SPRING-FEVER.

Spring is in the air this week, and the University is restless. Class room walls seem but the dusty shells of a dying season and Sever Hall a fit subject for a systematic experiment with dynamite. Watch the professor: he feels it too. If anyone were within miles to observe him during the of attenuated seven-minute interval before his class, he too would be seen to peer dreamily out of the window, to yawn cavernously, and scratch his unhappy neck in anticipation of that soft collar which he is to assume in June. He too is looking forward to white ducks and seaside tennis courts and steady jib-filling breezes. He too is making furtive plans for that sleepy August canoe-trip, or that ankle-twisting scramble through the White Mountains.

Now the foregoing irrefutable torrent of natural history leads right down to the following fair proposition: Why not pretend that we possess that calm and bloodless self-control that the professors pretend to possess when faced with the crushing fact of spring? Why not? This vast effort may seem pointless. But if we make good our pretense as they often manage to make good theirs, yes, in the very Tace of spring, ours will be a great consummation, a true millenium. The barriers of June will be removed, and we will be in a position to say to our professor: "Verily, sir, the fact that you have so thoughtfully dealt me a C, C plus, B minus, or B, pleases me almost as much as it does you."