THE
FRESHMAN BATTALION
Published Weekly by the Students' Association of the Agricultural and Mechanical College of Texas.
TWENTIETH YEAR COLLEGE STATION, TEXAS, FRIDAY, MARCH 28, 1913 NUMBER 23
THE SIMPLICITY
OF COLLEGE LIFE
It is a common thing to hear people
say that college life is one of toil, and
«ndless trouble; that there is never a
time for rest, recreation or conversa
tion with one’s fellowmen; that all is
either study or hurry and bustle from
six in the morning until eleven at
night.
But, alas! my friend, I beg to as
sure you that such is not the case at
A. and M., for here troubles are
strangers and study is a fleeting fancy
which resembles story book pictures
more than an actual reality. All is
quiet, peace, leisure, and pleasure.
Even time is plentiful. It is sold by
the hour and costs four demerits per.
It is true the price may rise as more
is bought, but this is an inevitably
result of the law of supply and de
mand, and therefore such a trifle
should not be noticed in this haven
of bliss.
But perchance, my enchanted reader,
you are getting anxious to know about
a few of the little things connected
with this heaven on earth. Perhaps
you wWt to know of a few of those
omaiier creature comforts which tend
to make life a never-ending pathway
of—geraniums.
The smallest of these mere trifles
is the thirty hours per week of reci
tations. This is so small that it really
does not deserve mention. But it
serves to give employment when time
begins to hang heavy on the hands.
In fact, none of these recitations re
quire over three hours of preparation,
while the average is a paltry little
two. And the instructors never make
any difference in one’s grade if he
neglects this minor detail altogether.
But then it is such a pleasure to per
form these little tasks that every
voice is raised against dispensing with
them. For what is more restful or
recuperative than to come in from
an hour at drill or sentinel duty and
plunge into the preparation of tomor
row’s lessons?
But to explain each individual ex
cellence of these courses, which are
intellectual and physical developers.
For example, take English. Just one
theme a week is all that is required.
And this is truly one of the greatest
luxuries known at this school. Why,
w r e are told that Longfellow, Poe and
Macaulay wrote such little trifles at
the ages of four and five and that it
was common for them to write them
as fast as one usually reads a book.
But writing such little masterpieces of
prose so thrills the imagination of the
average A. and M. cadet that he never
thinks of spending less than three
hours upon each of them, and is truly
sad when they are finished.
But then a student at A. and M. has
the supreme privilege of continually
turning from one pleasure to another;
for he can go from English to the en
thralling intricacies of algebra, trig-
(Continued on Page 5.)
For the first time during his career
the Freshman is allowed the privilege
of having a say all his own. Hereto
fore he has been forced to hear of
Junior banquets and Sophomore
dances, and wondered when his time
would come. At last he has his desire
granted. He may have a “Bat” of his
own and with the mighty pen he can,
for once, even up for the many tricks
of which he has been the goat.
However sweet revenge may be, the
Freshman does not edit his “Bat” with
the sole idea of getting even with the
Sophomores or anyone else. Should he
do so he will suffer in the end, for
the Sophomores also have a “Bat” of
their own (not to mention a “reg.”
belt).
The Freshman appreciates the honor
of a special issue in his name, and in
getting it up has found a pleasure;
but it is a greater pleasure to present
it to his fellow cadets.
The staff of the Freshman Battalion
desires to express its sincere appre
ciation to every Freshman who has
contributed articles and drawings for
this paper. Much credit is due the
prompt manner in which the members
of the Class of 1916 aided the busi
ness manager in financing the issue.
Thanks are due to the members of
each company who aided in the col
lection of the amount contributed by
each Freshman.
O! Joy.
Of course you have seen him. The
little fish just about so tall in F com
pany. The original smiling human—
that’s O. Joy
TO COACH MOHAN
He is quiet, easy fellow, with his pants
i tucked in his boots,
His voice is deep and powerful, and to
evil he never stoops.
He has “handled” several ball players
in rustling days gone by,
And although he seems so pleasant,
there is a devil in his eye.
When he starts to correct a player, he
calls him by his name
In that confidential manner that sug
gests the bunco game.
If the player is not willing, and takes
exception to the plan.
Our coach gets the drop, sir, and he
likewise gets his man.
Oh, it’s powerful persuading, is his
fist right ’neath your nose,
“Come on, you got to go, ‘Monty,’ ”
and ‘Monty” he Tips anti goes.
He is generous, brave and courtly,
but he’s a dangerous man to
sass.
For his manner is suggestive of that
sign, “Keep off the grass.”
“Hyars looking at yer, Moran!”
“Come, boys, let’s drink her
down.
To the most important man, sir, of
this College Station town.”
H.
It is rumored that' the cadets of
Company K have turned in a petition
to the faculty to have the halls of
Milner Hall enlarged so that Fish Mal
loy can walk through them without
knocking his feet against the walls,
and that he may go about without
waking the boys up from their beauty
naps, which have to be postponed on
his account. This is to let the public
know that he is 4 feet 5 inches in
height and wears a No. 12 shoe, to
say nothing of a yard-wide sombrero.
II FRESHMAN'S LET
TER JD_HIS CHUM
College Station, Texas,
September 28, 1913.
Dear Old Jim;
I feel that it is my urgent duty, as
a cadet of this grand institution
known as the A. and M. College, to
write you a letter relating my experi
ences since you saw me last, waving
good-bye to my girl from the rear
platform of the train.
If, after reading this letter, you will
think deeply about the things I am
going to confide in you, next year
when you start on your maiden voyage
to this college you will not be as
“green” as I was when I left home.
After the train went over the hill
just the other side of “Bud” Simon’s
old barn, and I could no longer see
my girl’s handkerchief waving its last
farewell, I went into the cars to cap
ture me a seat. I went through the
whole bloomin’ train three times hunt
ing a good seat, and was finally
obliged to take one in the smoker,
just across the aisle from a bunch of
sporty-looking follows.
I took my hat and coat off, threw
my bag up on the shelf, and pulled
out the “Tip Top” which you had been
so thoughtful to purchase for me. I
hadn’t read more than three pages
when I was grabbed by the fellows
who sat across the aisle. They asked
me where I was going, who I was,
and every other question imaginable.
I recited my pedigree off to them,
and told them I was going to college.
One of the men asked me if I was
a “fish,” and I told him “no,” that “I
was a lobster going out to the grave
yard to get married.” Now, you know
that would make the folks in Monkton
almost die laughing, but those fellows
didn’t seem to see anything funny
about it. I guess I must have made
a mistake when I tried to be funny,
for before I could think of a thing I
found myself on top of a seat with the
whole derned bunch hollerin’ for a
speech.
I couldn’t think of anything to
speak to them about, so I recited that
old oration I used to say at school,
entitled “I’ve Had Just Enough to
Make Me Want Some More.” Well,
it seems that it was just the way they
felt about it, for they then told me
to sing them a popular song. I told
them I wouldn’t sing for anyone un
less I wanted to, and it was a cinch
that I didn’t want to sing for them.
They immediately jerked their
heavy belts out and, placing me over
a seat, began to play ragtime on the
seat of my pants. The conductor came
in to take up our tickets, and put an
end to their playhouse before they
had played as long as they wished to.
They sat down and talked matters
over for a few minutes, and finally
told me they would leave me alone for
the time being if I would tell them
when the train reached Wellborn. I