THE GAME.

Enter the Bulldog! With blood in his eye he invades the Stadium this afternoon to wipe out the sting of early season defeats and carry back to the elmbowered streets of New Haven the scalp of John Harvard. Anyone who knows the Bulldog of old knows that he is a fighter; that the words of the prophets are likely to be violently upset, and that the game is not won till the final shrill blast of the whistle.

The Harvard team will go on the field a favorite, its goal-line uncrossed except by Princeton two weeks ago. The Bulldog, on the contrary, is considerably the worse for wear; the claw-marks of the Tiger have not yet healed. Yet for that reason Yale, always a fighting organization, will fight harder than ever. It is Harvard's job to smother the grim, determined blue-jerseyed eleven, and we have faith that the Harvard machine can do it. The Crimson team has the driving, smashing power of a locomotive. Whether Yale can stop it remains to be seen.

It is a bruised and battered Bulldog that invades Cambridge today--bruised and battered and doubly dangerous. We have every faith in Coach Fisher's team; it needs our backing, and it has it. We must not fail that team for an instant. For the Bulldog's teeth are sharp; and today, as never before, is it true that a Harvard-Yale game is not won "till the last white line is passed!"