Whirling Bill Shakespeare Chants Spectral High Praise Of Conant's Clan With Tourney at Hanover in Mind

Zounds! As even the most erudite of Harvard professors forsooth must discover betimes, this fair young university finally shows signs which portend of pigskin prowess.

Perchance 'tis the influence of the coeds--sh-sh! who do not with official forbearance mingle with the eds in these hallowed halls, but whose positive ectoplasmic presences betimes detract from the learned words the profs present.

Perchance 'tis the influence of the combat veterans in Crimson doublets who have not as yet quaffed the waters of Lethe when it comes to truculence.

Be that as it may, all who trudge bareheaded a cross the Camp . . . Oops, Yard, and tarry in the shadow of John Harvard's statue, know that Fair Harvard has emerged victorious in four gridiron jousts, and the eager young bruisers of Dick Harlow will journey to Hanover town anon, with hearts hopeful of tripping the base football varlets of Dartmouth. Albeit, 'tis needful first that Rutgers do a deal of dying and little of doing come Saturday.

'Tis an occasion so auspicious perforce the dusty bones of the Bard of Avon must needs be rattled to sing the praises of the Crimson Clan. So with pro-foundest apologies and a low waist bow, let the loud Alarums sound.

Hamlet Harlow must needs pace in the pendulous air the Yard these autumnal nights, the Yard where many of the ancient trees have donned Fair Harvard's Crimson, though perchance by chance. The bloody leaves may have heard this pigskin Hamlet soliloquist somewhat as follows:

"To beat, or not to beat; that is the question:--

Whether 'tis nobler to suffer defeat

From the men of Dartmouth Green

Who fling passes and dash the ball;

Or to take steps against a sea of troubles,

And by opposing end them? To win;--to lose--

Perchance to devise some magic potion

Some gridiron trickery as yet unborn;

'Tis a consummation devoutly to desire;

To grind great Dartmouth in the mire."

Exit Hamlet Harlow to sleep! Perchance to dream of an undefeated team--ay, there's the rub. But come the ides of November, and 'ere long even the Bulldog which barks at Yale, Sirrah, may be muzzled by the Crimson gale.

Enter Caesar Harlow after season undefeated, muttering miserably

Of thrice being presented a kingly crown

Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition?

For even should Fair Harvard all games claim

There'll still be no Rose Bowl fame;

Neither Sugar, Orange nor Cotton;

Save the Blues Bowl, all else forgotten;

'Tis an Ivy rule firm and fast

That football seasons only last

Until their courses have been run. Nor can it be undone.

But let us hope for Dartmouth's Indians

Harvard men will increase

As they did for Falstaff so obese.

Tuss McLaughry: "All? I know not what ye call all; but if I played not with 50 of them, I am a bunch of greens; if there were not two or three and 50 upon poor old Dartmouth, then am I no green Redskin."

Should Harvard lose on the Hanover green sward, perish the thought, let no Radcliffe colleen essay the role of Lady Macbeth. T'would be needless to say "Out, dammed spot, out, I say.' One, two; why, then 'tis time to rue 't.--Defeat is dark!"

Ah, 'tis but a game, and should the banner of Green be unfurled Fair Harvard's buildings will not collapse. 'Tis no nuclear fission, no Hiroshima. Nay, no Shakesperian tragedy. The sun will shine as brightly Sunday--Lest perchance should rain come down like Niobe's tears.

'Tis the Eve of All Harlows, and witches, Salem-style perchance, swish about by broommobile. So 'tis meet that Macbeth's witches come down Cambridge way. Three eerie figures meet in the middle of the Harvard camp . . . egad again? Yard. Zounds! 'Tis Kopp, Margarita and Jacunski, magicians all, of the Crimson Clan, meet to devise a potent potion not to the liking of McLaughry.

Witch Kopp: Four times the Crimson cat hath claw'd.

Witch Margarita: Thrice; and once the Holy Cross it scratched.

Witch Jacunski: Harvard cries,--'Tis time, 'tis time.

Kopp: Round about the Crimson go;

In the potion a line we throw--

Backs, who do their running

With great zeal and cunning

Throw'd footballs like shot

Boil thou first i' th' charmed pot.

All: Double Dartmouth trouble;

Fire burn, and Crimson bubble.

Margarita: Fullback like a fenny snake

With the Crimson boil and bake;

Eye of Cleo, and toe of Bucky

Speed of Gannon, and skill of Phil

Moravec's knees, and Petrillo's sting,

Dewey's leg, and Walsh's wing,

For a charm of powerful trouble,

Let the Crimson boil and bubble.

All: Double Dartmouth trouble;

Fire burn and Crimson bubble.

Jacunski: Scale of Fisher, tooth of Flynn;

Witches mammy, pa and cousin

Power of the salt sea's wave

From defeat the Crimson stave

Runs of Cleo and Phil

Serve to make Indians ill;

Like a silvery fish's fin

Make our center, C. R. Glynn;

Give the strength of Harvard's image

To our bruisers as they scrimmage.

Make the soup thick and hot

As we journey to Hanover spot

All thereto a scalp of Green

To the ingredients of our tureen.

All: Double Dartmouth trouble;

Fire burn and Crimson bubble.

(Enter Hecate Harlow.)

Harlow: "O, well done. I commend your brew,

Now we'll tramp le Dartmouth in the dew.

And now about the Crimson cheer

We'll get a bowl bid come New Year

I smell the nectar of a Rose so sweet

If we go all season without defeat."

Lay on, McLaughry;

Let's have no fuss with Tuss.