Of all the business men who have fringed Harvard Square for the last fifty years, only two are alive and only Max Keezer continues to keep his door open to the boulevardiers of Massachusetts Avenue. Freshmen know his name almost as soon as Sever and Hollis. His smile of welcome at the Union gate is as punctual as President Conant's official address. Unlike such romantic heroes as Copeland and Kittredge who linger just beyond the real life of undergraduates, Max Keezer is an indispensible link with the present. Even if your grandfather remembered him, you cannot think of Keezer as anything but agile and hardly more than middle-aged. But he has known them all from President Eliot to Teddy Roosevelt and Stillman and Morgan. With his polo coat and plaid cap, Max Keezer has been a part of Harvard since 1886.

Keezer settled down in the Square when he was twenty and has never left it. When you talk about the Square with him, you have to adjust your geography to the changes of the last fifty years. The river came right up to what is now Winthrop House, and in its place were rows of docks and the barges of the Baker Coal Company. Horse car and tracks went as far as the Harvard Trust building and turned round a stile on its present site. A stable occupied the Georgian's land on Dunster Street. Max Keezer played a pretty important part in the history of this land at one point. When Charley Smith owner of the Georgian was considering buying the property for $100,000, he asked Keezer whether it was worth it. "Sure," Max told him. 'Smith has never regretted the advice.

Born in South Boston in 1866, Keezer came to the Square after a youth spent at paper-peddling and in the prize ring. He fought professionally at 105 pounds and looks in trim even today. Growing up with Cambridge, he watched other tailors--Durant, Brown, Snow and Pinkos--come and go. By the time he had a turnover of two thousand suits a year, he had established himself in "big business." The Cambridge Chamber of Commerce elected him to membership. With his accumulated capital he built the first stores in North Cambridge, and its first theatre. Then he satisfied a boyhood urge and took a six months' trip around the United States.

Keezer little shows the effect of chatting with thousands of Harvard accents. His voice has no South Boston nor Yankee nor Harvard ring: it is out-and-out, plain American. And even though Harvard is a good part of his life, he will tell you with great seriousness that he has never pushed any of his children nor grand-children nor great-grand children into the Freshmen class just to satisfy tradition.

In buying up old estates Keezer combines business with his hobby. By 1917 he had amassed a neat collection of binoculars--$1300 worth. When Franklin D. Roosevelt, then Under Secretary of the Navy, was calling for war supplies, he donated the whole lot to him and got a $1 check in return. Keezer has treasured it ever since, but he has always worried that the signature is "F.D. Roosevelt" instead of the familiar "Franklin Delano."

Of all Keezer's collections, the item he treasures most and carries always in his wallet is an official pass admitting him to the reserved section on Widener's steps during the 1936 Tercentenary. There he sat and hobnobbed with celebrities from all over the world. John Harvard beat Keezer to the Square by two hundred and fifty years. He gave his library to the college, but Max Keezer has gone deeper into the memories of under-graduates than even books can.