There was nothing spectacular about 1931's final two years as undergraduates. The headline events of the years just previous, like the sudden severance of athletic relations with Princeton in 1926 or the great riot in the Square in 1927, were markedly absent. But actually, as the Class finished its career, the College itself was completing a revolutionary physical change that left it much as it is today.

It was a building era: the Houses, Memorial Church, the Faculty Club, Dillon Field House, and the new Indoor Athletic Building were all in the process of completion; and the edifices themselves were perhaps symbolic of the tone of undergraduate life. In two important spheres there was dissatisfaction with the status quo and yet something of a reluctance to change.

One sphere was athletics, where the Carnegie Foundation's Report in the fall of 1929 charged that Harvard was subsidizing its athletes. It was a time when college athletics were enormously popular, and already it was hard to keep strictly amateur conditions. Some of the figures stand in stark comparison to those of today: 60,000 fans saw the Dartmouth football game in 1929, an estimated 100,000 witnessed the Yale crew race that spring, and 13,000 attended a Harvard-McGill hockey game in 1931.

The other sphere of uneasiness was what might be termed the social one. To many, living in or near the Square was becoming increasingly clamorous and distasteful. Yet President Lowell's House plan, which would solve matters by shifting quarters nearer the River, was a matter of acute controversy. The Class of '31 was the first to move into the new Houses--Dunster and Lowell--and it took up a serious evaluation of just what it was getting in for. As the plan took effect, the undergraduate had questions on several points, most of which seemed to center around the possibility of restricting his freedom. He wanted to know if he had to be in his room by a certain time, whether the parietal rules were to be modified, and whether he would have to sit in the dining hall in order of entrance.

Even though the answers to these questions by the masters of the Houses, Chester N. Greenough '98 and Julian L. Coolidge '95, were to his liking, the average member of '31 still had reservations: he was in his junior year and wondered about this wholesale revolution in his living habits. According to the CRIMSON, the decision to enter the plan or to stay where he was, meant for the member of '31 "the alternatives of either consenting to associate himself with an obliterating transition or remaining an exponent of an outgrown past."

In the end, debate on the Houses resolved itself into an argument over meals: how many the undergraduate would pay for in the Houses and how much. As one freshman said, "it may be that the upperclassmen have some sentiment about breaking established attachments with the Georgian. And there will naturally and rightly be some concern about the fate of the Clubs. But if their place is equally well or better filled by the Houses, there ought to be no great regret if some of them at least go out of existence." Twenty-five years later, the Georgian has disappeared, and the Clubs have retreated into a far less prominent existence.

Somewhat more theoretical was the fear that the Houses were a threat to individuality and would end up by producing types. Some suggested that the danger could be overcome by varying the furniture supplied to the rooms, while others placed their hope in the personnel of the first Houses.

There were about three issues during 1931's final years that affected the whole nation and about which the undergraduate had definite ideas of his own. One was pacifism, which came to the fore annually when the West Point cadets came to Cambridge for the Harvard-Army football game. The cadets, marching solemnly over Anderson Bridge to the Stadium, presented a marked contrast to the motley Harvard rooters. But the CRIMSON was not alarmed: "the playing field this afternoon should give ample proof that the men of West Point offer no inherent threat of jingo militarism against the world."

Another issue was the depression, which began as the Class was in the midst of its College career and which presented a bleak picture of unemployment when '31 graduated. The Placement Office was expanded at the time, in an effort to give the undergraduate information about the opportunities that did exist.

The Depression existed and there seemed to be little that could be done about, but Prohibition was something else again. There was no question as to whether or not the undergraduate was drinking; it was rather one of mobilizing opinion to do away with an obviously ineffective law. The Harvard Debating Council started what may be termed a campaign by proposing a plan for reform and then holding a mass meeting in March 1930 to debate the matter. Only ten of the 500 who attended showed, by raising their hands, that they favored retention of the 18th Amendment.

Later in the month the results of a poll in 14 universities gave the CRIMSON cause to brake all form with a big banner headline: "Students Cast Overwhelming Wet Vote." 15,000 of the 24,000 polled had indicated that they at least drank; and of Harvard's 3,500 polled, more than half of the 2,600 who drank admitted drunkenness. One student even scribbled on his poll, "I'd rather be tight than President."

During the Class of '31's junior year, the only College issue that received much notice was the scrubwoman scandal, which wasn't resolved until about a year later. The scandal broke just two days after the Soldiers Field Locker Building was completely destroyed in a three-alarm fire, after which Clarence Dillon '05 offered funds for a new field house. Then on 17 January 1930, Boston papers revealed that 20 cleaning women in Widener had been dis- charged by the University. Apparently their salaries were not up to the legal minimum wage, and the University was unwilling to raise them by some two cents an hour. The Administration said, however, that the dismissal was only part of a reorganization move and had nothing to do with the added expense.

But the case was hardly closed. Two months later a group of 50 alumni sent an angry letter to the University, demanding that back pay be given to the scrubwomen to clear Harvard's name. The University replied that the women had been paid the full amount at all times, and the case lay dormant until the next fall. It was then resurrected by a group under Corliss Lamont '24, demanding the back pay. At that point the CRIMSON, wearying of the battle, remarked that "the University's policy has been at best a miserly, penny-pinching, and stupid one throughout." In December it was all over: Lamont's group distributed to the scrubwomen the $3,880 that it had raised.

The announcement in January 1930 that Bliss Perry, Francis Lee Higginson Professor of English, would retire at the end of the year didn't create the stir that a similar one about the great Charles T. Copeland had a few years before, but nonetheless it was the end of an era. Perry was the type of teacher that his students seldom forgot, and years afterward they could remember the inspiration received from his courses. In May, the CRIMSON sadly noted the loss of "the human quality which he never sacrificed for pedagogical catchword or scholastic obscurity, his ability to give life to past greatness, and his capacity for enthusiasm."

In its junior year, the Class found its football good and could point to the fact that five of its number--Benjamin H. Ticknor, John N. Trainer, Jr., Victor M. Harding, Jr., Arthur W. Huguley, Jr., and Robert S.Ogden--were mainstays of a fine Crimson team. The Army game that year ended in a 20-20 tie: it was termed an epic struggle at the time, and what stood out was the passcatching of Harding.