My recollections as an editor of the CRIMSON bring back an association with an unusual group of classmates who made outstanding records. I am today the only survivor, and I think the oldest living editor.

James Albert Frye was appointed Adjutant General of the United States Militia by Governor Guild, and retired in 1907 with the rank of Major General. He is referred to in our 50th class report as the wit of our CRIMSON Board, delighting particularly at festive meetings, and raising a favorite question from month to month with the remark "Well, how about another annual dinner." I can remember his song, "The Same Old Game," the words I think original with him.

On a dark and stormy night

When we've drawn the curtain tight

And the fire gives out a jolly roaring flame,

To grind we are unable,

So we clear the old green table

While we carry on the Same Old Game.

Chorus (after each verse)

The Same Old Game, the Same Old Game,

All others in comparison are tame.

Talk of euchre or of whist,

Play casino if you list,

But we'll carry on the Same Old Game.

With what a smiling face

You catch your third fat ace,

And your mind is in a jolly, jolly frame;

But three aces have no uses

When the next man has four deuces,

But you carry on the Same Old Game.

With four diamonds in your hand

You're apt to think you stand

Some chance of laying to the pot a claim,

But Ay! there comes the rub,

For the card you draw's a club,

But you carry on the Same Old Game.

In the days now far ahead,

When some of us are dead

And the rest on gouty feet are hobbling lame,

We shall sit and sadly muse

On busted straights and I.O.U.'s,

And dream we carry on the Same Old Game.

One of the topics for editorial discussion was continuing the practice of compulsory chapel attendance. Here is something by way of summary quoted from our 50th class report:

"Hark! the morning bell is pealing

Faintly on the drowsy ear,

Far abroad the tidings dealing,

Now the hour of prayer is near. . ...

Kneeling in the quiet chamber,

On the deck, or on the sod,

In the still and early morning,

'Tis the hour to worship God.

But don't you stop to pray in secret,

No time for you to worship there,

The hour approaches,--tempus fugit,--

Tear your shirt or miss a prayer.

Don't stop to wash, don't stop to button,

Go the ways your fathers trod;

Leg it; put it, rush it, streak it:

Run. . ...and worship God." John M. Merriam '86   (Lawyer)