"Trailing clouds of glory do we come" from school which was our home, and so, figuratively speaking, most freshmen come with the bloom hardly rubbed off their cheeks. But after a year together they are supposed to have outgrown childish things, and to act, if not as men, at least as "college men." By senior year, the average undergraduate has supposedly earned the title of "dignified." But of late a custom has developed among seniors which leads to the supposition that some have reached a second childhood; for the noisy "Reinhardt Night" seems to be extending itself to include every or any night that is convenient.
Until lately the seven o'clock morning bell was practically the only disturbance of slumber that the senior was forced to endure. He protested many times to this, but in vain. Finally he learned to ignore the bell, for it, at least, was regular, and a seemingly necessary evil. But, recently, many seniors have adopted the custom of yelling in concert at an average hour of midnight the one word "Reinhardt" across the Yard, and yelling it in as many keys and as loudly as possible. And, worst of all, men returning from dances at twelve and one o'clock, or sometimes later, have taken upon themselves to shout a collective even-song to the imaginary Reinhardt, and, in so doing, to startle the rest of the class from sleep.
Now the story underlying the Reinhardt tradition is no doubt touching. The picture of the poor, friendless boy calling his own name at his own lighted window is one to be perpetuated by generations of Harvard men. To be sure, Harvard may be too indifferent to its wealth of traditions. But the average senior prefers sleep to an overindulgence in any custom whatsoever. If Reinhardt were put to bed at ten P. M. every night there are few who would miss him.