SAY Bo! Were you at the Military Ball? Believe me that was some exhilarating event. The only explanation of the grand success is that they had a committee of about one-third a regiment with old A. T. Newman at the head. There was some scramble for places on that said committee too, I hear. As Dr. Maxey says, I didn't see anybody who wasn't there, viewing the martial decorations, criticising the gowns and uniforms, and whistling the tunes of the rag-time Military Band. After waiting some time for the knapsacks which were to carry the programs, "Van" tripped over his sabre three times and commenced the grand march, which climaxed in a warlike arch of swords.

   After the dress-suited civilians waltzed through with their beautiful dolls, swords were sheathed, generals and colonels, soldiers and sailors swapped dances.

   All too soon the soft notes of "Taps" called the revelers from their dream, and the Second Regimental Ball became a thing of the past, a dearly treasured memory.

   THE Senior Prom was a very enjoyable affair. Every one had a fine time, although methods of enjoyment varied. Some there were, like myself, who went there with a "peach" of a girl to spend the evening in dancing, and as the floor was very fine and the music excellent, we danced in complete enjoyment -- especially of the moonlight movements.
   Others went there to take gymnastic exercises, such as the "Boston," the "Glide," the "Turkey Trot," the "Texas Tommy," and other grasshopper-like calisthenics. These also had a fine time, for they attracted a great deal of attention and comment from the dancers. Others went to play football, and passed a highly enjoyable evening. The presence of these athletes was always noticeable, although one could not always tell just when to expect to be taken in the rear. They furnished exciting and exhilarating sensations to those who were new to the pleasures of aeroplaning, or short flights through the ethereal. I never knew before just how much fun it was to fly gaily through a quantity of atmosphere with a lovely girl in my arms, to

alight suddenly upon the smooth and polished surface of a dance floor, and slide serenely among the frantic feet of a number of startled dancers.
   Of course there might have been a larger attendance than there was. Three or four of the upper class men are said to have been sick, so they were unable to be present; but I think the remainder of the several odd hundred were there all right, for most of them left footprints on my pet corns at some time or other during the soiree.
   The programs were exceedingly "nifty." They consisted of a quantity of very fine paper enclosed between covers of heavy brass, the front being a piece of that metal cut in the form of a block-letter "N." I am not a bit sorry that this was done. I feel that any one who got through that night, who played the whole game, is fully entitled to his "N." Some time in later years, when I foregather somewhere with a covey of ex-college athletes, I shall put on this "N" and wear it. I am sure I will create an impression, for it would be a "brassy" thing. Do n't you think so? Good night, friend Promite; have you used footease?

   THE current magazines are publishing the products of an alleged new school of painting, followers of which are referred to as futurists. These artists attempt to depict on canvas the most salient and apparent features of a particular event much after the manner of the expert writer of description, leaving details to the imagination entirely. Thus one of them, were he to paint a picture of the junior Prom of 1912, would paint a gaudy, incongruous and apparently meaningless canvasful of lovely eyes, swaying forms, fluffy hair, lavish gowns, the sparkles from many a gorgeous gem and the laughter on many parted lips, and over all he would throw a soft haze to represent the strains of an orchestra playing divinely, and it may well be that he would thus portray a picture far more satisfying to the memory of one who was there, than is possible to the camerist who depicts every detail. Certain it is, that never was there a more fit subject for the "futurist" than this Prom. The pen is powerless to describe it. The mind is equally incapacitated, being too full of the most exquisite impressions to be able to retain the details of the evening. Thus the picture that is thrown by memory's calcium light upon the screen of recollection is distinctly of the "futurist" type. Here we see a soft white arm, or a daintily curving ankle. Close at hand is one eye of sweetest blue, and scarcely removed from it another -- but this one of the softest brown. A fluff of bronze hair and a mass of brown mingle strangely in another part of the picture, and the whole is

filled in with a kaleidoscopic phantasmagoria of lips, parted in laughter or trembling in whispers; lithe forms swaying joyously with the music, tiny shoes, silken ankles, and the endless monotony of conventional black backs of the men. But even the wide range of impressions permitted to the futurist and his pictures will not fully describe the event. What canvas is there that can convey the accent of Her voice, or the thousand meanings of Her eyes, which, after all, make up by far the larger portion of the impressions of the Prom? These alone differentiate it from all other dances. At any dance good music, pretty girls and the same floor may be found, but only at the Prom do we enjoy the music, the pretty girls, and the floor.
   It is thus that we would describe the junior of 1912. Realizing, however, that there be those who may read this to whom the "futurist" idea is a myth, we will say that the Junior Prom was some dance. It was given at the Lincoln Hotel on or about the last of March under the auspices of Mr. Arthur May and other gentlemen and ladies comprising the usual committee. The floor was fine, and not too badly crowded. Eddie Walt was in an excellent mood, and his music corresponded. There was n't a homely girl in the room at any time during the evening, and we think at that ours was the prettiest, and know she was the best dancer.
   Yea, Bo, that was some fandango.
   N. B. The reader will note that the last paragraph hereof is not indited in the "futurist" phraseology.

   THE Iron Sphinx Formal is considered by those who are fortunate enough to attend to be one of the classiest dances of the year. It is one dance that is not crowded, and this in itself is a guarantee of a good time. This year about fifty-five active and alumnae Iron Sphinxes and their fair ones gathered at the Lincoln for this stellar dance.

The program covers were of black leather set off by a Sphinx in gold, a pretty combination which made its mark-on the white glove,. Brother Herbert Bushnell was chairman and Brother Glen Whitcombe was leader of the parade. When the Sphinxes started this event they started history.

   MABEL hurries home from lab at five o'clock.
   Rushing into the frat house, she glances at the bath schedule. "I knew it," she cries. "Full up to Six o'clock. Well, six-fifteen for me," she adds, signing her name.
   She goes to her own room (shared with three others) attires herself in a scarlet kimono and puts up her hair on "Wests" electric curlers. She then starts a manicure. But in her nervous haste she upsets the pan of soapy water, which conveniently falls on the green satin slippers she had intended to wear. With a disgusted sigh she goes for a mop.
   The harsh ring of the dinner bell interrupts her. "Tell Miss Moore I won't be down for dinner," she commands.
   Hastening to her bath, she finds the other girls have already taken all the warm water. With set teeth she plunges into the cold tub.
   At six-thirty she begins to do her hair. At seven-fifteen she greets her room-mate tearfully. "It simply will NOT go up." Desperately, she gives the balky tresses a final twist-and refuses to look again.

   She now begins to hunt for another dress and slippers. At the same time a Freshman calls to her that George has arrived. "You entertain him, dear," she says sweetly. "I'll be down in just a minute." She digs out a pink dress and a blue one; both mussed. She prefers the pink, but the slippers that match it are soiled. So she dons the blue, has it hooked up and then decides she does not look well in it. "I'll wear my green with black slippers," she says, and once more her patient room-mate hooks her up. "I can't wear black slippers, though, at a formal," she adds surveying herself in the two-foot waving mirror. In frenzied haste she cleans the pink slippers and slips on the dress. "If I had time," she wavers, "I'd change and wear the blue -- but I haven't." The patient room-mate silently blesses the lateness of the hour. Suddenly Mabel stops! "I forgot to get my gloves at the cleaners. I'll have to borrow some from Edith."
   She descends the stairs at eight-thirty. Anxiously, the waiting George springs up to greet her. He quickly hurries her out of the door. "But George, I haven't a handkerchief," she protests, "I must go back." "Not on your life," answers George. "You can have one of mine. I've got three."

   WITH nervous energy, George slams the front door and dashes upstairs. From the worried lines of his face, one might be led to believe that it was a particularly dismal flunk that distressed him. But far be it from such. Rather it is the vision of soiled formal regalia which haunts his mind's eye. He seems to see dusty wrinkles in his dress clothes, finger marks on his shirt bosom, rents in his gloves, and smut on his tie. Into the clothes press he darts, emerging with an armful of paraphernalia, which upon examination proves not too bad to wear. But he must cuss just a little under his breath, because that is traditionally done by all who wish it to appear that they could dress much better but don't care to. Having thus fulfilled the proprieties, he rubs an experimental hand across his stubble chin, seizes soap, towel, razor, toothbrush, talc, and nail file, a face rag, a chamois, a bath robe and a cigarette, and here we must leave him until be has quit splashing the water.
   Once out of the bathroom, the war is on. First comes the Battle of Silk Sox, which usually results in "de feet." The

Reconnaissance of the Collar Button, the Charge for the Pumps, and the Conquest of the Trousers -- accomplished from a commanding situation on the seat of a chair -- ensue in that order, and then all forces are marshaled at once into the final general engagement of the Collar-Button. Hear now loud curses and low groans, with much stamping of feet, and sweating of hands! Hear the names of neighbors and room-mates called frantically! Hear the appeals for assistance! Then just as the attacking forces are about to desist -- lo a simple motion, a push, a shake, a blinking of the eyes, and it is accomplished. So the general immediately "rolls one, and strolls in the hall to cool off.
   Remains now but the waistcoat, coat, and gloves, and seasoned by earlier conflicts, our Hero goes about the accomplishment of these so determinedly that presently he may be seen clad like unto Solomon (Ksensky) sitting dejectedly in the parlor of Her house, the while cobwebs gather on his spotless front. Thus are punctuality and haste rewarded.