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,
How often I wondered why 'twas that our Shylock
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.
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,
That day I worked in my good clothes,
Gloomy, sorrowful day of yore,
But now my P. M. days are gone,
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.
Tom & Carolyn Ward
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