THE BETWIXT AND BETWEEN

Underclassmen, most of them--have gone or are about to go. Seniors wall without immediate duty or responsibility. This is the interlude when laundry carts and baggage trucks and lawn mowers and grass sprayers have a sway as complete as it is desultory. The sky is often blue it is June, the grass green, and the elms with full foliage fill the eye; but men in shirt sleeves, unabashed, stretch dreary socket cords from tree to tree and other men assemble, more or less slowly, the lowest common denominators of Class Day fountains and bandstands. Heranlean pounding from behind venerable Sever provokes cases of shaking palsy among pigeons and sparrows. Altogether, the atmosphere is neither collegiate nor festive. The former was of yesterday, the latter is of tomorrow.

But tomorrow comes: and its own troubles with it. There is festivity indeed--for the invading hordes. But the Senior is pervaded by a deep and abiding sense of the futility of things. Even the great world looks like a longed-for heaven. "Tis Well! Out he goes.