Before matters go any further, let me go on record as saying that I do not like Princeton games. And in case Princeton should care, let me say that I do-not like games.

If one could go to a football game and watch twenty-two men batter each other into insensibility, and have done with it, I should be the most ardent fan in the world.

But two o'clock this afternoon is neither the beginning nor the end of a Big Game. A big game starts on Monday, and ends the Friday following the day of play. Not only twenty-four rather attractive fellows in colorful jersies play the game, but the world and his brother, his sister, Dad and the maiden aunt play it, morning, noon, and night. And there are no holds barred.

If you didn't see Harvard lick Prale on Saturday afternoon, what a fool you are to go to dinner at the Broadbottoms before the Braffles. If you don't know the left end, and it's no use trying to impress Mazie Jackson, who has come all the way from Miss Bentley's School in Rhode Island to make Johnnie's life happy, and his Dad sore.

Early Friday afternoon the little Pralebeys begin to drift into town, and Bill Altenre whose you used to know at St. Sergius, brings one of his club mates in for the week-end. They are happy all over the place, and the fur coat which they leave by accident hardly suffices to pay for the damage they did to your liquor and your room.

Nasty little urchins tickle your nose with feathers as you parade Mass. Avenue on your way to morning classes, and shout indescribable things about showing your true colors. And every Thursday you begin in see red, in every store window for miles around.

Privately run jails for young ladies of rich families make special dispensations for escape from 2 until 5.30 so that young chits who spend week-days learning what color stationery to use, may really learn about life, as 53,000 people live in the Harvard Stadium. And the poor starved idiots come and ape their bettens by talking about the wonder grows when the newspapers get hold of it. A nice, comfortable little crowed of 10,000 become 75,000 in the Sunday morning mammoths.

As if crowed weren't bad enough in any sizes or shapes. And by the way in what shape do you prefer your crowd? I prefer mine as select as possible. Say three. For three's crowd. Or drunk. You see I'm easily pleased. What crowd isn't drunk with something, if it's only a sense of its own power.

What power a crowd has. Power enough to drive me to Swampsecll, or even to Lynn.

Lynn on a Saturday afternoon, when Mrs. Daugherty is in the Hub buying lineoleum for the kitchen floor, and diapers for the kid, or Harvard on a Saturday afternoon, when the town goes mad, and forgets lineoleum and diapers, and even the sun is in league with the newspapers at it sets in fiery crimson behind Soldiers Field: is there any choice."