The following article in written for those confused intellectuals who do not know whether to marry Mildred, the girl they met at the Officers' Club last Saturday night, or Sharlene, the lithesome wench from the Hasty Pudding:

Love is a word common to our everyday vocabulary. Some pronounce it carelessly, others caressingly. Some treat it lightly, some reverently. Some write it on a piece of paper and look upon the written word with awe. Others just go on chewing their gum and, having finished, deposit it with nonchalance upon that very piece of paper.

What then is this word, mood, act (call it what you will) that causes such a variety of reactions? Is it something definable? Is it something universal or something personal which must be measured through the observance of an individual afflicted with its ills, if ills they be?

Have you ever cried during a comedy or laughed in the midst of a drama? Have you ever felt cold in a heat wave or warm during a snowstorm? Have you ever walked in your sleep and found no explanation for doing so, since you went to bed on an empty stomach and it couldn't have been the perk chops you ate in the Square last Tuesday?

Have you ever acted "happy" without even having had one drop of what you've been warned against drinking? Have you ever, in the midst of a party which you were really enjoying, suddenly had the desire to be "alone together" with someone? Have you ever caught yourself in the act of putting the right shoe on the left foot and vice-versa? Have you ever had any of these unusual experiences? Because if you have . . . brother, you've got the brother, you've got the symptoms!

When you can't eat, sleep, walk, talk, or perform any of the daily tasks which were so habitual in the past; when the mere sounding of a certain name makes your temperature behave like a see-saw; when you stop to chat with fond mothers, cuddle new-born babes and become interested in Weatena, Farina and Pablum; when you desert the Lone Ranger for Baby Snooks and Uncle Don; when you take to eating angel food cake, passion fruit sundaes and lover's delights; when you change your monthly magazine subscription from Esquire to Parent's Magazine; when you open a Christmas Club Savings account; when you hum "Oh, Promise Me" before going to bed, and "Here Comes The Bride" upon getting up in the morning; when the approach of June has such static effects upon your behaviour as to cause you to be on time for classes with both eyes open, though the rest of you be closed; when all these things culminate in a full dress uniform, a bridal veil, and a minister ... brother, you're it!

You have come home tired after a hard day's work. You find an ignored supper, which you must share with a few "in-laws" who were just "passing by." You feel like reading your evening paper at the table. They feel like talking. You put aside your paper and talk. You make for your easy chair. It is overflowing with Uncle Harry. You take a hard folding chair. You want quiet, rest, repose.

They simply have to find out what happened to One Man's Family. At ten o'clock, they look at the clock and go right on where they left off. Finally they go. You are tired. Your spouse isn't. She feels like talking ... about that new fur coat she needs, most likely. You listen, as usual. At last you are in bed, covers up around your neck, and you are dozing off into a much needed sleep ... The baby cries!

Brother, if after all these things happen to you and you're still smiling ... you're in love!