THE MATCH OF THE SEASON.

YESTERDAY afternoon a large crowd assembled on Jarvis Field to see the remarkable game of ball between the "Harvard Picked Nine" and the "Hod-lifters of Sever Hall." The features of the game were, the Borsair's sharp work as pitcher, the able support the Frauditor gave him behind the bat, and the fine fielding of Blister. We only have space to give a detailed account of the first inning. At precisely three o'clock the Borsair, gracefully poising himself on one toe, let fly the sphere. Moriarty, for the Hod-lifters, amid cries of the crowd of, "Are you there, Moriarty?" drove a liner back to the Borsair, who neatly caught it - between the eyes; notwithstanding the sudden shock, he deftly hurled the red globe to Cunners, on first base, in time to put Moriarty out. Amid the cries of the populace of, "No, you're not there, Moriarty," he returned home, a sadder and a wiser man; taught a lesson which, alas! many of us have learned, that the Borsair is by no means easy to get along with. The next man was pitched out, and the third scraped the airy vault of heaven with what seemed to every one a home run; but little they recked of the noble L. F., the heroic Blister; this gallant man, with measured step and song, froze to the sphere with one hand while running backward, and the Hod-lifters retired with no runs.

Harvard's first men, Everlie and Lightweight, retired in quick succession, and all eyes were turned on Blister, who, with swelling chest, wielded the ponderous ash. Cunners swore it was as exciting as the time he sold the little dog to Mrs. G. Our hero, having soared the air in vain once, knocked a daisy-cutter to C. F., and reached first in safety; Bones rung in a two-baser; Cunners stole his base on three strikes; and Oranges, with a three-baser, brought all his "friends" home. Here the Harvards' success ended; the Borsair failed to make anything, (mirabile dictu!), and the score stood 3-0 in favor of the Harvards.