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. M.ist 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.

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. L. S. STRICKLER.

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.