UNIVERSITY DAILY KANSAN
UNIVERSITY DAILY KANSAN
The official paper of the University of Kansas.
EDITORIAL STAFF
LOUIS  MASSI
George MASSI
Manning Editor
BUSINESS STAFF
CLARK A. WALKER Manager
M. D. BANK Circulation Manager
Entered as second-class mail matter September 17, 1910, at the postoffice at Lawrence, Kansas, under the act of March 3, 1879.
Published every afternoon by students of the University of Kansas from the press of the department of journalism.
Subscription price $2.00 per year, in advance; one term, $1.25; tint session.
Telephone, Bell, K. U. 25.
Address all communications to UNIVERSITY DAILY KANSAN, Lawrence
TUESDAY, JANUARY 23, 1912.
POOR RICHARD SAYS:
It is hard for an empty bag to stand upright.
FOUR DAYS MORE—!! **!** *---!*
IT WAS A DISGRACE.
It seems that there are a few people who seem to be unable to discern the difference between loyalty to the home team and ungentlemanly conduct toward the opposing team. The jeering and hissing at the referee, the opposing coach, and the Nebraska team at the basket-ball games last week, were wholly unnecessary and added no credit to the previous reputation that this school has of fairness toward opponents.
In every athletic contest two elements are present. One is the actual struggle between the two teams and the other is the rooting of the supporters. This rooting may be either a spontaneous and whole-supported support of the home team or it may be a discourteous yelling at those who are the opponents.
Only a limited number are allowed actually to participate in the games, but the whole school is enlisted in the support of the team. When a small portion of the student body acts in a disgraceful manner toward the visitors, it is time that some action should be taken to curb this rudeness.
These words may sound like words of advice to high school students but they are applicable here. The sentiment of the student body ought to be such that actions of disrespect to our visitors would not be tolerated. To say the least, a majority of those present at the game last week were humiliated.
The correspondent who calls the attention of this paper to the grammatical error in a feature head in Monday's issue, "Went home fussed when janitor done his duty," has the Daily Kansan's hearty thanks. In pointing out this error our correspondent has proved himself one who done his duty when he seen it.
A DEBATING "K?"
At the Agricultural College they are having all kinds of trouble over the granting of "K's" to their college debaters and orators. It seems that their debating council decided that a "K" similar to the athletic "K" was a suitable reward for their "forensic artists."
A few days previous to the granting of the letters, the college athletes met in indignant session and declared that the council action was an enchromachment on their inattainable rights, or words to that effect. A petition was circulated protesting against the alleged outrage. The student body and the faculty are divided on the question and a lively time is expected before it is settled.
It was not so many years ago that this same question was discussed at the University. A num
ber of the men who represented their Alma Mater in debate, thought that a sweater with an emblem "K" was quite the thing as a reward for their services. After consulting the wishes of the student body they decided that they didn't want them at all, at all.
Why a debater should want a sweater to remind him of victory on the platform or why an orator should demand a block "K" as a memento of his previous declamations, is hard to understand; his claims are hard to justify.
Debating and oratory can hardly be said to be branches of athletics. True, in some instances they may verge on it. Forensics should be represented by something more refined and more dignified than a big sweater with a letter on the front of it. A debater should by no means go unrewarded. There are many ways in which to honor those who represent the school in forensics.
Let us hope that the controversy at Manhattan will be stopped without a show of violence,— in which possibly, the debaters might qualify as athletes.
HELP WANTED!
The Daily Kansan needs a good photographer and a clever cartoonist. It believes that good pictures and cartoons add much to the effectiveness of a paper and for this reason it is willing to go to a considerable expense to provide them for its readers.
If you own a camera and have some good pictures that depict any phase of University life, you will confer a great favor on the Kansas by bringing them to the office in order that "cuts" may be made of them for the paper.
If you have any ability as a cartoonist, will you please bring your drawings to the office?
The Daily Kansan wishes to secure an official photographer and cartoonist. If you care to add to the appearance of your paper you will help by doing your part.
EDUCATIONAL CRITICS
The Eastern Kansan, the carefully edited weekly paper published at Valley Falls, has the following pointed remarks on some unjustified critics of the modern college:
Recently we were interested in a discussion by some parties as to the significance of a college education.
These men, as most other persons who have never been directly or indirectly connected with any of our modern institutions of learning, contended that higher education was a failure because of the failure of a few persons who they knew that had made a waste of their time and energy by getting too theoretical.
Did you ever notice, that, let a person attend college and come out and be all the theory and not practical and every old wag in Chrisendom will give his head a knowing wag and say, "oh well that's another educated fool." But he never sees a dozen who come away from college and put the common sense and practical training with their trained mind and move mountains, as it were.
This always reminded us very much of the way people generally judge a preacher and his family. As a matter of fact, preachers children have generally "made good" in life's battles to a much greater percent than any other class, except farmers, but let a preacher or a member of his family "side step" in the least and the same old wags will sniff the air and give a knowing wink at one another just as much as to say: I told you we were just as good as any body the last time we sneaked around the corner and tipped up the bottle together.
AN EDITORIAL BY MR. AESOP
A FISHER once took his baggies to the bank of a river, and played upon them with the hope of making the fish rise; but never a one put his nose out of the water. So he cast his net into the water, and he filled it with fish. Then he took his baggies again, and as he played, the fish leap up in the net. "Ah, you dance now when I play," said he.
The Professor
By William H. Grattan
table and followed the last of the departing students from the room. When he had locked the door behind him, he heaved an almost imperceptible sigh, whether of relief or regret the professor himself might have found that he was walking stiffly across the oiled floor in the direction of his office.
THE PROFESSOR gathered up a pile of papers from his lecture
In the halls the trump of students' feet sounded heavy, coarse, but withal not unpleasantly to the instructors with class rooms in the building. The long succession of recitations was at an end; close vigilance had its opportunity to relax. Many of the teachers prepared to depart immediately, giving over their rooms to the janitor. To virtually all of them, the coming of three o'clock meant at least a recess until after supper time, when lessons for the next day were to be reviewed and papers corrected.
When you are in a man's power you
must do as he bids you.
But to the English professor the dismissal of the class which listened to his discourses from two to three 'o clock every afternoon did not mean rest. It meant a break in the day's work, to be sure; it even meant that he might occupy himself otherwise until evening; but the professor was not sure that he relished the return to his own struggle; that he should not have preferred more classes to the intermimable sparing with his ambition.
He scarcely lifted his Congress gatters from the worm boards as he made his way through the halls. Relieved of the necessity of appearing in passable humor before his class, the tired pucker about his mouth became more noticeable. So uninspiring was the gray afternoon that filled the rambling building with shadows, no outer force tended to relieve the depression which seemed upon him. The floor, oiled and re-olled until it was crumply and uneven, invited little brown rolls of dirt upon which the professor's shoes occasionally crunched.
When he reached his office, a small, box-like affair, he seated himself in a corner removed from the desk, where he could stare outside through the sole window of the apartment. He also glanced from time to time at some of the furniture on the desk, as if there were something to be done for which he felt little inclination.
The pale light that crept through the pane silhouetted the professor's form, dim and filmy, on the walls. It touched his back and brought into relief the waxy seaw hair on his wide-skuled hair. The warm curly warp of his loosely-fitting black suit.
One or two early successes before the grind of a teacher's life descended upon him only accented the disappointments that followed. He reflected upon the time when he had taken firmer stands in similar discouragements, renewing the fight. On the day, he found his senses more dull and unresponsive than ever before.
Without any great feeling as to the tragedy in it all, the history of his years of struggle for literary recognition passed over him; he thought of it as the panorama of a failure yet hews not vivally affected by it.
He struggled with the depression that threatened to overcome him, sitting stiffly in his chair, his eyes wide open, his thoughts nearly stagnant; occasionally, he remembered the family at home that would welcome the increased income from his success, and then he would reflect for a brief space on a theme which had been in his mind for many weeks—a theme for a short story. But time and again, he returned to blank staring until he finally spurred himself to another effort. He rose to his feet another time, and he reminded a rebuke a pupil; shut his teeth tight as he walked across the room while his eyes became set as if he were angry. Relaxing a little as he took up a lean pile of papers from a corner of his desk, he found it easy to chide himself for his 'ormer melancholy.
"What was I thinking about?" he asked himself as he drew up his swivel chair. "The theme was what I needed; what I wanted all my life. Now that I have it, there should be no more trouble. Come, come—at it. We're not playing yesterday now."
His manner was eager—and alert. The characters that were to form the central figures in his story rose and walked down a staircase to perform their separate parts.
The forces he planned to bring to bear seemed to have the professor himself in their grip. The whole man is him as something very real and tangible.
LIGHT
His theme was that of retribution, working through years and exciting circumstances, to punish a man for an injury in his early life. A slight fit of vanity had brought suffering upon him that had changed his whole career, the great growing out of the little. He had also woven other forces and incidents into his story, so that it seemed to him a most compelling arrangement. The professor read over what he had com-
The night has a thousand eyes,
And the day but one;
Yet the light of a whole world dies
With the dying sun.
The mind has a thousand eyes,
And the heart but one;
Yet the light of a whole life dies.
When love is done.
BOURDILLON
detailed of his manuscript and took up
he story where he had left off.
In the fullness of his idea, a few days before he had related the theme to one of his classes. It stirred him now to remember how eager they had been with suggestions, what enthusiasm it had aroused.
Thrilled with his reborn determination, the professor began his work. But the eagerness wore itself out. His pen, before many minutes, moved mechanically. Dumbly, he realized his story lacked something, what, he did not know—but he doubted. It was a tired face, unwilling and haggard, that he turned to the door as it opened behind him to admit one of his students.
"Oh, hello, Osborne," greeted the professor, striving to conceal his impatience. "Come in."
"What is it you want?" he added, rather petulantly, and then hoped the student had not heeded.
"I thought I'd see you about my theme, professor," explained the young man, half apologetically. "I've given up." The speaker was stepped as if for the other to speak.
"All right, Osborne. Draw up a work out you have a theme worked out,—very good."
"I am expecting a great deal from your class this semester. Osborne. The work is decidedly gratifying. It does me good, you know, to see them take the job."
"What is this? What is your theme?" he added, audently interrupting him.
"Why you talked about it in class the other day, you remember. And I worked it out. It struck me as about the best of them all."
"Ah, yes," agreed the professor with a nod.
"It is the idea of retribution," explained the student. "It's about a man wonderfully gifted in many respects, who is pursued through life by the remembrance of an act of vanity that had once cost him clearly. His wisdom has been passed with years. The idea is that the punishment is out of proportion to the folly."
Again the professor nodded his head. "Yes, yes, it has possibilities," he said excitedly.
The professor read on, deeply engrossed in the story. His first emotion was one of curiosity, and he read with interest to see how the student had treated the theme, for it was the same upon which he himself had spent so many hours. In the first few paragraphs there were few jarring notes; the introduction past, the professor was swept through the rest of the manuscript with something more than a consciousness of being simply curious.
But it was not until he had finished that the full force of the student's narrative struck him. Then, as he unconsciously placed the customary mark at the foot of the last sheet, he realized the masterly touches which imbued the story. It was so strong, so dominant, it had carried him on in forgetfulness of all else. One overpowering effect appealed to him before all, and so vitally did it strike him he put it in words spoken to himself.
"Here, this boy has placed the world-old query of fate before his readers squarely, almost brutally," he thought. "He has shouted it out so no one
can miss it. With what insistence he has shown it—why the eternal lack of proportion in the affairs of destiny?—Does this man suffer for the sins of his grandfather or great grand father, or is just man a plaything of fate after all? Why? Where? The unanswerable query.
"A strong work. A strong work," he repeated to himself insufficiently. It seemed as if he were unwilling to get down to the realization of what the few pages he held in his hand meant to his own life.
But even while he reflected and the student peered anxiously over his shoulder to see what he might be about, a spirit of resentment rose within him and grew strong. It may have been directed at dote [a man] but his manu- mandation of manifestion of fear Revolt? Of course, he would revolt. He would see about this—he—
"This theme is my theme," the dominating voice within him cried out. "The plot, the idea, the thought, are all mine, my own. Why should I till my own hopes to give this boy the reward that belongs to me? Nobody would believe in it. I thought him all he knows; he could have done nothing without my help."
There came to him then what had been the trouble with his own work—the fault that he knew was present, yet could not exactly place.
It was brought home to him by the youthful, hopeful, lambent touches in the student's story. He knew, now, that his works were clogged with his own stored-up thoughts; they were marked with the mark of the worn-out hand that he could not give the world any hope. His own was too nearly exhausted.
But then the thought came to him that he could revise. He would make his work breathe these things—the hopes of youth. He would do it with this story first; it would be a supreme effort, but he would be the final effort, too, should he fail.
But the student's story was in his hands, a reality. He considered how
Co-eds Have Vaudeville.
OLD FRIENDS IN VERSE
for the sun. The western wind was wild and dank wi, foam. And the north wind went she.
THE SANDS O' DEE.
'O Mary, go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home.
And round and round the sand,
As far as eye could see;
The Woman's League at the University of Colorado had a vaudeville night in the gymnasium in which the various women's organizations put on sketches. The League cleared $45 with the entertainment.
And o'er and o'er the sand.
And round and round the sand.
The creeping tide came up along the sand.
When he turned to the student, the professor's face was calm. Here he advised a change in a word; a better sentence there; showed at another point where a whole paragraph could be dropped and the movement quickened. All were calculated to strengthen the narrative; and it pleased him when he saw how quickly the young man caught his suggestions. The professor praised the student, told him he had a great story, approved his style and earnestness. Then the lad bowed himself up, crying his thanks.
When Osborne had been gone some little time, the professor realized that it was almost dusk. He shoved a lean pile of papers into a far corner of his desk, arose, walked to the row of nails in the wall and took down his hat and coat.
Yet the instinct of the teacher, imbued in him through years of toil, was also strong. How often had he rejoiced in a student's success? He had aided them all with heartedness. He recalled the routine schedule of each day in his life: the breakfast in the tender dawn; his long, silent tramps to the college; the round of classes; the quiet afternoons that had brought his day in the big college building to a close; his evenings spent in class; the three hours that had come from all this a strange instinct for doing the mechanical over and over again; for giving the best that was in him,—his thought, his strength, his helping hand,—to the students who came under his instruction.
And he had longed for success ever once he could remember.
He blinding must come down and bid
the land;
And never home came she.
O' drowned maiden's hair,—
move the jets in and set that shone so
fair. Amuse the jets on Des."
'O, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—
The cruel, hungry foam—
To her grave beside the sea;
A girls' track team is one of the
Among the stakes on Dec."
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home
best he might keep back the work while his own went to the publisher. He might discourage the student—it would be an easy matter—with a pretence of helping him. Though no one realized more than he the effect of a disappointment coming at a critical time, to a young man, was he not justified? His hope for fame, sought for nearly forty years, die now that another, young and untrust, sight see, this reward?
The cruel, crawling foam,
The cruel, hungry foam.
Across the sands o' Dee.
-CHARLES KINSLEY.
They rowed her in across the rolling foam—
innovations at the University of Minnesota.
Make Way For Education.
The Universities of Nebraska and Michigan have found it necessary to condemn certain private property adjoining their campuses, in order to provide room for more buildings.
Realizing the fact that in as much as this is one of the most notable love attractions heard in this city, and that the demand for seats will be unusual, the management has arranged to allow partners the opportunity of procuring desirable seats at adjoining theaters. It is easy to assume that many requests from theatregoers who do not wish to stand in line yet desire to be assured of good seats in advance.
Kindly hill out below how many saats are required, and the date. Send remittance by money order, express order or check between us and your BOWERSOCK THEATER, LAWRENCE, KANSAS, saats will be promptly sent you.
It is with great pride that the management of the Bowersock Theater announces the engagement of the Sheehan English Opera Company. From the sanctuary to the Pacific coast press and numerous promotional organizations, the organization the finest opera company in the English language.
LOVE TALES OF HOFFMAN
BOWERSOCK THEATER Wednesday, Jan. 24th Attraction Worthy of Lawrence New Theater ADVANCE MAIL ORDER NOTICE Sheehan English Opera Company With Joseph F. Shaehon, Americas greatest tenor, and the most remarkable cast of artists ever heard in English Opera, in the Operatic sensation of two continents
Prices for this Engagement, 50c, 75c, $1, $1.50] & $2
$2.00
$1.50
$1.00
50c
City Improvements
In the year just ended there Tell the story of a city's growth, were erected in Lawrence buildings costing $709,675, and municipal improvements amounting to $148,090, and improvements and rebuilding of private property amounting to $300,000. So the total paid out by the town for new and more substantial things was more than a million dollars in the year 1911,---and that wasn't an exceptional year.
The Merchants' Association Lawrence