he toss and is to have the ball. In my day we had to
kick it; now it is manipulated with the hands, and not forward, but
backward. The players form a phalanx, and one of their number snaps,
as it is called, the ball between his legs to someone behind him, who
in turn passes it to another, who is expected to make a forward dash
with it. Before I can quite realize what is being done the Harvard men
are speeding toward the Yale goal in a V-shaped body. Little Fred has
the ball. Or rather he had it. All I can see now is an indiscriminate
mass of bodies, legs, and arms. A great pile of men are struggling on
the ground, and I have reason to believe that little Fred is at the
bottom of the pile.

"A scrimmage," says Sam, looking round at Josephine.

"Oh, yes," she answers, with apparent calm, but I can feel her tremble.

"This is nothing; it's like this most of the time," says Sam. "You see
he's all right, and----"

A yell cuts him short.

"Good enough! Harvard still has the ball," he continues, at its close.

"Can you see him?" whispers Josephine in my ear.

"He's all right," I murmur, assuringly.

See him! I can see him distinctly. He has lost his cap already; his
hair is in wild confusion; he is covered with dirt from head to foot;
he limps a little. But Harvard still has the ball. And Sam says it is
nothing and like this most of the time. Sam must know.

"Rah! rah! rah! Harvard!" I cry with the rest unflinchingly.

There is a second yell, this time from our enemies. Harvard has lost
the ball and Yale has it. And now before my bewildered eyes scrimmage
follows scrimmage with fierce iteration, and one pile of bodies, arms,
and legs succeeds another. The player, fortunate enough to carry or
force the ball a yard or more toward the rival goal by a frantic rush
before he is overwhelmed and squashed, reaps a whirlwind of applause
from the absorbed multitude. Every inch of ground is disputed. Once
in a long interval when the ball gets dangerously near a goal, someone
on the imperiled side kicks it half the length of the field, and the
scrimmages are renewed. But it is rarely kicked at all except at such
junctures. Foot-ball! I say to myself that it is a gladiatorial
combat with an occasional punt thrown in by way of identification. But
every one around me is declaring that the play of both sides is
magnificent, that the team work is perfection, and the head qualities
displayed unique in the anna