Many things happen on the Charles when Harvard goes a rowing in the Spring. With the number of rowing fans still growing to enormous proportions; it is rumored that Weld Boat House has established a commission to measure the amount of crabs caught during the season. Overturned wherries and singles and swimmers stoutly battling the swift current of the river are now as common as the wandering Cambridge hoydens on the banks. But most interesting are the little stories about the Charles that are blown around the greens by gossipy winds.

One heard by a science concentrator, who is hoping for a B.S. if he can persuade the University that his Latin is not good enough for a B.A., deserves passing mention. Two Freshmen were rowing singles along the farther side of the river. Several workmen were swinging shovels, and two, seeing the rowers, stopped and mopped their brows. "Say, fellows," they called, "we used to go to college once. We both got degrees from M.I.T. Now look at us." "Yeah, look at you," one of the rowers shouted back. 'You've got jobs. What do you think we're doing? Rowing at fifty cents an hour?"