last step with a holiday crowd, good-natured, sympathetic, full
of humor as an American crowd is always. The men march laughing,
talking, nodding to friends in the cars, in the motors, in the
carriages which fly past them; the bands play; the houses are
faced with people come to see the show.

The amphitheatre of Yale Field is packed with more than ten
thousand. The seniors are there with their mothers and fathers,
their pretty little sisters and their proud little brothers--the
flower of the country. One looks about and sees everywhere
high-bred faces, strong faces, open-eyed, drinking in this
extraordinary scene. For there is nothing just like it elsewhere.
Across the field where hundreds of automobiles and carriages are
drawn close--beyond that is a gate-way, and through this, at
three o'clock or so, comes pouring a rainbow. A gigantic,
light-filled, motion-swept rainbow of men. The first rays
of vivid color resolve into a hundred Japanese geishas; they
come dancing, waving paper umbrellas down Yale Field; on their
heels press Dutch kiddie, wooden-shod, in scarlet and white,
with wigs of peroxide hair. Then sailors, some of them twirling
oars--the famous victorious crew of fifteen years back; with
these march a dozen lads from fourteen to eight, the sons of
the class, sailor-clad too; up from their midst as they reach
the centre of the field drifts a flight of blue balloons of all
sizes. Then come the men of twenty years ago stately in white
gowns and mortar-boards; then the Triennials, with a class boy
of two years, costumed in miniature and trundled in a go-cart
by a nervous father. The Highlanders stalk by to the skirl of
bagpipes with their contingent of tall boys, the coming sons
of Alma Mater. The thirty-five-year graduates, eighty strong,