Red leaves and crisp breezes and blue skies--and even multicolored thoughts--are not the only things which throb in the Vagabond's heart. There's the shrill of the whistle....the sound of the punt...the dodge of the runner....the cries of the crowd....the grunt of the tackle....the call of a play, and, all over again. Yes, gentlemen, there's also the taste of hot dogs, racoons and bad ale. There are passes too high; there are seats too low. There are kicks on the field; there's kicking in the grandstand. There is good interference; and there's the fellow who blocks our view. There are yells; and there's Harvard indifference. There's music; and there's the band. There are scores; and there are Old Golds (adv.) And then again, gentlemen, there's the CRIMSON; and there's Springfield (adv.).
The Vagabond is glad to have this opportunity to welcome Springfield. All he knows about them is what his Sunday-school teacher told him. And for that, for everything he wishes them a nice time. It was from Springfield, he recalls, that a psychologist not so long ago broke into print by breaking the ice in the local lake and saving a drowning terrier. Gentlemen, Welcome to Harvard!
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