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By R. W. P.

A Protest for Today

Let's sit down and talk this thing over. Call in the men from the Garden and the courts, from Hemenway and Soldiers Field. God knows they'll be glad enough to rest a moment! There they come, bandaged, on crutches, gashed and bruised.

Men, the Lampoon's little flare was all right.

But it wasn't inclusive enough. They got no further than slinging a futile wrench into the academic machinery.

Why didn't they expose the horrors of the PLAYING FIELD? Is the Press subsidized? Are there two H. A. A. Newses?

Well, we're going to drag this thing out in the open.

So here goes.

Tyrants Bloody-Sceptr'd

Once there were only a few men fools enough to suffer. Then came this Athletics-for-All Policy. Where one man hobbled over the Bridge with his limbs red with Mercurochrome, now there are ten. Where one man went mad learning signals, there are dozens.

Now they're gibbering for money for a new Gymnasium.


Whatever name they use, it's just a dungeon better equipped--to torture you!

--to drive splinters into your aching feet!

--to make you Freshmen gasp louder when the Body-Mechanics-Killer yelps his One--Two! One--Two!

Men! Wreck the steam shovels! And while you're at it, raze Hemenway and choke the subway with its bricks!

He Was My Pal

But they done him wrong.

A fine lad he was, and he wanted to win an H, to fill his old parents with joy. For nearly eighteen years he's been able to run. So he thought there was his chance.

The first day he ran five miles. He staggered on bleeding feet into the Locker Building. The next day he fought to finish the seven miles they gave him. The next day and the next it was the same. Then he tried to rest--stay in his room and rest.

They sent him a card and told him he had to practise. He went back and labored the long miles. Hurry up! they howled. I stood by the boathouse and saw him weld nerve and sinew to sprint the last stretch. He crossed the line, and fell on the grass.

Nebuchadnezzar! No more than a beast.

I carried him across the Bridge. Then, in the Locker Building, they wanted him to "do exercises."

He rose slowly and went downstairs.... After a while, we grew worried.... There he stood, frozen solid under a shower. He'd left a farewell note--but I can't betray his confidence.

He was my pal.



Have you ever heard of Lord Byron?

He was an Apostle of Freedom. We wanted to finish this Protest by adapting one of his poems. It would have been a graceful gesture to a MARTYR.

But we have no Poets in our number?

We wanted to have a black-line picture of a man in trunks, bending under the flail of the Coach.

But we have no Artists!

Where are they, you ask?

THE BIG FELLOWS HAVE BOUGHT THEM! Now they turn their great talents to academic trifles in the Lampoon, while the Men That Grind the Athlete grin.

They have conquered our Bodies.

They have bribed our Art and our Poetry.


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