There is a fragrance in Widener Library. It is just something the University decided to add to the tables or the floors last summer to make studying more enjoyable.

The writing boards in New Lecture Hall and Sever 11 teeter from side to side like a see-saw as each line of notes is taken.

The efficient dining hall service in the Houses suddenly goes into reverse at five minutes of nine, when most people would gladly settle for some orange juice.

Thousands of shoe-shine urchins assail the unprotected individual in a wicked conspiracy to prevent him from going into Felix's.

Trumpeters and saxophone artists in the Houses emphasize the hours from eight to ten every evening for their experiments with the intricacies of their respective instruments.

There is a lighting system in Boylston Reading Room which is only equalled by Widener in the amount of eye-strain and glare it produces.

There is an unsightly rim along each path in the Yard where people have walked on the grass.

Elementary laboratory periods have a tension all their own when poor, nervous students are graded by eagle-eyed assistants every time they lift their fingers.

It would take a Soviet spy ring to discover when the H.A.A. ticket booth is not crowded and hot and stuffy.

There is a prevalent view that Harvard men either drive a car well or die at the wheel; but even the best of them tire of the endless body squeeze and traffic jam that abound in the University streets.

The only books that are ever lost in Widener's wonderful stacks are the few tomes which the student had decided were really worth taking out to study.