Give Me a 'Y'

Ah, Yale. The very word lightens the head, sets the blood racing through the veins and arteries. Yale. Say it loud--there's an orchestra playing. Say it soft, and it's almost like praying. Yale.

It is pleasant indeed to be back at Yale. Here among our little cousins, we can relax and be "one of the guys." Far from wishing to give top hats to Hottentots, we want our little friends to stay the way they are--well-brushed, neatly combed, and disgustingly cheerful.

It means a lot to us ot feel a hearty Yale slap on our backs. (And think what delightful shivers will go down the spine of each lucky girl when her very own, pre-scrubbed Yale man murmurs in her ear, "Please, dear--all the other fellows are doing it.")

Four our part, we're sorry the annual athletic rite could not be a more evenly-matched affair. Perhaps some other time. But we are secure in the knowledge that our hosts will be good sports, as they have had to be so often about so many things. A Yale man is brought up in the belief that a good follower is as important as a good leader. We can only stand and wonder at how well he plays his role. To each and every Yale man we say, "Stout little fellow. Carry on."