Episode

We chanced, on Carnival Sunday morning (than which there is none worse), to be walking about a bit to persuade the dusty moths and mouse-eating bats which were batting crazily against the inside of what remained of our head. We veered over toward that respectable end of town along Occom Ridge, and presently began to soldier along behind four freshmen who were strolling along quite unhappy in their health, for they realized that it was the awfullest and most unnatural condition possible on such a day. We stayed a good way behind them, for chatter had ceased to interest us some twelve hours earlier. Suddenly we saw them stop and peer, so we peered too. There, fluttering very conspicuously on a backyard line was a pink thingamajig of some sort. In our condition, this elicited less than no interest at all. However, you will grant that the action taken by the four freshmen had something of the unique in it. Slowly they doffed their hats, reverently placed them across their breasts, and walked on, eyes lifted to Heaven. We stood there a moment in as deep thought as was then possible, then turned back to town. Ah, and we reflected on Carnival: the fallibility of man, of inexperienced man . . . wait until they had tasted the bitter and the sweet . . . wait until they walked on such a Sunday morning . . . we knew such idolatry could last only a year.