TALLY HO! HO!

Shore dust covered mortals who cloister themselves in the squalid dignity of senior chambers awoke one noon last week from vernal lethargy to the mess call sounded from a Pickwickian bugle. The Dickens' jubilee had included among its enthusiasts that stalwart figure in the green colonial smoking jacket--John Harvard.

Rushing from notes of one kind to notes of another, seniors found a prancing group of quadrupeds dragging the Rochester (England) coach about the Yard, guided by an anachronism and the university's omnipresent sous-officer. At that time, as paint-smeared thespians climbed the steps of University Hall, and hoop skirts rolled into the Deanery, a volume of Pickwick Papers was heard groaning from its lair in Child Memorial.

There are such things as good taste and common sense. Dickens often misused the one and abused the other. Yet even the versatile author and creator of Pickwick would have asked Perry truncher to take the bones carted into Harvard Yard back to their cemetery. And Thackeray, who, for obvious reasons, never inspires such gaucheries, would have written another chapter of "Vanity Fair."