one day on the technique of washing White Wyandotte roosters. Now we are wondering whether running a chicken laundry would. pay better than editing. Of course we'd expect the Gentleman from Manchester to act on our board of directors.

So far our biggest thrill in the session came from a speech by the Honorable James O. Lyford. We've forgotten his subject, but it was masterly oratory and-which is the point

he used a copy of the GRANITE MONTHLY to punctuate and accentuate his remarks. Only an editorand a green, young one at that—can fully realize the effect produced upon us by the incident. In editorial conference afterwards the GRANITE MONTHLY gave Mr. Lyford an unanimous vote of thanks for his help in making the magazine a power in

state affairs.

That speech of Mr. Lyford's must have been on the 48-hour law, that being the chief source of oratory these days. Being a strictly nonpartisan publication we mustn't make remarks on this controversial issue. But we may so far overstep the bounds of non-partisanship as to say that the GRANITE MONTHLY pledges its full support to the movement, briefly mentioned in the heat of argument by one gentleman whose name has slipped our memory-the movement in favor of a 48-hour Day. It is a measure for which humanity has long waited in vain. We believe it would solve labor troubles and insure everlasting peace and happiness -even to editors. In comparison to it even the bill to increase the bounty on hedgehogs seems trivial.

H. F. M.

I

a

T is a strange experience on moonless evening to walk along the country road that leads into Durham village from the west. The occasional tall elm tree that looms like a great umbrella above, the stone-walls whose outlines can be just distinguished at each side, even the ruts and stones of the highway itself, suggest only the peace and quiet of the open country. Ahead one would expect to find a grocery store, a church or two, a few vinecovered houses, and nothing else. Suddenly a turn in the road brings one into the electric glare of the hundred lighted windows of several dormitories. A great blaze they make into the night, while over at the left, like a tall sentinel, stands the clocktower of Thompson Hall, and beyond it the power-house chimney shoots up sparks impudently toward the hidden stars.

As I viewed this scene one evening last November, the thought came to me insistently that I was looking at a large modern factory. Behind those lighted windows some process

was going on that was intimately geared into the high-powered machinery of current life. Something was being manufactured here.

"Why not?" I asked myself, and was at once amused with the thought that evidently there was a night shift. on the job.

After all, is not this institution of New Hampshire College a great Knowledge Factory, receiving yearly its unfinished products in the shape of human minds and turning out a yearly grist of trained young men and women to do a better duty in the world? Putting a point to raw ambition? Giving the edge to unshaped creative force? Yes, and more than this; for, at least so far as agriculture is concerned, its dynamos have been hitched up with the people throughout the whole state. Here, in the research laboratories of the State Experiment station, new combinations of facts are being evolved to improve New Hampshire's 2,600,000 farm acres, while a force of extension agents, like a body of commercial salesmen, is carrying the

idea of better farm and home conditions into 93 per cent of the communities of the state. The commonwealth has set up here at Durham a power-producing plant, whose current generated is felt from Rye on the coast to Pittsburg at the Canadian line.

In order to observe the process of "manufacture" more closely, it may be worth while to follow one of the products of the main plant through the course of a day. As soon as one does so, however, the metaphor falls flat. This rumpled hair and freckled face which have just had their morning pull through an elastic blue jersey defy the conception of a machine-made product. Those firm muscles and tingling nervecells do not run along oiled trackways like the assembling parts of a Ford car. We must be more careful now in our language.

It is seven o'clock in the morning, and the young man who has pulled on the jersey has recently taken his turn under the common shower-bath of his "floor." The looking-glass before which he combs his moist hair reflects part of a blue banner with "New Hampshire" in large white letters on it, the corner of a desk with an array of text-books, and the white end of a small iron bed in an alcove. In fact, there is a second bed which does not show in the glass and which is occupied by our friend's room-mate. On the chiffonier which holds the glass are three or four photographs, one of the boy's mother and others of younger ladies -girl friends. There is nothing luxurious about the room; it is a place to study in and to sleep in; that is all, and that is enough. There are about 250 rooms like this in the various college dormitories, accomodating nearly 500 students, and rented by the college at a price sufficiently low to pay only a nominal interest on the investment.

With a call to his room-mate, the boy takes text-books, a note-book and cap, and leaves his room for the morning. In a few minutes he is in a line with several others before the blackboards of the cafeteria in the Commons building, selecting his morning meal. Probably he has a "regular," collecting it on his tray and having it punched on his weekly meal ticket. The self-service plan and the fact that a large number of persons can be accommodated make it possible for the dining-hall management to serve food at low prices. There is no attempt to make a profit, but it is insisted that the food should be of good quality and that the entire establishment be kept clean and wholesome.

The boy carries his tray of steaming oatmeal, eggs, muffins and coffee to one of the long tables where several fellow students are seated; they talk earnestly, between bites, of studies, of basketball, of girls, of professors, of whatnot.

There is time for a few minutes' study before recitations begin at eight o'clock; but as the clock in the Thompson Hall tower strikes, long lines of students from various parts of the campus start for their appointed classes. There are three divisions, into which all of the students fall, according to their choice,those of Agriculture, Engineering, and Arts and Science. It is nearly an even chance as to which of the three will have been selected by our friend, the boy. If he is specializing

in agriculture, his choicest courses will be found to lie in the following lines: general agriculture, animal husbandry, dairy husbandry, forestry, horticulture, poultry husbandry, or teacher tarining; but he must also, in order to have a wellrounded education, include other subjects, such as English, economics, chemistry, mathematics. If he is training to be an engineer, he may