At the Army-Navy football game, in November, 1908, on Franklin Field, Philadelphia, Pa., during a moment of suspense between cheers, some one started the refrain—Fight! Fight! Fight! Spreading instantaneously through the (West Point) Corps, it was promptly adopted as the Army’s watchword, and throughout the remainder of the game the stands throbbed with the stirring slogan: Tense is the strain in the stands to-day,— Six to four, and the army leads! And, charging in vain ’gainst the line of gray, The shattered Navy attack recedes.— For the thought that nerves every Army’s son Is not the renown of an athlete’s might, But the call of the Corps, that swells in one Reverberant chorus, Fight! Fight! Fight! The bed of the thicket is stained with red, So fierce was the Moro ambuscade: Half the men down, and the captain dead, And each tree shelters a rebel blade. But the boy, with never a blush of fear, Forms the shattered ranks, drives the foe in flight. For the Corps from afar still speaks to him clear, And the word that he hears is Fight! Fight! Fight! This is the message that evermore, While endlessly stretches the firm gray line, Each son hears whispered anew by the Corps, “Your life no longer is wholly thine. Your utmost strength and your fullest meed Of service is pledged as the Nation’s right And all through life’s battle, this be your creed And watchword forever—Fight! Fight! Fight!” While most of the contests in which a cadet (i. e., the army) team takes part are played at West Point, some of them are played on other grounds—notably the annual football game with the Annapolis (i. e., the Navy) team—it is played on Franklin Field at Philadelphia, Penn., and it is an event of the year for Washington officials and society folks from near and from far. THE WEST POINT HYMN. [Written by the Reverend Herbert Shipman, a former chaplain at West Point, and sung by the cadets at the dedication of their new chapel, June 12, 1910.] THE CORPS! THE CORPS! THE CORPS! The Corps! bare-headed, salute it, With eyes up, thanking our God— That we of the Corps are treading Where they of the Corps have trod. They are here in ghostly assemblage, The men of the Corps long dead, And our hearts are standing attention While we wait for their passing tread. We sons of to-day, we salute you, You, sons of an earlier day, We follow, close order, behind you, Where you have pointed the way; The long gray line of us stretches Thro’ the years of a century told, And the last man feels to his marrow The grip of your far-off hold.