Transcribed from College Symposium of the Kansas State Agricultural College Topeka, Kansas: The Hall & O'Donald Litho Co. 1891.


How dear to my heart are the antics of Shylock,
     When thoughts of the "bull-pen" present them to view;
His gesticulations, his lectures on Hubback,
     With all the contortions that there would ensue.
His facts and suggestions, both ancient and modern,
     I chewed up and swallowed until I was full.
When my fancy reverts to the boys in the "bull-pen"
     Then I think of the junior, who curries the bull.
The thoroughbred junior, the dignified junior,
     The city-bred junior, who curries the bull.

That extract of farming I hail as a treasure,
     More valuable even than pitching manure;
And every P. regards it a pleasure
     Which the poet delights in, but he can't endure.
And when he approaches that genus, Bostorus,
     The grandson of Hubback, the gentleman bull,
He chants to himself that contemptible chorus,
     And regrets he's the junior, who curries the bull,
The thoroughbred junior, the dignified junior,
     The city-bred junior, who curries the, bull.

How often I wondered why 'twas that our Shylock
     Did not cross the ocean while I was a prep,
And take as a relic his Polled Angus bullock,
     To experiment with and establish a "rep."
But soon he'll leave all to his worthy successor,
     And soon for Australia his freight he will pull;
Then we'll all shed a tear for our new Ag. professor,
     And sigh for the junior, who'll curry the bull.
The thoroughbred junior, the dignified junior,
     The city-bred junior, who'll curry the bull.

G. J. V. Z.



Baching is the art of economically administering to one's soul and body the luxuries of life for some definite end, generally the end of the bachelor. Baching is an art and not a science, and it is closely related to the art of agriculture. There is this striking difference, however: agriculture, or farming, is the art of tilling the soil, while baching is the art, of letting Nature take her course without tilling. Farming exhausts, while baching accumulates soil. Though, as I have said, it is purely an art; many of the sciences may be pursued with interest in the genial home of the bachelor. Could we find an entomologist constitutionally strong enough to enter the bachelor's den, he might there find material enough in his line to busy him in its classification all the rest of his life. The horticulturist would be amazed to see whole crops of potatoes grow, bloom and bear all in a fortnight under the bed. The botanist could find five hundred varieties of mould and micro-organisms in his bread and hash. The chemist would conclude that the dough of which his batter cakes are made is a most wonderful compound. The physiologist would swear that a "patent roller process" grist mill could not digest half the food which he relishes every day for his dinner. If the specialist could see him during many phases of his existence he would surely pronounce him the missing link.

Every operation in baching is absolutely practical, and has mighty little theory involved anywhere. When a fellow sits down to breakfast, shuts his eyes, and converses with himself a few minutes, and then opens them, only to see before him bread, toothpicks and coffee; and when he knows that he wouldn't see any more if he looked a month, this is what I call practical life. If for dinner he just sees tooth-picks, bread and coffee, and for supper, coffee, tooth-picks and bread, then he is a wise bachelor, and practices a system of mixed husbandry. For when a man is compelled to do his own work and also his wife's, or if he hasn't got a wife, the work somebody else's wife ought to do, I would call this mixed husbandry, and badly mixed, too.


P. M. Drawing


Can it be that P. M. days
     Are to me forever past?
Prof. Georgeson never more I'll see,
     The hoe no more I'll grasp
My days at the K. S. A . C.
     Are drawing near a close,
And I'm to drift on life's broad sea,
     Where " Hort." one never knows.

And then I'll think of days long past,
     The happy days of yore;
When once I struggled with P. M.,
     A haughty sophomore.
It first was down to the barnyard,
     The place where Cottrell reigned,
My soft and dainty little hands
     With mud and such were stained.

That day I worked in my good clothes,
     My old ones I'd not brought,
And all the dirt about the barn
     On my good clothes was caught.
The bosom of my nice white shirt
     Showed that it had been soiled;
I marred the polish on my shoes;
     My collar, it was spoiled.

Gloomy, sorrowful day of yore,
     Day of the not far past,
To me you ne'er will be forgot
     My first, but not my last.
Oh! with what joy of heart I hear
     The ringing of the bell
A joy that only in the hearts
     Of P. M. boys doth dwell.

But now my P. M. days are gone,
     I feel no more the same;
I long to toil as once I did,
     I long for wealth and fame;
But carpentry is my sad lot,
     P. M. no more I'll see;
But while I'm working at my trade,
     P. M., my heart's with thee.



There was a man in our school,
     Whose name you know quite well, sir,
Whose crooked ways and sins so dark
     It pains me much to tell, sir.

One bright spring morn, he and a chum
     Went out to take a ride, sir;
A lady fair, with tender care,
     Each youth placed by his side, sir.

With jest and song they sped along.
     O'er hill and vale and plain, sir,
No pause they made in sun or shade,
     But drove with might and main, sir.

The hours flew by, the day declined,
     But yet they did not stop, sir;
The jaded horses, faint and dry,
     Were ready, now, to drop, sir.

Still on they went from place to place;
     Till the country they'd gone o'er, sir,
And each fair maid, within her heart,
     Had dubbed her beau a bore, sir.

At last they reached Manhattan town,
     They came in on the fly, sir.
But when the stable door was gained,
     That team lay down to die, sir.

Then rose the owner in his wrath
     And hied him to the squire, sir.
He vowed that they should feel the force
     Of legal vengeance dire, sir.

The officer now brought these youths
     To answer for their sport, sir;
But oh, it was a "bitter pill"
     To 'tend this kind of court, sir.

Their "Pas" were next called on to come
     And pay for that long ride, sir;
They vowed that when those boys got home
     They'd tan their precious hides, sir.

To school again they came at last,
     Of much hard cash bereft, sir,
And when they called to see those girls,
     They found that they were left, sir.

The girls, you see, wished not again
     To get in such a plight, sir,
So one of them she bounced her bean,
     And now drives out with - Brown, sir.

The other claimed her witness fees,
     They came to seventy cents, sir,
Her beau said he'd not have a girl,
     Who had so little sense, sir.

The moral to this story's plain,
     And he who runs may read, sir:
Now ye who take your girls to drive
     These youths' sad fate should heed, sir.


College Symposium - Index
Introduction, History, 1863 to 1873, 1873 through 1878, 1878 and 1879, through 1879, Experiments and Experiment Station, Philosophy, Chemistry, Horticultural, Botanical, Mathematics, Industrial Art, Telegraph, English, Home Economics, Sewing, Mechanical, Music, Printing, Law, Farm, Military, Physics, Veterinary, Faculty and Assistants, Faculty Biographies, Alumni, Classes, College Organizations, Ionian #1, Ionian #2, Ionian #3, Hamilton #1, Hamilton #2, Hamilton #3, Alpha Beta #1, Alpha Beta #2, Alpha Beta #3, Webster #1, Webster #2, Webster #3, Webster #4, Editors and Church Directory, Advertisements#1, Advertisements#2, Advertisements#3

Tom & Carolyn Ward
Columbus, KS

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