14
UNIVERSITY COURIER.
"The single skull race!" exclaimed an old lady as she laid down the morning paper. "My gracious! I didn't know that there was a race with double skulls."
A member of the K. U. C. dropped in very suddenly on a class mate, and found two of the boys sitting opposite each other at a table, on which was a paper covered with mysterious marks. "John and I have been getting up a new system of logarithms," says the disconcerted host.
A kissed his girl the other night, and asked her if she felt his moustache. "Oh, no!" she said, "I felt a little down in the mouth.
Prof. (in physiology): "Mr. Y., have you ever put your head on any one's breast and listened to the heart-beats?" Mr. Y. (blushing): "Yes, sir." Mr. Y. couldn't see why the class laughed.
A MODERN DRINKING SONG.
Fill high the bowl with Fusil Oil ! With Tannin let your cups be crowned ! If Strychnine gives relief to Toil, Let Strychnine's generous juice abound ! Let Oil of Vitriol cool your brains, On, animated atoms brew- And fill your arteries, hearts and veins, With glee—and infusorial glue!
Vine! *That* died out in '58—
What fool would have it back? And how?
The "cup that will inebriate
And never cheer," they sell us now.
"The conscious water saw its God
And blushed."—What of it? Don't you feel
That water knows the Drugger's rod,
And blushes now—with Cochineal!
Bring on the Beer—Fresh Copperas foam!
With Alum mixed, in powder fine,
How could my foolish fancy roam
In search of whiter froth than thine?
Thy Indian Berry's Essence spread
Through amber wavelets, sparkling clear,
Benumbs dull Care—strikes Feeling dead—
And narcotizes Shame and Fear!
Far down thy bubbling depths, Champagne! Drown'd Honor, Love, and Beauty lie— They fought th' unequal fight in vain- Shall we, too, merly drink—and die? Sweet Acetate of Lead, forbid！ Fill every drink with pangs—and tell What torture could—and always did Anticipate the stings of Hell！
Miss Gertrude Bullene, of the class of '77, went last week to Kansas City, to be bridesmaid at the wedding of her cousin, Mr. T. B. Bullene, Jr.
Miss Nettie Robinson, one of the oldest members of the I.C. society of this University, is visiting in Lawrence.
Mrs. Lizzie (Campbell) Huffman, a student of the days gone by, is here visiting the friends of her school days, her home now being at Carthage, Mo.
Miss Vara Gunn has returned home from her visit in Massachusetts, having, while absent, attended Dr. L. Soreni's Summer School of Languages, at Amherst.
Miss Ella Hadley has gone to spend two or three months in Chicago.
Prof. Smith has accepted the chair of Physics, Astronomy and Engineering, and will enter upon his duties in January.
Lady and gentleman arguing vigorously as to whether there are female angels. He: "Well, I can prove from the Scripture that there are no women angels." She: "Oh, no you can't." "Yes; you must remember the passage, 'And there was silence in Heaven for the space of an hour.'" She: "___!"
Dedicated to the University students who attended the ball last Thanksgiving eve :
"Dear Father: Have been obliged to purchase several new books of reference recommended by professors. Please send $8.00 by return mail, and oblige
Your Loving Son."
HIS SHARE AND MINE.
Tennyson incessantly smokes an old fashioned clay pipe, loaded with Virginia pigtail tobacco. But that is not what enables him to write poetry.
He went from me so softly and so soon. His sweet hands rest at morning and at noon;
The only task God gave them was to hold A few faint rose-buds—and be white and cold,
His share of flowers he took with him away; No more will blossom here so fair as they.
His share of thorns he left—and if they tear My hands instead of his, I do not care.
His sweet eyes were so clear and lovely,but To look into the world's wild light and shut:
Down in the dust they have their share of sleep. Their share of tears is left for me to weep.
His sweet mouth had its share of kisses—Oh What love, what anguish, will he ever know?
Its share of thirst, and murmuring, and moan And cries unsatisfied, shall be my own.
He had his share of summer. Bird and dew Were here with him—with him they vanished, too. His share of dying leaves, and rains, and frosts, I take, with every dreary thing he lost.
He, in his turn, with small, still, snowy feet,
Touched the Dim Path, and made its Twilight sweet.
—Mrs. S. M. Piatt.
The phantom of the cloud he did not see For evermore will overshadow me.
THE WORDS OF STRENGTH.
There are three lessons I would write— Three words as with a burning pen— In tracing the eternal light Upon the heart of men.
Have Hope. Though clouds environ now And gladness hides her face in scorn, Put thou the shadow from thy brow— No night but hath its morn.
Have Faith. Where'er thy bark is driven, The calm's disport, the tempest's mirth, Know this God rates the hosts of Heaven, The inhabitants of earth.
Have Love. Not love alone for one,
But man as man, thy brother call,
And scatter like the circling sun
Thy charities on all.
Thus have these lessons on thy soul— Hope, Faith and Love—and thou shalt find Strength when life's surges rudest roll, Light when thou else wert blind.
— Schiller.