Harvard, the individual, living in ancient tradition, yet always young: Yale, the realist and man of action, the Crimson and the Blue, drawn together, from all parts of a nation, from all over the world; intermingling, old rivals and older friends.

Down Boylston street, the bands swing along with beating drums and strident horns. A hobbing mass of heads, red feathers and blue, fill the street from curb to curb old men and young men, girls of '89 and '29 jostle one another with that unconcern born of a singleness of purpose and a forgetting of time and space. For over thirty years some of these men have strode along on a certain. November afternoon to witness John Harvard and the Bull Dog play their game, not only for supremacy in strength, but supremacy, in sportsmanship. Others are in the flush of expectation that comes from the first experience. Across the Lars Anderson Bridge the crowd pours like sparkling champagne down the stem of a slender glass.

The Salvation Army hopefully beats its tambourines in the faces of prosperous looking passers by. Pious friends and drunken companions are all carried along in the careless hurry. Insistent boys thrust score cards into the hands of smiling girls. And the almost endless cry with the rythm of innumerable feet, "Get your favorite colors here,--souvenir of the game--." And so the curtain rises once again.