Wave upon wave, coming in from the horizon, building up great mountains of water, building, coming, gathering, water and foam and sea power--then breaking against hard rock and warm sand, slapping with resounding boom, and washing back to the horizon again.

The battle of the Lampoon was won on a hot spring morning. Charge upon charge ascended the flimsy fire escape, repulsed and thrown back, attacking and winning, and then, at last, dispersed to the solitary gloom of their cob-webbed tile dungeon.

Everybody should play Lacrosse. Telegrams to Senators. Statements from the men in public office. Hooray for Lacrosse. Hooray for the Senators who sent back telegrams.

And, my brethren, let it be known that, from this time henceforth, the lap of John Harvard be considered sacred. Let not the shiny silk of Hayward, Woodworth or Sheridan meet with it, and guard it likewise from the defiling touch of Cambers and his cronies. It is the lap we have fought for, gentlemen--the lap of John. And we have won.

The wave gathered its water and broke upon the warm dry sand, and is now returning to the narrow crease between sea and sky. A new wave is beginning to gather. In time, that will crash and recede, making way for another. That is the life and the power of the sea.