Cabbages and Kings

Time was when a Radcliffe girl could get up in the morning, brush her teeth, and go downstairs to stare at a fried egg in stony silence. The egg generally seemed to be staring back, and after bumming a cigarette from a friend, she could make her nine o'clock class with five minutes to spare.

That was last week. This morning before breakfast I hardly made it to the basin, because on the way I was urged "not to be a pill," learned the name of two other girls who weren't pills, and found out that the voting booths were the places where "particular people congregated." Diving into the wrong mailbox by mistake, I yanked out a package full of candy corn instead of the letter I was expecting from my insurance company. This was all mute evidence of a vastly vivacious and normal group of girls battling for the honor to lead the class of '55.

Going downstairs in the elevator I counted seven signs; innumerable posters covered acquaintance dance notices on the bulletin board, and I had to fight my way through cardboard and scotch tape to get out of the front door. On the way out I noticed one girl had lost her chances when her campaign balloon was burst by a cigarette. All over the Quadrangle election fever was running high.

Meanwhile, across the Common in Fay House, cooler heads realized the growing momentum of a potential fiasco. Should the student council slap a ceiling on campaign expenditure? What about the girl who didn't know you were allowed to campaign? What about the girl who didn't get an idea in time? And what about the girl who didn't get an idea?

The Radcliffe Student Council may have to pass a Hatch Act.

People don't mind being told who to vote for before breakfast if it's done in an appetizing fashion. Campaigning can be a great institution, but too much of a good thing is worse than lethargy.