F. O. B. CAMBRIDGE

The prominent liner in the service of the United States' Lines leans against its quay with a saddened bow, "Alas, sighs the prominent liner in the service, etc., "One feels one's age these days." And salt tears streak down the rusted sides. For out in the great open spaces where men use Mennen's and the young fry get their culture on Mont-martre, sweaters are crossing the old campus grasses with the essence of moth balls, prominent and newly shined fraternity pins-resplendent. The Third Class Tourists are home.

In ancient Cambridge, where, culture keeps a chain store or two, the pilgrims are returning to buy their stuff a home. The annual Grand Tour is a memory and some labels. And Baedecker's are packed away by tutors and tutees al ke. But down in the cellar of a musty, fussy old chateau in some place or other, probably Germany, Pan is counting coin and smiling. It was, on the whole he finds, an excellent year.