To those who think a Harvard biddie is a meek, Maude Adams wisp of a woman who glides unseen and unheard through the monastic suites with pail and dustup, the life of one Crimson editor will seem a complete enigma. Mrs G. . . . to whom he wistfully refers as "the woman who allegedly cleans my room," is a German fran of no mean tonnage and poundage, who keeps both him and his roommate completely under her thumb. Unfortunately for his relations with his redoubtable keeper the editor is far from the paragon of neatness, and at any given time his bedroom looks much like the Biltmore ballroom on New Years morning. Withered as he is by the glare of Mrs. G. . . . when she finds things strewn about the floor, he can never remember to do anything effective about it.
The other morning he came back from the Crimson building to find everything in the complete chaos he had left it several hours before. Pinned to his pillow was a note, written in large and heavy strokes. It said: "We're not supposed to pick up shoes and stockings and books from the floor or dirty pajamas and bathrobes from the beds if you boys are too lazy to do it yourself. As soon as you come in pick up all the things and put them in the closet right away. Do you hear?"