AN UNOFFICIAL BACCALAUREATE
But it is also a good thing to be a graduate, and there are other joys in life than winning football games or sitting in a leather chair by a dormitory fireplace, surrounded by one's best-beloved pals—though it's hard for you to believe the latter on this particular day.
Naturally the world won't show its best side at first. Freshman year is seldom the pleasantest. It's no cinch, this required course in real living, with its work and worry, strain and struggle, loving and hoping, marrying and rearing children, burying some of them, supporting the others, paying their bills, trying to be and do the square thing toward your fellow-man, trying to believe a great many things that you can't know, and finally trying to render a fairly decent account of yourself at the end. It's no joke, to be sure, and it sounds rather appalling to you now, no doubt, as you look up at all that long schedule from the point of view of a Freshman. But Post-Kantian Philosophy and certain other courses which I have forgotten the names of also sounded
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