ey are the most
unpleasant-looking band of ruffians I have ever beheld. Nor are my
fond paternal eyes able to make a reservation in little Fred's favor on
this point. I have considerable difficulty, indeed, in distinguishing
him from his mates, though Josephine declares that she singled him out
the moment he appeared on the scene. He suggests to me a compromise
between a convict and a hod-carrier. Nevertheless, my eyes begin to
water as I follow his every movement, and my pulses throb eagerly. At
the same time I am impelled to link my arm affectionately in my son
David's, next to whom I am sitting. I cannot help wondering what he,
dear boy, is thinking of it all. He is perfectly healthy, but he is
slight, and will never be an athlete. His tastes do not run in that
direction. He graduated at school last summer next to the head of his
class, and it was no class of two, but of twenty times that number. We
were very proud of it, Josephine and I. We went to the exhibition and
saw him receive a number of prizes. It was a pleasant occasion, but
how trifling and insignificant were the plaudits he received compared
with the uproarious ovation accorded a successful half-back. I feel
almost indignant, even in the midst of my excitement over little Fred,
and would fain throw my arms round his brother's neck and whisper that
he must not take the matter to heart, and that the whole business is
terribly unjust.

Now comes another uproar, and this time from the opposite side of the
field. The Yale eleven have arrived and are stripping off their
jerseys. They career over the arena in dirt color and dark blue, while
the dark blue benches surge tumultuously. There is no more delay. The
umpire calls the game, and the two sides line up for action. I feel
Josephine, who is on my other side, clutch my arm and sigh. There is
only one object for her on the field, as I well know. She has been
trying to learn the rules from Sam for the last half hour (she doubts
my knowledge on such subjects nowadays), and I can see that she is
seeking in vain to concentrate her mind on her new-found information
and to shut out the vision of little Fred being borne off the field on
a litter. I confess that Horace Plympton's letter recurs to me for a
moment, but I shake myself and utter an inward "Pooh!" and haughtily
determine to view the contest dispassionately and from the standpoint
of a third person and a philosopher.

Harvard has won t