"It is hard," wrote the Harvard Crimson tolerantly, "to view riots in New Haven with the same alarm as those in Nyasaland." The pother at Yale had begun the week before, when a fine fall of late winter snow had coincided with a fettlesome rise of early spring sap. When, at 10 o'clock one night, the Harkness bells clanged out "Bulldog, Bulldog," the results were more or less predictable. Frosh surged out of dormitories like beer from a sprung keg, and began pitching snowballs. Brawlers leaked over locked gates and through classroom buildings into the streets, made a token charge at...
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