A few years ago a Harvard athlete played in a hard and exciting foot-ball game against Yale. Toward the end of the game, when it was nearly dark, this man was fairly hurled through the Yale line in a play that shortly afterward resulted in giving the game to the Cambridge men. It seemed a strange irony of circumstance that just before time was called the heroic player was disqualified. When the game was over and the crimson men were marching wildly about the field, yelling for Harvard and carrying the foot-ball players on their shoulders, the man whose playing was largely contributory to this triumph was down in the training-quarters, almost alone, but with the satisfaction that, although forgotten by the crowd, he had “played the game.” Certain alumni, who had seen this man’s plucky but unpraised fight for his Alma Mater, sent to him these words of Kipling: And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame; And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame, But _each for the joy of the working_.... We must admit that the undergraduate’s philosophy of life may be obscure at times, even to himself; that it is as subtle and evasive as the moods of youth; and that its expression is as cosmopolitan as nationality, and as varied as human nature. For some students, too, we must conclude that trivialities and immoralities bury far out of sight the true meaning of college training and life-work; but in other students, and these are the majority, underneath his curriculum and his customs, his light-heartedness, his loves, and his seeming listlessness, one may discern the real American undergraduate, energetic, earnest, expectant, and strenuously eager for those great campaigns of his day and generation in which the priceless guerdon is the “joy of the working.” IV REASONS FOR GOING TO COLLEGE Recently I attended the commencement exercises at one of our large universities. As undergraduates and friends of the graduating class were gathered in a large church awaiting the arrival of the procession, in a seat directly in front of me sat a middle-aged woman and a man whose appearance and nervous expectation drew general attention. The man’s clothes were homely and of country cut. His face was deeply lined, and wore the tan of many summers. I noted his hard, calloused hand resting on the back of the seat as he half rose to look at the door through which the seniors were to enter. The woman by his side was a quiet, sympathetic person to whom a phrase from Barrie would be applicable: she had a “mother’s face.”