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Varsity verse 
(University of North Dakota) 







laratty Ifra? 


IntuprsttH of Nortti iaknta 







"So here's to us all. and the pink and the green, 
And to fair Alma Mater, our radiant queen." 



Blizzard. A— Fred Larson, '04, '05 18 

Burns Study, A— Fred Duggan, '99 22 

College Girl, The 6 

Doris — Mary Brennan, '03 30 

Dorothy Dee — E. Leigh Mudge 36 

Enjoyment — .1. A. J 24 

Envoy 17 

Eternal Question, The — Mary Brennan, '03 27 

Football Boy, The— Beatrice Helmer, '07 41 

Hash— V. Stefansson 11 

Her Father's Perplexity — William Ronald White, '11 . 43 

Hidden 5 

Home Sweet Home Waltz, The — Harold Pease 15 

In Arcady — Mary Brennan, '03 29 

In President's Class — Fred Duggan, '99 19 

Man ^Vho Flunks, The— Henry G. Lykken, '05 31 

My First Love — Henry Devaney, '04, '05 8 

My Lot— Daniel V. Brennan, '08 45 

Ode to the Meadov; Lark— Fred Duggan, '99 21 

Paradise Lost — Robert H. Montgomery 34 

Philosophy at Twenty — V. Stefansson 9 

Point of View, The— E. Leigh Mudge 37 

Sad Wooing, A 16 

Song of the Mocking Bird, The — E. Leigh Mudge 39 

Song, A— Charles W. Boise, '08 46 

Sonnet 26 

Stanza A, The Ocean— Fred Duggan, '99 23 

Third Floor Man, The — Robert H. Montgomery 32 

Thorns and Roses — Alphonso Karr 10 

To a Brother — Mary Brennan, '03 30 

To the University of North Dakota — E. Leigh Mudge 40 

To R. S.— Mary Brennan, '03 ...^.j. 28 

Triolets— "Sanna Kop" TN 25 

Vice — Harold Pease 14 

Was 1st Das?— Skuli Skulason, '01, '03 7 

Whitman — V. Stefansson 13 



This modest little collection of verses written by 
students of the University of North Dakota, is pub- 
lished with tAvo puiT)Oses in mind: first, to stimulate 
interest in college verse at the University, and, second, 
to preserve in convenient form the best of what has 
already been written. Although most college verse 
may hardly be classed as poetry, yet to one who has 
had the fortune to have breathed the atmosphere from 
which it springs, it is of great interest and may be 
read with no small degree of pleasure. It is one of 
the expressions of college life, — ^^a life filled with in- 
spiration, promise and an abundant enthusiasm in 
human interests, and as a real part of that life, with 
all its traditions and associations, it should be encour- 
aged and stimulated. 

The task of collecting and judging all the verses 
written since the opening of the institution has been 
a work which, while of great interest, has its difficul- 
ties; and it is not unlikely that some suitable material 
remains undiscovered. But the editors hope that the 
present collection, though small and perhaps incom- 
plete, will pave the way for larger and costlier volumes 
to be published from time to time as occasion warrants. 
If this results, one important hope of the editors in 
this publication Avill have been fulfilled. 

We wish to make grateful acknowledgement for the 
kindly interest shown in the work and especially for 
the enthusiastic co-operation of many of the alumni. 
We also feel especial indebtedness to Professor Squires 
for many valual)le suggestions in regard to the material 

C. W. B. 
P. B. G. 
University of North Dakota, May 5. 1008. 

0»_> / jlOhJ 


Over the prairie, far and wide 

Stretches a mantle of glistening snow. 

Who Avoiild dream, in the frost and chill, 
Living things were concealed below? 

"Winding along the river's side 

With bare brown branches, the woods are seen. 
Who would divine Spring's miracle, 

Could clothe them all in garments green ? 

Stiff and stark in its coffin bed. 

Pulseless and white the river lies. 
Again with life will its waters teem, 

Its waves again flash back the skies. 

What then is death and what is life? 

And what are the mysteries they conceal? 
We wait the Spring that will come ere long ; 

Then all things hidden it will reveal. 


She possessed a mind discerning. 

That was stored and eramed with learning, 
And her thoughts forever burning 

She could suitably express. 
All her sentences were rounded, 

And her words imposing sounded; 
I was really quite astounded 

As I listened, I confess. 

It was rather an infliction, 

All this verbal unrestriction, — 
But her eloquence of diction, 

Each precise and polished phrase, 
And the beautiful selection 

Of the words, and their connection 
And her most correct inflection, — 

They were quite beyond all praise. 

But I saw her very lately. 

And she did not talk ornately; 
All that language suave and stately 

She no longer kept on tap. 
She was saying "Bessums diddums! 

Where de bad old pin got hiddums 
In his muzzer's p'ecious kiddums," 

To the baby on her lap. 


In my room I sat and pondered 

O'er my German exercise, 
And my troubled fancy wandered 

For my room was very heisz. 
When a strange word I encountered 

I would murmur, ' ' Was ist das ? ' ' 
But I didn't stop to find it 

And unknown I'd let it pass. 
Couldn't read a bit next morning. 

Couldn 't answer, ' ' Was ist das ? ' ' 
And Professor sadly murmured : 

''I don't think that you will pass." 
Shall I always be in trouble? 

Be forever green as grass? 
Can I ever make an answer 

When they ask me, "Was ist das?" 
Shall I dying end my troubles? 

Will St. Peter let me pass? 
Will he ask me German riddles? 

Will he ask me, "Was ist das?" 

Skuli Skulason. '01, '03. 


"When first upon her face I gazed 

My soul Avas filled with bliss supreme; 

I, dazzled, stood as one amazed, 
Just wakened from a wondrous dream. 

She would be mine ! Ah, blessed thought ! 

Nor end nor bound my raptures knew ; 
My eyes her face each instant sought, 

She was so lovely and so true. 

Her form was fair, each slender hand 

A marvel was to me, I pressed 
Her face to mine in rapture, and 

Full oft and fondly her caressed. 

But love, unburied, soon grows cold, 
And mine was like the love of men; 

Yet oft my thoughts turn to that old 
Cheap Waterbury watch again. 

Hftnry Devaney, '04, '05. 


A feeling comes to my heart tonight 
That has filled, since the world began, 
The centuries; and been the light 
Of the life of the common man. 
For love is the law, the master force, 
That makes the world akin ; 
That throws a glow over all without 
And mellows the soul within. 

'Tis glorious, on a world-wide stage, 

To wear a hero's crown 

That shines with the gems of mighty deeds. 

With the gold of a fair renown. 

But every prize this earth holds out. 

Or has held since the world began, 

I would renounce, and live, for a woman's love 

The life of a common man. 

For what care I that the world go wild 

At the whisper of my name ? 

The love of a woman my song has sung 

Is not priced in terms of fame ! 

There is no boon this earth holds out. 

Or has held since the world began. 

That can fill the place of a woman's love 

In the life of any man. 

But if the prize of a woman's love 

Falls not on me or you, 

Let us hide the blight of a ruined life 

In a work that is strong and true. 

For those who have builded earth 's fairest shrines, 

And have wrought, since the world began, 

Are those denied a woman's love 

And the life of a common man. 

V. Stefansson. 


E'er seek in things the aspect fair. 

The rose has thorns, you dare complain ; 
To render thanks would be more sane, 

That even thorns may roses bear. 

Alphonso Karr. 




I can refrain no longer ! Lofty Muse, 

Descend to me on alban wings ; infuse 

Into my sluggish veins the liquid flame 

Of poetry, that I may sing the fame 

Of Onions and Hash ! Hast thou, Muse, 

Not smelt them in my breadth ? And canst refuse 

Thy aid to one "who for six months has dined 

On such ambrosial viands 1 Lift my mind, 

Goddess, that my spirit wings may soar 

To heights of sublime song such as of yore 

.Were dreamt by Milton. Let the sweeping swell 

Of sound, deluging every dale and dell 

Be echoed to us from high heaven's vaults 

Back through the .azure deep. it exalts 

The little mind of man to feel that he 

Is hand-in-glove with mysteries that be 

Inscrutable to all but him whose soul 

Is rapt with inspiration and sees roll 

The clouds of darkness off on every hand. 

Cast your eyes hither and behold where stand 

Milton and I, the present and the past 

Masters of lofty song, conjoined at last! 

His theme was God, the Universe, and Man, 

But mine is Hash ; and doubt whoever can 


That I — the later and the greater bard — 

Choose me a theme by far, yea doubly, hard 

To grasp and to digest and understand. 

Where e 'er we look are proofs on every hand 

The world was made for man ; but who dare stand 

In idiotic boldness and declare 

What Hash was made for? Earth and sea and air 

Yield to us traces of their origin. 

But not the oldest nor the wisest men 

Know aught what hash is made of. Sometimes trace 

Is found, indeed, of garlic and of maise, 

Of sweet and sour potatoes, greasy pork 

That erst was baked with beans ; again the fork 

Turns up a bit of cabbage, or a crumb 

Of bread well rounded by a Chinese* thumb, 

A piece of beef that's twice been through a stew, 

And e'en some older hashes with the new 

In deft proportions blended; chemistry 

Stands baffled at this depthless mystery. 

The same, the endless, the eternal round 

It sweepeth day by day. With it are found 

Stepping the march of monotone a few 

Inseparable comrades — doomed, 'tis true. 

To dissolution and to merge at last 

Into the boundless, the unmeasured vast 

Of Hash. 

*At the time there was a Chinese cook in Davis Hall. 

V. Stefansson. 



Whitman, thy rolling rj'thms surge 

With maddened fury through the shoreless seas 
Of human life's eternal tragedies, 
Sinking their tone — now to a moaning dirge 
Of sorrow, and now raising it to scourge 

The self-dwarf littleness that shrinks and flees 
Before thee. Th' impassioned mysteries 
Of life hrood in thy heart and wildly urge 
Thy fingers o'er the sounding harp that thrills 
With all thy knowledge of the heart of man 
And all thy love of nature and mankind; 
And tells the firmness of the rock-ribbed hills, 
The depths of space, and of the eyes that scan 
Those depths, and dream of that which lies behind. 

V. Stefansson, 



My name is Vice, and with my tightening grasp 
I'll conquer thee. "With this dread hand I'll dole 
Out poison, drop by drop, into the bowl 

Of life, which thou must drink to thy last gasp ; 

And in thy dying hand at length thou 'It clasp 
The record of thy shame. I'll have thy soul 
As now I have thy heart; and thou shall 't toll 

Thine own death bell, and fasten close the hasp 

Of thine own tomb. I have thee now. Thou 'rt mine. 
All mine. Thou canst not break the grip my hand 
Hath fastened on thy struggling form. A whine 

From thee but gives me joy; I draw the band 

But closer round thy soul ; thy fevered breath, 
Grown faint, but shows the near approach of death. 

Harold Pease. 



(Apropos of the Junior Prom.) 

The musical waltz with its wonderful rythm 
Flies to the head like the fumes of old wine. 

This subtle intoxicant, who can resist it? 

In effect like the juice of the fruit of the vine. 

Enticing alike to the swing of its meter 

The young and the aged, the youth and the maid, 

Till drunk with its nectar, — and none could be sweeter, 
All reel in an ecstacy till it is staj'^ed. 

The music moves faster, then quicken the motion; 

Drink yet of this cup of ambrosial wine, 
Drown all your cares in this subtle decoction, 

And follow the rythm, nor stop to repine. 

But listen ! Now softly the strains of the music, 

From the Past to the Present though far we may 

Come memory laden from palace or cottage — 

"Be it ever so humble there is no place like home." 

Harold Pease. 



Let me picture to your fancy 
A fair mairlen aged nineteen 
With blue eyes and golden tresses,- 
Sad to say — a Freshman green. 
But I have hopes. 

'Tis her second year in college ; 
Many fellows have gone daft 
O'er this pretty, winsome co-ed, 
But at them she only laughed. 
So I grow bold. 

In her third year now we find her 
Queen of all the Junior Class; 
Even dignified professors 
Smile upon her as they pass. 
My courage droops. 

"When at last a haughty Senior 
She becomes ; Alas I Alack ! 
A bold and verdant Fresh ie 
Wins her hand out on the track. 



Life is a curious mixture, 

Full of work and full of fun; 

There are hours of care-free pleasure, 
There are hard tasks to be done. 

In the world or in the college 
The same principle we find, 

Shade and shine are intermingled. 
Plums and prickles, games and grind. 

In life's pudding gentle reader, 
Whersoe'er you thrust your thumbs, 

May Dame Fortune smile upon you. 
Helping you to find the plums. 



The snow falls fast on the Red tonight, 

And from far o'er the western ranges 

Comes the roar of the winds and the hiss of snows, 

While the air is chilled .and the darkness grows, 

And the face of nature changes. 

The wind rushes on o'er the boundless plains 
With fury it shrieks and rages; 
There's a howl of triumph and savage glee, 
As it heaps up the snow like the foam of the sea, 
And covers the scars of ages. 

Fred Larson, '04, '05. 



Free trade, or protection? 
A series question. 
And full of perplexion 

For minds young and free. 
Why has not the nation 
Removed this vexation 
Of youth's recreation 

By law or decree? 

Our moments of leisure 

Are robbed of their pleasure ; 

They seem not the treasure 

We loved so before. 
We are doomed to debating, 
Grand themes contemplating, 
Wise thoughts excavating 

From mountains of lore. 

Whose lot is the harder. 
The first lucky soldier 
Who, leading the column, 

Gains glory and power. 
Or he who is losing 
His way in confusion 
Half blinded by dust from 

The thousands before? 

Ricardo was lucky 
In living so early. 
And likewise was Adam Smith, 
Malthus and Mill. 


Their work but reflecting, 
While ours is disecting 
Thoir man economic 
Eternally ill. 

Their tasks were quite simple, 

The science was little 

And they had no text books 

Or authors to fear. 
While we have the sages, 
Of all bygone ages 
Yelling forth from their pages 

Their theories drear. 

We are the victims 

Of time's cruel dictums, 

Our labors are far more 

Perplexing than theirs. 
The dust from their stumbling 
Is blinding and numbing, 
Their shrieks are bedumbing; 

We scarce hear our prayers. 

But fate is too cruel; 
She loves such a duel ; 
Debate it we must, 

The old question, alas ! 
From Walker and Hadley 
We'll borrow the medley 
And try to sing bravely 

In President's class. 

Fred S. Duggan, '99. 



Thy song, most welcome harbinger of spring, 
As thou dost call so cheerily to thy mate, 

At evening's eve, hath a most joyous ring, 
For it doth tell us hoary winter's fate. 

happy bird! thou tell'st us by thy song 
The advent of that time of happiness 

When nature dons the cloak of her first choice 
That hath been off so long. 

Thou makest merry in the spring's caress 
And bidst us all in happy tasks rejoice. 

1 can not see the pleasure of the fields 

Nor feel the full of summer's joyous time, 
Yet all the ecstasies that spring reveals 

Are come, for with thee naught but joy can rhyme. 
Ah! Meadow Lark, thy clear melodious note, 
A herald 's call as from the heavens sent, 

Strikes joy unmeasured to my listening soul. 
Might 'st thou thy life devote 

To lightening hearts too much by sorrow bent! 
May joy be of thy merry life the whole. 

Fred S. Duggan, '99. 



Ye walks and paths sae full o ' cheer, 

Ye golden fields sae wavy, 
Long may your beauties, now sae dear, 

Grow sweeter for your Davy. 

'Twas there I spent those happy days 

I'll oft recall sae fondly. 
And aye ! 'twas there I learned to love, 

And there I first met Peggy. 

How mony happy days we spent 

Amang our joys sae kindly, 
A'! Men that ca'ed ye bleak and bare, 

How could they look sae blindly. 

For when the evening's crimson sun 

Sank to his bed sae grandly. 
No sight in nature could compare 

Wi' that for me and Peggy. 

How oft we heard the meadow lark 

Sing out his song sae clearly, 
As o'er the fields or by the stream 

We walked and talked sae gayly. 

And if the cares of life e'er come. 

That weigh on men sae heavy, 
Then I'll return to your free fields 

And happy days wi' Peggy. 

Fred S. Duggan, '99. 



Ye mighty mountains towering to the sky, 
Proud, haughty peaks, whose grandeur can excite 
In man the thrill of awe, your summits high 
Could sink into the ocean's depths from sight 
And leave no trace — Her vastness is sublime. 
Her years are as the sands upon her shore ; 
Her billows lash the surf in every clime ; 
Below, vast continents her waves roll o'er, 
Silent as death itself, save ocean's reigning roar, 

Fred S. Duggan, '99. 



What joy to wander by the stream 
That doth so smoothly glide ! 

Thru many an eve I idly stroll 
With Mary by my side. 

Oh Cottage steps, what is your charm 
That fills my soul with pride, 

As in the even hours I sit 
With Mary by my side? 

Oh, let me wander down the track 

In quiet-even tide. 
And whisper tales of purest love 

To Mary by my side. 

J. A. J. 



It makes me so tired, 

This eternal flirtation! 
They ought to be fired — 
It makes me so tired. 
I couldn't be hired, 

(This with much perturbation) — 
It makes me so tired, 

To engage in flirtation. 

It makes him so tired, 

Their eternal flirtation, 
That he almost expired — 
It made him so tired. 
For her face he admired, 

(Though with much perturbation) — 
It made him so tired 

He broke up the flirtation. 

Sanaa Kop. 



As one who with his careful eyes intent 
Upon the rock-strewn grronnd, goes slowly on 
With weary, stumbling steps, and visage wan. 
And spite of care strikes manj'' stones, till, spent 
"With listless travel, shoulders stiffly bent 
To ease their pain, he halts, and prone upon 
The earth, he rests in sleep, and wakes anon 
Upon a sun-kissed hill, in wonderment ; 
So I, when many days of restless fret 
Had passed, and sleepless, torture-laden nights 
When even dreams did flee, and endless fears 
Filled all the dragging moments, and regret 
Did smother hope, awoke up on the heights 
And laughed and dared to face the dreaded years. 

Mary Brennan, '03. 


"What is love? say the Freshies. 

A net in whose cringing rose-meshes 

All sensible mortals are caught. 

What is love? says the Sophomore. 
Trouble, and doubt, and a dollar more 
To be spent for some trifle, than ought. 

What is love? cries the Junior, 
Rapture and bliss till youreloony or — 
Somebody else cuts you out. 

What is love? asks the graduate. 

A sugar-plum which you are glad you ate ; 

Meininisse Juvahit, no doubt. 

Mary Brennan, '03. 


TO R. S. 

The lily-of-the-valley gave you all her drooping grace; 

The rare, pure loveliness of mountain-blooms was in 

your face ; 
And in your eyes the quiet radiance of a spotless soul. 

And when you smiled, there gleamed the dim dream- 
light of summer-dawn; 

And when you spoke, it was as tho a gold mist-wand 
were drawn 

Across a harp, and all the echoes caught in one sweet 

And when jou died the music of the wind sank to a 

And all the fiowers fainted, and the glad sun-light grew 

While Love's heart-moan of parting speed your spirit 
to its goal. 

Mary Brennan, '03. 



The night mists are gone, love, 

The sun 's on the dew ; 
Come out in the dawn, love, 

I'm waiting for you. 

The wind's in the clover, 

The lark's on the wing; 
And music floats over 

The hill from the spring. 

Come while the breezes blow lightly, my love ! 
Come while the dew-drops glow brightly, my lovel 
Hark ! How the music rings sweeter my love, 
Come! than the lark's wings, still fleeter my love. 

Come down to the meadow 

"With violets pied; 
Come dream in the shadow 

Where violets hide. 

I'll heap you a throne there 

Of roses and rue ; 
And all that has grown there 

Shall blossom for you, 

Mary Brennan, '03. 



There is a love that has faith in you, 

Let the world say what it will; 
That hopes, and endures, and is strong, for you, 

With a strength that no hurt can kill. 

It is a love that asks little of you, 

Only this — when your heart is sore. 
Let the thought of it somehow comfort you. 

Till you smile and are brave once more. 

Mary Brennan, '03. 


Are you sprite or maiden, Doris fair? 

For your smiles are laden with the rare, elusive lighten- 

Of a jonquil blossom brightening 

'Neath the sudden, golden flashes 

In the dusk-dimmed, summer air. 

Mary Brennan, '03. 



(Apologies to Dunbar.) 

^e sit o'er our books with our nerves unstrung, 

And work for the honor roll ; 
And our odes are sung and our banner hung 

For the names inscribed on the scroll. 
For well we know, as the w^hole world knows, 

That the man for his sheepskin's worth 
Is the man who digs till his hair silvered grows 

And reads from his very birth. 

For it's fine to grow up, and the Prof's applause 

Is sweet to the fickle ear. 
And the man who flunks, in any cause, 

Bears a name we seldom hear. 

His laurel crown's like the ocean foam 

That breaks by an unknown sea — 
For many such heroes have oft gone home 

With naught but an F. or E. 


There are galant men in the losing race, 

Hearts that are staunch and true ; 
And many a man at a slower pace 

May get there as soon as you. 
For these I've a song of the selfsame kind, 

A quaff of the selfsame ale — 
An ode to the Aveaker heart and mind 

Of the man who is made to fail. 

Henry G. Lykken, '05. 



I am a happy third floor man, 

My life has lost its gloom; 
I strut about the halls at night 

And no one stacks my room. 

The reason for this marvelous change, 

And for this chesty air, 
You'll find in this veracious tale 

Of the battle of the stair. 

It happened on a Friday night, 

About the time of eight, 
When the proctors were elected, 

February eighteenth was the date. 

And first the second floor came up 

To stretch our proctor new. 
They came, they saw, but conquered not, 

And made a quick skidoo. 

So anxious were they to go down, 

They minded not the stair ; 
But took the flight both swift and strong 

Right through the balmy air. 

But when they hit the hard, hard floor 
They fought both fierce and long. 

While shysters from first floor stood round 
In crowds, a laughing throng. 


"We gave them what they wanted, 

With measure full and fair, 
And hurled them headlong on the ground 

Each time they hit the stair. 

At last they gave the battle up 

And said they'd have no more, 
And offered up their places to 

The scoffers from first floor. 

And then the leader from the first 

Led forth his score of men, 
And rushed half way up the stairs. 

And then rushed down again. 

So back and forth they surged and fought, 
And plunged and rushed and swore. 

And every time they were thrown down 
They came right back for more. 

At length they saw it was in vain, 

They saw that they must yield 
So, one and all. with one accord, 

They left the battle field. 

Oh. now we're happy on third floor, 

No more we live in gloom ; 
We strut about the halls of Budge 

And every one makes room, 

Robert H. Montgomery, '10, 


Or a Third Floor Man on First. 

What fools they are who waste their time 
In dreamy hunts for useless rhyme. 

AVho cannot e'en their temper lose, 
But what they must invoke the muse ; 

And when their room is stacked, or worse, 
They almost have to swear in verse. 

A mortal such I used to he 

And rhymed about each jamboree, 

And when at night the water ran 
I almost rivaled Koppa San. 

But now how can I rhymes produce, 
How can I lofty thoughts unloose. 

Who on the first floor lay my head 

Amidst a crowd quite three-fourths dead. 

No more my room is stacked full high. 
No artist's work delights my eye; 

No water greets my sleepy head, 
No pins make live my drowsy bed. 

The plaster sticks upon my wall. 

No rough house yet has made it fall; 

A silence as of death prevails 

And lost the sound of swishing pails. 


The paddle, glorious theme to sing, 
Has long since lost its biting sting; 

The dust lies thick o 'er every name. 

Whose dusted pants are known to fame. 

My hand inactive long is weak, 

My brain no good except for Greek; 

I now have lost the way to stack 
And fear I ne'er shall get it back. 

Oh, for the joys at any cost 

Of that sweet paradise I've lost; 
That home of noble thought and life. 

That bourne of daily, nightly strife. 
Where every room a castle made 

And every room a barricade. 
And every man a warrior grew 

And all the arts of warfare knew. 

Robert H. Montgomery, '10. 



Tell me, bird in the aspen tree, 

Tell me, flower of the clover, 

Tell me, O home-coming, sweet-laden bee, 

Roaming the fragrant fields over, 

Tell me if ever it chanced you to see 

Here in your meadows my Dorothy Dee? 

"We know her well," said the bird in the tree, 

Bee in the heart of the clover; 

"O'ft comes she down through the sweet-scented lea, 

Seeking the cool forest cover. 

Bring you no harm to our Dorothy Dee" — 

Thus said the bird and the flower and the bee. 

Sing, merry bird, to your mate in the tree; 
Bee, seek the heart of the clover. 
While I shall find what is fairer than ye, 
Dearer the heart of a lover. 
"There is but one that is fairer than we." 
Answered the bird and the flower and the bee. 

E. Leigh Mudge. 



When herb and grass .and purple heather 
Had given place to winter weather. 
Two artists walked the fields together. 

One was a cynic ; life by him 

Was seen through glasses dark and dim 

With all his world within their rim. 

The other man could always hear 

The world's glad song of hope and cheer, 

And see life's beauty through the year. 

Said he : "Why let dispute be rife? 

Let us unite in friendly strife, 

To paint our favorite views of life." 

His friend agreed, "For well I know, 
In time of frost and winter's snow, 
Real life is only filled with woe." 

Just then they saw a slender form, — 
A woman, from the fireside warm. 
Hastening before them through the storm. 


They saw, but neither spoke the thought 
The moment's fleeting vision brought, 
Till on two canvasses 'twas wrought. 

The one was cold and dull and grey, 
Grim Winter leaped upon its prey, — 
A thin-clad woman on her way. 

The other was a charming sight; 
A lovely girl, with visage bright. 
Turned to the storm her footsteps light. 

The difference 'tis well to trace; 
The one saw not the light and grace; 
The other man had seen her face. 

E. Leigh Mudge. 



You may boast of the singer from over the sea, 
"Whose voice tunes your soul to its own melody, 
But gives me the joy of the innocent glee 
Of the song of the mocking bird. 

Now listen ! The still air above us awakes 
Into ripples of song — as the smooth water breaks, 
With the fall of a pebble — till each echo takes 
The song of the mocking bird. 

A master musician, sweet mocker, you are, 
To sing me so sweetly and bring me so far, 
A full thousand songs in your gay repertoire — • - 
The song of the mocking bird. 

So now, as I lie on the grass at the feet 
Of your elm trees, you sing me your program complete. 
Do you borrow your song? Whatearel? It it sweet- -• 
The song of the mocking bird. 

Then sing on, sweet mocker, as even draws near; 

The sweetest of echoes awake to my ear, 

"With the gay vesper songs of your boimdless good 
cheer — 

The song of the mocking bird. 

E. Leigh^e. 



The masonry of other years and climes, 

Grim castle walls, whose welcome was a frown, 

Bespoke the spirit of the earlier times, 

When only granite could preserve a crown. 

To better days our favored land is come, 
When battlement and tower may resign 

The chief protection of our land and home 
To peaceful ministrations, such as thine. 

Thou, Alma Mater, a defender art 

Of all the liberties within our ken. 
A castle wall may hide a, craven heart; 

Thy walls bring forth instead a race of men. 

E. Leigh Mudge. 



Blessing on thee, sturdy man, 
Football boy, with cheek of tan! 
With thy shock of tangled hair, 
Ends extending everywhere ; 
With thy lean face, leaner still 
In the firmness of thy will; 
And thy suit all brown and torn, 
Frayed and soiled and battle- worn ; 
From my heart I give thee joy, — 
AVould I were a football boy ! 
King thou art, — the others can 
Never rank with thee, — a man! 
Let the dried professor's pride 
Wear his Homer at his side! 
Thou art strong and nobly planned, 
Full of good old-fashioned sand. 

Oh, for football's painful pLay, 
Knocks that may a fellow say 
Things he never, never found, 
In the rules good books expound. 
Oh, the wild, wild, tumbling chase 
O'er the fields, at break-iieck pace, 


"When a fellow never knows 
Just how soon he'll break his nose. 
And Avhen o 'er the line he bounds, 
How his heart within him pounds ! 
And his soul thrills at the sound, 
Of the cheering all around. 

Bravely, then, my noble band, 
Live and love, and show thy sand! 
Though the football field be soft, 
Though thou stumble, tumble oft, 
Every gain is for the right, 
Stand thy ground and nobly fight! 
Every game in cold or heat 
Winning victory o'er defeat, 
Battle for our U. N. D. 
Work and win, she's proud of thee! 
All too soon they time is passed 
In the wide world 's field at last, — 
Fighting inch by inch the line — 
Make thy strength and virtue shine ! 
Break away from sloth and sin — 
Now you're going, now you win ! 
From my heart I give thee joy, 
King thou art, thou football boy! 

Beatrice Helmer, '07. 



Tears to me our daughter Mary's 
Doin' things almighty queer. 

Subjects there is things which varies, 
'Cording to the time o ' year. 

Jist this mornin' comes a letter, 
Which she writ down at her school. 

Forty pages all together ; 

Makes me feel jist like a fool. 

Here she says, (jist as a starter), 
' ' Thursday was an ev 'nin ' out. ' ' 

Now sich language from my darter 
Kinder leaves me some in doubt. 

"What it is that she is out of 
She neglects to state in this. 

Thought I sent some money lately, — 
That's most likely what it is. 

Here we have about ten pages 
Tellin' how "in ev'nin's glow, 

How at dawnin' track-work rages, 
"While the western zephyrs blow." 

This, I understand correctly: 

Knowing how that street car wracks, 

And I reason quite directly. 
"Track-work" is to fix them tracks. 


This here page stumps me completely, 

She is takin' "campus lab," 
Hides her meanin' very neatly; 

She must have the gift o' gab. 

For I know that "lab" means foolin' 
With them tubes and chemi-kels ; 

Though I ain't so much on schoolin' 
Guess I know what "campus" tells. 

Must be that its grass she's studj'in' 
How to make it grow an' sich; 

Or perhaps its 'bout the killin' 
Dandelions, weeds, an' sich. 

Out of these few dozen pages, 

Seems she's writin' poetry 
'Bout the "blooms of tender ages," 

And this "treegonametry." 

Now I'm jist a leetle doubtful, 
"What to think of all sich stuff; 

For she says it's all so useful 
Sorter leaves me in a huff. 

Guess I'll send a little money, 
And jist wait until she'll come, 

"With her smile so bright and sunny, 
AVhich will cheer our country hum. 

William Ronald White, 11. 



Give me a place to live and work, 
A chance to be a man, 
To show men I am one of them. 
And I'll care naught for else 
But a quiet home on a sunny hill 
And one to share my joys and woes — • 
Ah ! one who lives and loves and knows — 
And then I am a man. 

Dan V. Brennan, '08. 



Come all good fellows of the "U," 

Come, join in jollity; 
For college days are happy days, 

From serious care we're free. 
Then fill the pipe, lift high the glass. 

And in the smoke so blue 
Let all join heart and hand tonight, 

Be fellows good and true; 
Let all join heart and hand tonight 

For the fellows make the ''U." 

And when we're far away from friends, 

When college days are past, 
"When trouble clouds are all around 

And cares come thick and fast. 
We'll fill the pipe and in the clouds 

Our troubles all will clear. 
We'll fill the pipe and dream awhile, 

Make distance disappear; 
And join again our heart and hand 

With the college friends so dear. 

Charles W. Boise, '08. 


Los Angeles 

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