B. P. O. E.

The Elks paraded in Cambridge yesterday. All trousered in red, and accompanied by several puffing brass bands, they strutted up Massachusetts Avenue, wheeled through Harvard Square, a little out of breath, more out of step, but none the less they were a splendid, inspiring sight to see. Urchins, young Penrods, raced along beside them, inwardly echoing the glorious "oompah, pah, pah, oompah, pah, dum," of the horns and drums, and rejoiced, for it was good to hear. Freshmen hung out of the windows of Wigglesworth and watched languidly, glad for an excuse to leave their books, but watchful lest they forget to appear bored; Freshmen do study, just before examinations. But the glamour of the scene did not escape even their indifferent eyes. Perhaps they were a little more aware of the sweat rolling off the double chin of the fat butcher, and the limp of the clerk whose shoes were too now, but those purple fezes and furred shakoes made their conquest.

This is all as it should be. There is an unnatural revolt sweeping the educated of the country, a revolt against Elks and parades, and all that they stand for. The intelligenzia have pointed out the sordid, unworthy facts that parades block traffic, that parading spoils the tempers of the Elks, who get all warm and pothered, and that the Freshmen ought to be studying anyway. But in these hard times there should be a return to the principles for which the Elks parade.