"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.