We talked a long time—about all kinds of things. I asked him a string of questions that had been on my mind for months: whether it is better to live in a private house, one of the big private halls, or in the Yard (I called it the "Campus," and he looked queer for a moment and said it was known as the Yard here); where would be a good place to eat; whether he thought my allowance was big enough (I told him how much I was going to have); and what was the best way to make friends and get on teams and clubs and musical societies and crews and papers. He answered everything, although once or twice he puffed at his pipe and looked at me a good while before speaking. I couldn’t tell whether the questions had n’t occurred to him before, or whether he didn’t know just what to tell me. Of course I can’t remember all he said, but it sounded so important that afterward I scribbled as much of it as I could in a notebook. ROOMS IN THE YARD ADVANTAGES General Washington may have stabled his horse (the iron-gray that never put his front feet to the ground in the presence of an artist) in your bedroom. When girls come out to vespers (Thursdays from November to May) and stop to look at the Yard, you can stop whatever you happen to be doing and look at them. In May and June the morning and evening views from your windows are different from and more beautiful than anything in the world. The Glee Club (weather permitting) sings under the trees; you lie on your window-seat in the twilight and wonder whether, after graduating, you will accept Fame or Fortune. Proximity to lectures during the annual inundations of December, January, February, March, and April. DISADVANTAGES Too much effort involved in taking a bath. What ought to be an innocent pleasure becomes a morbid family pride. Accessibility to bores who want to kill time while waiting for their next lecture. At first you think this is Popularity. Enforced quiet after 9 P.M.—at which hour you usually close your books and feel like making a noise. Enforced activity before 9 A.M.—until which hour you always close your eyes and try not to feel at all. Necessity of burning a kind of coal that refuses to light (or to stay lighted) for anybody but the janitor, who is never in the basement, where you always firmly believe (in spite of your daily failure) that you are going to find him. BOARD