Once again there are wolves in Cambridge, and lights the color of red-flannel birds whisk up the avenues past guitar-shaped Santas. One Christmas is so much like another these years, when cynics tell you "Yes, Virginia, there is a Harry Byrd," that the holidays become a habit, and an easily broken one at that.
Still, there must be something left of Christmas day and a few people remaining who know the art of riding the daft and happy hills bareback, and to those the CRIMSON wishes a merry, uncle-filled, mufflered, jelly bean Christmas.
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