Among five hundred young people gathered together for educational purposes, it is always possible to find several varied and distinct types. First, there is the "tough." He is the hardest to define, the hardest to describe and the hardest to reform. He is of no particular size, of no particular build, of no particular degree of intelligence, and varies infinitely in his symptoms of "toughness." So far as my limited knowledge extends, no attempt has been made to classify him, although some make a distinction between fourth-years and other "toughs." Fourth-year "toughness" is innate, unadulterated, full strength and non-repressible; while ordinary "toughness" may, by the proper administration of goose-eggs, sarcastic remarks, or open rebuke, be alleviated, if not entirely eradicated. The fourth-year confidently believes that he is the pivotal center about which the whole College revolves in profound humility and humbleness of spirit. You may dip the ocean dry with a teaspoon; you may play equine barber without detection; you may corral the infinite, and even get a cinch on eternity; but you can nevereliminate from the fourth-year mind, the colossal conceit that distinguishes him from ordinary mortals, and renders him a bore to his fellow-men. I say fellow-men, because the ladies seem to be just as much mashed on him as though he were a third-year and had good sense.
Then there is the dude. The dude is a sort of a two-for-a-nickel, shave-every-day, flirt-with-the-girls young man, who wears a calico vest, two-story-and-attic picadilly collars, has brass enough on his scarlet tie to copper-bottom a full-rigged ship, and has sap enough in his head to float it. His grades average about seventy until he gets to be a third-year, and there happens to be two socials and a hop the same week, when he usually takes a vacation, and pays a protracted visit to his maternal ancestor.
In marked contrast to the dude, is the individual who, if we are to judge from external appearances, is in blissful ignorance that Ivory soap can be had for ten cents a cake and carbolic acid for even less. He invariably comes to school looking like the breaking up of hard times, and makes us one and all sigh: "How long, oh Lord, how long? How long before the ice will be out of the Blue, so this fellow can go swimming?" P. S. C.
If you will take a short excursion back over the pages of history, you will undoubtedly find that there is a wide range of opinion as to the true meaning of this little word - success. It has been defined time and again, and still we fail to grasp its significance. Great men of every period have exhausted their vocabularies in framing a definition which shall be universally accepted, and each has found himself in utter solitude with his pet production.
Daniel Webster may have had his idea of what constitutes success, and Prof. Georgeson, who has as much right to his opinion as has the immortal Daniel, may have an entirely different idea.
Mrs. Kedzie probably considers it success if she teaches the pretty second-years to properly manipulate the mushstick, and at the same time cut up one little, insignificant, patty-pan sponge cake into a hundred and fifty-three pieces for the Friday lunches.
Prof. Lantz will probably allow one of his rarest, most exquisitively adorable smiles of successful satisfaction to permeate his whole visible anatomy if he ever succeeds in establishing the truth of some abstruse geometrical proposition which has puzzled mathematical skill for ages, as he has hopes of doing.
Even the unsophisticated prep who has been so fortunate as not to have fallen below extreme low-water mark in grades deems himself abundantly qualified to be classed with the successful, to say nothing of the universally envied sophomore who has been able to get a girl for the Ag. reception, and consequently is not obliged, as are most of the class, to wander aimlessly about, singing to a most doleful tune the following touching and pathetic lines:
"Of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these, 'Ithank you
Kindly, sir, but I'm spoken for.'"
The man who has made exceptional advancement up the greased pole of success, only to be precipitated into oblivion among the masses below, would probably, were he called upon, furnish us with a very pessimistic definition of the ethereal commodity in question, but he and Mrs. Kedzie, Prof. Georgeson and the sophomores would all unite in saying, with Ingalls, that "To succeed is success."
Yesterday in the afternoon, as I stood by the old Hort. Hall,
I watched the drilling of Company Q; there were girls both short and tall.
At first they all stood in a line, with the small ones in the rear;
And when lieutenant called the roll, each one, in turn, cried "here."
But when he issued the command, "right forward and fours right,"
At first they showed a little doubt, but this was only slight;
The first four wheeled to a right about, as nice as nice could be,
And never stopped or slacked their pace, until they struck a tree.
The second four stood there, stock still, nor stirred a single step;
The third four made a right half wheel, and then a half wheel left.
The leading guide at first stood still, and then faced to the rear;
The other guide made a movement that in tactics don't appear.
Just at this juncture, lieutenant called "halt," and then each girl stood still,
And seemed to say, "I'm sure I'm right," as you know girls sometimes will.
Lieutenant gasped and stood stock still, to see the fearful blunder;
With some girls here, and some girls there, and some girls over yonder.
Just at this point Si Mason came, and told me to go to work,
He said he should call it "instructive," and hinted that I was a shirk.
Slowly and sadly I went again, and sorted potatoes o'er,
And fancied I saw dear company Q marching the drill ground o'er.
But if ever they learned to march in line, of one thing I felt sure,
They'd have to quit swinging their heads and arms, and being so fearful demure.
The college bell, the college bell,
How many tales its music tells
Of wondrous feats, by labor wrought,
When P. M. boys were being taught.
Those busy hours are past and gone,
And many a boy that strolled the lawn,
Within some office chair is found,
And plows no more the fertile ground.
And so 't will be, as time rolls on,
When P.M. boys have come and gone,
That other bards shall try to tell
The misery caused by the college bell.
They'll try to tell of famous deeds,
Performed while devastating weeds
Of deeds of courage and of skill
In laying siege to the cider mill.
But words shall fail, no tongue can tell
Of the joy that is felt when the four o'clock bell
Shall sound its glad, joyful chime,
And tell the boys that 'tis quitting time.
Friend, I write for amusement; not to amuse the public; no, that would be difficult, but for my own amusement. I used to attempt to please, but now I never attempt a thing so unbecoming a writer of my standing. I say standing, for I seldom lie when I write. If I ever thus indulge my passion, it is because an irresistible impulse urges me onward. This passion comes to all alike, and some seem peculiarly subject to attacks of this kind. But all I wish distinctly understood is this, that I am not lying while I write this. No, my friend, I am simply sitting in pensive thought, upon a feather cushion of a reclining chair. I like feather cushions to sit on. Some prefer to lie on them, but my purely honest nature will not permit me to do so.
When about seventeen years of age, I passed through one of the most trying ordeals which ever fell to the lot of mortal man. It ran thusly: The new schoolma'am was just finishing her second week of school. She was a maiden of twenty-five summers, and experienced in all the arts to which civilized man is heir. A party the coming week at our near neighbor's made me anxious to "do something for my country." I never had ventured so far with anyone before, but resolved, and resolving to keep my resolve, insomuch that I almost dissolved, I pulled the ears of yellow corn and sang snatches of love songs all the forenoon, hoping thus to work myself up to the boiling point.
After partaking of my midday meal, I proceeded to the school house, where my longing soul was to be filled and my heart to be made happy. As I approached the house, my whole nervous system revolted, my knees smote against each other, and my heart kept thumping away at my prosternum until I felt completely demoralized. The closer I came to the house the more terrible grew my agitation. I reached the door in a comparatively helpless condition; I knocked, and, as I heard the footsteps come tripping toward me, who can imagine my feelings? I can't. The English language won't express them. Sick distemper tyrannum vertigo El Paso Texas, is the only Latin that comes near it. She opened the door. I stood aghast; ran first one hand up the door cheek and, then another, then one and then the other, and then I ran the other one up the other door cheek twice, and then changed from one foot to the other, and then cleared my throat. Sliding my hands upon the door cheeks all the time, I says, "We're going to have a party at Mr. Smith's." "Yes," she said, "I have heard of it." I ran the other hand up the door cheek, and stood on the other foot. My situation was precarious. And then I said something about her company, that I had learned from a book. She said, "no," and something about "other arrangements," and, "thank you," etc.
I was unconscious. The subject weighed heavily upon my mind for years. In fact this unwarranted act of mine rendered me useless for life. Thus it is with the youth. Sorrow and calamity beset his pathway, and he pines away to nothingness. Oh! that I could impress upon every one of you the truth of this statement. Could I but rouse the molecules of your quiescent brains to hearty action and make you realize this, methinks life would not have been spent in vain.
President - Showing ace of clubs to erratic sophomore who has been summoned to his imperial presence: "Mr. A., will you be kind enough to tell me what this is?"
Mr. A. - After carefully examining the contraband article: "Well, Mr, President, I am not very well posted on works of art, but upon a superficial observation, I should judge that it is a poorly executed steel engraving of a blackberry."
I believe that this word means the roost and is thought of the least of any word in the vocabulary. It was a standing question with the philosophers for ages "What is truth?
It was the fundamental element in the Greek perfection - the good, the true, and the beautiful. All down the centuries we find truth dictating the destiny of kingdoms and settling the dynasty of princes. No principle, be it ever so great; no law, be it ever so popular, can long exist without the stamp of truth. Truth is eternal. A principle, a law, or a nation founded upon truth, sustained by honest hands and governed by unflinching powers of truth, will just so far prove permanent. All the nations that are sleeping in the dust of the forgotten past fell because truth's altars had been desecrated and error enthroned thereon.
As we turn the pages of history, on to the present time, and see the world so diligently searching for truth, and so successfully producing such marvelous results, we are awed to silence. Truth is the key that unlocks the power of the clouds, and throws open the door of the future and encompasses time and space. As we see the world advancing in this new and wonderful epoch, and behold the future freighted with pleasant possibilities, we feel that the problem is capable of solution, but realize the magnitude of the answer. This and more did the poet see who studied Nature in all her varied forms and was led to thus exclaim:
That awful book! That awful book!
Its contents ever hid from sight,
What would I give for one, good look
Upon that page of black and white!
It is the book used at the College
For summing up a student's knowledge.
That awful book! That awful book!
It has been used through all the past;
Instructors here their vengeance took,
And 'tis a custom that will last.
To steal a glimpse, no matter how,
Amongst the Profs would raise a row.
That awful book! That awful book!
A record keeps that's just and fair,
From ancient times the students shook,
To have their acts recorded there;
For with the good this grade book makes
A careful record of mistakes.
That awful book! That awful book!
Its power increasing with its age,
By rapid strides position took,
To judge all men, from prep to sage;
And now from its exalted place,
It marks the laggards in the race. BILLY KNABB.
In this age, perhaps in every age, man has searched for his own origin. Scarcely thirty years ago, he was thought to be the creation of the present geologic age; now his parentage dates back into the tertiary period.
When Darwin landed on the solitary island of the Pacific and saw the naked savages in all their loathsome wildness, he thought them but one step above the apes, one advance in the sovereignty of mind over matter.
Yet upon one of the remote oceanic islands, rising high above the level of the surrounding country stand gigantic images of stone. Here in this island, scarcely thirty square miles in extent, are hundreds of these images slowly crumbling into dust. What do these point to, if not a previous greater area of inhabitable land and an immensely greater number of inhabitants, and more than this the form of government and development of society far above that of the savage tribes now inhabiting the islands? Surely, this case of retrogression demands an explanation. If development has always been forward and government is a sign of progress, here exists an apparent exception.
To our east, in the valley of the Ohio, stands the only remaining monuments of a totally obliterated race; a race advanced in civilization far above the roving tribes of aborigines, if we may infer anything from the accuracy with which the mounds are planned and constructed; a race whose latest history did not exist a century ago in the oldest myths and legions of the most ancient tribes of Indians. "We have here," says Wallace, "a striking example of the transition over an extensive country, for comparative barbarism, the former leaving no traditions and hardly any trace of its influence upon the latter." Have the modern Indians descended from the mound builders? If not, where has vanished their civilization?
Tom & Carolyn Ward