THIS NEW FREEDOM

At this particular moment in the examination period there are just two kinds of students: those who have finished, those who have not. At such a time the great mediaeval problem of distinguishing between the saved and the damned resolves itself into a simple matter of time. Already the great trek, the annual hegira, the exodus, the migration, the wholesale flight from Cambridge has begun. Happy youths gloat over and display to friends long yards of tickets to the mountains, to the lakes, to Europe (including Paris), to anywhere--it doesn't matter much--so long as the passage reads "from Cambridge".

The shops about the square have caught the spirit of the thing. Sales of all kinds tempt the departing student to carry away with him all the odds and ends left over from the year's business. The drug store windows display barrels of delicious looking moth balls. Everything presages the disintegration of the college community. As the line of march to the rotunda begins to form, the Crimson extends to the departing host its heartiest wishes for a pleasant vacation and a safe return to the fold in far-away September.