(The Crimson invites all men in the University to submit signed communications of timely interest. It assumes no responsibility, however, for sentiments expressed under this head and reserves the right to exclude any whose publication would be palpably inappropriate.)

'Tis only a bit of the Crimson hue,

But the sight brings back to me

The mem'ry of years which my boyhood knew,

The years which we stood 'neath that Crimson hue,

And fought for the victory.

And I hear the roar of the ringing cheer

Which rolls from the crowded stands

Of the great white seats which rise tier on tier,

While above the uproar rings loud and clear

The quarterback's sharp commands.

And I see the men with whom side by side

I fought for that Crimson hue,

When we planned and struggled to stem the tide,

When we trained and schemed and had gladly died

If so we might beat the Blue.

And in mem'ry now I await the sign,

And 'tis "Seven, four, sixteen, ninety-nine!"

That's the fullback's signal to buck the line,

And I spring to take the ball.

Then I feel the crash as they try to stay

My course, but they come too late

And I shake them off and get underway;

But the vision breaks for I've passed my day,

And the mantle clock strikes eight.

Then I look at that Crimson flag anew,

And again it recalls the strife

Of those good old days when we met the Blue,

And harder men fought for that faded hue

Than they would have fought for life.

And so we fought in the years gone by

When the Crimson faced the Blue,

So others will fight in the seasons nigh,

And ever the motto is "Do or die,"

For the faded Crimson hue. CATHARINE BARTLETT.