Wha'd We Tell You?

Custer is avenged! Nine dusky sons of the setting sun, with pomp and circumstsnce and panoply of war, burst through the confines of Ann Arbor last Friday. Where now are those "nine little Indians?" They carne, saw and were overéame. The tomahawk and scalping knife, together lay at rest, for death is in the forest shade and in the redman's breast; and the Spotted Fawn rnourneth for her lover, while his scalp hangeth in pickle on the lugpole, in the wigwam of the pale-face. O Spotted Fawn! O Spotted Fawn! Light of life in the forest shade, the red chief's child's undone! The Great Spirit was not sufficiently invoked on the dusky side of Friday's ball game. The whole squad was scalped without mercy. It was the Little Big Horn disaster reversed. The slaughter was so easy that defeating the Chippewas was just like delibérate murder. The attendance was not large. but there was a generous sprinkling of ladies among the spectators. As our reporter is not an expert Iinguist in the Chippewa tongue, he may have failed to perfectly catch the exact phonetics of the dialect, but believes he has the names of the Indian nine down pat, and the following is the roster: Tear-his-shirc, Sitting-Heifer, Can't-play-Ball-a-little-bit, Ripped-up-the-back, Littleman - afraid - of-his - in -law, Faded-Jacket, Big-gall, Heap-cheek and Hole-in-his-pants. At the end of the 7Ü1 inning the score stood 25 to 2 in favor of the Ann Arbor club, and the game was called. It was no use. The optie of the Chippewas was totally unable to comprehend the Irish twist of McPherran's pitching. Lo the poor Indian whose untutered mind sees not the ball, nor notes its Irish wind!