UNIVERSITY DAILY KANSAN
The official student paper of the University of Kansas.
KANSAN STAFF
EDITORIAL STAFF
HERBERT FLINT - - - - - - Editor-in-Chief
JOHN C. MADDEN - - - - - Managing Editor
BUSINESS STAFF
HARRY W. SWINGLE - - - - - Business Manager
RAY ELDRIDGE - - - - Circulation Manager
EDWIN ABELS - - - - Advertising
ADNA PALMER - - - - Advertising
JOE BISHOP - - - - Advertising
REPORTORIAL STAFF
LUCY BARGER          FRANK HENDERSON
HARLAND HUTCHINGS   HENRY MALOY
LANDON LAIRD       JOHN GLEISNER
LESLIE E. EDMONDS    EARL LLOWMAN
GLENLDON ALLVINE   BEAUTHT ROBERTSON
SAM DAGM           RANDOLPH KENNEDY
Entered as second-class mail matter September 17, 1910, at the postoffice at Lawrence, Kansas, under the act of March 3, 1879.
Published in the afternoon five times a week, by students of the University of Kansas, from the press of the department of journalism.
Subscription price $2.50 per year, in advance; one term
$1.50.
Phone, Bell K. U. 25.
Address all communications to
UNIVERSITY DALLY KANSAN,
Lawrence.
The Daily Kansan aims to picture the undergraduate life of the University of Kansas; to go further than merely printing the news by standing for the ideals The University holds; to play no favorites; to be clean; to be cheerful; to be charitable; to be courageous; to leave more serious problems to wiser heads; in all, to serve to the best of its ability the students of the University.
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1913.
HERE IT IS—THE "WELCOME" EDITORIAL
IT IS THE
Let other countries glory in the Past,
Kansas glories in her days to be,
in her horizons, limitless and vast.
Her plains that storm the senses like the sea;
She has no ruins grey that men revere
Her time is Now, her Heritage is here.
Harry Kemn
To those of you who are coming to the University for the first time:
st time:
You young men and women are a part of Her heritage.
Her present; and the University of Kansas—its future glory lies in Your days to be.
lies in Your days to be.
The University he has much to offer you, but it is you who are doing most of the offering when you come here. You are offering the state far more than the University offers you when by coming here, you voluntarily place yourselves in the state of the state—insofar as you improve and equip yourselves to be good citizens of the state. Consider for a moment what a miracle it would be if all the young men and women of university age in the world could be freshmen each year at a state university. It would be an educational millennium!
While we shall probably smile at you and your little caps and your awkward manners, we shall also be enjoying you freshmen, many of us. You are setting out on a year of fresh experiences which, once past, can never be equalled by any others. Your first return home after a few weeks here, your first Thanksgiving vacation—there will be but one such time, — ours is gone, yours is coming. Your first football game, though we win by a big score, will be a “great game.” Your first thrill at the sound of “Boola” and “The Crimes and the Blue”—your first night shirtspace your first flunk, and your first victory—there will never be second such experiences.
And yet, we upperclassmen shall not envy you all the time, or take you too seriously; for you are certain to display at once the inevitable characteristics of freshmen, that you are as useless to "advise" you as it would be to supply you with bedroom slippers. You are just freshmen after all, and for a year at least, though perhaps in decreasing degree, you must suffer your apprenticeship to experience before emerging into the freier air of sophomoredom.
During that time comparatively little will be expected of you. You will find the work here largely what you make it and the sliding, if you are the sliding kind, just as slippery, also, as you make it.
But kindly notice that word "comparatively." And if you live to be sophomores, turn back in the files and glance once more at the six short lines above in which a former student of this university characterized the possibilities you freshmen represent. Consider the changes the year has brought you, and ask yourself if you are not glad, mighty glad, you are in Kansas and attending the University of Kansas.
GREAT FOOTBALL WEATHER
Speaking of the weather and the recent drought, it looks as if the Jayhawk football season is in for a fine big general soaking downpour, doesn't it?
No weather prophet scratching his head over high and low pressure areas chart could be more satisfied than University students are justified in being over this fall's pigskin outlook. The terms of the weather man, Mosse might well be the chain lightening. Frank the big clouds, and McCarty, if he still has his voice, the rumble of the thunder.
...Here we were stumped until, to include Jay Bond and "Bill" Hargiss, it was suggested that the former be the wind in the trees and the latter—well, here he is.
WELCOME, "BILL" HARGIS9
Surely everybody is glad, mighty glad, to know "Bill" Hargiss, of Emporia, is an additionto the University's athletic department.
Hargiss is best known to the younger generation here as the man who has coached at the College of Emporia for seven years with no mean success, and as the holder of a state record or two in athletic events. But Hargiss is known to former students for his performance on McCook Field one fall afternoon years back when K. U. played C. of E. a “practice” game such as is usually played each fall with St. Marys, Baker and so on.
Of course, Kansas won, as she (nearly) always does. C. of E. was helpless before the superior weight and training of Kansas. But darting through the Kansas line here, and around the Kansas end there, time and again, was "BIL" Hargiss. And he made the K. U. team respect him mightily before that game was over.
Playing his head off against almost certain defeat—the kind of game the Jayhawker team played against Nebraska at Lincoln last fall—no wonder many an old-timer who saw that game wiched "Bilr" Hargiss were ontheotherside. And Kansas welcomes "Bilr" Hargiss because he represented, that day on McCook, the true Jayhawker spirit of fight to the last, never give up.
Waiting For the Rain
FROM THE STORY OF AQUA PURA, BY WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE
When the spring of 1893 opened, Barringer looked ten years older than he looked the spring before. The grass on the range was see, and great cracks were in the earth. The winter had been dry. The spring opened dry, with high winds blowing through May. There were but five people on the townsite that summer, Barringer, his daughter, and the postmaster's family. Supplies came over land from Maize. A bloody county-seat war had given the rival town the prize in 1890. Barringer had plenty of money to buy food, for the county commissioners distributed the taxes which the railroad paid.
which the railroad track it. It was his habit to sit on the front porch of the deserted hotel and look across the prairies to the southwest and watch the breaking clouds scatter into the blue of the twilight. He could see frame empty water tower silhouetted against the sky. The frame buildings that rose in the boom days had all been moved away, the line of the horizon was guarded at similar intervals by the iron hydrants far out on the prairie, that stood like sentinels hemining in the past. The dying wind seteth through the short, brown grass. Heat lightning winked devilishly in the distance, and the dissolving clouds that gathered every afternoon lingered in derisive thunder at the hopes of the worn old man sitting on the warped boards of the hotel porch. Night after night he sat there, waiting, with his daughter by his side. There had been a time when he was too proud to go to the east, where his name was a by-word. Now he was too poor in purse and in spirit. So he sat and waited, hoping fondly for the realization of a dream which he feared could never come true.
dream when he leaves.
There were days when the postmaster's four-year-old child sat with him. The old man and the child sat thus one evening when the old man sighed: "If it would only rain, there would be half a crop yet." If it would only rain!" The child heard him and sighed imitatively: "Yes, if it would only rain—what is rain, Mr. Barringer?" He looked at the blankly and sat for a long time in silence. When he arose he did not even have a pretence of hope. He grew despondent from that hour, and a sort of hypochondria seized him. It was his fancy to exaggerate the phenomena of the druch.
drouth.
That fall when the winds piled the sand in the railroad, "cuts" and the prairie was as hard and harren as the ground around a cabin door, Barringer's daughter died of fever. The old man seemed little moved by sorrow. But as he rode back from the bleak grave-yard, through the sand cloud, in the carriage with the dry, rattling spokes, he could only mutter to the sympathetic friends who had come from Maize to mourn with him. "And we laid her in the hot and dusty tomb." He recalled an old song which fitted these words, and for days kept crooning: "Oh, we laid her in the hot and dusty tomb."
Thus the winter passed. The grass came with the light mists of March. By May it had lost its color. By June it was brown, and the hot winds came again in August, curving the warped boards a little deeper on the floor of the hotel porch. Herders and travellers, stragging back to the green country, saw him sitting there at twilight, looking toward the southwest, a grizzled, unkempt old man, with a shifting light in his eye. To such as spoke to him he always made the same speech: "Yes, it looks like rain, but it rained at Hutchinson, maybe so, I doubt it. There is no God west Newton, that story in hell. Where's Johnson? Not here! Where's Nickels? Not here! Hicks? Not here! Where's handsome Dick Barringer, Hon. Richard Barringer! Here! Here he is, holding down a hot brick in a cooling room of hell! Yes, it does look like rain, doesn't it!"
Then he would go over it all again, and finally cross the trembling threshold of the hotel, slamming the crooked, sunsteamed door behind him. There he stayed, summer and winter, looking out across the burned horizon, peering at the long, low, black line of clouds in the southwest, longing for the never-coming rain.
One morning he awoke and a strange sound greeted his ears. There was a gentle tapping in the building and a roar that was not the jaffa of the wind. He rushed for the door. He saw the rain, and bare-headed he ran to the middle of the streets where it was pouring down. The messenger from Maize with the day's supplies found him standing there, vacantly, almost thoughtfully, looking up, the rain dripping from his grizzled head, and rivulets of water trickling about his shoes.
Cattle roamed the streets in the early spring, but the stumbling of the animals upon the broken walks, did not disturb him, and the winds and the drouth drove them away. The messenger with provisions came every morning. The sun使者, with its awful heat, began to glow. The lighting and the thunder joked insolently in the distance at night; and the stars in the deep, dry blue looked down and mocked the old man's prayers as he sat, at night, on his rickety sentry box. He tottered through the deserted stores calling his roll. Night after night he walked to the red clay grade of the uncompleted "Air Line" and looked over the dead level stretches of prairie. He would have gone away, but something held him to the town. Here he had risked all. Here, perhaps, in his warped fancy, he hoped to regain all. He had written so often, "Times will be better in the spring," that it was part of his confession of faith—that and "One good crop will bring the country around all right." This was written with red clay in the old man's nervous hand on the side of the hotel, on the faded signs, on the deserted inner walls of the stores, in fact, everywhere in Aqua PurA.
The wind told on him; it withered him, sapped his energy, and hobbled his feet.
shoes.
"Hello, Uracle Dick," said the messenger. "Enjoying the shoe
Uracle's risin', better come back with me."
prospect? River's risin'; better come back with me."
But the old man only answered, "Johnson? Not here! Nickols? Not here! Bemis? Not here! Bradley? Not here! Hicks? Not here! And Barringer? Here! and now God's moved the rain belt west. Moved it so far west, that there's hope for Lazurus to get irrigation from Abraham."
that there was, and with this the old man went into the house. There, when with the five days' rain had ceased, and when the great river that flooded the barren plain had shrunk, the rescuing party, coming from Maize, found him. Beside his bed were his balanced books and his legal papers. In his dead eyes were a thousand dreams.
10 to 20 Per Cent Saved ON
Text Books and Supplies
Bought at Rowlands College Book Store
We have been unusually fortunate in securing a fine line of shelf-worn and second-hand books and can save you money. Also all TEXT BOOKS IN NEW STOCK
Every Book and Supply for Every Course
The Only Store That Deals Exclusively in University Text Books and Supplies Recognized as Student Headquarters—therefore the logical place to buy and be assured of satisfaction, the Right Book and the RIGHT PRICE
Rowlands College Book Store
1401 OHIO STREET
Conveniently located, just one block down Adams Hill from University Library
The Big K Fob 35c
The K. U. Fob 50c
Best Kansas Belt $1.00
See These Articles
Mrs. N. A. Myers
Stubbs Bldg.
Steefers
Thursday, Sept. 19th 1913
Cleaning. Pressing and Remodeling for men and women who want their work done satisfactorily from Sept. 15, 1913 to June 1, 1914.
Prices on Application
E. W. Parson Jeweler 717 Massachusetts St.
Bell 1434 Home 734
Millinery Opening
Everything in gas and electric supplies at Feins.-Adv.
924 Louisiana.
TELL US Your Piano Troubles
We sell pianos
We rent pianos
We tune pianos
We refinish pianos
We make pianos
We move pianos
Bell Bros. Music Co.
Visit our talking machine department, we have the most complete line in the state. Anything and everything in sheet music and music books.
BOTH PHONES 375 925-927 Mass. Street
TYPEWRITERS FOUNTAIN PENS OFFICE SUPPLIES
F. I. CARTER
1025 Mrss. - - - Bell Phone 1051
The K. U. Pennant, Pillow Top and Souvenir Store
The place where they always have something new and different is at
BOYLES BOOK STORE, 725 Mass.
Also headquarters for programs, cards, folders,
and anything in the printing line.
FRED BOYLES, The PRINTER