Long ago in the humble Purple Valley, there was a shy but sincere man called Eph. And a lovable Eph he was. With a big top hat, shining brass balls, and an itch to make the world a better place. So he started a school called Williams, where many boys, and eventually girls, could frolic in the fields of lollipops and read books and coordinate massive financial mergers. It was a lovely time for everyone, but for one thing. Oh the taps always flowed (this was before the dreaded party policy and the evil WPD threw a shadow over the land), and the football team always won, but there was something missing.

“Ah,” said one lad with flaming red hair, “it be music we be lackin’!” Malcolm was his name, and he could read those mysterious black dots and lines that decode the enigma of sound. He gathered about him his most trusted pals, chums, and ne’er-do-wells. They practiced and hummed in their sleep for months. The “doos” and “bahs” bounced around in their skulls for what seemed an eternity. Finally, with their voices honed to perfection, and great trepidation in their hearts, they gathered together in the auditorium to entertain. What they lacked in tonality they compensated for in joviality! The people laughed and cried and gushed in their seats and gave thunderous applause at the end, which they wished would never come. And it was good, baby. Malcom’s merry band, having taken the name “The Springstreeters” from the largest – and indeed the only – street in town, soon ventured forth out of the protected Purple Valley. They won the hearts of all of New England, and of several southern sororities as well.

They graduated, of course, those first brave few. But they inspired quite a following, and took many more into their ranks. From year to year the music is handed down to another exuberant youth who can read it, and the legend continues. The Streeters go forth, always to sing, stumble about, and find open arms and warm beds wherever they end up, always with the sacred chant of “Jell-O” to spur them to action, and always with their Greavis (sic) beverage at the ready. Onward, O Streeters! And let none wear frock nor frown whilst we draw breath!