what an absurd donkey excessive conceit can make a man. It has no sympathy with grumpy, selfish brutes, whose science consists in swiping, and who think more of their individual performance than the honor of the game. Neither has it affinity for those model specimens of propriety who think a young man is on the road to perdition unless he is always reading good books, and making himself a bore to his friends by stale, hypocritical moral conversation—those nice young men in black broadcloth who never can take a joke, and who prefer draughts with other nice young men to healthy Lacrosse. The game of Lacrosse dislikes all hypocrisy, unnaturalness, and assumption, and it is the very thing to knock all such out of a man. By the shade of Tullock-chish-ko,[1] it is a glorious game!
Take those whining schoolboys who "creep unwillingly to school," give them crosses, encourage them to go into it, rough-and-tumble if they will until they learn better play, and the sapling will shoot into finer plant, and the lessons come easier and stay longer. Lacrosse quickens and brightens
- ↑ The greatest player among the Choctaws of old.
