"Bear a hand, mates, bear a hand", as Seth Grey would put it. Keep the books abalancin', keep the writers cramp a crampin' with that IM report that's coming up soon, keep the oil a flowin' through TNEC and if you're lucky you may wind up in the third quartile comes the middle of July and mid-semester exams . . . or haven't you even thought of the impending doom lately because of time rationing.

Speaking of time rationing we (editorial "we") have been so busy that this column never did get written last week and was written this time only by dint of being able to juggle the books of the Pepper Corporation in one hand and juggling the typewriter keys with the other hand to produce this hodgepodge.

Which is probably as great a feat as Bob Bissett's trick of thinking about his marketing cases and his girl at the same time and solving the Harvard Coop case once and for all by asserting dogmatically that the only way to sell Allen Hats is to install many mirrors in the Coop because that's the way his girl likes to buy her hats . . . a nice trick if you can do it, Bob.

Which is almost as strange as Jim Riley's fondness for the name Riley to such an extent that not only does he have a wife by the same surname (naturally), but a date with a Miss Riley Saturday night . . . that's all right, Jim, we know you like the name.

All of which (for no particular reason) brings us to the fact that marching past Chase Hall at this early morning moment is the Army Air Corps, doing quite a good job of marching and that falsetto yodelling of their's . . . which must make you wonder "When are we going to be able to do that?". The answer, as far as the vocal refrains go is that words to the songs we're going to outdo them with are being mimeographed and we'll be working on them within the week, or at least so say Middles Davies and Blake, promoters of the project. As far as the marching goes, mates, the word is that that's entirely upto us. The sooner we make the grade with Lieut. Anderson the sooner we stop perspiring like clock-work every Tuesday afternoon, so although we hate to tell tales out of school we strongly suggest a decided improvement before the dog days set in around here . . . they can really get hot.

All of which (for no better reason than the foregoing) brings us to a resolution prohibiting wives in Cowie Hall which we hereby introduce knowing very well that you won't approve of it. Chief reason is that while the ladies are very pert indeed they are bad for the digestion of midshipmen in general and Middies Grodman and Abasambra in particular who can be seen oggle-eyed at the table any night of the week you care to look at them instead of peering intentedly at the women yourself. (Note to Middies Burke, Johnson and Burke--we're only appreciating what wonderful wives you have, that's all . . . stow that shotgun please).

To any ensigns who might also take serious objection to the statements above, all we can say is that comes October we'll be toting our very own spouses to the mess hall, mainly to improve our digestion . . . providing we're not toting ourselves back to Columbia or Northwestern . . . hitting the line school again.

Which thought, we believe, is adequate justification for hitting the books right now.