It never occurred to me when I arrived at Harvard some time ago, that one of my many Yeomanly duties would be "guesting" a column for a soon-to-be married-and-thus no-time to-write Ensign However, the situations with which I have been confronted, the problems which I have tackled, and the impatient Ensigns whom I have pacified with a few clam words and a sheath of incorrectly filled forms, have, I believe, if not prepared me for this journalistic task, at least given me the course to speak my place (or peace ... depending upon the interpretations!

In the course of my tour here at Harvard, I have been confronted with every kind of a problem from the anxious twitchings of an expectant father popping into the office at regular five minute intervals for news of "that phone call," to the sad lament of a jilted romeo whose best girl forsook his unpredictable Navy Blue Baker for the consistent khaki of an Army Officer. Because I have lent a patient ear, and have even, upon request, given my Yeomanly advice, I have heard myself referred to on occasion as "Mr. Anthony," Concerning this last tribute, of which I must protest my unworthiness, I should like to comment in the following brief poem:

'You call me Mr. Anthony', you gild my name in fame"

"But if it matters not to you, why, Yeoman Brill's the name!"

And now that I have relegated that "petite affaire" to its proper proportion, I should like to continue with matters more pertinent.

Centrary to popular conception; a Yeoman lived a rather hectic life. His day is one of rebellious typewriters, misspelled words, incomplete forms, to say nothing of the many interruption for reasons which I have only hinted at earlier in this column. Despite all this, however, when the day's work is done, you will find--on the whole--that the Yeoman goes back to his sack with a smile of satisfaction. He has met his typewriter and he has subdued it!

To illustrate my point, I once more must beg to tweak back what remains of my poetic fringe, still my clanging bell bottoms and delve into rhyme with the following ditty entitled:

Yeomanouvers

Paper, paper everywhere, from neck down to my leg;

And every sheet, so very neat, as per you Navy Reg.

"From" and "To" and "Reference (a)" all counted and in place.

And then "Enclosure," after which, there is a double space.

Asleep, awake, or in-between, a Yeoman always knows

Just what to say and whom to send and where the letter goes.

Just one more thought before I replace this quill to its rightful position on my insignia. Many thanks to the bride-to-be of Eusign Bailey for keeping him so occupied as to afford tue this very pleasant opportunity of giving literary instead of the usual verbal vent to my impressions. And also-should anyone take particular notice of smoke billowing from the Navy Office, please be assured that the Yeomen therein are not on fire. It is only due to the newly arrived son of Lt. (jg) Kauder who must have been sent with the compliments of the White Owl Cigar Co., judging from the happy father's generous output.