ago it might have been us.

A Freshman, held deep in thrall by a sweet young Vassarline, awaited high in hope a much-promised Valentine package. When the postman came, however, he was at the movies. But his roommates and friends saw their duty and did not flinch to do it. They signed the receipt, opened the box, and substituted four cakes of Lifebouy Soap for the contents previously therein.

The Freshman returned betimes, heart throbbing. But in that package, what a falling off was there! Special delivery airmail scaled Vassar's fate. He spared no words in tirade of deep hate.

But roommates soon produced two lovely woolen mittens, all-knitted by her dainty lily hands.

The tragedy: Love's Labor's Lost.