Lampy's latest venture, the current Dramatic Number, is a distinct improvement over certain earlier numbers which unkind critics in these columns have seen fit to treat with contumely and disrespect. Nevertheless it reminds one, vaguely enough perhaps, of the little girl in the nursery rhyme, who when she was good was very, very good, and when she was had was--punk. It runs in streaks, like bacon or barber poles or layer cakes.

It is officially a Dramatic Number, but the amount of space devoted to matters lying on the far side of the footlights is not depressingly large. And singularly enough the best things, with one or two exceptions (notably the amusing opening ballad, which should be sung to the obvious tune by a Voice with straw in its throat) have little or nothing to do with "ther drammer" at all. The theatrical streaks are as a whole distinctly below the level of the non-Orphean layers. They reveal a tendency, from which the rest of the material is happily free, that has been adversely commented on by divers other reviewers of divers other issues, and not without justice: a tendency to rather futile inanities which remain devoid of meaning to the untutored reader, and which do not justify their pointlessness by the saving graces of the ludicrous or the bizarro. Nor is the attempt to drag in the Vincent Club by its demurely protesting heels altogether successful; the end in view is laudable, but the achievement inadequate.

The balance of the issue, though often remote from the strict Lampian style, is in the main amusing and clever. "Fuzzywuzzy" offers a not inconsiderable gem whereof the appropriateness, translated into other social spheres, may meet the discerning eye, while the small skit about the birdies is delectable nonsense of the most approved Carrollian variety. "The Picnic Blues", in verse that moves easily, fills that need for gentle self-expression which tortured souls have felt since the days of the First Picnic in Eden; and the mail-order edition of Webster's exclusive and only masterpiece contains some rare specimens for the cultured collector. At sundry other points the necessary measures are taken to cause the inevitable maidenly blush to rise an inch or two, and then, duty performed, to subside expectantly; a process without which no issue seems to be regarded as complete.

Finally, mention should be made of the drawings; which, having been mentioned, may then be passed by. If any of them be the work of genius, the genius is still chrysalic, or was absent for the day, but they serve their purpose well enough, and the page of caricatures shows some threat of real inspiration. All in all, it is a good number, and not devoid of promise.

Thirty-five candidates reported recently for spring football practice at Yale.