Why did Serb Bulger die? And did he die in vain? Most Harvard men celebrate their coming of age with quiet joy; Serb marked his 21st birthday by jumping off the Larz Anderson Bridge. (His body was recovered a week later by the Harvard Student Agencies Dredging Service, and condolences were sent to his grieving parents through the HSA Condolence Agency in a rhyming telegram: "We have bad news for you/Your son's short life is through/ To manhood he had grew/But himself in the river he threw.")

For Croat and Slovene Bulgar, Serb's hard-working, immigrant parents, the tidings of their son's premature death--bitter as they were--came as no surprise. "Mr. Dirk told us not to meddle, Slovene," said Croat. "Serb's blood is on our hands." Only two weeks before, the Bulgars had received a letter from the HSA Birthday Cake Agency, warning them not to forget their parental obligations:

Dear Hard-Working Immigrant Harvard Parents:

Your son will be twenty-one years old next week. REAL American parents send their children cakes on this occasion. Do you want to be forced to return to the old country? Better send us five dollars for a real American cake. Cordially,   Rusty Dirk

P.S. Don't try any funny business. OUR Birthday Cake Agency is the only organization permitted to deliver cakes to your son!

"Poor Serb," Slovene had moaned, "he would choke to death on a real American cake. My cousin at the Window Shop can make him something nice."

"But, Slovene," said Croat, "the letter."

"No buts," said Slovene, and the Bulgars sent their life savings to the Window Shop for a magnificent birthday cake. Slovene's cousin, Pfannkuchen, picked out the most elegant variety: a Geburtstagfestspieltorte--five rich layers, drenched in Viennese chocolate and smothered with whipped cream and hazelnuts.

It took two employees of the restaurant to carry the cake to Serb's room in Claverly, and by the time they reached the dormitory, they were visibly tired. Two men in black trenchcoats stood in the doorway.

"What have you got on the box, boys?" asked one of them. "Could it be birthday cake?"

"What if it is?" one of the cake bearers replied. "Who are you?"

Committee on Solicitations," the man in black growled, and without any warning the two inspectors lunged for the box. The Window Shop employees did their best to save Serb's cake, but they were no match for fighters who had trained at the HSA Karate Institute. In a matter of seconds, the carton containing the Geburtstagfestspieltorte had rolled down the steps of Claverly into Mt. Auburn Street, where it was crushed flat by the wheels of an HSA Ollie Orbit Ice Cream truck that careened around the corner of Holyoke Street.

So Serb never got his cake, and as he sat alone in his room on his 21st birthday, he despaired that his parents had not cared enough to remember his coming of age. His spirits brightened when he saw an envelope pushed under his door, for he was sure it contained a cheering message from his mother and father. Inside, however, was a mimeographed note:

Dear Harvard Student:

A birthday is a time for celebration. Have some of that cake your Immigrant parents were too cheap to send by calling the HSA Snack Agency and ordering several portions of our "Red-White-&-Blue Special" birthday cake.   Cordially,   Ruety Dirk

It was the final blow. Serb left his lonely room in Claverly and walked grimly to the river.