Once again Lampy has gone back to the bull rushes! His weary Ibis is a sad, sad sight, sunken deep in the mire, weary from lost battles on the ice, the track, and the diamond. Far off in Cambridge only the fame of the CRIMSON is heard. The score was 16 to 14. All Lampy's bombs, jeers, kicks, jokes (?), beer, cheers, and bean blowers were of no avail before the cool experts of the pride of American journalism. Nothing could overtax the nerve of the men who had braved the terrors of Memorial Hall's fishballs. Small fry from the streets cheered for their witty brothers, drank with them, blew beans for them, fired dreadful paper salutes for them. Dainty litterateurs from the attic of the Union nobly stood by their side when they thought Lampy was winning.
Then the fatal inning came and nine journalists walked across the end of all travels. The muckers stopped their yap, the aesthetic authors vanished to their--verse, the fire-crackers were put under the bench. The lead was never overcome, the CRIMSON's star twirler toyed with the heart-sick jokers, and our much-beloved, versatile, admiring, fellow-slingers of the ink bit the dust.
In regard to Lampy's feelings we omit the summary.