U.S. Route 1 runs from New York City southwards across the New Jersey flatlands to the village of Princeton, where the university of the same name is located. This region was early explored--situated as it was on the edge of the fertile Piedmont plateau, stamping grounds of the Lenai Lenape Indians, close to what was later to become the most fertile potato-growing area of what was later to become the Garden State, it was of the greatest interest to pioneers.

One of these, Jasper Danckeart by name, set out from Staten Island on a bright morning in 1679. He traveled by birchbark canoc to the hamlet of Elizabethtown, where he disembarked and set out across country towards the warmer climes of the southwest. But let him tell his tale:

"From that point...there is a fine wagon road, but nowhere in the country had we been so pestered with mosquitoes as we were on this road."

The rest is silence. Many years later, after the little college had been established at Prince Town, a great man came through the flatlands. His name: Jonathan Edwards. His mission: to lead the students, widely known even then as Godless youths, out of the wilderness.

"Sinners in the hands of an angry God!" he trumpeted to them; and behold, the mosquitoes vanished. Edwards soon followed, but Princeton survived, to spawn F. Scott Fitzgerald and Jimmy Stewart upon the troubled seas of the 20th century.

Today the men of Princeton swarm into Cambridge, free from Lenin Lenapes, from mosquitoes, from mossbunkers. Be kind to them as they journey to the land of Hague to the land of Curley, remembering after the game the words of the poet:

"...Then ye contented your souls With the flanneled fools at the wicket or the muddied oafs at the goals."