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Oyez,--Hoeren Sie, Signore--and the same thing in all the other languages in the calendar. This is the day of days, the climax of climaxes, the very summa of cum laudes.
For know yea-at 4 o'clock this afternoon the consummately stellar aggregation of unconquered CRIMSON ball chasers will meet the quivering, cringing, libeled humorists from the moat on Mt. Auburn Street in a game at ball on Soldiers Field, first turn to your left and across what was and is to be bridge Smoky George Phillips, fresh from his unparalleled triumph over the Eli heavers, will toss the sphere over the Eli heavers, will toss the sphere over the gutta perchas dinner service with the speed and accuracy of Linotype. Sparkling nut brown will gurgle and splash into the guatta percha mugs with the limpidity of a mountain torrent.
Language fails. The CRIMSON will be there, rushing on to its yearly victory. Lampy will be there trembling before its annual Waterloo. You be there too, to see the season's best.
The boys will best the air in the following order:
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