A HEALTH TO KING CHARLES

On October afternoons there is a dim smoke-blue haze lying mystically over the regions up the Charles. The Boston College tower rises almost old-world through the enchantment of diffused sunlight and even the Brighton abattoir deludes one into a vague resentment against its vociferous detractors. The passing of slim, long, smoothly-swinging eights, joyful with the leisurely power of an early season paddle but intensifies the easy rhythm of the scene, while an artistic contrast is afforded by the soft pad-padding of the occasional cross-country candidate. Through the trees the glimpses of the fields persuade one that men still play games because they love them.

Harvard men are fortunate in this one remaining reminiscence of the warm lustre which once spelled College. The Towers of Oxford have called out from loyal sons and disinterested beauty lovers rhapsodic utterances that have become a part of the race. The beauty that was Cambridge is hardly less dear to those who knew it before all parkways were Metropolitan. But there is a mile of the Charles that forgets its urban surroundings, and is still part of a Harvard education.