There aren't many veterans of the blizzard of '88 still in College, and they don't write letters to newspapers asking about Santa Claus; some of them won't even, admit that this was a hell of a snow fall. One grisly octogenarian had remarked on a certain Sunday, "They don't make storms like that any more," but on December 26 he happened to hold up a damp finger in the wind, shattering all his illusions and allusions to the past.

There was but one exception to the giant murmur of discontent that rose over the general mess on the Cantabridgian streets. That was Texan Freshman whose only other experience with snow was through a family narcotics ring. Sliding down an ice pile behind Widener, he announced he loved it knee deep. He was the only one, but the only handicap of this editorial is that we can't blame anyone either for this or for '88. The historical method may be the best to tackle the problem.

Lashed to a creamy froth, the skies tumbled a blanket of white on the Eastern Seaboard the day after Christmas. At first it was mistaken for leftover egg-nog, but it was not long before the awful truth dawned upon the quaint villagers of New York and Boston. It was snow. The mold had finally been broken. The awful implications were soon abroad, and within a day the sign of the flying red horse had changed to an off-white. But the effects were even broader; James B. Conant switched to Calvert because he liked its flaky texture; there was talk that the Reds bad found a new cover for their activities.

But there is no cause to view with alarm. By July most of the snow will be gone, and happy boys and girls will tread the greensward without hard, sudden falls. The cars will run once again, and a new spirit of triumph will probably be in the air.