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"Oh Charley," said the little girl trembling in his arms, "isn't it fine that you're a Yale man!"
"The finest thing in the world," he answered. A fragment from Dick Merriwell's Colors, or All for the Blue, (circa 1909), unearthed by Richard Bissell '36
"I suppose it's all very well to like those Yalies, but I hate the sons of the bitches." Elliott Perkins' uncle (circa 1923)
You Could Always Tell A Yale Man, once upon a time. You might not Approve, to be sure, but you certainly could always Tell. Frisky. Groomed. Bumptious. Friendly. Sleek. The flinty granite of the East, the knotted pine of the far-flung Reaches, and the lumpish topsoil of the Midwest all gentled and traveled by four years of mellow College life. Yes, that was the Yalie all right. As far from a top hat as a Hottentot, but withal, a man to remember, to conjure up, to savor-to be reckoned with.
And, oh yes, there are still traces of this pearl of a culture: Yalies who won't listen to Gus Hall, Yalies who will parody the CRIMSON. But, alas, these are but traces. For sometime last Spring a special committee of Yale faculty members (none of them, obviously, Yale men) recommended that its Almost Mother begin admitting women.
Women. The very word has a chilling, antonymous ring. It is faith beclouding reason, Art sapping Life. And it cannot be allowed to happen. Oh Colledge builded by Incest Mather and his helpmeet Prurience, take not this fatal step.
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