"R. I. P."

Not many months ago, a member of our faculty made the alarming discovery that the sinister hand of Prohibition is reaching out toward, Literature. Those of us who shared his discovery wept bitter tears for that--and other reason. But now there will be even more cause for bitterness, for the good old college drinking song is doomed. The plague has reached the Institute down on the Charles. Tech's "Stein Song" is dead. No longer will the alumni rally round the festive board and sing the song of "a stein on the table". For the stein is no longer there. It has ceased to be the emblem of good fellowship. Now it is but painful memory.

The remembrance of the dear departed still lives on. The song remains, but its spring is gone.--just where we cannot say. A song without a soul--that is too much! So the engineers are going to bury the song with what fortitude they can muster. They must put it where the spectre can never escape to bring misery and dismay to the feast. Then perhaps, time which cures all ills will allow the feaster to forget that their glasses contain nothing but Bevo.

The engineers are making a brave at tempt to hide their sorrow. They have even started search for a new song. But whatever they may produce, it will never have the inspiration of the old one. In years to come when memory has dimmed, and they chant hymns to Dame Nicotine instead of Lord Bacchus, they may, with the perpetual optimism of the human race, imagine that the substitute is "Just as good", that they have cheated the muse. But she will know better.