23rd. Got down to New Haven Saturday morning in three hours ten minutes. A weather eye for blue uniforms in dark Fords on the way but no mishap. Ten thousand men of Harvard cluttering the lobby of the Taft. Steering my love through the swirl and, just for fun, the open-air trolley out to the Bowl. Gulping excitement before the game that lasted till Yale's second score and then died into despair but came bounding back again with the second-half surge. My voice gone midway the third period, creaking come on, come on, come on, come on. An Eli somehow in the seat ahead of us. One blue feather in a sea of crimson. Pummelling the Eli when we got our second touchdown . . .

The attempt for point after, from where we were it looked like a good one. It doesn't go up and it doesn't go up on the scoreboard. My last jubilant croak dies in the aesophagus. Sudden and blinding revelation. It was no goal.

Blue jerseys and red jerseys arms around shoulders, a half-fledged snakedance on the field, hats waving in "Bright College Years". Hours to get out of the Bowl, hours to get back to the Taft. Gloomy cocktails.

And on Sunday back to the books. The academic year traditionally begins after the Yale game. Be careful to get to the first class this morning, a hangover from Freshman year. Santa Claus soon, with a bag full of midyears. So much to do. Get the cogs meshed, the wheels moving...

And tomorrow to learn more about a favorite. Professor Murdock, at nine in Harvard 2--English 30--on "Sir Thomas Browne". What Song the Syrens sang...