The Undergraduate Chair

We sit down to our task reluctantly this rainy and slushy-sounding evening. We're so blessed proud of Hanover's winters that a session like the last two weeks depresses us no end. The campus is a morass again, galoshes make their ashamed appearances once more, and a gentle rain which hasn't let up in three days makes what is left of our early snow a dirty black and white mess. The first part of the month we walked briskly up town mornings and, puffing cold puffs, importantly ascertained from Chief Hallisey or some equally reliable source just what the temperature was. Then, being assured it was sufficiently close to zero to justify our worst hopes (it really was around twelve below for all one day), we skidded across campus to class, shrugging our shoulders philosophically and happily, for Hanover was again coming into its own. However, a week of sub-zero weather was all that was allotted us—just long enough to whet our various appetites for skating and ski-ing. Since then, a melancholy downfall has filled the Nugget every day with ski-boots and galoshes and freshmen with peanuts and soggy topcoats— and just about as many soggy tempers as you'd want to see anywhere. We think that we don't take our privations with a proper amount of gratitude—but we don't dast to make any suggestions—mostly because ours are some of the most aggrieved of the tempers.

STKEETER HALL With Gile and Lord on the Left and Right