\
THE LEMON PUNCH
VOLUME 1
EUGENE, OREGON, JANUARY 24, 1920.
—■
NO. 3
THE LEMON PUNCH
Published as a weekly supplement to the Oregon Emerald.
Edltor l......... .. .ROBERT O. CA8E
Assistants
BILL BOLGER, HARRY A. SMITH, ERNEST CROCKATT
ON LITERARY APPRECIATION
We were considerably riled up recently by a statement
coming from a certain learned professor to the effect
that the average undergraduate is unable to perceive
the beauty of literature. We do not agree with the learn
ed professor; in fact, we disagree. We believe that the
learned professor’s remark springs from the chaotic
caverns of a prejudiced mind, and takes root in the un
sounded depths of unadulterated fallacy. We deny the
allegation and defy the alligator. We take great plea
sure in exposing the naive simplicity of his point of
view.
What does true literary appreciation consist of? It
consists of the proper mental reaction to a beautiful ex
pression. How is this mental reaction accomplished?
Through the freeing of the soul from the imprisoning
body, allowing it (the soul) to soar upward and onward
into the higher realm of absolute beauty.
That tbe average student is capable of this phenomenon
is unquesuonaDie. we nave only to glance briefly into
any classroom to prove the point beyond dispute. For
instance, the class in Taussig. When the majestic
sonorousness of Taussig’s phrases falls upon the student’s
ear he Betties himself more comfortably in his chair
and prepares to release his soul. A lethargy steals over
him, he nods, his head sinks upon his breast, and behold!
his soul is on the wing. The professor, in his narrow
ness and prejudice, thinks the student is asleep. Nothing
could be more erroneous. The student’s mind is galloping
gaily through that higher realm, while his gross body is
left behind, paralyzed by the pathos of Taussig.
Many Instances could be cited on this point. Who has
not been lulled into a state of coma by the simple elo
quence of Ogg’s “Governments of Europe” or Beard’s
“American Government and Politics” or Bays’ “Cases on
Contracts” ? We all have. Yet this simple and noble
tribute to the beauty of literature is not appreciated by
the professor. He insists, and probably will continue to
insist even after this discussion, that the student is
merely asleep. Worse than that, he will say that the stu
dent even snores at times.
Being essentially broad-minded and open to argument
and logic, we will admit that this constitutes the only
flaw in our proposition, but it is a trivial one. All na
ture is imperfect. It is one of these imperfections which
we must overlook and cbndone the fact that while the
soul is winging joyously through the white light of pure
beauty, the gross body, left far behind, snores on con
tentedly.
“Quod erat demonstrandum.” We believe that the
professor’s argument has been utterly refuted; he hasn’t
a leg to stand on. And we trust that in the future he
will look with more understanding and sympathy upon
those students in the back rows who do not answer his
question, or whose only response is a ‘snore.
What that a good joke you heard last night when the
gang was gathered around the fireplace? Write it down,
label it “Lemon Punch" and put It in the box in the
Journalism Annex.
THE SHAKE BROTHERS
Milk, Hand and Shimmie
Some of the boys went on a hike. They stayed out
all night. Covers were laid for thirty and they all went
to sleep.
* * *
Those who give you the icy stare, and the cold shoulder
would freeze to death if it were not for their hot temper.
* * *
In getting ready for a formal dance one of the boys
went to the hardware store for his pumps and hose.
* * *
The lady asked for some talcum powder. The clerk
said, Mennen’s? The lady replied, No, Women’s. Do you
want it scented? No, I’ll take it with me.
* * *
See the pretty clean collar. Yea, it’s pretty clean.
* * *
She looked in every novel,
And the book, “Who’s Who”
But nothing ever printed
For her baby’s name would ever do.
She hunted appelations
From the present and the past,
And this is what they named him
When they christened him at last:
Roscoe, Henry Egbert,
Ullysses, Victor, Paul,
Reginald, DeLure, Cecil,
Sylvester, George, McFall.
And after all the trouble
She had taken for his sake,
The fellows called him Skinny,
And his father called him Jake.
* * *
One way of getting a drag with your teacher is to*
offer him a cigarette.
* * *
Just because a married man stayed home every night
for thirty years, some people thought it was love. No,
indeed, ?t was paralysis.
* * *
\fany A man whose life is fruitful never gets the rasp
berry.
LOVE?
This is a discourse on that fatal illusion—love. Per
haps you would doubt my ability—my qualifications?
Suffice it to say that I have been the unwilling witness
to the internal workings of several little dramas of love,
which are here set down with the accuracy of the pro
verbial Nom de Plume.
Standing before the dresser in our combination bed
room and study, he waved at the picture and earnestly
questioned:
“Ain’t she a peach?”
I had to admit that she was good-looking—exceptional
ly so.
“And she’s not just a butterfly either—got some reg
ular decent common sense.”
I smiled. This reference to butterflies was amusing.
First it had been Peggy—the girl with the golden hair.
Then I had been forced to agree that Mary was a most
romantic name. When we entered college together,
Mary’s picture was returned to the stacks and Louise,
with the big roadster, was the only girl in the world.
Now Phil believed this with all his heart. I would not
accuse him of hypocrisy. Of course he had his little
lcve affairs—little things and soon frgotten—but this
love for Louise was different. Something real. It be
came so real that on the Christmas of his freshman year
Phil proposed and was told to go and ask Papa.
With love’s urge burning in his freshman breast, he
dared the lion’s den and informed Papa that Louise was
the ideal of liis dreams
“Dreams is right, my boy. Go back to school and learn
something and then after you have made good in the
world, and if you still feel the same way, come back and
I might think of consenting.” A most sensible man, I
should say, eh, what?
Scarcely had the dust gathered on the unachievable
Louise when Phil began spending his leisure hours on the
banks of the millrace, comparing notes on Tennyson
with Gloria. Or perhaps he went canoeing down the
race at nights—moon shining—singing fragments of pop
ular songs to the accompaniment of Gloria’s guitar. Such
influences were soothing balm and Gloria was such a
sympathetic soul, she understood everything. When he
made references to his recent disillusionment, she only
laughed and patted his arm. '
In the zenith of his glory, Phil was bumped off into
space. Gloria announced her engagement to a man from
Cornell. This was a staggering blow to my friend and
I had been really concerned about his health. Summer
came and the holidays. We went up in the mountains
and in the lure of the stream and the hunt for game
Phil forgot his melancholy—his natural optimism re
turning.
On one point, however, he was decided. He, Phil
Dancy, was off girls for life. No more romances—his
was the bachelor’s lot. He would be a single man, tread
ing the path of life alone, as a defiant protest against
an unkind fate. That was in the fall. Then came Spring.
Outside the warm breeze brought hidden things to life
and with it brought the thawing of Phil’s hardened heart.
“Oh, I know what you are thinking about,” he ex
claimed fiercely. “But she IS a peach, and there never
was and never will be another like her.” I sighed and
said nothing. There was nothing to say.
It was two weeks later that Phil came home late and
looked upon me coldly and cynically as I sat studying.
It was 2 o’clock.
“I’m through,” he announced. “I’m off the women for
ever. Silly, brainless, fluffy, frivolous-” He raved on
and on, but I returned to my work.
Now he may have meant what he said; perhaps he
did intend to leave the frailer sex strictly alone. I do
not know. But three years later as I was motoring
through a certain small town east of the Cascades I
thought of Phil, for this was his home town.
It was Sunday afternoon, a balmy, sunshiny day, The
natives were promenading up and down the shaded
walks of the principal street. And then I saw Phil—
but no. It couldn’t be Phil. He was pushing a baby
carriage. In it were two rosy-faced babies. Beside him
walked a large, buxom woman who was also pushing
a baby carriage, and, as I live, there were two more
babies in that carriage!
I pulled up along the curb beside them. It was Phil,
all right. He was overjoyed to see me, and proudly in
troduced his wife. She inspected me calmly and without
interest, and then turned her attntion to the children,
leaving us to talk alone.
"My word, Phil,” I said. “And I didn’t even know you
were married.”
“Yes,” said Bill, complacently. “Married two yearo
now.”
“Two years!” I echoed. I glanced furtively toward the
two baby carriages. Two years, four babies. A bit
thick, eh what?
“Oh," explained Phil carelessly. “Twins. Two pair
of ’em.”
I was astonished, stupefied. This was a different Phil
than I had known at college.
“Listen, Phil,” I said at last. “Confidentially, man to
man, are you happy?”
“Happy?” he echoed. “Sure I’m happy. Why shouldn’t
I be? Her old man has plenty of kale.”
It was a modern fistic encounter, or rather a boxing
match. One fellow was so light that when he was struck
he lit about forty feet away. This was the end of the
match. What a wonderful bird the frog are.
* * *
SIAMESE TWIN8
Cooed and cucooed.
o * * *
Just because Bill Hayward has a new par, he had to
get a red one to be in keeping with the times. Bolsheviks
beware.
Lem Coke’s S. A.
ON THE SYNDICATE LINE
Hollo has a syndicate line
Have you ever heard your woman say that
To you?
No?
Well, maybe she said that
About you.
The question now arising is
Are you flattered
Or are you not?
When your woman tells you that you have
A syndicate line
An analysis of the expression compiled
At the express request of a noted authority
A builder of fireplces
An erecter of stockyards
Shows
That the two word expression may be divided
Into two words.
This conclusion was reached after nights of
Toll.
The two words are “syndicate”
And line”.
Syndicate means an organization organized for the purpose
Of spreading something
Thick or thin,
As the case-may be.
A line is a string,
A string of wit, humor, poetry, stories,
Or love
That gets by
Good or bad, depending of course on Just how
It is appreciated by the audience
Of one.
Maybe you are serious when you whisper words of love
Or maybe you are not.
But when your woman says
You sure have a syndicate line
Do you kiss her,
Or do you not?
You tell ’em, Rollo.
Cold Stuff
They walked slowly up the path to the graveyard.
These two. Sublimely Ignorant of the world beneath and
caring nothing for the vole eof culture calling them from
the Campus below. Why Is it, that between the muni
cipal park and the graveyard, lovers will choose the lat
ter? Is it a searching for long-lost souls or because there
are too many people in the country? Is it that they wish
to satisfy some vague longing—some desire for a sweet
communion of spirit, or that the tombstone is more rest
ful than a park bench?
“I’m warm,” Jimmy said, “let’s rest,” as he dusted off
his favorite tombstone, whisking off the white coating
with his cap. Mary hesitated—and then sat down.
“Did you ever see such a wonderful night, Mary?”
"Now Jimmy dear, please don’t deliver an oration to
night.”
“This is no oration—I’m getting desperate. We know
we love each other and yet these foolish conventions
keep us apart.” A moment’s silence and he burst out:
“Mary! We are sitting on the tombstone of John
Brown.”
Mary jumped, but settled back as Jimmy’s arm held
her tight.
“What’s that got to do with us?” she gasped
“I wonder—” mused Jimmy, "if this John Brown,” in
dicating below with finger, “I wonder if this John Brown
enjoyed this old world”
wny,_ Jimmy dear, wnat a the matter?"
“I wonder ft he really did the things he wanted to do.
Maybe he had a beautiful girl, that he cared for, sitting
beside him, yes—maybe over there on that tombstone
with the moss.”
“Why Jimmy!”
“What I mean is, Mary, would John Brown, if he were
in my place, after all his life’s experience, sit here and
hold your hand or would he say things, and do things
that would make him happy for the rest of his life?”
“Did you learn anything new in Psychology today?”
“Oh Mary, you're cruel."
But the call of Spring waB in Jimmy’s blood and the
nearness of Mary caused his heart to beat faster and
faster. They sat together on the tombstone and Mary,
though contrary, allowed Jimmy to put his arm around
her. «'
The still silent night was for them. They did not heed
the voices that floated up from the campus. They had
each other—that was enough.
“Oh! This old life is useless without love, Mary. If
the spirits of these dead, burled here, could arise, they
would urge us to love. I can almost hear them whis
pering—love—love—love while you may.”
Mary shivered. Silence again. As they sat on the
cold, hard tombstone Jimmy pictured in his imagination
the countless lovers who had wandered beneath these
shady firs. How had they acted? What had they done?
Surely they had not let the precious moments slip by.
Then why should he?
Mary disturbed his muslngs with a nudge.
“Yes, dearest,” he whispered as he drew nearer.
He opened his eyes. The shimmering moonlight, flood
ing through the firs, cast strange shadows among the
silent white stones and reflected sparkling from the glis
tening white snow.
“Come on, Jimmy, I’m freezing.” She shivered as she
pulled hinj off the tombstone.
“It must be ten below zero." •
High-Speed Romance
The promiscuous Kisser was wending his way home
ward. The night had been a serious disappointment.
The Wicked Glancer had failed—failed, in the estimation
of the Kisser, to come up to the expectations which he
had had for her. For Wicked Glances do not always go
with ‘'romiscuous Kisses. That much was certain.
The Kisser lit a violently-scented Gold-Tipped. Its
nauseous fumes melted into the heavy mist which sur
rounded the Kisser at the early hour at which he wend
ed his way homeward.
“Too bad,’’ he whistled to the fog. "Next time I’ll try
The Winsome Stringer. She’s got a good line, and I’ll
try to hang on to her.”
His disappointment was keen—like a knife which could
pierce the fog ahead of him. He could not see, but what
mattered that. He did not want to see. His disappoint
ment blinded him. As he groped his way homeward
through the street where lay homes of residence of var
ious girls of his acquaintance, he pondered. But why
ponder here? He gave up in disgust.
His Gold-Tipped went out on him. He stopped to
light a match, leaned against a tree for support while
he scratched the stick on his Patent Leathers. His hand
against the tree almost touched something soft, some
thing fuzzy, and he looked closer before he rubbed the
sulphurous concoction on his extremities. It was hair,
human hair. The Kisser looked around. Surely—yes,
it was a girl!
The Kisser was about to make one of his Famous Re
marks, when the Girl cried out in surprise. It was The
Naughty Giggler, with whom The Kisser had an oscula
tory acquaintance. “Why, Hello—” he began, when he
became aware of another face, a face under a man’s hat,
a face asking whatinell the Kisser meant by obtruding
his unwelcome Gold Tipped into a Deep Conversation.
That was The Perfect Sluffer. The Kisser had a flunk
ing acquaintance with him, so he calmly lighted his
match, and murmured something about not being able
to see his Foot in front of him. Then he passed on. As
he glanced back, the two forms melted in with the bare
ly discernable form of the tree. Perfect Tommyrot, he
told himself. And yet he envied the Sluffer.
Yet a block onward he picked up a cake of Whatever
itwas upon the Instep of his Patent Leathers. He cut in
upon someone’s lawn, to mop it off on the dewy grass.
But it would not mop off. The steps of the Residence
loomed close, and the Kisser felt impelled to scrape his
piece of pastry off upon the sharp edge of the step. He
raised his foot, when he heard murmuring voices.
He recognized them, recognized what they were saying,
but had no wish to remember the words. It was The
Ardent Good-Nighter and The Loving Embracer. They
were saying goodnight. The Good-Nighter was having
his inning tonight, for sure. The Kisser buttoned his
Sixty Bone Kuppenheimer higher around his neck and
passed on. Good-Night Nothing, he told himself. And
yet, he envied The Good-Nighter.
A little later his Unmentionable became unclasped and
hung down over his Patent Leathers. A convenient door
way loomed ahead, a doorway of an apartment house,
where he had endeavored to create a Happy Home a
million or so hours before. He stopped, bent over, and
a long, slender woman’s foot slowly backed toward his
own foot. He hurriedly fixed the Unmentionable, and
straightened up. But while engaged in the clasping exer
cise. he determined that this foot must belong to The
Affectionate Dancer. As he raised his head, not a
woman’s face, but a man’s face appeared before his own.
It was The Sentimental Sympathizer. ‘‘The Dickens,”
muttered the Sympathizer.
‘‘No, The Kisser,” answered that worthy being, and
passed on. "Sympathetic Slush,” he told himself. And
yet, he envied The Sympathizer.
A voice from nowhere pierced the fog. “Wasn’t this
where we came in?”
The Kisser glanced around him. The fog had lifted.
Instead the Oocheezit Orchestra was whanging out a din
of Jazz, and NoBones Corsets were being advertised on
the screen in front of him. He pinched himself. Yes,
he was awake.
“Let’s get out of here,” the Kisser suggested.
"Wasn’t that a wonderful picture?” cooed the girl. The
Kisser glanced up. It was the Wicked Olancer. He
rubbed his eyes. "I was so enthralled that I almost for
got you,” continued the Olancer.
“Yeb,” answered the Kisser. “What do you want to
do now? Have something to eat?”
“Oh, let’s don't. I don’t have to be in for an hour yet,
and I know a nice dark spot on our porch where we
can’t be seen. You know, where we were last time.”
They turned their steps homeward. It was awfully
foggy out, and once they were off the Main Drag, the
Kisser allowed his hand to reach out and grasp that of
the Glancer, placing the two of them in the pocket of
his Sixty Bone Kuppenheimer.
He (bewildered in departmental store)—Where can I
And ladles’ garters?
She (blushing)—Oh sir, don’t you know?
“Those trousers of yours look a bit worn.”
“They’re on their last legs.”—Lampoon.
“Pardon me.” he said. ' ‘I bought this shirt here yes
terday. However, I don’t like it and I wondered if I
could change it at this counter?”
“Oh, dear no,” she answered. "You’d better go in a
private room.”—Widow.
Have you got a good iina bull? Write It dawn. The
Lemon Punch can use it.