THE BATTALION.
live in your memories like the faint figure
of a dream, but we shall cease to be a part
of your daily lives. To you we say good
bye, but not farewell.
And now, my beloved classmates, let us
endeavor to take up our life-work with en
thusiasm, for without enthusiasm all
knowledge is dross indeed. Whatever we
undertake let us undertake it with a de
termination to succeed, remembering '•‘there
is no destinj', no fate, no chance can cir
cumvent, hinder or control the firm resolve
of a determined soul.”
Words fail me to express how true has
been our intercourse in these past years
upon the drill ground, on the athletic field,
in the class-room and in the society halls.
From the day when, as timorous “fish,”
we entered the strange domains df the A.
and M., when visions of a diploma were as
yet but vague imaginings, until the present
proud moment, when, as seniors, we see
the consummation of our ambitions—gradu
ation—we have mingled together in closer
unison than the students of almost any
other college. Here have we formed the
dearest ties of friendship, and we will bear
with us as we go into the wide, unfeeling
world these precious memories of our early
affections at the old Alma Mater, and they
will abide with us in sunshine or in storm,
in joy or in sorrow, until our own sun of
life has set forever.
And now, farewell! A word that in its
sadness makes us pause, but must at last
be said. Farewell ! Farewell!
A CHRISTMAS STORY.
By River Jordan—’95.
“Claud !”
“Arthur !”
They spoke at the same time. The one
wore a miner’s blue flannel shirt, jeans
trousers stuffed into well greased cowhide
boots, a large brim black felt hat that
shaded his face, sleeves rolled up to the
elbows and he wore a belt with a pistol at
one side. This was Claud. The other,
Arthur, was dressed in a neat, double-
breasted suit of dark serge, tan shoes and
derby hat. Both were young. Apparent^
of the same age, somewhere in the neighbor
hood of 26 or 28; cleanly shaved, finely
cut features and about the same stature.
At a glance one could tell that they were of
good families, but adventurous youths in a
strange and foreign land.
“Well, ’pon my word, I am glad to see
you ; but tell me, how comes that you are
here? Hope’taint disappointment. Well,
let’s go in here, and over our glasses you
can tell me all about it,” spoke Claud.
“It isn’t much to tell, Claud. It’s only
my Christmas story that drove me to these
wilds.”
“Well, ’pon my word. Christmas story.
Humph. Hey, bartender, bring us a bottle
of yer best and some tobacco. Come, sit
down.” They drew chairs to a home-made
table, seated themselves opposite each
other. Claud, resting his elbows on the