Chapter 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.

Good old beer, an oft-tried friend,
Best and choicest brew,
How I long for you again--
I'm in love with you.

Laughing lips and rosy cheeks,
Eyes of deepest blue,
You I long for most of all--
I'm in love with you.

Tempt me not, my dear old friends,
I have work to do--
Four conditions in a term--
For I loved but you.

_Brunonian_.

~Evening on the Campus.~

Behind a screen of western hills
The sunset color fades to-night;
Along the arching corridors
Long shadows steal with footsteps light.
The banners of the day are furled;
Thro' darkening space the twilight creeps
And smooths the forehead of the world
Until he sleeps.

The oak-trees closer draw their hoods;
A bird, belated, wings his dim,
Uncertain flight, and far above
A star looks down and laughs at him;
The sky and mountains melt in one;
Tall gum-trees range their ranks around;
The white walk marks its length upon
The velvet ground.

From out the dusk the chimney points,
Like guiding finger, to the skies;
Down drops the curtain of the night,
And all the plain in darkness lies,

When, as the college buildings seem
To lose their form in shapeless mass,
The lights shine out as poppies gleam
Amid the grass.

CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD. _Four-Leaved Clover._

~Philosophy.~

Shall I grieve because a maid
Swore to love me--failed to do it?
When we both are old and staid,
I shall laugh--and she shall rue it.
Shall I grieve, if for a prize,
Strive my best--I fail to win it?
In the world where honor lies,
Medal men are seldom in it.

C.W. CRANNELL. _Garnet_.

~Bed During Exams.~

_(With Apologies to Mr. Stevenson.)_

I used to go to bed at night, And only worked when day was light. But now 'tis quite the other way, I never get to bed till day.

I look up from my work and see The morning light shine in on me, And listen to a warning knell-- The tinkle of the rising bell.

And does there not seem cause to weep, When I should like so much to sleep, I have to sing this mournful lay, I cannot get to bed till day?

CLARA WARREN VAIL. _Bryn Mawr Lantern._

~Under Two Flags.~

It's all very well
For a boy, who can yell
For his own special college through all, without fail.
How can I be true
To the red or the blue,
When Will is at Harvard, and Tom is at Yale?

When one comes to call,
I must stop in the hall
To see that his pin's in a prominent place,
They're both on the crew,
And I'm all in a stew,
For I'm pledged as a mascot for both in the race!

Dear Will's such a swell,
And he dresses so well,
(Tom says that he puts on a great deal of dog),
His tenor is fine
And his waltzing divine.
But you ought to see Tom do his skirt-dance and clog!

It's all very well
For a boy, who can yell
For his own special college through all, without fail.
Why, I'd gladly be true
To the red or the blue,
If Tom were at Harvard, or Will went to Yale!

JULIET W. TOMPKINS. _Vassar Miscellany._

~After the Soirée ~

I beside the blue-gate lying, Round and round all objects flying, Just to reach my bed was trying, After the Soirée.

Now I hear the music stopping, Now the corks from champagne popping, Now the wasted money dropping, After the Soirée,

Now I sleep and now awaken, Find myself by classmates taken To the bed that I'd forsaken, After the Soirée.

When the light of day comes o'er me, What have I but flunks before me? Greek and Latin, how they bore me, After the Soirée.

F.R.D.B. _Garnet_.

~A Panacea.~

If your health is not quite right, If you have no appetite, If you cannot sleep at night, Light your pipe.

If conditions round you press, If your stock of cuts grows less, Spoiling all your happiness, Light your pipe.

If your debts upon you weigh, If your bills you cannot pay, As they come in day by day, Light your pipe.

There's no trouble in this land, Lack of wealth, or loss of stand, Loss of health, or lady's hand, Which can this sure cure withstand! Light your pipe.

R.O. RYDER. _Yale Record._

~A Toast.~

What though the storm-king growls in rage,
And the daylight fast is dimming;
We'll add to the score on Mem'ry's page,
While the butt with cheer is brimming.

And Love shall be the tapster gay,
To draw at nod or winking;
And whether the clouds be gold or gray,
Here's to the cup and its clinking!

Those moist lips, touched in single bliss,
More constant are than lovers';
Their foamy depth holds many a kiss,
And many a sigh it smothers.

Then ho for the blood of youth, say I, And the mad, glad hopes it bringeth; For the palsied step of Age draws nigh,-- "_Sans_ hope, _sans_ joy!" he singeth.

A. K. LANE. _Tuftonian_.

~A Ballade of College Girls.~

What do the dear girls learn nowadays,
At all the colleges where they go?
They've no cane-rushes nor football frays;
Whence can their wealth of wisdom flow?
Up at Wellesley they learn to row;
Gowns and mortar-boards there are swell;
They flirt in the shades of "Tupelo":
I have been there,--but I won't tell!

The Smith girls had the dramatic craze,
And even the critics puffed their show;
The Amherst men are loud in their praise;
They diet on pickled limes and Poe.
At good Mount Holyoke, which some deem slow,
They learn to cook and to sweep as well;
Along with their Greek they're taught to sew:
I have been there,--but I won't tell!

Cornell's "co-eds" have flattering ways; Many a soul they have filled with woe; Up at Vassar they're prone to stays, And no girl there can have a beau; All those beautiful blooms must throw Their sweetness away where no man may dwell; Rules can be cheated, sometimes, though: I have been there,--but I won't tell!

ENVOY.

Girls, the Blue and the Crimson know
How a tryst is kept after bedtime bell.
"Hush-sh," you whisper, "be cautious!" Oh,
I have been there,--but I won't tell!

F.R. BATCHELDER. _Harvard Lampoon._

~Ballade of the Alumna.~

How sadly in these latter days,
In search of memories bitter-sweet,
We tread the once-accustomed ways
With step grown slow, and lagging feet,--
Timed to the pulse's slower beat,--
And climb the stair and reach the floor,
To find--alas! how time is fleet!
Another's name is on the door!

We timid knock, and beg to gaze
On all once ours--are shown a seat,
O irony! In sad amaze
We marvel that it looks so neat,
Recalling how we used to meet
At gruesome hours in days of yore,--
Hours that fate can ne'er repeat:
Another's name is on the door.

Our ready chaff, our wordy frays, Conviction backed by young conceit, Have left no echoes; nothing stays To mark how once we "led the street;" But others come with youthful heat, Nor reck of those who came before, And play their part--their years complete;-- Another's name is on the door.

ENVOY.

Freshmen, our age with reverence greet,
And warning take, though grieved sore,
No words delay, no prayers entreat,--
Another's name is on the door.

EDITH CHILD. _Bryn Mawr Lantern._

~A Banquet Song.~

I.

Comrades, fill the banquet cup Brimming up! Fill it full of love and laughter, Claret lips and kisses after, Crown it with a maiden's smiles, And the foam of magic wiles. Drink it, drain it, clink your glasses, For the love of loving lasses Ere it passes!

II.

Fill again, the banquet cup Brimming up! Overflow it with the roses Which her timid blush discloses. With her sparkling eyelight sift it, Till it flavored is. Then lift it. Drink it, drain it, clink your glasses, For the love of loving lasses Ere it passes!

III.

Comrades, fill a parting cup Brimming up! Flood it in your praise's zest, For the uninvited guest. With her charms and graces fill it, Touch the lips and heartward spill it. Drink it, drain it, clink your glasses, For the love of loving lasses Ere it passes!

EDWIN OSGOOD GROVER. _Dartmouth Literary Monthly._

~The Senior And The Rose.~

A few faded rose-leaves-- A Freshman-year treasure-- I view you again with a sigh. Three years have I kept you In care without measure, And now must I tell you good-by?

A rose that a Senior Once dropped and deserted, A rose from the bright banquet-hall, A rose that man gave me, When madly I flirted With him at the great Junior Ball.

Alas for the rose-leaves! Confusion o'ercomes me! My cheek is quite crimson with shame! Which rose were you part of? And which Senior was she? And what was that college man's name?

EVA LINNETTE SOULE. _Cardinal_.