MUFTI

Though June touched the vines of Widener with satisfactory beauty, through the Yard Concerts were tint with sweetness enough and sentimentality enough, though Preserpina and the Class Day Committee have joined hands to make happy the parting guest, spring in the Yard has thus far been a hollow mockery. Traditional paraphernalia like the call of the silvery Reinhardt has been dragged out in a pathetic effort at cheeriness. Nowhere has to been recognized that the play was not wrong, but the setting. At last someone has wondere; where are the gowns of yesteryear?

If the sensitivity that has banished the letter from sweaters, that has almost succeeded in banishing the sweaters, that has made the striped tie victim of occasional snobbery, if this sentiment has played midwife to the birth of a new ostracism, then Harvard has once again gone too far. When typewriters, pajamas, and cameras go red, blue and flesh, the Senior has opportunity to render his first service to waiting mankind, by calming a world gone color mad with the dignity of baccalaureate black. More that that, his immediate attention to duty might relieve Harvard of the stigma, at present deserved, of self-consciousness.