Scarcely loss hard-fought than the game itself on Saturday was the struggle staged between the Harvard and Holy Cross bands. Harvard certainly had the numerical advantage, boasted, besides a brass baton of considerable proportions, was supplied with artillery, and certainly inherited a act of marching songs of rhythm and tradition.

Holy Cross, though outnumbered, possessed an individual star whose equal has perhaps never been seen on the historic Soldiers Field turf. Harvard had its pistol, but the Crusader leader had the Harvard stands on its feet yelling for more of his gravitational magic. The fight might well have been declared a draw by music critics, Harvard's volume equalling the single-handed figuratively, of course--performance of the Crusader's drum major.

The one thing, however, that sent the Crimson music down to its usual early season defeat was its bad manners. There seems to be no valid reason why a Harvard band should not form the letters of even the smallest college team which invades the Stadium. These manoeuvres between the halves are at best but a gesture, and as such they were better not done at all than done ungracefully. If there are to be bands at football games, let them follow the accepted code of football bands, and return the compliments of rival musicians.

If it be argued that to honor every visiting band by learning to play one of its tunes and forming the letter on the field would require too much time, let it be pointed out that college songs are no harder to learn than the light, soothing music with which touchdown-thirsty patrons are entertained during dull periods of the game. The Athletic Association has further made things easier by scheduling only seven games that require separate letters, for even the most rabid stickler on form could scarcely object to using the Purdue "P" for the Pennsylvania game. Philologists further point out that none of the Crimson's rivals--except Holy Cross, which because of its double initials presents grave geometric problems--is very difficult to lay out. What, for instance, could be simpler than Vermont's "V" or Indiana's "I"? Evolutionists also claim that time spent on these fundamentals would enable the band to make a Yale "Y" with almost no practice at all, simply putting one on top of the other.

If Harvard rooters are to be damned to see their drum major out-juggled every Saturday by an embryonic W. C. Fields, they should at least be spared the humiliation of apologizing for the manners of its representatives. To lose a battle of music after a hard fight--and we hope there is nothing wrong with the morale of the musicians--is no disgrace but not to play the game according to the rules is bad, bad.