As we stagger back to Cambridge and find our room-mates suffering from an overdose of turkey and discover that cranberries and ice cream have made us feel a little queer, we begin to realize that. Thanksgiving is all right while it lasts, but afterwards comes the reckoning. Morcover, we have another month before Christmas, and a month is a long stretch of time, especially when it happens to be December. Added to that it is annoying and highly humiliating to constantly meet privates from one's company of last summer now wearing the uniform of a captain. After telling a man to cover in file for four long months it is insufferable to find him a leader of men, while you still shrick "Follow me" to a motley array on the banks of the River Charles. All of which causes gloom.
Yet as we meditate whether our Krag is capable of putting us out of our misery, there is reason for happiness. There is no Bursar's bill till February and Phillips Brooks House has ceased plundering us, at least for the time being. Moreover, Christmas ultimately will come and with it days of rest far from the reach of U4. So we may garb ourselves in the one suit we hid from Max and trudge merrily to our nine o'clock to make Sever once more echo to the famous words: Not prepared. There is still something for which to be thankful.