It was late in September 1926. Some 932 freshmen had just finished their first Registration, and many were moving into the new McKinlock Hall. The CRIMSON greeted the new class with a stiff word of warning: "The Class of 1930 are now students of Harvard University. Until they prove themselves to the contrary they so remain. And there are certain definite duties of the student at Harvard, invested as he is with the freedom of Harvard. He must be a gentleman. A gentleman respects tradition. And the traditions of Harvard are quiet traditions."

The traditions of Harvard may be quiet but they also must strong, for with the exception of a few changes of emphasis, many have survived the almost three decades that have passed since that September. Changes like the House system, Reading Period, and Lamont Library have transformed segments but the general tenor of undergraduate life remains. What the returning member of the Class of 1930 will probably notice most are not the changes, but the similarities between the present College and the one he remembers.

Football was much in the air that first fall. Dartmouth fell after a last minute 47-yard run by Arthur French '29, 16 to 12, but the Princeton game was something else again. The varsity not only absorbed a 12-0 defeat, but three stars, including Captain C. D. Coady, were put out of action for a week or more. The feeling among Harvard supporters that the men from Princeton weren't playing gentlemanly football was cited by the CRIMSON the following Monday, when it remarked that "there was evident animosity displayed within the Harvard Stadium last Saturday."

'Club Tables or Not?'

Another publication, the Lampoon, made matters worse with a cutting editorial. Many Princetonians were convinced that Harvard was chafing under the humiliation of recent athletic defeats and that the Crimson's apparently patronizing attitude had gone too far. Suddenly, on Armistice Day, athletic relations between the two universities were severed: Princeton Professor C. W. Kennedy wrote to Athletic Director William J. Bingham '16 that "Competition carried on in an atmosphere of suspicion and ill will of necessity falls short of the desirable objective of intercollegiate sports. Under these circumstances, we prefer to discontinue competition with Harvard altogether."

There was still a Yale game to go, but the varsity had lost its needed spark. The Crimson nevertheless came within two field goals, losing, 12 to 7. The Class of 1930, however, redeemed the season in part. The freshman team defeated the Elis for the first time in seven years, 19 to 7, behind the brilliant quarter-backing and running of Captain William T. Wetmore. His speedy backs, John Hitch and Guy C. Holbrook, Jr., also paced the victory with several good runs.

Those were the days before Houses and House dining halls, and the undergraduate ate wherever he could, in Square beanies, in clubs--almost anywhere. In December, President Lowell announced that "the Corporation has given me permission to go ahead with plans on a $100,000 dining hall, to be located on the old church site at Holyoke and Mt. Auburn Streets, but the Corporation does not intend to spend $100,000 to construct an empty hall. Do you men care for club tables or do you not?"

Board: $9.50 a Week

That May, he attempted to find just how many did care for club tables in the proposed dining hall by asking that 500 undergraduates pledge themselves to eat regularly there for about $9.50 a week. The petitions were started in the freshman dormitories, perhaps because the Class of 1930 wasn't yet set in its ways and would be more amenable to the new Hall. After more than two weeks, however, only some 200 had signed up, and Albert G. Hart '30 halted the petition on the grounds of inadequate response. The CRIMSON took up the drive for the hall by sending out 3000 pledge cards, still in the hope of receiving 500 back. Professor G. H. Edgell, Dean of the School of Architecture, praised the effort, and remarked that he didn't "know whether the new hall is more necessary for health or sociability. It is needed for both. It's success will depend, however, entirely on the students. It would be worse than useless to try and coerce or wheedle the students into lunching and dining like civilized beings."

Again the response was lethargic: only 125 pledge cards were returned, 85 coming from members of the Class of 1930. The attempt was abandoned for the time, with the CRIMSON commenting that it "remains firm in the belief that the custom of 'eating around' is on the decline. The proposal which it backed may not have been the correct one, it is obviously not the popular one." The undergraduate was set in his way and couldn't be made to engage in civilized eating.

The undergraduate wasn't very civilized toward the police that year, either. In mid-February, 39 students were arrested for alleged participation in a riot outside the University Theatre. A fight outside the theatre between two inebriated men, neither of whom were students, coincided with the theatre let-out. When police tried to lead the men away, the crowd rose to the occasion, jostled the officers and pushed a taxi to the sidewalk. One of the officers then pulled his pistol and held up the crowd until four paddy wagons arrived with 40 policemen, night sticks in hand, to dispatch the uprising.

The CRIMSON was furious the next day: "In the first place there was no riot until wagon loads of police charged the crowd with drawn night sticks, in answer to a summons for aid, not a riot call. The police, in other words, created a riot before quelling it." One student had been knocked unconscious for resisting arrest, apparently while in the act of going for a late snack in the Square.

The trial of the 39 arrested students was over all the front pages; even President Lowell attended in person. On March 2, 28 were acquitted and the remaining 11 were convicted of disturbing the peace. Four received ten-day jail sentences. The others paid various fines, which were termed "court expenses" when they all submitted a nolo contendere plea.

The winter had been unseasonably warm in spots and had prevented the freshman hockey team from playing either of its first two games. But 1930 had managed to trounce Andover, 7 to 0, in the first game it did play.

There was nothing to indicate at the time that Exeter would hand the freshman their first hockey defeat in four years, 2 to 1, early in February; perhaps it was the usual jinx, the exam time layoff. Yale had a good freshman team that year, a team that stopped 1930 at every turn and triumphed, 2-0. The "acrobatic" goal-tending of F. K. Trask was one of the few bright spots. The Eli freshman basketball team was equally as strong, and it trounced 1930 by an impressive 46-24 score.

Selling 'C's' by the Hundred

Exams were over, and the local tutoring schools were counting up their receipts after the long ordeal. The manager of one, the College Tutoring Bureau, estimated that he had sold 1100 notes since the start of Christmas vacation. The CRIMSON wrote that "when asked if he had been able to estimate the results of his labors, the manager claimed that he had been responsible for probably two or three hundred C's. 'For,' he explained, 'one student buys, notes but four read them.'"

A major administration turnover occurred in mid-April, when Dean Chester N. Greenough '98 retired to devote all his time to teaching English. Alfred C. Hanford, professor of Government, replaced him as Dean of the College. Greenough remarked that "it will be, of course, a great relief to shift the burden and serve Harvard in the line instead of on the staff."

The undergraduate was reminded of the football season, even in the spring, when Harvard and Yale agreed to abolish scouting for one year on an experimental basis. The Athletic Directors made the move in the hope of preserving amicable relations with the New Haven University, focusing perhaps an uneasy eye on the situation that had culminated in the Princeton trouble.

But even reminders of Princeton couldn't subtract from the effect of the varsity baseball team's first victory over the perennially powerful Holy Cross nine since 1920, 9 to 2. J. N. Barbee '28 held the Crusaders to only six hits. Almost a month later, on June 5, the varsity licked Holy Cross again, but this time the victory came harder--4 to 3, in fourteen innings.

A new September came, bringing the Class of 1930 into its sophomore year, and two sophomore backs, Wallace R. Harper and Guy Holbrook led the varsity to a 14-6 victory over Holy Cross. But Dartmouth had improved since the previous year, and the improvement was enough to rout the varsity, 30 to 6. Once again Harper's solid line-bucking stood out.

Yale was also a powerhouse that fall, so much so that many observers considered it "the greatest Eli gridiron machine since the war." The varsity's 14-0 loss was thus sustained without the loss of Crimson honor, and despite the hard running of Harper and fullback Josiah W. Potter, another sophomore.

It was a momentous fall if only because the College was lively with plans for the first Reading Period, in accordance with a system announced the year before. Each Department revealed its own plans: some eliminated all lectures entirely during the fortnight before exams and others retained only those in the elementary courses. The whole thing was so new in approach to studies that there was no way of telling whether Widener would be jammed beyond all capacity, whether anybody would be able to obtain the books desired, or even whether anybody would bother to return after Christmas vacation.

The University Librarian announced that every effort was being made to obtain duplicate copies of books assigned for the Reading Period, and expressed the hope that most undergraduates would see fit to study in their rooms and to choose books that weren't in great demand. But he could only hope; there was no telling what 3,500 students were going to do.

The Hive Above the Steps

After the system had been in operation for almost a week, the CRIMSON noted that "the halls of learning have not been deserted in wholesale fashion. Whatever else had happened, reading is being done. Whether that reading is accomplishing any permanent results is a question for the future. But anyone who doubts the ability of the undergraduate to rise voluntarily before ten o'clock and to sit with a book in his hands for several hours . . . had best climb the multitudinous steps of Widener Library and gaze upon the hive."

When Reading Period came to a close, the CRIMSON took another look and found results that seemed to be most encouraging; perhaps the undergraduate was civilized after all. It found that "one thing is certain--the organization of the College has been proved capable of functioning without that bond which American educators have heretofore considered essential--required attendance at classes."

Perhaps the Reading Period layoff from lectures gave the student lots of free time or perhaps he was very interested in intercollegiate debating in those days. At any rate 3,000 attended a debate with nearby Boston College on the subject, "Resolved. That Al Smith is eminently qualified for the presidency." Politics and alcohol used to mix, for the debate was full of references to the prohibition question.

A bombshell arrived in mid-January when the great Copey--Charles Townsend Copeland '32--unexpectedly announced his plans to retire at the end of the academic year on the advice of his doctor. Luckly for the undergraduate, be planned to keep his famous Hollis 15 room and the equally famous discussion hours that passed behind its doors. For more than 30 years, the legendary figure had lectured from Harvard podiums, and it was all but impossible for many to imagine the University without him.

Conrad Aiken '11 humbly remarked that "the experience of being taught by him is one of the most starting and vivifying and alarming and altogether unforgettable adventures that can possibly befall one."

Other changes were also in the offing, but these concerned Harvard's athletic plant, the Stadium and the proposed Indoor Athletic Building in particular. Athletic Director Bingham suggested enlarging the Stadium to a seating capacity of 80,000. Wooden stands containing room for 22,000 had been erected annually but were now termed a fire hazard and had to be removed.

Bingham wanted to replace them with a larger concrete addition to accommodate the alumni and the increased size of the undergraduate body. But opinion was sharply divided: many were afraid that a larger Stadium would mean professionalize football, while many thought it was the duty of the College to seat the alumni. The Overseers proposed a compromise--.

In January, an unknown alumnus subscribed $100,000 toward an indoor swimming pool, a project that interested Bingham far more than a litte, and the H.A.A. started action that would culminate in the present I.A.B. Harvard knew so little about indoor pools, however, that questionnaires were sent to several colleges inquiring as to how one went about building and running one.

The year 1928 was election year, and undergraduate interest in the coming battle ran high. Five hundred student delegates attended a mock Democratic convention in May, with the keynote on a return to Wilsonian ideals and a movement away from government by and for monopolies.

Al Smith and former Secretary of War Newton D. Baker were the leading candidates for mock nomination, but a dead lock between the two could not be broken until Thomas J. Walsh, a Montana Senator, was brought forward as a compromise candidate.

Regarding every day Cambridge, Clara Bow and Mary Pickford appeared regularly at the University Theatre; Willie Hoppe, Bill Tilden, and George M. Cohan appeared in Lucky Strike advertisements; Langrock, Browning King, and J. August .

The times were good. By the end of his sophomore year, the member of the Class of 1930 knew a bit about studying, perhaps a bit more about and besides, the market crash was still a year away