FIRST AID

The University has many traditions, ranging from such variegated objects as Phillips Brooks House to those very well-known citizens who pay the highest cash prices for old clothes. They--our traditions--are deserving of our deepest veneration, and quadruple precious because of the mantel of age which surrounds them. Who is not stirred when looking on the gymnasium, busier in the year of the great war? Or when gazing at Boylston, which some affirm was standing when the late L. Ericsen pushed his dragon-prowed ships against the banks of the poetic Charles?

Of all our traditions, none is more ancient than the tradition of the dormitory "maid" of all work, popularly, cordially, and euphemistically known as the goodie. On many a student wall the gentle motto, "What is home without a mother?" has been replaced by the yet more unanswerable question, "what is a dorm without a goodie?" There is no reply to the query. A second Anthony might pause in vain.

Now, enveloped by unkind fate in the dark storm of war, we are threatened by irreparable loss. The Senior Picnic has gone, the Pudding Show has gone. And many of our classmates have gone, often leaving behind the sad memento of their debts. Yet the worst of all may overwhelm us. The goodies will go.

All our young warriors who are old enough to shave and not old enough to vote with the machine are ordered to abide in Cambridge during the summer. The place of their abiding will be the dormitories. But how changed will be those dormitories from their erstwhile winter and springtime gladness. The alarm will not ring at 10 A. M. But the bugle will blow in the cold dawn. More terrible even than the awakening will be the aftermath. Before even one soldier may imbibe his coffee and beans he will be forced to make his bed with his own martial hands. Do not declaim with Sherman that war is unladylike. This is worse than war, for it is peace.

Who will there be this summer to place the favorite dress pumps in the waste-basket, and hide the only white scarf behind the steam pipes? Who will there be to diminish the stock of handkerchiefs and read the letters from home? Who will there be to brush the cobwebs from the picture of Sir Galahad into the cigar humidor? Life will be barren indeed. Who will there be to pick up what the squads left about?