"'You can change your jersey now; that is, put on a dry one.'

"I went over to the training table then to see if I couldn't get some dinner. Believe me, I was hungry. But every one had finished his meal and all I could pick up was the things that were left. Here I ran into a fellow named Brennen, who said:

"'They're trying to do you up. This is the day they are deciding whether you will be center rush or not.'

"I then went out to Yale Field and joined the rest of the players, and the stunts they put me through that afternoon I will never forget. But I remembered what Brennen had told me, and it made me play all the harder. To tell the truth, after practice, I realized that I was so sore I could hardly put one foot ahead of the other. To make matters worse, the coaches told me to run in to town, a distance of two miles, while they drove off in a bus. I didn't catch the bus until they were on Park Street, but I pegged along just the same and beat them in to the gate. Billy Rhodes and Pa Corbin took care of me and rubbed me down. It seems as though they rubbed every bit of skin off of me. I was like fire.

"That's the day I made the Yale team.

"I was twenty years old, six feet tall, and weighed about 200 pounds."

When I asked Sandy who gave him the hardest game of his life, he replied promptly:

"Wharton, of Pennsylvania. He got through me."

Parke Davis' enthusiasm for football is known the country over. From his experience as a player, as a coach and writer, he has become an authority. Let us read some of his recollections.

"Years ago there was a high spirited young player at Princeton serving his novitiate upon the scrub. One day an emergency transferred him for the first time in his career to the Varsity. The game was against a small college. This sudden promotion was possible through his fortunate knowledge of the varsity signals. Upon the first play a fumble occurred. Our hero seized the ball. A long service upon the scrub had ingrained him to regard the Princeton Varsity men always as opponents. In the excitement of the play he became confused, when lo! he leaped into flight toward the wrong goal. Dashing around Princeton's left end he reversed his field and crossed over to the right. Phil King, Princeton's quarterback, was so amazed at the performance that he was too spellbound to tackle his comrade. Down the backfield the player sped towards his own goal. Shep Homans, his fullback, took in the impending catastrophe at a glance and dashed forward, laid the halfback low with a sharp tackle, thereby preventing a safety. The game was unimportant, the Princeton's score was large, so the unfortunate player, although the butt of many a jest, soon survived all jokes and jibes and became in time a famous player."

"The first Princeton-Yale game in 1873 being played under the old Association rules was waged with a round ball. In the first scrimmage a terrific report sounded across the field. When the contending players had been separated the poor football was found upon the field a flattened sheet of rubber. Two toes had struck it simultaneously or some one's huge chest had crushed it and the ball had exploded.

"Whenever men are discussing the frantic enthusiasm of some fellows of the game I always recall the following episode as a standard of measurement. The Rules Committee met one night at the Martinique in New York for their annual winter session. Just as the members were going upstairs to convene, I had the pleasure of introducing George Foster Sanford to Fielding H. Yost. The introduction was made in the middle of the lobby directly in the way of the traffic passing in and out of the main door. The Rules Committee had gone into its regular session; the hour was eight o'clock in the evening. When they came down at midnight these two great football heroes were standing in the very spot where they were introduced four hours before and they were talking as they had been every minute throughout the four hours about football. Members of the Committee joked with the two enthusiasts and then retired. When they came down stairs the next morning at eight o'clock they found the two fanatics seated upon a bench nearby still talking football, and that afternoon when the Committee had finished its labors and had adjourned sine die they left Sanford and Yost still in the lobby, still on the bench, hungry and sleepy and still talking football."

This anecdote will be a good one for Parke Davis' friends to read, for how he ever stayed out of that talk-fest is a mystery—maybe he did.

Now that Yost and Sanford have retired we will let Parke continue.

"A few years ago everybody except Dartmouth men laughed at the football which, bounding along the ground at Princeton suddenly jumped over the cross bar and gave to Princeton a goal from the field which carried with it the victory. But did you ever hear that in the preceding season, in a game between two Southern Pennsylvania colleges, a ball went awry from a drop kick, striking in the chest a policeman who had strayed upon the field? The ball rebounded and cleanly caromed between the goal post for a goal from the field. Years ago Lafayette and Pennsylvania State College were waging a close game at Easton. Suddenly, and without being noticed, Morton F. Jones, Lafayette's famous center-rush in those days, left the field of play to change his head gear. The ball was snapped in play and a fleet Penn State halfback broke through Lafayette's line, and, armed with the ball, dodged the second barriers and threatened by a dashing sprint to score in the extreme corner of the field. As he reached the 10-yard line, to the amazement of all, Jones dashed out of the side line crowd upon the field between the 10-yard line and his goal, thereby intercepting the State halfback, tackling him so sharply that the latter dropped the ball. Jones picked it up and ran it back 40 yards. There was no rule at that time which prevented the play, and so Penn-State ultimately was defeated. Jones not only was a hero, but his exploit long remained a mystery to many who endeavored to figure out how he could have been 25 yards ahead of the ball and between the runner and his own goal line."

A story is told of the wonderful dodging ability of Phil King, Princeton '93. He was known throughout the football world as one of the shiftiest runners of his day. Through his efficient work, King had fairly won the game against Yale in '93. The next year the Yale men made up their minds that the only way to defeat Princeton was to take care of King, and they were ever on the alert to watch him whenever he got the ball. The whole Yale team was looking for King throughout this game.

On the kick-off Phil got the ball, and all the Yale forwards began to shout, "Here he comes, here he comes," and then as he was cleverly dodging and evading the Yale players, one of the backs, who was waiting to tackle him low, was heard to say, "There he goes."

Those of the old-timers who study the picture of the flying wedge on the opposite page will get a glimpse of Phil King about to set in motion one of the most devilishly ingenious maneuvers in the history of the game. With all the formidable power behind him, the old reliables of what the modern analytical coaches are pleased to term the farce plays. Balliet, Beef Wheeler, Biffy Lea, Gus Holly, Frank Morse, Doggy Trenchard, Douglas Ward, Knox Taylor, Harry Brown, Jerry McCauley, and Jim Blake; King, nevertheless, stood out in lonely eminence, ready to touch the ball down, await the thunder of the joining lines of interference and pick up the tremendous pace, either at the apex of the crashing V or cunningly concealed and swept along to meet the terrific impact with the waiting line of Blue. Great was the crash thereof, and it was a safe wager that King with the ball would not go unscathed.



This kind of football brought to light the old-time indomitable courage of which the stalwarts of those days love to talk at every gridiron reunion.

But for the moment let us give Yale the ball and stand the giant Princeton team upon defense. Let us watch George Adee get the ball from Phil Stillman and with his wonderful football genius develop a smashing play enveloped in a locked line of blue, grim with the menace of Orville Hickok, Jim McCrea, Anse Beard, Fred Murphy, Frank Hinkey and Jack Greenway.

Onward these mighty Yale forwards ground their way through the Princeton defense, making a breach through which the mighty Butterworth, Bronc Armstrong and Brink Thorne might bring victory to Yale.

This was truly a day when giants clashed.

As you look at these pictures do the players of to-day wonder any longer that the heroes of the olden time are still loyal to the game of their first love?

If you ever happen to go to China, I am sure one of the first Americans you will hear about would be Pop Gailey, once a king of football centers and now a leader in Y. M. C. A. work in China.

Lafayette first brought Pop Gailey forth in '93 and '94, and he was the champion All-American center of the Princeton team in '96. He had a wonderful influence over the men on the team. He was an example well worth following. His manly spirit was an inspiration to those about him. After one of the games a newspaper said:

"Old Gailey stands firm as the Eternal Calvinistic Faith, which he intends to preach when his football scrimmages are over."

To Charlie Young, the present professor of physical instruction of the Cornell University gymnasium, I cannot pay tribute high enough for the fine football spirit and the high regard with which we held him while he was at the Princeton Seminary. He certainly loved to play football and he used to come out and play on the scrub team against the Princeton varsity. He was not eligible to play on the Princeton team, as he had played his allotted time at Cornell.

The excellent practice he gave the Princeton team—yes, more than practice: it was oftentimes victory for him as well as the scrub. He made Poe and Palmer ever alert and did much to make them the stars they were, as Charlie's long suit was running back punts. His head work was always in evidence. He was a great field general; one of his most excellent qualities was that of punting. His was an ideal example for men to follow. Princeton men were the better for having played with and against a high type man like Charlie Young.

AN EVENING WITH JIM RODGERS

Jim Rodgers gave all there was in him to Yale athletics. Not a single year has passed since he played his last game of football but has seen him back at the Yale field, coaching and giving the benefit of his experience.

Jim Rodgers was captain of the '97 team at New Haven, and the traditions that can be written about a winning captain are many. No greater pleasure can be afforded any man who loves to hear an old football player relate experiences than to listen, while Rodgers tells of his own playing days, and of some of the men in his experience.

It was once my pleasure to spend an evening with Jim in his home; really a football home. Mrs. Rodgers knows much of football and as Jim enthusiastically and with wonderfully keen recollection tells of the old games, a twelve-year-old boy listens, as only a boy can to his father, his great hero, and as Jim puts his hand on the boy's shoulders he tells him the ideal of his dreams is to have him make the Yale team some day, and an enthusiastic daughter who sits near hopes so too. His scrap books and athletic pictures go to make a rare collection.

Many of us would like to have seen Jim Rodgers begin his football career at Andover when he was sixteen years old. It was there that his 180 pounds of bone and muscle stood for much. It was at Andover that Bill Odlin, that great Dartmouth man, coached so many wonderful prep. school stars, who later became more famous at the colleges to which they went.

Rodgers went to Yale with a big rep. He had been captain of the Andover team. In the fall of '92 Andover beat Brown 24 to 0. Jim Rodgers was very conspicuous on the field, not only on account of his good playing and muscular appearance, but because his blond hair, which he wore very long as a protection, was very noticeable.

From this Yale player, whose friends are legion, let us read some experiences and catch his spirit:

"I was never a star player, but I was a reliable. In my freshman year I did not make the team, owing to the fact that I had bad knees and better candidates were available. This was the one year in Yale football, perhaps in all football, when the team that played the year before came back to college with not a man missing. Frank Hinkey had been captain the year before and then came through as senior captain. There was not a senior on Frank Hinkey's team. The first team, therefore, all came back.

"Al Jerrems and Louis Hinkey were the only additions to the old team.

"Perhaps the keenest disappointment that ever came to me in football was the fact that I could not play in that famous Yale-Harvard game my freshman year. However, I came so very near it that Billy Rhodes and Heffelfinger came around to where I was sitting on the side lines, after Fred Murphy had been taken out of the game. They started to limber me up by running me up and down the side line, but Hinkey, the captain, came over to the side line and yelled for Chadwick, who went into the game. I had worked myself up into a highly nervous condition anticipating going in, but now I realized my knees would not allow it. The disappointment that day, though, was very severe. To show you what a hold these old games had on me, many years after this game Hinkey and I were talking about this particular game, when he said to me: 'You never knew how close you came to getting into that Springfield game, Jim.' Then I told him of my experience, but he told me he had it in his mind to put me in at halfback, and ever since then, when I think of it, cold chills run up and down my spine. It absolutely scared me stiff to think how I might have lost that game, even though I never actually participated in it.

"The Yale football management, however, on account of my work during the season decided to give me my Y, gold football and banner. The banner was a blue flag with the names of the team and the position they played and the score, 12 to 6. It was a case where I came so near winning it that they gave it to me."

Jim Rodgers played three years against Garry Cochran and this great Princeton captain stands out in his recollections of Yale-Princeton games. He goes on to say:

"If it had not been for Garry Cochran, I might be rated as one of the big tackles of the football world to-day. I used to dream of him three weeks before the Princeton game; how I was going to stand him off, and let me tell you if you got in between Doc Hillebrand and Garry Cochran you were a sucker. Those games were a nightmare to me. Cochran used to fall on my foot, box me in and hold me there, and keep me out of the play."

Jim Rodgers is very modest in this statement. The very reason that he is regarded as a truly wonderful tackle is on account of the great game he played against Cochran. How wonderfully reliable he was football history well records. He was always to be depended upon.

"In the fall of 1897 when I was captain of the Yale team," Rodgers continues, "perhaps the most spectacular Yale victory was pulled off, when Princeton, with the exception of perhaps two men, and virtually the same team that had beaten Yale the year before, came on the field and through overconfidence or lack of training did not show up to their best form. We were out for blood that day. I said to Johnny Baird, Princeton quarterback: 'Princeton is great to-day. We have played ten minutes and you haven't scored.' Johnny, with a look of determination upon his face, said, 'You fellows can play ten times ten minutes and you'll never score,' but the Princeton football hangs in the Yale trophy room.

"I have always claimed that Charlie de Saulles put the Yale '97 team on the map. Charlie de Saulles, with his three wonderful runs, which averaged not less than 60 yards each, really brought about the victory.

"Frank Butterworth as head coach will always have my highest regard; he did more than any one alive could have done to pull off an apparently impossible victory."

"One great feature of this game was Ad Kelly's series of individual gains, aided by Hillebrand and Edwards, through Rodgers and Chadwick. Kelly took the ball for 40 consecutive yards up the field in gains of from one to three yards each, when fortunately for Yale, a fumble gave them the ball. When the fumble occurred, I happened at the time to break through very fast. There lay the ball on the ground, and nobody but myself near it. The great chance was there to pick it up and perhaps, even with my slow speed, gain 20 to 30 yards for Yale. No such thought, however, entered my head. I wanted that ball and curled up around it and hugged it as a tortoise would close in its shell. My recollection is now that I sat there for about five minutes before anybody deigned to fall on me. At all events, I had the ball.

"Gordon Brown played as a freshman on my team. He had a football face that I liked. He weighed 185 pounds and was 6 feet 4 inches tall. Gordon went up against Bouve in the Harvard game, and the critics stated that Bouve was the best guard in the country that year. I said to Gordon, 'Play this fellow the game of his life, and when you get him, let me know and I'll send some plays through you.' After about sixty minutes of play Gordon came to me and said, 'Jim, I've got him,' and he had him all right, for we were then successful in gaining through that part of the Harvard line. Gordon Brown was a very earnest player. He would allow nothing to stop him. He got his ears pretty well bruised up and they bothered him a great deal. In fact, he did have to lay off two or three days. He came to me and said, 'Do you think this injury will keep me out of the big game?' 'Well, I'll see if the trainer cannot make a head-gear for you.' 'Well, I'll tell you this, Jim,' said Gordon, 'I'll have 'em cut off before I'll stay out of the game.' This amused me, and I said, 'Gordon, you have nothing of beauty to lose. You will keep your ears and you will play in the big games.'

"Gordon Brown's team, under Malcolm McBride as head coach, was a wonder. This eleven, to our minds, was the best ever turned out by Yale University. They defeated Princeton 29 to 5, and the powerful Harvard team 28 to 0. Their one weakness was that they had no long punter, but, as they expressed it to me afterward, they had no need of one. At one time during the game with Harvard they took the ball on their own 10-yard line and, instead of kicking, marched it up the field, and in a very few rushes scored a touchdown. Harvard men afterwards told me that after seeing a few minutes of the game they forgot the strain of Harvard's defeat in their admiration of Yale's playing. This team showed the highest co-ordination between the Yale coaching staff, the college, and the players, and they set a high-water mark for all future teams to aim at, which was all due to Gordon Brown's genius for organization and leadership."

It has been my experience in talking of football stars with some of the old-timers that Frank Hinkey heads the list. I cannot let Frank Hinkey remain silent this time. He says:

"I think it was in the Fall of '95 that Skim Brown, who played the tackle position, was captain of the scrubs team at New Haven. Brown was a very energetic scrub captain. He was continuously urging on his men to better work. As you recall, the cry, 'Tackle low and run low,' was continuously called after the teams in those days. Brown's particular pet phrase in urging his men was, 'Run low.' So that he, whenever the halfback received the ball, would immediately start to holler, 'Run low,' and would keep this up until the ball was dead. He got so in the habit of using this call when on the offense that one day when the quarterback called upon him to run with the ball from the tackle position even before he got the ball he started to cry, 'Run low,' while carrying the ball himself, and continued to cry out, 'Run low,' even after he had gained ground for about fifteen yards and until the ball was dead.

"It was in the Fall of '92 when Vance McCormick was captain of the Yale team, and Diney O'Neal was trying for the guard position. As you know, the linemen are very apt to know only the signals on offense which call for an opening at their particular position. And even then a great many of them never know the signals. Now Diney was bright enough, but like most linemen did not know the signals. It happened one day that McCormick, at the quarterback position, called several plays during the afternoon that required O'Neal to make an opening. O'Neal invariably failed because he didn't know the signals. McCormick, suspecting this, finally gave O'Neal a good calling down. The calling down fell flat in its effects on O'Neal as his reply to McCormick was, 'To Hell with your mystic signs and symbols—give me the ball!'"

"The real founder of football at Dartmouth was Bill Odlin," writes Ed Hall. "Odlin learned his football at Andover, and came to Dartmouth with the class of '90 and it was while he was in college that football really started. He was practically the only coach. He was a remarkable kicker—certainly one of the best, if not the best. In the Fall of '89 Odlin was captain of the team and playing fullback. Harvard and Yale played at Springfield and on the morning of the Harvard-Yale game Dartmouth and Williams played on the same field. It was in this game in the Fall of '89 that he made his most remarkable kick in which the wind was a very important element. In the second half Odlin was standing practically on his own ten yard line. The ball was passed back to him to be kicked and he punted. The kick itself was a remarkable kick and perfect in every way, but when the wind caught it it became a wonder and it went along like a balloon. The wind was really blowing a gale and the ball landed away beyond the Williams' quarterback and the first bounce carried it several yards beyond their goal line. Of course any such kick as this would have been absolutely impossible except for the extreme velocity and pressure of the wind, but it was easily the longest kick I ever saw.

"Three times during Odlin's football playing he kicked goals from the 65 yard line and while at Andover he kicked a placed kick from a mark in the exact center of the field, scoring a goal."

When Brown men discuss football their recollections go back to the days of Hopkins and Millard, of Robinson, McCarthy, Fultz, Everett Colby and Gammons, Fred Murphy, Frank Smith, the giant guard; that great spectacular player, Richardson, and other men mentioned elsewhere in this book.

In a recent talk with that sterling fellow, Dave Fultz, he told me something about his football career. It was, in part, as follows:—

"I played at Brown in '94, '95, '96 and '97, captaining the team in my last year. Gammons and I played in the backfield together. He was unquestionably a great runner with the ball; one of the hardest men to hurt, I think, I ever saw. I have often seen him get jolts, go down, and naturally one would think go out entirely, but when I would go up to him, he would jump up as though he had not felt it. I think Everett Colby was as good a man interfering for the runner as I have seen. He played quarterback and captained the Brown team in '96. I don't think there was ever a better quarterback than Wyllys D. Richardson, Rich, as we used to call him."



Dave Fultz is very modest and when he discusses his football experiences he sidetracks one and talks of his fellow college players. Now that I have pinned him down, he goes on to say:

"The day before we played the Indians one year my knee hurt me so much that I had to go to the doctor. He put some sort of ointment on it. Two days before this game I could hardly move my leg; the doctor threatened me with water on the knee; he told me to go to bed and stay there, but I told him we had a game in New York and I had to go. He said, 'All right, if you want water on the knee.' I said, 'I've got to go if I am at all able.' Anyway, I went on down to New York with the team and played in the game. All I needed was to get warmed up good and I went along in great shape."

Those who remember reading the accounts of that game will recall that Dave Fultz made some miraculous runs that day and was a team in himself.

Fred Murphy, who was captain of the '98 team at Brown and played end rush, says:

"I think Dave Fultz played under more difficulties than any man that ever played the game. I have seen him play with a heavy knee brace. He had his shoulder dislocated several times and I have seen him going into the game with his arm strapped down to his side, so he could just use his forearm. He played a number of games that way. That happened when he was captain. He was absolutely conscientious, fearless and a good leader."

In 1904, Fred Murphy coached at Exeter. Fred says:

"This was probably the best team that Exeter had had up to that time. The team was captained by Tommy Thompson, who afterwards played at Cornell. Eddie Hart at that time stripped at about 195 pounds. This was the famous team on which Donald MacKenzie MacFadyen played and later made the Princeton varsity. Tad Jones was quarterback the first year he came to school. In those days they took to football intuitively without much coaching. You never had to tell Tad Jones a thing more than once. He would think things out for himself. He showed great powers of leadership and good football sense. Howard Jones and Harry Vaughn played on this team."

"Charlie McCarthy of Brown will long be remembered for his great punting ability," says Fred Murphy. "He had a great many pet theories. McCarthy is one of the best football men in the Brown list." In a letter which I have received from Charlie McCarthy, as a result of a wonderful victory over Minnesota one year, McCarthy writes:

"The students of the University gave me a beautiful gold watch engraved on the inside—'To our Friend Mac from the students of the University of Wisconsin.'" This shows how highly McCarthy is held at this University.

McCarthy continues, "I go out every fall and kick around with the boys still and I hope to do so the rest of my life if I get a chance. I think the greatest football player I ever saw was Frank Hinkey. Speaking of my own ability as a player, I haven't much to say. I was not much of a football player but I got by some way. I neither had the physique, nor the ability, but tried to do my best. I am glad to say no one ever called me a quitter. I am proud to say that Brown University gave me a beautiful silver cup at the end of my four years for the best work in football, although the said cup belongs by rights to ten other men on the team."

As one visits the dressing room of the New York Giants and sees the attendant work upon the wonderful physique of Christy Mathewson, one cannot help but realize what a potent factor he must have been on Bucknell's team. When Christy played he was 6 feet tall and weighed 168 pounds stripped. He prepared at Keystone Academy, playing in the line. In 1898, when he went to Bucknell, he was immediately put at fullback and played there three years.

Fred Crolius says of him: "Of all the long distance punters with hard kicks to handle, Percy Haughton and Christy Mathewson stand out in his memory. Mathewson had the leg power to turn his spiral over. That is, instead of dropping where ordinary spirals always drop, an additional turn seemed to carry the ball over the head of the back who was waiting for the ball, often carrying some fifteen or twenty yards beyond."

Football has no more ardent admirer than Christy Mathewson. It will be interesting to hear what he has to say of his experience in the game of football.

"I liked to play football," says Mathewson. "I was a better football player than a baseball player in those days. I was considered a good punter. I was not much as a line bucker. The captain of the team always gave me a football to take with me in the summer. I occasionally had an opportunity to practice kicking after I was through with my baseball work.

"At Taunton, Mass., my first summer, I ran across a fellow who was playing third base on the team for which I was pitching. MacAndrews was his name. He was a Dartmouth man. He showed me how to kick. He showed me how to drop a spiral. I liked to drop-kick and used to practice it quite a little."



"I remember how tough it was for me when Bucknell played Annapolis the year before when the Navy team had a man who could kick such wonderful spirals. They were terribly hard to handle, and I was determined to profit by his example. So I just hung on for dear life, punting spirals all summer. Later I used to watch George Brooke punt a good deal when he was coaching."

"At that time drop kickers were not so numerous. I had some recollection of a fellow named O'Day, who had a great reputation as a drop-kicker, as did Hudson of Carlisle. In 1898 we were to play Pennsylvania. Our team served as a preliminary game for Pennsylvania. They often beat us by large scores. Since then we have had teams which made a 6 to 5 score. But they had good teams in my time. We never scored on Penn, as I recall.

"Our coach said one day, at the training table, 'I'll give a raincoat to the fellow who scores on Penn to-day.' The manager walked in and overheard his remark and added, 'Yes, and I'll give a pair of shoes to the man who makes the second score against Penn.' That put some 'pep' into us. Anyway, we were on Penn's 35-yard line and I kicked a field goal. After this we rushed the ball and got up to Penn's 40-yard line, and from there I scored again, thereby winning the shoes and the raincoat.

"I went up to Columbia one day to see them practice. It was in the days when Foster Sanford was their coach. He saw me standing on the side lines; came over to where I was; looked me over once or twice and finally said:

"'Why aren't you trying for the team? I think you'd make a football player if you came out.'

"I said I guessed I would not be eligible.

"'Why?' asked Sandy.

"'Well," I said, 'because I'm a professional.' Then some fellows around me grinned and told Sanford who I was.

"I love to think of the good old football days and some of the spirit that entered collegiate contests. Once in a while, in baseball, I feel the thrill of that spirit. It was only recently that I experienced that get-together spirit, where a team full of life with everybody working together wrought great results. That same old thrill came to me during one of the Giants' trips in the West in which they won seventeen straight victories.

"There is much good fellowship in football. I played against teams whose cheer leaders would give you a rousing cheer as you made a good play; then again you would meet the fellow who, when you were down in the scrimmage, or after you had kicked the ball, would try to put you down and out.

"One of the pleasantest recollections I have of playing was my experience against the two great academy teams, West Point and Annapolis.

"Never shall I forget one year when Bucknell played West Point. At an exciting moment in the game, Bucknell players made it possible for me to be in a position to kick the goal from the field from a difficult angle. After the score had been made the West Point team stood there stupefied, and when the crowd got the idea that a goal had been kicked from a peculiar angle, they gave us a rousing cheer. Such is the proper spirit of American football; to see some sunshine in your opponent's play.

"Cheering helps so much to build up one's enthusiasm."

Al Sharpe was one of the greatest all-around athletes that ever wore the blue of Yale. He, too, recalls the Yale-Princeton game of 1899 at New Haven, but the memory comes to him as a nightmare.

"When I think about the 11 to 10 game at New Haven, which Princeton won," said Sharpe the last time I saw him, "I remember that after I had kicked a goal from the field and the score was 10 to 6, Skim Brown rushed up to me, and nearly took me off my feet with one of his friendly slaps across my back. Well do I remember the joy of that great Yale player at this stage of the game. Later, when Poe made his kick and I saw that the ball was going over the bar, I remember that the thing I wished most was that I could have been up in the line where I might have had a chance to block the kick.

"My recollections of making the Yale team centered chiefly around three facts, none of which I was allowed to forget. First, that I was not any good, second that I couldn't tackle, and third that I ran like an ice-wagon. Since then I have seen so many really good players upon my different squads that I must admit the truth of the above statement, although at the time I am frank to say I took exception to it. Such is the optimism of youth."

Jack Munn, a former Princeton halfback, tells the following story:

"My brother, Edward Munn, was the manager of the Princeton team in 1893. In the spring of that year there was a conference with Yale representatives to decide where the game was to be played the following fall. Berkeley Oval, Brooklyn, Manhattan Field, and the respective fields of the two colleges all came under discussion, and I believe that some of the newspapers must have taken it up. One afternoon in the Murray Hill Hotel, when representatives of Yale and Princeton were discussing the various possibilities, a bellboy knocked at the door and handed my brother an elaborately engraved card on which, among various decorations, the name of Colonel Cody was to be distinguished. Buffalo Bill was invited to come up, and it seems that, reading or hearing of the discussion about the field for the game, he came to make a formal offer of the use of his tent. After setting forth the desirability of staging the game under the auspices of his Wild West Show, he brought his offer to a close with his trump card.

"'For, gentlemen,' said he, 'besides all the other advantages which I have mentioned, there is this further attraction—my tent is well and sufficiently lighted so that you can not only hold a matinee, but you can give an evening performance as well.'

"And those were the days of the flying wedge and two forty-five minute halves with only ten minutes intermission!"

Walter C. Booth

Walter C. Booth, a former Princeton center rush, was one of the select coterie of Eastern football men that wended its way westward to carry the eastern system into institutions that had had no opportunity to build up the game, yet were hungry for real football. Booth's trip was a successful one.

"In the autumn of 1900, after graduating from college, I arrived at Lincoln, Nebraska, in the dual role of law student and football coach of the State University," says Booth. "This was my first trip west of Pittsburgh and I viewed my new duties with some apprehension. All doubts and fears were soon put at rest by the hearty encouragement and support that I received and retained in my Nebraska football relations.

"Most of the Faculty were behind football, and H. Benjamin Andrews, at that time head of the University, was a staunch supporter of the game. Doctor Roscoe Pound, later dean of Harvard Law School, was the father of Nebraska football. He had as intimate an acquaintance with the rule book as any official I have ever known. His advice on knotty problems was always valuable. James I. Wyer, afterward State Librarian of New York, was our first financial director, and it was largely by reason of his unflagging zeal that football survived.

"Football spirit ran high in the Missouri Valley and there were many hard fought contests among the teams of Iowa, Missouri, Kansas and Nebraska. Those who saw these games or played in them will never forget them.

"Many amusing things happened in that section as well as in the East. The Haskell Indians were a picturesque team. They represented the Government School at Lawrence, Kansas—an institution similar to that of Carlisle. In fact, many of the same players played on both teams at different times. We always found them a hard nut to crack, and Redwater, Archiquette, Hauser and other Indian stars made their names well known on our field.

"John Outland, the noted Pennsylvania player, had charge of the Indians when I knew them. He was a great player and a fine type of man, who succeeded in imparting some of his own personality to his pupils. He once showed me a dark faced Indian in Lawrence who must have been at least six feet four inches tall and of superb physique. He was a full blooded Cheyenne and went by the name of Bob Tail Billy. Outland tried hard to break him in at guard, but as no one understood Bob Tail's dialect, and he understood no one else, he never learned the signals, and proved unavailable.

"We traveled far to play in those days; west to Boulder, Colorado, handicapped by an altitude of 5000 feet, south to Kansas City and north as far as St. Paul and Minneapolis. We were generally about 500 miles from our base. We were not able to take many deadheads."

Harry Kersburg is one of the most enthusiastic Harvard football players I have ever met. He played guard on Harvard in 1904, '05 and '06 and is often asked back to Cambridge to coach the center men. From his playing days let us read what he prizes in his recollections:

"My college career began at Lehigh, with the idea of eventually going to Harvard. As a football enthusiast, I came under the observation of Doctor Newton, who was coaching Lehigh at that time. Doc taught me the first football I ever knew. In one of the games against Union College Doc asked me before the game whether if he put me in I would deliver the goods. I said I would try and do my best. He said, 'That won't do. I don't want any man on my team who says, "I'll try." A man has got to say "I'll do it." From that time on I never said, 'I'll try,' but always said 'I'll do it.'

"I shall never forget the day I played against John DeWitt. I did not know much about the finer points of football then. I weighed about 165 pounds with my football clothes on, was five feet nine inches tall and sixteen years old. I shall always remember seeing that great big hawk of a man opposite me. I did not have cold feet. I knew I had to go in and give the best account of myself I could. It was like going up against a stone wall. John DeWitt certainly could use his hands, with the result that I resembled paper pulp when I came out of that game. DeWitt did everything to me but kill me. After I got my growth, weight and strength, plus my experience, I always had a desire to play against DeWitt to see if he could the same thing again.

"In a Harvard-Yale game one year I remember an incident that took place between Carr, Shevlin and myself," says Harry.

"Tom Shevlin usually stood near the goal line when Yale received the kick-off. As a matter of fact he caught the ball most of the time. The night before the Yale game in 1905, Bill Carr and myself were discussing what might come up the following day. Inasmuch as we always lined up side by side on the kick off, we made a wager that if Harvard kicked off we would each be the first to tackle Shevlin.

"The next day Harvard won the toss and chose to kick off, and as we had hoped, Shevlin caught the ball. Carr and I raced down the field, each intent on being the first to tackle him. I crashed into Shevlin and spilled him, upsetting myself at the same time. When I picked myself up and looked around, Carr had Shevlin pinned securely to the ground. After the game we told Shevlin of our wager and he said that under the circumstances all bets were off as both had won."

Former U. S. Attorney-General William H. Lewis, who is one of the leading representatives of the colored race, needs no introduction to the football world, says Kersburg. 'Bill,' or 'Lew,' as he is familiarly known to all Harvard men, laid the foundation for the present system of line play at Cambridge. He was actively engaged in coaching until 1907 when he was obliged to give it up due to pressure of business.

"In 1905 'Hooks' Burr and I played the guard positions. 'Lew' seemed to center his attention on us as we always received more 'calls' after each game than the other linemen for doing this, that, or the other thing wrong. In the Brown game of this year Hooks played against a colored man who was exceptionally good and who, Hooks admitted afterward, 'put it all over' him. The Monday following this game we received our usual 'call.' After telling me what a rotten game I had played he turned on Burr and remarked. 'What the devil was the matter with you on Saturday, Hooks? That guard on the Brown team "smeared" you.' Burr replied, 'I don't know what was the matter with me. I used my hands on that nigger's head and body all through the game but it didn't seem to do any good.' Several of us who were listening felt a bit embarrassed that Hooks had unwittingly made this remark. The tension was relieved, however, when Lew drawled out, 'Why the devil didn't you kick him in the shins?' A burst of laughter greeted this sally."

Donald Grant Herring, better known to football men in and out of Princeton as Heff, is one of the few American players of international experience. After a period of splendid play for the Tigers he went to England with a Rhodes Scholarship. At Merton College he continued his athletic career, and it was not long before he became a member of one of the most famous Rugby fifteens ever turned out by Oxford.

Heff has always said that he enjoyed the English game, but whether the brand he played was American or English, his opponent usually got little enjoyment out of a hard afternoon with this fine Princeton athlete.

"In the late summer of 1903, I was on a train coming east from Montana," Heff tells me, "after a summer spent in the Rockies. A companion recognized among the passengers Doc Hillebrand, who was coming East from his ranch to coach the Princeton team. This companion who was still a Lawrenceville schoolboy, had the nerve to brace Hillebrand and tell him in my presence that I was going to enter Princeton that fall and that I was a star football player. You can imagine what Doc thought, and how I felt. However, Doc was kind enough to tell me to report for practice and to recognize me when I appeared on the field several weeks later. I soon drifted over to the freshman field and I want to admit here what caused me to do so. It was nothing more nor less than the size of Jim Cooney's legs. Jim was a classmate of mine whom I first saw on the football field when he and another tackle candidate were engaged in that delicate pastime known to linemen as breaking through. I realized at once that, if Jim and I were ever put up against one another, I would stand about as much chance of shoving him back as I would if I tried to push a steam roller. So I went over to the freshman field, where Howard Henry was coaching at the time. He was sending ends down the field and I remember being thrilled, after beating a certain bunch of them, at hearing him say: 'You in the brown jersey, come over here in the first squad.'

"DeWitt's team beat Cornell 44-0. For years there hung on the walls of the Osborn Club at Princeton a splendid action picture of Dana Kafer making one of the touchdowns in that game. It was a mass on tackle play, and Jim Cooney was getting his Cornell opponent out of the way for Kafer to go over the line. The picture gave Jim dead away. He had a firm grip of the Cornell man's jersey and arm. Ten years or more afterward, a group, including Cooney, was sitting in the Osborn Club. In a spirit of fun one man said, 'Jim, we know now how you got your reputation as a tackle. We can see it right up there on the wall.' The next day the picture was gone.

"After I was graduated from Princeton in 1907 I went to Merton College, Oxford. There are twenty-two different colleges in Oxford and eighteen in Cambridge. Each one has its own teams and crews and plays a regular schedule. From the best of these college teams the university teams are drawn. Each college team has a captain and a secretary, who acts as manager. At the beginning of the college year (early October) the captain and secretary of each team go around among the freshmen of the college and try to get as many of them as possible to play their particular sport; mine Rugby football. After a few days the captain posts on the college bulletin board, which is always placed at the Porter's Lodge, a notice that a squash will be held on the college field. A squash is what we would call practice.



"Sometimes for a few days before the game an Old Blue may come down to Oxford and give a little coaching to the team. Here often the captain does all the coaching. The Cambridge match is for blood, and, while friendly enough, is likely to be much more savage than any other. In the match I played in, which Oxford won 35-3, the record score in the whole series, which started in 1872, we had three men severely injured. In the first three minutes of the game one of our star backs was carried off the field with a broken shoulder, while our captain was kicked in the head and did not come out of his daze until about seven o'clock that evening. He played throughout the game, however. Our secretary was off the field with a knee cap out of place for more than half the game. A game of Rugby, by the way, consists of two 45-minute halves, with a three minute intermission. There are no substitutes, and if a man is injured, his team plays one man short. We beat Cambridge that year with thirteen men the greater part of the game, twelve for some time against their full team of fifteen. Their only try (touchdown in plain American) was scored when we had twelve men on the field. We were champions of England that year, and did not lose a match through the fall season, though we tied one game with the great Harlequins Club of London, whom we afterward beat in the return game. Of the fine fellows who made up that great Oxford team, six are dead, five of them 'somewhere in France.'"

Carl Flanders was a big factor in the Yale rush line. Foster Sanford considers him one of the greatest offensive centers that ever played. He was six feet three and one-fourth inches tall and weighed 202 pounds.

In 1906 Flanders coached the Indian team at Carlisle. Let us see some of the interesting things that characterize the Indian players, through Flanders' experience.

The nicknames with which the Indians labelled each other were mostly those of animals or a weapon of defense. Mount Pleasant and Libby always called each other Knife. Bill Gardner was crowned Chicken Legs, Charles, one of the halfbacks, and a regular little tiger, was called Bird Legs. Other names fastened to the different players were Whale Bone, Shoe String, Tommyhawk and Wolf.

The Indians always played cleanly as long as their opponents played that way. Dillon, an old Sioux Indian, and one of the fastest guards I ever saw, was a good example of this. If anybody started rough play, Dillon would say:

"Stop that, boys!" and the chap who was guilty always stopped. But if an opponent continually played dirty football, Dillon would say grimly: "I'll get you!" On the next play or two, you'd never know how, the rough player would be taken out. Dillon had "got" his man.

"Wallace Denny and Bemus Pierce got up a code of signals, using an Indian word which designated a single play. Among the Indian words which designated these signals were Water-bucket, Watehnee, Coocoohee. I never could find out what it all meant, and following the Indian team by this code of signals was a task which was too much for me."

Bill Horr, renowned in Colgate and Syracuse, writes: "Colgate University and Colgate Academy are under the same administration, and the football teams were practicing when I entered school. I went out for the team and after the second practice I was put into the scrimmage. I was greatly impressed with the game and continued for the afternoon practice, and played at tackle in the first game of the season. In four years of winning football I became acquainted with such wonderful athletes as Riley Castleman and Walter Runge of the Colgate Varsity team.

"In the fall of 1905 I entered Syracuse University and played right tackle on the varsity team for four years and was captain of the victorious 1908 team. In the four years I never missed a scrimmage or a game.

"I think that one of the hardest games I ever played in was the game against Princeton in 1908, when they had such stars as Siegling, MacFadyen, Eddie Dillon and Tibbott. The game ended in a scoreless tie with the ball see-sawing back and forth on the 40-yard line. I had been accustomed to carry the ball, and had been successful in executing a forward pass of fifty-five yards in the Yale game the week before, placing the ball on the 1-yard line, only to lose it on a fumble.

"I had the reputation of being a good-natured player, and indirectly heard it rumored many times by coaches and football players that they would like to see me fighting mad on the football field. The few Syracuse rooters who journeyed to Easton the day we played Lafayette had that opportunity. Dowd was the captain of the Lafayette team. Next to me was Barry, a first-class football player, who stripped in the neighborhood of 200 pounds. Just before the beginning of the second half I was in a crouching position ready to start, when some one dealt me a stinging blow on the ear. I was dazed for the time being. I turned to Barry and asked him who did it. He pointed to Dowd. From that instant I was determined to seek revenge. I was ignorant of the true culprit until about a year afterward, when Anderson, who played center, and was a good friend of mine, told me about it. It seemed that just before we went on the field for the second half Buck O'Neil, who was coaching the Syracuse team, told Barry to hit me and make me mad."



CHAPTER X

COLLEGE TRADITIONS AND SPIRIT

College life in America is rich in traditions. Customs are handed down class by class and year by year until finally they acquire the force of law. Each college and university has a community life and a character of its own.

The spirit of each institution abides within its walls. It cannot be invaded by an outsider, or ever completely understood by one who has not grown up in it. The atmosphere of a college community is conservative. It is the outcome of generations of student custom and thought, which have resolved themselves into distinct grooves.

It requires a thorough understanding of the customs of college men, their antics and pranks, to appreciate the fact that the performers are simply boys, carrying on the traditions of those gone before. Gray-haired graduates who know by experience what is embodied in college spirit, join feelingly in the old customs of their college days, and in observing the new customs which have grown out of the old.

These traditional customs, some of them humorous, and others deeply moving in their sentiment, are among the first things that impress the freshman. He does not comprehend the meaning of them at once, nor does he realize that they are the product of generations of students, but he soon learns that there is something more powerful in college life than the brick and mortar of beautiful buildings, or high passing marks in the classroom. When he comes to know the value and the underlying spirit of the traditions of his college, he treasures them among the enduring memories of his life.

The business man who never enjoyed the advantage of going to college, is puzzled as he witnesses the demonstration of undergraduate life, and he fails to catch the meaning; he does not understand; it has played no part in his own experience; college customs seem absurd to him, and he fails to appreciate that in these traditions our American college spirit finds expression.

As an outsider views the result of a football victory, he sees perhaps only the bitter look of defeat on the losers' faces, and is at a loss to understand the loyal spirit of thousands of graduates and undergraduates who stand and cheer their team after defeat. Such a sight, undoubtedly, impresses him; but he turns his attention to the triumphant march of the victorious sympathizers around the field and watches the winners being borne aloft by hero worshipers; while hats by the thousands are being tossed over the cross bar of the goal post that carried the winning play.

The snake dance of thousands of exulting students enlivens the scene—the spirit of glorious victory breaks loose.

After the Harvard victory in 1908, in the midst of the excitement, a Harvard graduate got up from his seat, climbed over the fence, put his derby hat and bull-dog pipe on the grass, walked solemnly out a few paces, turned two complete handsprings, walked back, put on his hat, picked up his pipe, climbed solemnly over the fence again and took his place in the crowd. He was very businesslike about it and didn't say a word. He had to get it out of his system—that was all. Nobody laughed at him.

One sees gray-haired men stand and cheer, sing and enthuse over their Alma Mater's team. For the moment the rest of the world is forgotten. Tears come with defeat to those on the grandstand, as well as to the players, and likewise happy smiles and joyous greetings come when victory crowns the day.

In the midst of a crisis in the game, men and women, old and young, break over the bounds of conventionality, get acquainted with their seat mates and share the general excitement. The thrill of victory possesses them and the old grads embrace each other after a winning touchdown.

There may be certain streets in a college town upon which a freshman is never seen. It may be that a freshman has to wear a certain kind of cap; his trousers must not be rolled up at the bottom. And if you should see a freshman standing on a balcony at night, singing some foolish song, with a crowd of sophomores standing below, you smile as you realize that you are witnessing the performance of some college custom.

And if you see a young man dressed in an absurd fantastic costume, going about the streets of a city, or a quiet college town, it may mean an initiation into a certain society or club, and you will note that he does his part with a quiet, earnest look upon his face, realizing that he is carrying on a tradition which has endured for years.

You hear the seniors singing on the campus, while the whole college listens. It is their hour. At games you see the cheer leaders take their places in front of the grandstand, and as they bend and double themselves into all sorts of shapes, they bring out the cheers which go to make college spirit strong.

If you were at Yale, on what is known as "Tap Day," you would view in wonderment the solemnity and seriousness of the occasion. An election to a senior society is Yale's highest honor. As you sit on the old Yale fence you realize what it means to Yale men. In the secret life of the campus men yearn most for this honor and the traditional gathering of seniors under the oak tree for receiving elections is a college custom that has all the binding force of a most rigid law.

ALUMNI PARADES

Then come the alumni parades at Commencement. The old timers head the procession; those who came first, are first in line, and so on down to the youngest and most recent graduate.

There are many interesting things in the parade, which bring out specific class peculiarities. In one college you may see gray-haired men walking behind an immense Sacred Bird, as it is called. This Bird—the creation of an ingenious mind—is the size of an ostrich and has all the semblance of life, with many lifelike tricks and habits.

Men dress in all sorts of costumes. This is a day in which each class has some peculiar part, and all are united in the one big thought that it is a cherished college custom.

You may see some man with the letter of his college on his sweater, another may have his class numerals, another may wear a gold football. These are not ordinary things to be purchased at sporting goods stores; they are a reward of merit. The college custom has made it so, and if in some college town the traditions of the university are such that a man, as he passes the Ma Newell gateway at Cambridge raises his hat in honor of this great Harvard hero, it is a tradition backed up by a wonderful spirit of love towards one who has gone. And then on Commencement Day when the seniors plant their class ivy—that is a token to remain behind them and flourish long after they are out in the wide, wide world.

College tradition makes it possible for a poor boy to get an education. The poor fellow may wait on the table, where sit many rich men's sons, but they may be all chums with him; they are on the same footing; the campus of one is the campus of the other, and all you can say is "It is just the way of things—just the way it must be." More power to the man who works his way through college.

It may be, as fellow college man, you are now recalling some custom that is carried out on a college street, in a dormitory, in a fraternity house, perhaps, or a club; perhaps in some boarding house, where you had your first introduction to a college custom; maybe in the cheapest rooming house in town you got your first impression of a bold, bad sophomore. You probably could have given him a good trouncing had he been alone, and yet you were prepared to take smilingly the hazing imposed upon you.

Maybe some of you fondly recall a cannon stuck in the ground behind a historical building where once George Washington had his headquarters. Around about this traditional monument cluster rich memories as you review the many college ceremonies enacted there.

Some of you, owing allegiance to a New England Alma Mater, may recall with smiles and perhaps mischievous satisfaction, the chequered career of the sculptured Sabrina in her various appearances and disappearances since the day, now long gone by, when in pedestaled repose she graced the college flower gardens. The Sabrina tradition is one of the golden legacies of Amherst life.

In the formation of college spirit and traditions I am not unmindful of the tremendous moulding power of the college president or the popular college professors. This is strikingly illustrated in the expression of an old college man, who said in this connection:

"I don't remember a thing Professor —— said, but I remember him."

When the graduate of a college has sons of his own, he realizes more fully than at any other time the great influence of personality upon youth. He understands better the problems that are faced by boys, and the great task and responsibility of the faculty.

I know that there are many football men who at different times in their career have not always praised the work of the college professors, but now that the games are over they probably look back affectionately to the men who made them toe the mark, and by such earnestness helped them through their college career.

It is undoubtedly true that the head masters and teachers in our preparatory schools and colleges generally appreciate the importance of developing the whole man, mental, moral and physical.

SCHOOLMASTER AND BOY

Indeed it is a wonderful privilege to work shoulder to shoulder with the boys in our preparatory schools as well as in our colleges. At a recent dinner I heard Doctor S. J. McPherson, of the Lawrenceville School, place before an alumni gathering a sentiment, which I believe is the sentiment of every worthy schoolmaster in our land.

"Schoolmasters have attractive work and they can find no end of fun in it. I admit that in a boarding school they should be willing to spend themselves, eight days in the week and twenty-five hours a day. But no man goes far that keeps watching the clock. There may be good reasons for long vacations, but I regard the summer vacation as usually a bore for at least half the length of it.

"To be worth his salt, a schoolmaster must, of course, have scholarship—the more the better. But that alone will never make him a quickening teacher. He must be 'apt to teach,' and must lose himself in his task if he is to transfuse his blood into the veins of boys. Above all, he must be a real man and not a manikin, and he must enjoy his boys—love them, without being quite conscious of the love, or at least without harping on it.

"The ideal schoolmaster needs five special and spiritual senses: common sense, the sense of justice, the sense of honor, the sense of youth and the sense of humor. These five gifts are very useful in every worthy occupation.

"Gentlemen, none of us schoolmasters has reached the ideal; however, we reach after it. Nevertheless, we neither need, nor desire your pity. We do not feel unimportant. Personally, I would not exchange jobs with the richest or greatest among you. I like my own job. It really looks to me, bigger and finer. I should rather have the right mold and put the right stamp on a wholesome boy than to do any other thing. It counts more for the world and is more nearly immortal. It is worth any man's life."

Another factor in the formation and development of college traditions and college spirit is the influence of the men who shape the athletic policy.

When one of the graduates returns to direct the athletic affairs of his Alma Mater, or those of another college he naturally becomes a potent influence in the life of the students. Great is his opportunity for character making. The men all look up to him and the spirit of hero worship is present everywhere. Such athletic directors are chosen largely because of their success on the athletic field. And when one can combine athletic directorship with scholastic knowledge, the combination is doubly effective.

By association they know the real spirit and patriotic sentiment of the college men. They appreciate the fact that success in athletics, like success in life, depends not merely upon training the head, but upon training the will. Huxley said that:

"The true object of all education, was to develop ability to do the thing that ought to be done when it ought to be done, whether one felt like doing it or not."

Prompt obedience to rules and regulations develop character and the athletic director becomes, therefore, one of the most important of college instructors. A boy may be a welcher in his classroom work, but when he gets out on the athletic field and meets the eye of a man who is bound to get the most out of every player for the sake of his own reputation, as well as the reputation of the school or college, that boy finds himself in a new school. It is the school of discipline that resembles more nearly than anything else the competitive struggle in the business life of the outside world that he is soon to enter.

Another exceedingly valuable trait that athletic life develops in a student is the spirit of honorable victory. The player is taught to win, to be sure, but he is also taught that victory must never overshadow honor.

Who misses or who wins the prize, Go lose, or conquer, as you can But if you fail, or if you rise, Be each, Pray God, a gentleman.

This tradition and atmosphere cannot be retained in institutions merely by the efforts of the students. The co-operation of the alumni is necessary. On this account it is unfortunate that the point of view of too many college men regarding their Alma Mater is limited to the years of their own school and college days.

Our universities especially are beginning to learn that this has been a great mistake and that the continued interest and loyalty of the alumni are absolutely essential to insure progress and maintain the high standard of an institution. There is, in other words, a real sense in which the college belongs to the alumni. The faculty is engaged for a specific purpose and their great work is made much more profitable by the hearty co-operation of the old and young graduates who keep in close touch with the happenings and the spirit of their different alma maters.

One of the best assets in any seat of learning is the constructive criticism of the alumni. Broad minded faculties invite intelligent criticism from the graduate body, and they usually get it.

But after all, the real power of enthusiasm behind college traditions abides in the student body itself. How is this college patriotism aroused? What are its manifestations? What is it that awakens the desire for victory with honor, which is the real background of the great football demonstration that tens of thousands of Americans witness each year?

As I think back in this connection upon my own college experiences, the athletic mass meeting stands out in my memory and records the moment when all that was best and strongest in my fighting spirit and manhood came out to meet the demand of the athletic leaders. It was at that time that the thrill and power of college spirit took mighty possession of me. It might have been the inspiring words of an old college leader addressing us, or perhaps it was the story of some incident that brought out the deep significance of the coming game. Indeed I have often thought that the spirit of loyalty and sacrifice aroused in the breast of the young man in a college mass meeting springs from the same noble source as the highest patriotism.

MASS MEETING ENTHUSIASM

How well do I recall the mass meeting held by the undergraduates in Alexander Hall Thursday night before the Yale game in 1898! The team and substitutes sat in the front row of seats. There was singing and cheering that aroused every man in the room to the highest pitch of enthusiasm. All eyes were focused on the cheer leader as he rehearsed the cheers and songs for the game, and as the speakers entered behind him on the platform, they received a royal welcome. There was Johnny Poe, Alex Moffat, some of the professors, including Jack Hibben, since president of Princeton, in addition to the coaches.

I can almost hear again their words, as they addressed the gathering.

"Fellows, we are here to-night to get ready to defeat Yale on Saturday. You men all know how hard the coaches have worked this year to get the team ready for the last big game. Captain Hillebrand and his men know that the college is with the team to a man. We are not here to-night to make college spirit, but we are here to demonstrate it.

"Those of you who saw last year's team go down to defeat at New Haven, realize that the Princeton team this year has got to square that defeat. Garry Cochran and the other men who graduated are not here to play. The burden rests on the shoulders of the men in front of me, this year's team, and we know what they're going to do.

"It is going to take the hardest kind of work to beat Yale on our own grounds. We must play them off their feet the first five minutes. I wonder if you men who are in Princeton to-day truly realize the great tradition of this dear college. Thousands and thousands of young men have walked across the same campus you travel. The Princeton of years gone by, is your Princeton to-day, so let us ever hold a high regard for those whose places we now occupy.

"Already from far off points, Princeton men are starting back to see the Yale game—back to their Alma Mater. They're coming back to see the old rooms they used to live in, and it is up to us to make their visit a memorable one. You can do that by beating Yale."

George K. Edwards

Many of you men have perhaps heard of the great love for Princeton shown in the story of the last days of Horse Edwards, Princeton '89. He will never return to Princeton again. He used to live in East College, long since torn down. Some years after he left college, he was told that he had but a few short months to live. He decided to live them out at Princeton.

One Friday afternoon in the summer of 1897, Horse Edwards arrived in Princeton from Colorado. He was very weak from his illness. He could barely raise his hand to wave to the host of old friends who greeted him as he drove from the station to East College, where his old room had been arranged as in his college days for his return.

There he was visited by many friends of the old days, who had come back for Commencement. Old memories were revived. That night he attended his club dinner, and the following day was wheeled out to the field to see the baseball game, Princeton beat Yale 16 to 8, and his cup of happiness was overflowing. On the following Monday Horse Edwards died. He told his close friends that as long as he had to go, he was happy that he had been granted his last wish—to die there at Princeton. And his memory is a treasured college tradition.

Job E. Hedges

Among the men who are always welcome at Princeton mass meetings and dinners, is Job E. Hedges. I remember what he said at a mass meeting at Princeton in 1896. He was then secretary to Mayor Strong, in New York, in which city the game with Yale took place that year.

The scene was in the old gymnasium. Every inch of space was occupied. On the front seats sat the team and substitutes. Around them and in the small gallery were the students in mass. Before the team were prominent alumni, trustees and some members of the faculty. Earnest appeal had been made by the various speakers tending to arouse the team to a high point of enthusiasm and courage, and the interest of their alma mater and of the alumni had been earnestly pictured. Mr. Hedges was called on as he frequently is at Princeton gatherings and as the usual field had been fairly covered, his opportunities were limited, without repetition of what had been said. He addressed the team and substitutes in typical Princeton fashion and concluded, so far as a record is made of it, somewhat as follows:

"There is a feeling in the public mind that football games breed dissipation and are naturally followed by unseemly conduct. We all know that much of the excitement following football games in New York is due largely not to college men but others, who take the game as an excuse and the time as an opportunity to indulge in more or less boisterous conduct, with freedom from interference usually accorded at that time. I wish it thoroughly understood that in no way as a Princeton man do I countenance dissipation, intemperance, boisterous or unseemly conduct. It may be a comfort for you men to know, however, that I am personally acquainted with every police magistrate in the City of New York. While I do not claim to have any influence with them, nor would I try to exercise it improperly, nevertheless if the team wins and any man should unintentionally and weakly yield to the strain consequent upon such a victory, I can be found that night at my residence. Any delinquent will have my sympathetic and best efforts in his behalf. If, however, the team loses, and any one goes over the line of propriety, he will have from me neither sympathy nor assistance and I shall be absent from the city."

It is related that on the night following the victory, several daring spirits decorated themselves with cards hung from their necks bearing this legend, "Don't arrest me, I am a friend of Job Hedges." With these they marched up and down Broadway and, though laboring under somewhat strange conditions, were not molested. A full account of this expeditionary force appeared in the daily papers the next morning and it is related that there was a brisk conversation between Mr. Hedges and the mayor, when the former arrived at the City Hall, which took on, not an orange and black hue, but rather a lurid flame, of which Mayor Strong was supposed to be but was not the victim.

The net result of the scene, however, was that the team won, there was a moderate celebration and no Princeton man was arrested.



CHAPTER XI

JOHNNY POE'S OWN STORY

Johnny Poe was a member of the Black Watch, that famous Scotch Regiment whose battles had followed the English flag. On the graves of the Black Watch heroes the sun never sets. Johnny Poe's death came on September 25th, 1915, in the Battle of Loos. Nelson Poe has given me the following information regarding Johnny's death. It comes direct from Private W. Faulkner, a comrade who was in the charge when Johnny fell.

In the morning during the attack we went out on a party carrying bombs. Poe and myself were in this party. We had gone about half way across an open field when Poe was hit in the stomach. He was then five yards in front of me and I saw him fall. As he fell he said, 'Never mind me. Go ahead with our boxes.' On our return for more bombs we found him lying dead. Shortly after he was buried at a place between the British and German lines. I have seen his grave which is about a hundred yards to the left of 'Lone Tree' on the left of Loos. 'Lone Tree' is the only landmark near. The grave is marked with his name and regiment.

Just what Johnny Poe's heroic finish on the battle field meant to us here at home is the common knowledge of all football men and indeed of all sportsmen. There is ample evidence, moreover, that it attracted the attention of the four corners of the earth. Life in London or Paris was not all roses to the Americans compelled to remain there at the height of the war.

Paul Mac Whelan, a Yale man and football writer, had occasion to be in London shortly after the news of Poe's death in battle was received there. Talking with Whelan after his return he impressed upon me the place that Poe had made for himself in the hearts of at least one of the fighting countries.

"You know," said he, "that at about that time Americans were not very popular. There seemed to be a feeling everywhere that we should have been on the firing line. This feeling developed the fashion of polite jeering to a point that made life abroad uncomfortable until Johnny Poe fell fighting in the ranks of the Black Watch on the plains of Flanders. In the dull monotony of the casualty list his name at first slipped by with scant mention. It was the publication in the United States of the story of his fighting career which stimulated newspaper interest not merely in England, but throughout the British Empire. To Australia, Canada, New Zealand and South Africa—into the farthest corners of the earth—went the tale of the death of a great American fighter.

"I met one man, a lawyer, on his way to do some peace work, and he told me that he thought Poe had no right to be in the ranks of a foreign army. Probably most of the pacifists would have returned the same verdict regardless of Poe's love for the cause of the Allies. Yet among the thousands of Americans in Europe in the month following Poe's death, there was complete unity of opinion that the old Princeton football star had done more for his country than all the pacifists put together.

"'A toast to the memory of Poe,' said one of the group of Americans in the Savoy, that famous gathering place of Yankees in London. 'His death has made living a lot easier for his countrymen who have to be in France and England during the war.'"

"There is not an army on the continent in which Americans have not died, but no death in action, not even that of Victor Chapman the famous American aviator in France, gave such timely proof of American valor as that of Poe. In London for a month after his death there was talk among Americans and in the university clubs about raising funds for some permanent memorial in London to Poe. There are many memorials to Englishmen in America and it would seem that there is a place and a real reason for erecting a memorial in London to a fighting American who gave his life for a cause to England."

I have always treasured, in my football collection, some anecdotes which Johnny Poe wrote several years ago while in Nevada. In fact, from reading his stories, after his death, I got the inspiration that prompted me to write this book.

"The following stories were picked up by me," says Johnny, "through the course of college years, and after. Some of the incidents I have actually witnessed, of others my brothers have told me, when we talked over Princeton victories and defeats with the reasons for both, and still others I have heard from the lips of Princeton men as they grew reminiscent sitting around the cozy fireplace in the Trophy room at the Varsity Club House, with the old footballs, the scores of many a hard fought Princeton victory emblazoned upon them, and the banners with the names of the members of the winning teams thereon inscribed looking down from their places on the walls and ceilings."

How the undergraduates long to have their names enrolled on the victorious banner, knowing that they will be looked up to by future college generations of the sons of Old Nassau!

These old banners have much the same effect upon Princeton teams as did the name of Horatius upon the young Romans'!

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.

"Billy, if you do that again I'll cut your heart out!"

"Yale, if you ever held, hold now!"

How the calls to victory come back!

As Hughes says in Tom Brown's School Days, a scrimmage in front of the goal posts, or the Consulship of Plancus, is no child's play.

My earliest Princeton football hero was Alex Moffat '84. My brother Johnson was in his class and played on the same team, and would often talk of him to my brothers and to me. He used to give us a sort of

"Listen my children and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, etc."

Though my brother is a small man, I thought all other Princeton players must be 9 cubits and a half, or as a reporter once said of Symmes '92, center rush in Princeton team of '90 and '91, "An animated whale, broad as the moral law and heavy as the hand of fate." I consider Alex Moffat the greatest goal kicker college football has produced. One football in the Princeton Trophy room has on it, "Princeton 26, Harvard 7." In that game Moffat kicked five goals from the field, three with his right and two with his left foot, besides the goals from the touchdowns.

A Harvard guard made the remark after the third goal, "We came here to play football, not to play against phenomenal kicking."

Princeton men cannot help feeling that Moffat should have been allowed a goal against Yale in his Post-graduate year of '84, which was called before the full halves had been played and decided a draw, Yale being ahead, 6 to 4. Princeton claimed it but the Referee said he didn't see it, which caused Moffat to exclaim—something.

An amusing story is told in connection with this decision. Quite a number of years after Jim Robinson who was trainer of the Princeton team in '84, went down to the dock to see his brother off for Europe. Looking up he beheld on the deck above, the man who had refereed the '84 game, and whom he had not seen since, "Smith," he said, "I have a brother on this boat, but I hope she sinks."

Tilly Lamar's name is highly honored at Princeton, not only because he won the '85 game against Yale by a run of about 90 yards, but because he died trying to save a girl from drowning. Only a few months later, in the summer of '91, Fred Brokaw '92, was drowned at Elberon while trying to save two girls from the ocean. Both Lamar and Brokaw's pictures adorn the walls of the Varsity Club House.

The first game I ever saw the Princeton Team play was with Harvard in '88, which the former won 18 to 6. I was in my brother's ('91) room about three hours and a half before the game, and Jere Black and Channing, the halfbacks, were there. As Channing left he remarked, "Something will have happened before I get back to this room again," referring to the game, which doubtless made him a bit nervous.

I believe he was no more nervous ten years after, when in the Rough Riders he waited for word to advance up that bullet swept hill before Santiago.

'81 was the year so many Divinity students played on the Varsity: Hector Cowan the great tackle, Dick Hodge the strategist, Sam Hodge, Bob Speer, and I think Irvine; men all, who as McCready Sykes said, "Feared God and no one else." Hector Cowan is considered one of the best tackles that ever wore the Orange and Black jersey. While rough, he was never a dirty player.

In a game with Wesleyan, his opponent cried out angrily, "Keep your hands for pounding on your Bible, don't be sticking them in my face." One day in a game against the Scrub, Cowan had passed everyone except the fullback and was bearing down on him like a tornado, when within a few feet of the fullback the latter jumped aside and said politely, "Pass on, sir, pass on." Cowan played on two winning teams, '85 and '89.

In '89 the eligibility rules at the college were not as strict as now, so as Princeton needed a tackle, Walter Cash who had played on Pennsylvania the year before, was sent for and came all the way from Wyoming. He came so hurriedly that his wardrobe consisted of two 6-shooters and a monte deck of cards, on account of which he was dubbed "Monte" Cash. Cash was not fond of attending lectures, and once the faculty had him up before them and told him what a disgrace it would be if he were dropped out of College. "It may be in the East, but we don't think much of a little thing like that out West," was his reply. Cash was in the Rough Riders and was wounded at San Juan.

Sport Donnelly was a great end that year. Heffelfinger the great Yale guard who is probably the best that ever played, said of Donnelly, that he was the only player he had ever seen who could slug and keep his eye on the ball at the same time. The following story is often told of how Donnelly got Rhodes of Yale ruled off in '89. Rhodes had hit Channing of Princeton in the eye, so that Donnelly was laying for him, and when Rhodes came through the line, Donnelly grabbed up two handsful of mud—it was a very muddy field—and rubbed them in his face and hollered, "Mr. Umpire," so that when Rhodes, in a burst of righteous indignation, hit him, the Umpire saw it and promptly ruled Rhodes from the field.

Snake Ames and House Janeway played that year, and as the latter was big—210 pounds stripped—and good natured, Ames thought that if he could only get Janeway angry he would play even better than usual, so, with Machiavellian craft, he said to him before the Harvard game, "House, the man you are going to play against to-morrow insulted your girl. I heard him do it, so you want to murder him." "All right," said House, ominously, and as Princeton won, 41 to 15, Janeway must certainly have helped a heap.

George played center for Princeton four years, and for three years "Pa" Corbin and George played against each other, and, as cow-boys would say, "sure did chew each other's mane." I don't mean slugged.

My brother Edgar '91 was a great admirer of George. In '88 Edgar was playing in the scrub, and George broke through and was about to make a tackle when the former knocked one of his arms down as it was outstretched to catch it. George missed the tackle but said nothing. A second time almost identically the same thing occurred. This time he remarked grimly, "Good trick that, Poe." But when the same thing happened a third time on the same afternoon, he exclaimed, "Poe, if you weren't so small, I'd hit you."

In '89 Thomas '90, substitute guard, was highly indignant at the way some Boston newspaper described him. "The Princeton men were giants, one in particular was picturesque in his grotesqueness. He was 6 feet 5 and, when he ran, his arms and legs moved up and down like the piston rods of an engine."

In '90 Buck Irvine '88 brought an unknown team to Princeton, Franklin and Marshall, which he coached, and they scored 16 points against the Tigers. And though the latter won, 33 to 16, still that was the largest score ever made against Princeton up to that time. They did it, too, by rushing, which was all the more to their credit.

Victor Harding, Harvard, and Yup Cook, Princeton '89, had played on Andover and Exeter, respectively, and had trouble then, so four years later when they met, one on Princeton and the other on Harvard, they had more trouble. Both were ruled off for rough work. Cook picked Harding up off the ground and slammed him down and then walked off the field. In a few minutes Harding, after trying to trip Ames, also was ruled off. That was the net result of the old Andover-Exeter feud.

In '91 Princeton was playing Rutgers. Those were the days of the old "V" trick in starting a game. When the Orange and Black guards and centers tore up the Rutgers' V it was found that the Captain of the latter team had broken his leg in the crush. He showed great nerve, for while sitting on the ground waiting for a stretcher, he remarked in a nonchalant way, "Give me a cigarette. I could die for Old Rutgers," his tone being "Me first and then Nathan Hale." One version quite prevalent around Princeton has it that a Tiger player rushed up and exclaimed, "Die then." This is not true as I played in that game and know whereof I speak.

Fifteen years after that had happened, I met Phil Brett who had 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 cafe 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, Good-bye, good luck to you."



CHAPTER XII

ARMY AND NAVY

When the Navy meets the Army, When the friend becomes the foe, When the sailor and the soldier Seek each other to o'erthrow; When old vet'rans, gray and grizzled, Elbow, struggle, push, and shove, That they may cheer on to vict'ry Each the service of his love; When the maiden, fair and dainty, Lets her dignity depart, And, all breathless, does her utmost For the team that's next her heart; When you see these strange things happen, Then we pray you to recall That the Army and Navy Stand firm friends beneath it all.

There is a distinctive flavor about an Army-Navy football game which, irrespective of the quality of the contending elevens and of their relative standing among the high-class teams in any given season, rates these contests annually as among the "big games" of the year. Tactically and strategically football bears a close relation to war. That is a vital reason why it should be studied and applied in our two government schools.

On the part of the public there is general appreciation of the spirit which these two academies have brought into the great autumn sport, a spirit which combines with football per se the color, the martial pomp, the elan of the military. The merger is a happy one, because football in its essence is a stern, grim game, a game that calls for self-sacrifice, for mental alertness and for endurance; all these are elements, among others, which we commonly associate with the soldier's calling.

If West Point and Annapolis players are not young men, who, after graduation, will go out into the world in various civil professions or other pursuits relating to commerce and industry, they are men, on the contrary, who are being trained to uphold the honor of our flag at home or abroad, as fate may decree—fighting men whose lives are to be devoted to the National weal. It would be strange, therefore, if games in which those thus set apart participate, were not marked by a quality peculiarly their own. To far-flung warships the scores are sent on the wings of the wireless and there is elation or depression in many a remote wardroom in accordance with the aspect of the news. In lonely army posts wherever the flag flies word of the annual struggle is flashed alike to colonel and the budding second lieutenant still with down on lip, by them passed to the top sergeant and so on to the bottom of the line.

Every football player who has had the good fortune to visit West Point or Annapolis, there to engage in a gridiron contest, has had an experience that he will always cherish. Every team, as a rule, looks forward to out of town trips, but when an eleven is to play the Army or the Navy, not a little of the pleasure lies in anticipation.

Mayhap the visitor even now is recalling the officer who met him at the station, and his hospitable welcome; the thrill that resulted from a tour, under such pleasant auspices, of the buildings and the natural surroundings of the two great academies. There was the historic campus, where so many great Army and Navy men spent their preparatory days. An inspiration unique in the experience of the visitor was to be found in the drill of the battalion as they marched past, led by the famous academy bands.

There arose in the heart of the stranger perhaps, the thought that he was not giving to his country as much as these young men. Such is the contagion of the spirit of the two institutions. There is always the thrill of the military whether the cadets and midshipmen pass to the urge of martial music in their purely military duties, or in equally perfect order to the ordinary functions of life, such as the daily meals, which in the colleges are so informal and in the mess hall are so precise. Joining their orderly ranks in this big dining-room one comes upon a scene never to be forgotten.

In the process of developing college teams, an eleven gets a real test at either of these academies; you get what you go after; they are out to beat you; their spirit is an indomitable one; your cherished idea that you cannot be beaten never occurs to them until the final whistle is blown. Your men will realize after the game that a bruised leg or a lame joint will recall hard tackling of a player like Mustin of the Navy, or Arnold of West Point, souvenirs of the dash they put into their play. Maybe there comes to your mind a recollection of the Navy's fast offense; their snappy play; the military precision with which their work is done. Possibly you dream of the wriggling open field running of Snake Izard, or the bulwark defense of Nichols; or in your West Point experiences you are reminded of the tussle you had in suppressing the brilliant Kromer, that clever little quarterback and field general, or the task of stopping the forging King, the Army's old captain and fullback.

Not less vivid are the memories of the spontaneous if measured cheering behind these men—a whole-hearted support that was at once the background and the incentive to their work. The "Siren Cheer" of the Navy and the "Long Corps Yell" of the Army still ringing in the ears of the college invader were proof of the drive behind the team.

I have always counted it a privilege that I was invited to coach at Annapolis through several football seasons. It was an unrivalled opportunity to catch the spirit that permeates the atmosphere of this great Service school and to realize how eagerly the progress of football is watched by the heroes of the past who are serving wherever duty calls.

It was there that I met Superintendent Wainwright. His interest in Annapolis football was keen. Another officer whose friendship I made at the Academy was Commander Grant, who later was Rear Admiral, Commander of the Submarine Flotilla. His spirit was truly remarkable. The way he could talk to a team was an inspiration.

It was during the intermission of a Navy-Carlisle game when the score was 11 to 6 in Carlisle's favor, that this exponent of fighting spirit came into the dressing-room and in a talk to the team spared nothing and nobody. What he said about the White man not being able to defeat the Indian was typical. As a result of this unique dressing-room scene when he commanded the Navy to win out over the Indians, his charges came through to victory by the score of 17-11.

There is no one man at Annapolis who sticks closer to the ship and around whom more football traditions have grown than Paul Dashiell, a professor in the Academy. He bore for many years the burden of responsibility of Annapolis football. His earnest desire has been to see the Navy succeed. He has worked arduously, and whenever Navy men get together they speak enthusiastically of the devotion of this former Lehigh hero, official and rule maker. Players have come and gone; the call in recent years has been elsewhere, but Paul Dashiell has remained, and his interest in the game has been manifested by self-denial and hard work. Defeat has come to him with great sadness, and there are many games of which he still feels the sting; these come to him as nightmares in his recollections of Annapolis football history. Great has been his joy in the Navy's hour of victory.

It was here at Annapolis that I learned something of the old Navy football heroes. Most brilliant of all, perhaps, was Worth Bagley, a marvelous punter and great fighter. He lost his life later in the war with Spain, standing to his duty under open fire on the deck of the Winslow at Cardenas, with the utter fearlessness that was characteristic of him.

I heard of the deeds on the football field of Mike Johnson, Trench, Pearson, McCormack, Cavanaugh, Reeves, McCauley, Craven, Kimball and Bookwalter. I have played against the great Navy guard Halligan. I saw developed the Navy players, Long, Chambers, Reed, Nichols and Chip Smith, who later was in charge of the Navy athletics. He was one of the best quarterbacks the Navy ever had. I saw Dug Howard grow up from boyhood in Annapolis and develop into a Navy star; saw him later coach their teams to victory; witnessed the great playing of Dougherty, Piersol, Grady and Bill Carpenter, who is no longer on the Navy list. All these players, together with Norton, Northcroft, Dague, Halsey, Ingram, Douglas, Jerry Land, Babe Brown and Dalton stand out among those who have given their best in Army and Navy games.

Young Nichols, who was quarterback in 1912, was a most brilliant ground gainer. He resigned from the Service early in 1913, receiving a commission in the British Army. He was wounded, but later returned to duty only to be killed shortly afterward. Another splendid man.

In speaking of Navy football I cannot pass over the name of W. H. Stayton, a man whose whole soul seemed to be permeated with Navy atmosphere, and who is always to be depended upon in Navy matters. The association that I formed later in life with McDonough Craven and other loyal Navy football men gave me an opportunity to learn of Annapolis football in their day.

The list of men who have been invited to coach the Navy from year to year is a long one. The ideal method of development of an undergraduate team is by a system of coaching conducted by graduates of that institution. Such alumni can best preserve the traditions, correct blunders of other years, and carry through a continuous policy along lines most acceptable. Graduate coaching exclusively is nearly impossible for Navy teams, for the graduates, as officers, are stationed at far distant points, mostly on board ship. Their duties do not permit of interruption for two months. They cannot be spared from turret and bridge; from the team work so highly developed at present on shipboard. Furthermore, their absence from our country sometimes for years, keeps them out of touch with football generally, and it is impossible for them to keep up to date—hence the coaching from other institutions.



Lieutenant Frank B. Berrien was one of the early coaches and an able one. Immediately afterward Dug Howard for three years coached the team to victory. The Navy's football future was then turned over to Jonas Ingram, with the idea of working out a purely graduate system, in the face of such serious obstacles as have already been pointed out.

One of the nightmares of my coaching experiences was the day that the Army beat the Navy through the combined effort of the whole Army team plus the individual running of Charlie Daly. This run occurred at the very start of the second half. Doc Hillebrand and I were talking on the side lines to Evarts Wrenn, the Umpire. None of us heard the whistle blow for the starting of the second half. Before we knew it the Army sympathizers were on their feet cheering and we saw Daly hitting it up the field, weaving through the Navy defense.