Chapter 6

But I, who had no cash to blow, Just kissed her 'neath the mistletoe. She blushed a bit, yet never daunted, Repeated low, "Just what I wanted."

M.D. FOLLANSBEE. _Harvard Lampoon_.

~An Idyl.~

He stands before his glass in doubt; His beard by night hath sprouted well. He needs must scrape,--and yet without He hears begin the lecture bell. Too many times he's skipped the course-- He fears its doors on him may shut: His blade is dull. Now which is worse, To cut and shave, or shave and cut?

_Harvard Lampoon_.

~"When?"~

When Harvard's crimson cohorts came From classic Cambridge down, And Eli's lovers of the game Forsook their leafy town, And met on neutral ground to claim The football victor's crown,

I carried Rose to see the sight, The pageant's grand review; We watched the struggling heroes fight, The crimson and the blue; The crowd was yelling with delight, And fierce the contest grew.

First Yale rose up, an azure sea, And shouted through the din; Then Harvard yelled triumphantly, And each was sure to win, When Rosa, smiling, said to me, "When does the game begin?"

E. A. BLOUNT, JR. _Columbia Spectator_.

~An Unfortunate Phrase.~

He sent her twelve Jacqueminot roses, All fragrant and blooming and fair, That nestled so sweetly and shyly 'Neath smilax and maidenhair.

She sent him a letter to thank him, On paper just tinted with blue-- "The flowers are still very fresh, John, When I see them I think of you."

She posted her letter that morning, He got it that evening at ten. She can't understand what has changed him, For he called on her never again.

F.S. _Columbia Spectator_.

~Lines to a Monkey.~

(_After reading Darwin_.)

It seems quite funny to reflect, And yet what else could we expect (If Darwin's true), That my primeval grandmamma And prehistoric grandpapa Looked just like you.

How any one could ever see Relationship 'twixt you and me I can't explain. You're such an awkward little beast, Your features are (to say the least) So very plain.

And since the rule's considered poor That doesn't work both ways, I'm sure As I can be, That ages hence, if earth endures, Some distant relative of yours Will look like me.

HENRY RUTGERS CONGER. _Williams Literary Monthly_.

~Hymns Ancient And Modern.~

ANCIENT.

Complexion like the winter snow, Just tinted by the sunset glow, Throat white as alabaster, Teeth of pearl, and hair of gold, And figure--sure in Venus's mould Th' immortal gods have east her.

And I am proud her slave to be, And deem it high felicity To die, if she should will it so. Ye fates! to-night propitious be, For I approach divinity: My life depends on "Yes" or "No."

MODERN.

Stunning girl, Out of sight. Guess I'll pop Tuesday night. Bully shape, Pretty eyes; Papa's rich, Quite a prize.

Sure to have me, Can't say no; Lots of rocks-- It's a go.

R. L. RAYMOND. _Harvard Lampoon_.

~Nightmare Of A Freshman Sign Swiper.~

He turned and tossed upon his bed, Repose he could not find, For all night long such things as these Kept coursing through his mind.

"Keep off the Grass," and "Beer on Draught," "H-O," and "Pyle's Pearline;" "Look out for paint," and "Use Pear's Soap," Were signs which he had seen.

And in the midst of all of these A demon seemed to dance, Who asked him with a fiendish grin, "I say, 'Do you wear pants?'"

W.D. FLAGG. _Harvard Lampoon_.

~What the Wild Waves Said.~

Do you hear the ocean moaning, Ever moaning sad and low? 'Tis because that fat old bather Stepped upon its undertow.

_University Herald_.

~A Decision.~

As a maid so nice, With step precise, Tripped o'er the ice, She slipped; her care in vain. And at the fall, With usual gall, The schoolboys call, "Third down; two feet to gain."

ARTHUR LLEWELLYN ENO. _Brunonian_.

~The Thorn that Guards.~

Far in the corner on the stairs, We were sitting together, she and I; The murmuring music was soft and low, Like zephyrs that float 'neath a summer sky.

She held in her fingers a deep red rose, And was plucking the petals, one by one; Her eyes were filled with the dreamy light That softens the west when the day is done.

"Ah, Mildred, you are a bud yourself; Its blushing sweetness is wholly thine; Cannot you let me press the flower, And keep it forever, and call it mine?"

The fair lips trembled, the dimples smiled, Her eyes told clearly that I had lost; But my heart still hoped, till she gently sighed, "You forget what _American Beauties_ cost."

T.G.P. _Cornell Era_.

~A Kiss.~

"A kiss it is a poeme faire."--_Old Song._

A kiss is not like the poems at all Which I drop through the editor's office door; For I like it as well "returned with thanks," As "accepted, with a request for more."

L. _Wesleyan Literary Monthly_.

~The Modern Book.~

Extremely small or of giant size, Bound in vellum or boards antique, The pages of paper made by hand With deckle edge and shape unique; Margins four inches wide, at least, And straggling o'er the page a line Or two (no more), of beautiful print In type advertised as "our own design." You pay a price exorbitant This cherished morsel to procure; You get a gem of the bookman's art And five cents' worth of literature.

M.R. _Vassar Miscellany_.

~His Father Took Him Home.~

"I was always so poor in Greek," _He played the guitar_, "A 'dec' I never could speak," _He won every race_, "My Latin I have to 'horse,'" _In football a star_, "The German is 'cribbed' perforce." _He played second base._

S.J.R. _Madisonensis_.

~Beautiful Sprig.~

Sprig, sweet Sprig, is cobig; For I feel it id the air, See, the groud is gedtly thawig, Bud ad slush are everywhere.

Dow I doff by widter fladdels, Ad I dod by subber close; Thed for weeks ad weeks together Vaidly try to blow by dose.

J. P. WELSH. _Harvard Lampoon_.

III. COLLEGE AND CAMPUS

~The Way of It.~

A little learning, scattered o'er A frolic of four years or more. Then--Presto, change!--and you create The sober college graduate!

_Yale Record_.

~Comfort.~

With pipe and book, an old armchair, A glowing hearth, what need I care For empty honors, wealth or fame? Grant me but this: an honest name, A cup of ale, a coat to wear, And then, while smoke wreaths rift the air, The banquet of the gods I share, Content to sit before the flame With pipe and book.

Above the city's noisy glare, Yet sweet, tho' humble, is my fare; For changing not from praise to blame, These faithful friends are still the same-- No earthly comforts can compare With pipe and book.

CHARLES E. MERRILL, JR. _Yale Courant_.

~O Hero.~

Out into the mud and the wet he goes, My hero, tall and strong; Under his jersey the muscle shows, And, Samson-like, his dark hair grows Delightfully thick and long.

Out from his feet the black mud flies, His jacket is far from white; Bother these boys with their dapper ties, Who come and compel me to turn my eyes Away from a nobler sight!

The hills are red with the western sun, The twilight comes like a dream; But until the practice work is done I strain my eyes for his every run, And I know he will make the team.

I envy the fellow who keeps his cap, With so little appreciation, While I stroll back with a soft-tongued chap Whose muscles I know aren't worth a rap, And whose hair is an imitation.

CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD. _Four-Leaved Clover_.

~To the Faculty.~

You tell us in philosophy That time does not exist, That 'tis but a film of fancy, A little mental mist.

And space--why, space is nothing More than mere mode of thought, A sort of mental telescope Our feeble minds have wrought.

Well, if that's true, Respected Sirs, I'll breakfast at my ease, And think myself in chapel Just as often as you please.

H. K. WEBSTER. _Hamilton Literary Monthly_.

~Her Answer.~

"Maud, take my heart!" cried Algernon. (Maud goes to Barnard College.) She said, "You know I'm wedded to A noble search for knowledge.

"I cannot take your heart, Al, but--" He saw her eyes with pleasure beam-- "I'm much obliged. You've given me A subject for a daily theme."

C.H. _Columbia Literary Monthly_.

~"Give Me the Town."~

Give me the town; let others go Where babbling streams of water flow, Where soars the lark on daring wing (I'd rather hear De Reszke sing), And where sweet-scented breezes blow.

I love to be where, to and fro, Weary or eager, fast or slow, The _human_ tide is eddying; Give me the town.

The balls, the theatres, the row, Who would not find amusement so? Here's where a man can have his fling, Can drink the dregs of--everything. Would you change this for Surrey? Oh, Give me the town.

MARY HELEN RITCHIE. _Bryn Mawr Lantern_.

~I Flunked To-Day.~

I flunked to-day. "I'm not prepared," Was all I said. Still less I cared. No more I strive the depths to try, Or drink the fount of wisdom dry; Yet once at learning's court I fared;

There with the best my work compared; My weary brain was never spared. But now,--some one could tell you why I flunked to-day.

As once to college I repaired, A half-veiled glance my heart ensnared. I felt my love (for knowledge) die; And thus it was without a sigh I flunked to-day.

ALBERT PAYSON TERHUNE. _Columbia Spectator_.

~Ring from the Rim of the Glass, Boys.~

Ring from the rim of the glass, boys, Ripples of tinkling tones; Drink to the heyday of youth, boys, Mindless of after-moans.

Over the rim of the glass, boys, Gaze into eyes that are bright. Drink with each sip of the wine, boys, Passionate gleams of delight.

Sing to the rim of the glass, boys, Chorus wherever we roam. Drink in its sparkling-eyed depths, boys, A love as light as its foam.

Kiss the rim of the glass, boys, Blind to its siren-gleam. Drink in its shading depths, boys, The wav'ring forms of a dream.

Then ring from the rim of the glass, boys, Ripples of tinkling tones. Drink to the heyday of youth, boys, Mindless of after-moans.

JOHN CLINTON ANTHONY. _Brown Magazine_.

~Comforting Reflections of a Nonentity.~

I cannot boast of learning deep, Nor can I much to art aspire; My poetry loses me no sleep, Nor oratory's burning fire.

I do not row upon the crew, Nor on th'eleven glory win; I am not of the chosen few Who sing or play the mandolin.

I am not any social star, But then--within my certain knowledge, Like me, unknown to fame, there are Some fifteen hundred men in college.

S.M. WILLIAMS. _Harvard Lampoon_.

~When Witherspoon was President.~

Their manners had a formal cast A century or more ago, Their bow was suited, as they passed To place in Academic row. With "honored sir" and "humbly so," Their speech was truly reverent-- True learning did true grace bestow, When Witherspoon was president.

The clothes they wore would now be classed At best as but a curio, Huge buckles held their slippers fast-- Low cut and pointed at the toe. Gray powdered hair, small-clothes below, A long blue coat fresh splendor lent-- In sooth they made a goodly show When Witherspoon was president.

But when the trumpet's warring blast Had knelled the fate that tyrants know, They proved no laggards at the last, And sprang to meet their country's foe. Their master's words undying glow-- "To slavery there's no consent, My fame, my life is on the throw--" When Witherspoon was president.

Aye, manners, customs, clothes may flow, Unchanging is such sentiment-- We would have done as they, I trow, When Witherspoon was president.

DAVID POTTER. _Nassau Literary Monthly._

~My Pipe is Out.~

My pipe is out; the hour is late, And sitting lonely by the grate Sweet thoughts that led their circling train In puffs cerulean 'round my brain Have flown, and left me to my fate.

No more the form of lovely Kate Floats in the smoke-rings I create; And this the cause of all my pain, My pipe is out.

How can my pen the woes relate That on these happy moments wait? With eager eyes I look again Within my empty pouch,--in vain! So I must cease to meditate, My pipe is out.

HERBERT MULLER HOPKINS. _Columbia Spectator_.

~At the Race.~

She wore a little knot of blue, He waved a flag of red; With all her heart she would be true To Yale--she said.

And as she spoke a dainty flush Gave token of her pride; He thought the crimson of her blush Her words belied.

So while he watched her blushes start-- "Deny it if you will, Your blood--yes, even in your heart-- Is crimson still."

She turned and spoke, her voice was low, And yet it pierced him through-- "Sir, pardon me, I'd have you know My blood is blue!"

_Yale Record._

~To an "Instructor."~

Treat not with such wanton disdain The title of which you're possessor, Nor sorrow, because you remain Instructor instead of "Professor."

Content you should be to be known As one of enlightenment's ductors, Rememb'ring how oft we bemoan Professors who are not instructors.

HARRY S. FURBUR, JR. _Syllabus_.

~As Usual.~

Oh, the gay and festive Freshman has appeared upon the scene,-- 'Tis not the monster jealousy that makes him look so green, 'Tis not the fumes of rum that give his nose that ruddy glare, But the boy has caught hay-fever from the hay-seed in his hair.

The blush upon his cheek is not the bloom upon the rye, But tells of health and happiness, and johnny-cake and pie. The firm, elastic tread with which the boy is wont to roam Comes from running on a steep side hill to drive the heifers home.

The funny tales he'll have to tell of cows that get astray Will all be sure to help him in a purely social way; And all the strength that he's acquired from milking them each trip Will come in mighty handy when he tries to learn the grip.

For father will go barefoot, and mother dear will scrub The neighbors' dirty linen within a sudsy tub, And Jane will wear no Sunday hat, and Jim no Sunday tie, So Sam can go to Harvard to adorn the Zeta Psi.

Then nearly every morning, at the druggist's, for a bluff, He'll ask the clerk for vichy, to make him think he's tough. That boy will smoke a cigarette, and quite forget the plow! And mother will not know her son a year or so from now.

_Harvard Lampoon._

~Speed.~

They tell how fast the arrow sped, When William shot the apple, But who can calculate the speed Of him who's late for chapel?

_Trinity Tablet._

~A Senior Schedule.~

We're a-studying of Literature As hard as e'er we can; We dote on Revolutions And the Brotherhood of Man.

We're returning to the People With a truly Lyric Cry; And for Democratic Spirit We'd lay us down and die.

We're a-reading of Philosophy To find out why we be, And a-learning that External Worlds Lie wholly in the Me.

We don't believe in Matter, And of Mind we're not quite sure; We're inclined to think Uncertainties Most likely to endure.

We're a-studying Geology Of Pre-historic Times, Before the Tides of Primal Sea Got written into rhymes;

When the "Old World spun forever," And the poets never knew it,-- And all the Rocks, and Stones, and Things, Were nicely mixed up through it.

We're a-looking at Fine Pictures Made by People what are dead; And we criticize Cathedrals With a Ruskin at our head.

We're a-growing awful learnèd,-- There's lots more of the kind,-- But we do not mind confessing That it's all a Beastly Grind.

MARY HOLLANDS McLEAN. _Wellesley Lyrics_.

~A Change of Heart.~

I knew he cut his classes, and I'd heard him flunk in history, And how he dared say "not prepared" so often was a mystery. He'd sometimes cram for an exam., but seldom knew a word in it. His parted hair grew long and fair; I thought he looked absurd in it.

I felt regret whene'er we met, and bowed with utmost gravity; I didn't dream he'd joined the team--I thought him all depravity. So when I found, at Haight Street ground, how great was his agility, I oped my eyes in marked surprise, amazed at his ability.

He tackled hard, gained many a yard, place-kicked and charged successively; He turned the edge of the flying wedge, and interfered aggressively!

He bucked the line! I thought it fine, and shouted out excitedly; He passed the ball behind them all! I saw the scheme delightedly.

He slipped about the line without a thought of trip or fumbling, When to the din of tooting tin a crowd on him came tumbling. I felt a chill, my heart stood still, when those mean boys fell down on him, His clothes were torn, his nose cap gone, and streaks of black and brown on him.

He scored a touchdown then, and such a frenzy I did never see; It made the umpire's whistle dumb, and overwhelmed the referee. Then when he punted out in front, though hoarse with loud admiring, I with, delight yelled, "He's all right!" for they were all inquiring.

The game was won, and we'd begun to cheer each man respectively; We rah! rah! rahed! and blew horns hard, and shook our flags effectively; His eyes shone bright, as left and right they called to him vivaciously; I my disdain recalled with pain, and waved my banner graciously.

Now let him miss the German quiz, and fail to pass astronomy, To football lore what's physics or political economy? To have him bow is rapture now, to be o'erlooked adversity; To catch his smile is worth the while attending University.

HENRIETTA L. STADTMULLER. _Sequoia_.

~Drinking Song.~

Let sparkling wine o'erbrim the glass, And kiss its lips in haste to fly; But though it would to glory pass, It is not eager as am I. I fain would drain the utmost drop, And leave the beaker's hollow bare, For when I turn its foot atop, I see my true love's image there.

Each bubble of the dancing wine Symbols a love-kiss softly given, And rising upward is a sign That earth hath joys to equal heaven. Ah! were the cup a league in rim, And deep as is the ocean's blue, I'd hold its girth were all too slim And wine of kisses thrice too few.

B.A. GOULD, JR. _Harvard Lampoon_.

~Sour Valentines.~

To-morrow is the day for valentines; Then let me leave my thesis for a space, Lower the lamplight on these weary lines, And dream a little in the shadowed place. In my three years at college, I have named My Valentine and kept the season thrice; The jolly saint himself is to be blamed If I have never had the same one twice.

In Freshman days, with all about me strange, And home's sweet halo shining on my way, My heart had never known the sense of change, And one dear face was with me day by day; So, when the time was here, I wrote my verse And drew the heart and arrow up above, And, happy in the thought I might do worse, I sent it off to Mother with my love.

When I had felt the thrill of Sophomore days, My thoughts were given to a dainty maid At college with me, and in woodland ways And quiet music-rooms my court I paid. But, with, my Junior dignity, I chose My Queen abroad, within the city's glare, Forgot the violet for the gayer rose, And lost my heart and pocket-money there.

Saint Valentine, those days were long ago; Your power is lost upon this penitent, For, with my Senior gravity, I know That life means more than your light sentiment. And yet, this once, your day shall have from me Some of the old observance, though I scoff; My thesis waits,--my Valentine shall be The old-maid sister of my major prof.

CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD. _Sequoia_.

~The Banjo Fiend.~

There is a fellow across the way Who plays the banjo night and day, And all you ever hear him play, Is plunk, plunk, plunkety, plunk, plunk.

He plays along with might and main, Be it foul or fair, be it snow or rain, And, oh! it is that constant strain, That plunk, plunk, plunkety, plunk, plunk.

You sit here in your room and swear, But he can't hear, nor does he care, Only goes on playing that same old air, The plunk, plunk, plunkety, plunk, plunk.

It is his hope that some fine day On the Banjo Club they'll let him play, But he won't if we have aught to say, With his plunk, plunk, plunkety, plunk, plunk.

WILLARD GROSVENOR BLEYER. _The Badger_.

~Varium et Mutabile.~

I saw her going to the game, Her eyes were bright, her cheeks aflame, And o'er her shoulders lightly fell A Princeton scarf, her choice to tell.

I saw her when the game was o'er, A loyal Nassau maid no more; To Yale, the victor, now she's true-- Her yellow scarf was lined with blue.

J. P. SAWYER, _Yale Record._

~In His Own Country.~

I made myself a poet in the place, And blithely sang of college life and ways, The pleasure of the undergraduate pace, And all the joy between the holidays; No care spoke ever in my careless song, From graver strains I kept my pipe apart, And played the upper notes; ah, was it wrong To dream my music reached the student heart?

Upon a day one said, with kind intent: "Why sing forever of these trivial things? For better music was your piping meant; Will you confess such earth-restricted wings? Strike some Byronic chord, sublime and deep, Find in ethereal flight the upper air, And speak to us some word that we may keep Within our hearts and ever treasure there!"

Then, with one pang for wasted hours, I gave Another meaning to my faltering lay, And sang of Life and Pain, an early grave, Hope and Despair, and Love that lives alway; But when I listened for an echoing heart, I saw all other lips with laughter curl, And heard them whisper jestingly apart, "He's got it bad, poor fool; we know the girl!"

CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD. _Sequoia_.

~His Letter.~

"Dear Father: Please excuse," he wrote, "The hurried shortness of this note, But studies so demand attention That I have barely time to mention That I am well, and add that I Lack funds; please send me some. Good-by. Your loving son." He signed his name, And hastened to the--foot-ball game.

W.R. HEREFORD. _Harvard Lampoon._

~The Unwilling Muse.~

Oh nothing in all life worse is, For abating superfluous pride, Than having to scribble on verses With the editor waiting outside; I am hearing a lecture on Shelley, Where I ought to be able to dream, But my brain is as vapid as jelly. And I cannot alight on a theme.

The bell rings. My friend, the Professor, Is beginning to read out the roll. How time drags! Am I present? Oh, yes, sir, But, oh, what a blank is my soul. I fear that my cunning has left me, Inspiration refuses to guide, The rouse of her aid has bereft me, And the editor's waiting outside.

GUY WETMORE CARRYL. _Columbia Spectator._

~A Written Lesson.~

I was happy that day, For I knew what to say, And I knew how to tell it; But I found with dismay, As is always the way, When I know what to say, And know how to tell it, That I know what to say But I never can spell it.

S.W. CHAMBERLAIN. _Vassar Miscellany._

~The Deal Closed.~

The ideal co-ed is a thing of books, A creature of brain entirely; With stooping shoulders and studious looks, She digs all day and half the night; People say she is wondrous bright, But her figure's an awful sight! Her thoughts are deep in the classic past, She only thinks of A. B. at last; She has fled this world and its masculine charms, And a refuge found in Minerva's arms.

Now, the kind of co-ed that I describe Is a co-ed seen very rarely; The real co-ed's a thing of grace, With dainty figure and winsome face; She walks and rides, and she cuts, mon Dieu! But every professor lets her through; For her each year is a round of joy, A. B. means nothing if not "A Boy," And you and I must yield to her charms, And take the place of Minerva's arms,

CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD. _Stanford Quad._

~Conditioned.~

Dear old pipe, my oldest friend, Brier of darkest hue, How I long to smoke and dream-- I'm in love with you.