King Winter has seized the diadem. He now reigns supreme in all his white, icy glory. But with all due respect to the sovereign, some of his actions are proving most perilous to his reverent subjects in the University.
It is only fair to warn all men to beware of the long, shiny things hanging from the roofs of the classroom buildings. Harvard Hall has the undisputed blue-ribbon icicle of the Yard. It measures a good three feet from tip to tip, and tapers from a saucer-like beginning down to a needle-sharp nonentity. At precisely the stroke of eleven o'clock this morning, a neighbor of this glistening giant gave one sickening shudder and came crashing earthward among the terrified students of "Shakespeare complete" as they elbowed their way into the Hall. Pale, twitching faces gratefully expressed the blessings of the miracle of deliverance, and witnesses of the event took pains to sidle along the banister as far removed as possible from the wall of dripping doom. It seems a bit inconsistent of the University to rope off countless areas in the spring just to tear off a few shingles, and now when Nature's guillotines are threatening to eradicate us all, they are just sitting there in University Hall with all their catalogues, ignoring everybody.
In the past, the University has been almost fastidious in providing for the safety of its proteges. Two possible solutions occur to the harassed student--either a sharpshooting squadron should be organized to shoot down the menacing icicles in the dead of night, or else, as a final desperate measure, University gutters should be equipped with defrosters.