captained the Rutgers Team that day, and he told me that his life had
been a burden to him at times, and like Job, he felt like cursing God
and dying, because often upon coming into a café or even a hotel
dining-room some half drunken acquaintance would yell out, "Hello, Phil,
old man, could you die for dear Old Rutgers?"

Several years ago while in the Kentucky Militia in connection with one
of those feud cases, I was asked by a private if I were related to Edgar
Allan Poe, "De mug what used to write poetry," and when I replied, "Yes,
he was my grandmother's first cousin," he, evidently thinking I was too
boastful, remarked, "Well, man, you've got a swell chance."

So, knowing that the football season is near I think I have a "swell
chance" to tell some of the old football stories handed down at
Princeton from college generation to generation. If I have hurt any old
Princeton players' feelings, I do humbly ask pardon and assure them that
it is unintentional; for as the Indians would put it, my heart is warm
toward them, and, when I die, place my hands upon my chest and put their
hands between my hands.

With apologies to Kipling in his poem when he speaks of the parting of
the Colonial troops with the Regulars:

"There isn't much we haven't shared
For to make the Elis run.
The same old hurts, the same old breaks,
The same old rain and sun.
The same old chance which knocked us out
Or winked and let us through.
The same old joy, the same old sorrow,