Ritual

Shelley once asked, "If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?" That these words lack logic makes no difference; Shelley wrote them in an era when young men had a right to be far more gay and optimistic than they are in ours. But for years we have suspected that they are merely the careless lyricism of an exuberent soul. Indeed, for the past month we have entertained certain misgivings as to whether spring will come ata all this year.

Out doubts exist in spite of all the pasteboard pscudo-springs that will slide from the envelopes in Memorial hall this afternoon. For we are sure that the multi-colored cards will brazenly sport the word "spring" whether or not the unequivocal sign of the robin follows. We don't know whether our doubts are entirely due to the seasonal slush or the boredom of the examination period. Perhaps the scientists and the politicians should rightfully share part of the guilt. Every year now, we've felt that it's only through a chance combination of treaties, agreements, and nervous glances across barbed-wire border that we will see the next Spring. Even at the present time, there is a meteorological convention in Berlin that will probably decide to reverse the order of the seasons and put Spring where Fall now is. Such a move would stabilize the temperament of the French.

Here is Cambridge, 4,355 undergraduates are bravely filling out myriad forms, secure only in their knowledge of one dismal fact; next year at this time, pre-supposing that spring will come, they will be able to hire out as experienced biddies. Recruiting sergeants in the Central Square booths predict a 50 percent rise in enlistments as many of the 4,355 lose their last remaining reason for remaining here after the winter examinations.

But there is a certain element of the community that seems blatantly confident that Spring will come this year. We speak of the Radcliffe girl who cagerly scans the course catalogue, of the young men who plan to install a new freshly-cast bronzes bird atop a malformed Bow Street building, of the Square merchants lifting cord jackets form cardboard crates, and of a certain set of enthusiastic undergraduates who are sure they can talk a large mob into attending a so called all-college weekend.

We can smile sympathetically at the young lady, but can only shrug our shoulders at the rest. Still, she and Shelley might have a point. Malenkov and McCarthy permitting, Spring may come to Cambridge this year after all. It's never missed an opening date yet.