There is, they say, a time for classes, and a time for dates; a time for cocktail parties and for lunches in the Square. There's a time, too, for Boston and for Saturday drives. And there used to be a time for jolly-ups--fall time and spring-time, beginning-of-the-term time--but jolly-up time has passed forever.

To be sure, there always were a few who complained of irony in the word "jolly," but the wise knew this to be in jest. There were others who publicly scorned the walk over autumn leaves or mid-winter slush to the stuffy, overcrowded dance floors, but the floors never ceased to be packed. Some criticized the innocuous punch, the bad music, and the atmosphere, but everyone knew these scoffers were only the frustrated, the timid, the jealous and the lazy. All the world liked jolly-ups, and all the world was jolly. No one feared, for the jolly-up was a fact of life, solid and enduring, like Lamont and tutti-frutti. Now it appears that nothing is safe from the forces of evil.

Secretly, silently, the plotters prevailed upon Radcliffe authorities to appraise the situation "rationally." Zealously they disseminated doubt and distrust in the minds and hearts of the powerful. Jealously they plotted against the innocent pleasures of the multitudes. Tirelessly they labored under their banner of sombre black. And this fall they finally achieved success.

Jolly-ups are with us no longer, and a new battle has begun in the War between the Sexes at Harvard. No longer will the race be to the swift or the victory to the bold. Open combat has been officially outlawed. To a world already overcharged with turmoil and flux, an additional burden of anxiety has been added. From this date onward only the crafty will survive.