And still his name sounds strong unto the men of Rome,
As a trumpet blast which calls to them to charge the Volsian home;
And wives still pray to Juno for boys with hearts as bold
As his who kept the bridge so well
In the brave days of old.

Well do they know that Mother Princeton is not chary of her praise, when
she knows that they have planted her banner on the loftiest tower of her
enemies' stronghold.

The evenings spent in the Trophy room, the Grill Room of the Princeton
Inn and in the hallways around a cheerful fire of the numerous Princeton
clubs make me think of nights in the Mess room of crack British
regiments, so graphically described by Kipling.

The general public cannot understand the seriousness with which college
athletes take the loss of an important game. There is a Princeton
football Captain who was so broken up over a defeat by Yale that, months
after on the cattle range of New Mexico, as he lay out at night on his
cow-boy bed and thought himself unobserved, he fell to sobbing as if his
heart would break.

A football victory to many men is as dearly longed for as any goal of
ambition in life. How else would they strive so fiercely, one side to
take the ball over, the other to prevent them doing so!

Very few of the public hear the exhortation and cursing as the ball
slowly but irresistibly is rushed to the goal of the opponent.