The
Oregon
Spirit
Editor.John DeWitt Gilbert
A supplement published monthly ns
an addition to the Emerald—support
ed by student contributions to its col
umns and by funds derived from the
Toy ore lecture, or voluntary (lifts ae
cruiny from other and private sources.
Literary icork of any sort is de
sired—provided it is produced by stu
dents of the University. Publication
is made monthly,
The Like of You
Often to myself I’ve said:
“Tis the like of you I’d wed”.
It was not said of fickle dame
Who understands the flirting game,
Nor of maiden fair, coy, shy
With the glow of youth on cheek,
in eye.
lint of one older by twice—three
times—
In whose voice ring tender chimes
Of true love—of motherhood—
Who stmls for all that’s pure and
good;
Whose eyes are mellowed by yearning
love
For dear ones dead and gone above,
Whose heart throbs with strong
emotion
In love, faithfulness and devotion
For those still here with her.
Seldom is such cliiirm possest
Kven hy the very best
Of those we do not know
YVlial blessed mothers lmvo passed
through.
1 tut if ever I chance to run
Across just such a lovely one—
Well, then, my love’s begun.
//. s. J.—’vr.
Tho Mist
The mist is thick.
You breathe its cool freshness.
Tops of buildings and trees
And forms in the distauee
Are faint and obscure.
The street light looms
From its shroud of mist.
A thousand filmy veils press it close
As if to smother.
In their silvery folds.
This silent eye of night
Looking upon the e loaded universe.
The motorcar bores through the mist
With its two powerful eyes,
Cutting white shafts of light ahead
Through the thick atmosphere.
The mist envelopes you close.
You are not afraid.
Von can put forth your hand aid
feel it.
It is your friend.
lllcun Urookins.
The Forgotten Land
Out where the wind blows a trifle
strong.
Out where the sand dunes pile lean
and long.
tint where Tlie^pcks are dark and
Out where the buzzards hold their
sway,
That's the forgotten land.
Out where the coyotes bav shrill at
night,
Out where the owls resume their
flight,
Out where the worst is as good as the
best,
Out there the land they call the West,
That’s the forgotten land.
Out where the trees arc twisted and
gnarled,
Far, far from the noise of the outside
world,
Out where the sun is a trifle brighter,
Out where the winter grips a wee bit
tighter,
That's the forgotten land.
Out in this vast forgotten space,
Out where they meet yon face to face,
Out there where the black snakes
crawl,
Out there where the night-birds call,
Out where the sun shines blistering
hot,
That is the devil's garden spot,
That is the land that God forgot.
There’s something about that forgot
ten place,
The sand-dunes, the rocks and the
hill,
There's a something that keeps a
calling,
“Come hack"—“come hack''—
Asd / uill.
—Verne Melson.
On Indebtedness
(With apologies to Milton)
When 1 consider that my coin is
spent,
That 1 stand broke in this dark
world and wide,
That all my friends from my vision
do hide
for fear I'll ask them for the coin 1
leut;
When I consider all the cash i owe,
The lmary-headed bills my tailors
hold,
Is it a wonder that my blood runs
cold?
I'lie grim, sardonic looks these men
bestow
[ pon me coldly, as 1 pass them all
Out to my heart. Those glances say
aloud :
"Alas! There goes those pants 1
sold last year.
Those pants are lost to me beyond
recall!"
So fair sun gleams through my finan
cial cloud ;
My money's gone. The debts must
wait, 1 fear.
—Robert Case.
ON NEW YEAR'S EVE
Into a strange and weedy lake
Strewn with the hulks of years
ItUti is going tonight,
Out of the world and out of the light.
Into the lake of tears.
l'he new year starts on her course
this day
With a snowy set of sail.
Her bow points out beyond the waves.
Iteyoud the altars, past the graves
1\> that same weedy vale.
I'here the hulks are settling down,
Memory wrecks in the ooze.
It was a good race each of them ran.
Ilach ended worse than he began
Without
Warning
Editor’s Note:
The following is a colyum for
which Lucile Saunders is chiefly res
ponsible. Blame it on her anyway. As
for the other conspirators, Ad horn
ed in on the game a little and the gent
with the paste pot and shears might
be convinced of some in a pinch.
* * *
Speaking of colyums reminds us
that tiiere aren't many funny ones on
the campus, only Slim Crandall and
Maurice Ilyde and a few others, and
they are more pathetic than other
wise. Possibly the lightness of the up
per atmosphere accounts for a multi
tude of sins.
* * *
A certain soulful co-ed has had a
rhyme on her mind for some time
and, fearing that unless it were print
ed soon she would succumb to com
pression of the brain, we are publish
ing it here.
A Soph's Lament.
My heart leaps up when I behold
A mustache on a pip;
So was it in my freshman year
For, of all thing 1 held most dear
It was to own a captive seer
With downy lip.
But now 1 know it can't be so
For father is a good M. D.
And boasts a germless famile-ee.
(Note: to other young ladies with
poetic tendencies—we didn't print
this for encouragment—just to relieve
our own conscience.)
* * *
TOO MUCH CRAMMING
A cross eyed young girl from Algeria
Was a subject to fits of hysteria ;
llut ulas, and alack!
The tears ran down her hack.
So they called it a case of bacteria.
We're reading Mr. Tolstoy’s book
In (’ontemporary Class.
It's a sheepish and downcast look
I wear when reading Tolstoy’s book—
When a woman nears I get the hook—
1 hide the name 'neath my arm as I
pass.
For we're reading Mr. Tolstoy's book
In Contemporary Class.
HARK, HARK THE GENTLE
ALARM
It scents there was once a little
fresh who was sleeping too much and
was afraid the professors might want
to refer some important questions to
his judgment during an eight o'clock
and find him missing.
lie purchased an alarm clock,
lie took it home and kept it there,
and cranked it every day : that pesky
clock, it ran so fast, it nearly got
away.
THE YONDER LAND
Feel the tug at the ties of your heart.
Know the urge and the longing to
start,
To be off with a surge,
To be up. To depart,
tiff to Yonder land,
Yonder land,
Wonder land,
Wander laud,
The home of the Wandering Jew.
The other land.
The brother land,
MEMORIES
As I sit here idly dreaming with the
yellow lamp-light streaming
Thru the window of my old sod
shanty on the plain,
I hear the coyote howling and my dog
begin his growling
And the patter,patter upon my window
pane.
To my listening ear comes winging
like some fairy faintly singing,
Floating lightly on the breeze so swett
and low,
The music of a lay (it seems so far
away)
Of a half forgotten song of long ago.
So I am sitting idly dreaming, with
the yellow lamp light streaming,
Of the days among the boys at U. of O.
And I wish that I were back, could
forget the little shack
Out among the sage-brush where the
Wy-on-on-a flows.
It's lonesome out here boys, away from
all the noise
Of the rallies, with their pep, in Hay
ward Hall.
If you should be passing by, whether
it be wet or dry,
You'll find the latch-string hanging in
it place against the wall.
—Verne Mclson.
A DISCREET CHAPERONE
Oh slim canoe, Oh trim canoe,
Tell me your story pray.
With silent grace
Upon the race
You glide each summer's day.
Oh slight canoe, Oh light cf.noo,
You bear the strong and fair.
Unloose your tongue,
Sing song unsung,
Tell me your stories rare.
Oil long canoe, Oh strong canoe,
Pray open your rich store.
Don't tell me this—
That man and miss
Have only hugged the shore.
Oh round canoe, Oh, sound canoe,
You fly like easy bird;
But sigh of trees
At kiss of breeze
Is not all you have heard.
Oh neat canoe, discreet canoe.
You keep your secrets well;
Then do not fear,
Ye co-eds dear,
Canoes will never tell.
—Dale D. Melrose.
THE CONDON OAKS
They were living ere he learned ro
live.
Still live, though he has long been
dead.
Yi hen his triends wished to place his
name
Where coming men would not forge.t
the man that was
They looked upon the trees he loved.
And there his name is graved,
Not in trunk or bark or on brass plate
But in the minds who love the man,
who love his memory
And his trees.
Oh lonely little Torcher pin
Upon our Ivor's vest.
" hat a sad so me state you're fn,
Oh lonely little Torcher pin.
Oh little shield of painted tin.
\ou no more by the serpent rest.
Oh lonely little Torcher pin