Ad-Vance Wit
Frosh—I wonder who ever invent
ed the old fashion of strapping the
trousers down over the shoes.
Soph—Probably some fellow whose
Bister had just given him a pair of
Xmas socks.
She said, “I’m undecided.”
His answer was unkind—
“Although you can make up your face,
You can’t make up your mind.”
Helen—I kissed Bob last night.
Jimmie Fee—Is that right
H. G.—No, but it’s so.
I would I were an artist;
- Twould fill my soul with cheer,
For when I got a thirst on
I’d draw a glass of beer.
Sigma Chi—So Turner Niel is en
gaged?
D. G.—Yes, he’s Dunn for.
The very worst habit
To get in yoru head,
Is to send girls flowers
Before they are dead.
He was late again! He looked at
the clock and kept staring at it for
some time.
Blushing furiously she drew her
feet under her chair.
Slowboy—You say her gown is pro
siac. How So?
Stepup—It leaves nothing to the
imagination.
In Strongheart.
Hugh Thompson—That left tackles’
work is pretty Taw.
Russel Fox—Yes, that’s what the
coach is roasting him for now.
Freshman—Not prepared toda.
Professor—(deftly making a zero)
Again, eh! You seem to be a sort of
bye-and Iri-ologist.
Kappa Sigma—Benefiel has chang
ed his course since he went to the
hospital.
Second Kappa Sigma—How’s that?
First K. S.—He’s talking medicine
now.
At 0. A .C.
Law—What is the subject of your
thesis?
Mechainc—I’m makin’ a gas en
gine.
Law—Do you file your thesis with
the recorder?
Mechanic—Naw. With a rasp.
Co-ed—Why do people speak of
‘the human race ’
Senior—Because men and women
are always running after each other.
Cub Reporter —- Here’s a story
about the last Indian of his tribe who
drank himself to death and was cre
mated yesterday. How shall I head
it?
Editor—You’d better say: “Race
ends in dead heat.”
Rebec always keeps his classes
While the coming class-hour passes.
No gong and no bell
Can break in through his spell.
He just talks on a glares through his
glasses.
The Prof, who yells loud is J. Gilbert.
You’ve oft’ heard this word rhymed
with filbert.
If you think you can boss him,
You’ll learn not to cross him.
Look out for this man, my dear Wil
bert.
Prof. Howe wears an eye-shade that’s
green.
And the strangest chin-whiskers I’ve
Free Verse--By the Emancipated
IN CLASS.
I am looking at my professor.
I watch his mouth open and close,
Open and close.
I know that he is setting air waves
in motion.
I know that these same air waves
are noises of wisdom.
I know that last year,
And the year before,
And the year before that.
The same mouth opened and closed—
Opened and closed.
The same air vibrations caused the
some noises of wisdom—
I am looking at my professor.
—ECHO JUNE ZAHL.
THE NOVEMBER MOON
Silence, and the slow moon rising.
Black, naked trees stand out.
Stars gleam in the sluggish river.
Higher tbe moon moves.
The shadows shift and creep wierdl.v.
Suddenly a rushing, warm, shriek
ing thing—
The night express!—
Then all is still and cold,
And the slow moon rising. .
—GRACE BINGHAM.
THE PILL SHOP.
Over the counter huddles the holder
of the lives of men:
A grim, hoary-bearded man,
With grimy hands.
He ponders the scratched pen marks,
Written in the feverish haste of ebb
ing hope,
• Beside the bed of a dying man.
-This vial holds the precious fluid
craved by millions.
Within this tiny glass sufficient
strength to save a scare of lives
Or drive a hundred men insane.
—The scales teeter-totter,—poise—
poise.
The light is dim.
By merest chance
He may have read aright the messnge
of the hand
That holds a life at stake.
—EARL W. MURPHY.
POE’S MUSIC.
Words are the strings on the harp
of language. Poe’s fingers touch them
and the divine, soul-charming tones
become rhapsodies that enchant the
very air and make the hard winds of
wisdom cease for a while their boast
ful blowing and yield to the lyric
breezes that bear the rarest melodies
that poets ever sang. —M. A. S.
Of late years there has come into
being something that has been called
a renaissance, not entirely differ
ent f"em the artistic and intellectual
re-birth in the 16th century. It has
affected all realms of art, sculpture,
painting, and, mere particularly ard
widely, literature—or, still better,
poetry.
The product of this change, this in
fleunce of free-thinking and free-act
in_ <;n our poetry, has been that form
of composition known as free verse or
“vers libre.” It has received its
stripes and seoffings, is still receiving
them, but is coming into its own and
is attracting the serious considera
tion and attention that it merits.
A professor of the University re
cently set two classes to writing this
verse which finds its truest worth in
allowing the writer to express his or
her exact views in the plainest way
and with the best symbolism and im
agry wnth out being hindered by an
ignorance of verse form and the diffi
culty of metrical construction. The
result has fc/ean a turning here on the
campus from the usual forms of col
lege verse and we have a .deluge of
verse libTe. A few drops thereof are
pprinkled here.
BLOOD.
Across the water
Brood is flowing
In streams, in torrents.
Men are exhorted—
Kill! Kill! Kill!
Each machine gun
Or flying zeppelin
Deepens, widens, the flood.
All Europe is drunk
With the red wine
Of killing.
And as on ineentinve
They offer the iron-cross.
And here?
For wasting one heartful
In a moment of passion,
We hang a man.
IBA MOOD.
Wheeler and Conklin are both qiute
thin.
They manage well now, but tell me,
how in
The very dickens,
Could they eat chickens,
If Wheeler had Conklin’s chin.
HARD LINES THESE, FOR
BACHELORS AND FOR MURPHY
New York, Oct. 31.—'Macaroni took
a jump today of 30 per cent. The
war and scarcity of labor were given
as causes.
The Bachelors’ club has cause to
grieve, and storm
Against the powers that hold the
clutching hand
Of iron control upon the price of
food.
For, hearings of the luck the boys
have had
In keeping down the cost of living
here,
The barons cast about to find the
food
The price of which they bad not
thought to raise.
And when they found that for their
every meal,
The boys selected macaroni strings
They shot the prices skyward and
will keep
Them there until the Bachelors' club
disbands.
—EARL W. MURPHY.
THE RETURN.
I Down through the path of the sun
set’s gold
Arched by the waving trees—
Out to the meadow’s green beyond,
Out through the whispering grain,
Out to God’s own universe—
Out, Out to the world again!
■—MILDRED STEINMETZ.
DEJECTION.
I hear the call of souls that writhe in
pain.
I hear the cries of children cursed at
birth.
The falling clouds, the darkness and
the fog
Combine to plunge my heart in deep
est gloom.
The misery of the world is also mine.
The pain of every victim of Verdun
Is felt by me ns keenly as by Him.
Before my vision puss with halting
steps
The victims of a prudish moral code,
Which gives no room to truth unless
’tis veiled.
—EARL W. MURPHY.
Yonder slim gent is named Young,
Why on him was such a name hung?
For he has been here
Full many n year,
And many nstudenthnsstung.
seen.
He’s strong for football,
And that’s sufficient and all
To get by with the students, I ween.
Bert Prescott’s afflicted with gawf.
Don’t tee-up but rather tecs-off.
He usually thinks
In the love of teh links.
The poor chap’s absent-minded. Don’t
csoff.
“Have you heard why pests are so
thick this fall ”
He laughed in a voice cracked, weak
and small,
"This cold weather that gripes
Has froze up all the pipes.’’
'Twas T. Cloran talking. That’s all.
By Epping-Vance & Co.
LET’S GO!
Say, you wild-eyed Broncho Jim,
Don’t you know you’ve blew your tin?
You’re the darndest fool I know.
Can’t you see the lady’s through
With your dainty eyes of blue?
Do you think she’s made of gold
And will love you when you’re old?
You might win the human race
But that tanned and wringled face
Does’nt harmonize with lace.
Can’t you tell that all these lights
Are a part of sharpers fights?
And their dingy old White Way—
Why a year here ain’t a day
To our foothills back that way.
Can’t you hear the sing of ropes
And the mavericks shrill notes
Can’t you feel the sloppy wet
Of your wain old lariat?
Smell that burning cigarette
Hell! let’s get.
—rERCY BOATMAN.
SMELL OF THE SEA.
I am tired of streets and pavement,
Crowds and lights, and smoky inns
And the smileless stares of strangers,
For my heart is in the winds.
There’s a sweetness in the sea breeze
That is blowing in to mo.
There’s a Gypsy in my thinking
That has sent my thoughts to sea.
And those white gulls in the harbor
With their white wings drooping low
Are the heralds of the harbors
Where my heuTt has bid me go.
—PERCY BOATMAN.
A FAT, RED LITTLE BOY.
A fat, red little boy
On a hot street,
Going for a music lesson.
His stockings are lumpy and they
bag;
And his hair is mush color.
Pttle eyes,
Like large glass marbles..
Does yonr mother dream
Your hair will turn
Dark and long and oily, little boy,
When you ore twenty-five /
And that your eyes will change
From green glass to fire,
Like Paderewski's ?
Is that why you lug a violin case
On a sticky afternoon,
Mournfully?
—GRACE EDGINGTON,