Well-Come! Dear Fresh-Errs

The small dogs gaze at the big dogs with probing puppy eyes, marvelling at the inexplicable correlations of the adult mind.

And the big dogs sniffling proudly round the "portals" of their alma mater (incomparable amongst all the best kennels) take pity and smile upon the small dogs, speaking blandly of "progress," "pleasantness" and "a stay entirely successful."

Tableau — "several hundred young people on the threshold of a new life."

Great Zeus must we ever suffer the colossal exuberance of editors?

But come Cassandra, tell us, what manner of life shall these young pilgrims lead?

Most shall rut-like run their way towards the agglutinous satieties of the gigmanity.

A few, through glandular deficiencies, shal grow rebellious, and vent the fury of their pent-up spleens upon the evils of the status quo. But even these shall surrender in the failing days.

Some shall fall horribly in love and "see Cleopatra staring insatiably at her image in their eyes, and her the repercussions of Helen's first kiss behind the sucking tongue of any kind sweet drab,"

And some shall load their souls with ponderous beatitudes and sigh of "love and Jesus," striving ever to save the irreparably lost.

A host shall shuffle out long hours on dance floors finding true redemption in the refined titillations of communal embracing.

And all this vast courageous band shall worship out their lives fawning at the altar of the "bitch-goddess Success." To her be homage evermore with bodies and brains, with hearts and hands and voices.

And so the small dogs gaze at the big dogs with their probing puppy eyes, and the big dogs sniffling through the halls speak blandly of progress, of success, as if these were the only means of gratifying humanity-poor dogs.

—J.D.F.