ARIEL

Harvard, a college not abounding in the kind of tradition that has a happy renascence each year, enjoyed a familiar pleasure--the Christmas reading of Professor Copeland. The delights of personal acquaintance with one of the truly unique personalities of American letters have been given to but few; there are even exigencies limiting the number of those who heard them last night at the Union.

Whatever the necessity that makes the chosen few those who secure tickels within and hour of their release, opportunity is now extended even to the tardy and the unlucky. On Christmas Eve Professor Copeland will step to the microphone and speak to an audience which is bound only by interplanetary space. It may not be true that the coughing of the aerial static will be silent as the voice of the host at Hollis 15 travels through the night. Absurd it certainly is to place credence in the rumor that a radio firm has named its newest loudspeaking horn the Cornucopia. Irrelevancies aside, Professor Copeland, whether in Sever 11, the Union, or vibrating the crisp winter air above a million houses is still Copey--on the air.