THE DESERTED VILLAGE

Today Cambridge except for those luckless youths who must watch the game from the Union scoreboard, is as empty as a box marked "discarded baseballs" after an assistant manager has been near. By train, boat, automobile, airplane, even a few by "ride soliciting", Harvard is making its way southward, as the swallow flies. Last night New York was filled with the men who by day walk Mount Auburn Street. This morning the gentleman from Indiana and Westmorly, arm in arm with the class baby of 1911, will measure with his eye the cool quadrangles of Princeton, and to him they will be dodecahedron.

And "the baseball girls", God bless them. Mount Holyoke, Radcliffe, Wheaton, Goucher send them, and they jump daintily from the top step of the car into waiting arms. They danced far into this morning; yet their eyes will be sparkling with bright glee when the maid awakens them and they slip into silk for luncheon at the Princeton clubs. The ladies, not the players, dominate the day. Tiny rose faces, cheering madly, and yet not quite knowing Sweezy from Stevens. Cheer not overloud, mesdames, for one has much dancing yet to do. Tonight along the Street of Strange Sights (Broadway) the Crimson mingles with the Orange and the Black. "I will be a brave show.