THIS IS THE FOREST PRIMEVAL

Far from the clang of trolleys and the roar of traffic, covered by a wilderness of dormitories lies the heart of Harvard, the Yard. Though trailblazer Daniel Boone might have been able to find his way in and out of this architectural forest, a city-bred Freshman picking his way between the forbidding Grays and the frowning Matthews, perhaps too shy to ask directions, finds the feat a tough one. For him the Yard is a bewildering maze. Many of the buildings have no nameplates!

Year after year, since in primeval times brick and mortar were slapped together to make the ancient catacombs of Thayer and Grays, the heritage of namelessness has passed from the Age that is Past to the Age that is Going Before. Far back in the mists of time Seniors, who once occupied the Yard, found their way from building to building by an instinct developed through long practice, not to mention an aptitude inherited from Cambridge ancestors plus a trace of Indian blood. But modern steam-heated life has dulled the senses; scholars today come not only from Cambridge and vicinity but also from Nebraska and Indo-China. Strangely enough, it is difficult for a Middle Westerner gazing with deep foreboding at the ghastly gray pile before him to know with a sudden, inner conviction that Matthews is Matthews.

The Industrial Revolution together with its headaches has brought a decrease in the price of paint. Labor is plentiful around the Yard--or so it would seem from the fine stock of motionless Yard cops. It would be quite simple to paint titles in those soot-stained spaces above the old doors, long untouched by anything but squirrels.