The Light Touch in the Press

If you'll recall, we've been on a quest for a light touch around here for some time, and not only the light touch which that inestimable Jacko can give. The Dartmouth keeps harping against our significance, and then harps for it. At any rate, it has hinted that we ought to get on our playboy ears and go Lewis Carroll for a while, but itself continues stodgily along the path of righteous college newspaperitis. We no longer have even the opportunity to make ourselves chuckle over "L'Oiseau," that sometime funny column which was apparently stillborn last spring. But we can't berate it so without giving it a little praise, too, for its influence is considerable, and we, for one, don't want to draw its wrath down upon us. There is the case of the President's pet tree, for example, which The Dartmouth, in a versified editorial, made quite the most conspicuous display on campus for a few days. We think that the editorial was swell, for one thing, and we think it just as swell that our own freedom of thought and action should be so completely demonstrated as by the planting of a tree atop the Administration Building itself convention binds us not, and love of Nature beyond all else stirs us. It has been brought to our attention, in this matter, that the JacJco, wideawake sheet, stole a march on The Dartmouth. Well, the question of scooping a matter of local pride like that seems not very important, to us, at least—it may have been that with all The Dartmouth's larger concerns, they had no time for such a picayune affair.

Then there is the matter of the Dean and his nose. We know that that's a pretty strong way to put it, but it seems to be the only way of coming immediately to the point. The bronze bust of Dean Lay cock which stands in the West end of the Library had been there but a few days when—but let The Dartmouth tell the story (this is the end of an editorial donnet-sequence—what won't these college boys do next?): "And then befell a miracle of old (A miracle's an act creating faith.) For 10! The statue's nose glowed red as gold! And 10! The lookers-on turned green as death! And ever after, when in need of luck For quiz or foray, every laddie-buck Or ever he would set about his function Would come and with a world of furtive unction Rub thrice the idol's nose without compunction." Those, then, are the facts—and we promise you that you'll never see a more lustrous nose. We were surprised in the act the other day by a freshman, and couldn't seem to be at all ashamed—thus you'll realize the limits to which it has gone. We have nothing to add to The Dartmouth's fine summary except perhaps the suggestion that a gadget of some kind be put on the bust which would set a photo-electric cell in action in conjunction with the nose-rubbing act which will instantly relay a picture of the rubber to the dean, that he may judge if the proper amount and brand of unction is being displayed.