2
THE BATTALION
gon, Riggs, Mims, Weir.
120 yard high hurdles—Frazier
Denny.
220 yard low hurdles—Frazier,
Denny.
High jump—Barmore.
Broad Jump—-Steele, Weir.
Pole vault—Barmore, Denny.
Shot put—Keen, Mahan.
Discus throw—Keen, Dinwiddie,
Mahan.
Javelin throw — Mahan, Keen,
Frazier.
’23
THE AUAOBIOGRAPHY OF A
SLIME
(By A. Fish, B. V. D.)
For the sake of those readers who
man not guess it, I am a Freshman—
no, a FISH. To be sure a much
sadder and wiser man than in the
days of long ago. Yes, ’tis a sad
story, mates.
I came to this institution of learn
ing with a high school diploma and
the somewhat erroneous idea that
the world was my apple. Was I
not to be a college Freshman—a
man of Destiny, with a great and
glorious future ahead of he? Wil
liam the Conqueror had nothing on
me. Well, to continue my tale, I
left my native village one day last
September, after a number of more
or less fond farewells. I had boarded
a fast limited train on the I. & G.
N., so it was only a few hours until
we hove into College Station—in the
wee small hours. Following the
crowd of noisy young men who ar
rived on the same train, I located
the College and found a room in
Ross Hotel, on Military St. Turning
my toes to the sky and listening to
the lazy hum of the mosquitos, I
soon drifted into Dreamland. At last
orr to
Colley C- /
I was a College Man! Ah, the sweet
sleep of innocence. Next morning
at Sbisa’s Cafe I got slightly ac
quainted with “sky-juice,” “cow”
“punk,” “grease,” “regulator,” and
all of those little things. Judging
from the chow we had that morning
I drew the conclusion that the cook
must have overslept several hours.
That day I learned that I was a Fish
instead of a Freshman and a bug-
hunter instead of an agriculturist.
I learned to my surprise that there
are no Freshmen at A. and M.; that
they all left here in the year One.
They are all deep-sea slimes.
I was assigned to a room having a
lovely underground or basement
view, a set of assorted mice, and a
non-lockable transom. Little did I
realize the importance of little
things like transoms in A. and M.
life. Well, that night, I made my
acquaintance with the genus Sopho
more. I was quite forcibly impress
ed several times with a due sense of
their importance. I received a most
cordial invitation to a “bull-pen”
that night just about the time I was
ready to sit down and write to my
girl. Yes, they called it a bull-pen.
Now for the benefit of the uninitiat
ed, let me say that a bull-pen is not
what you might think it is, but some
thing else. It is an aggregation or
congregation of two or more A. and
M. men of one or more classes or
rank, gathered together for the pur-
upon
— pnEETine
— HAvi/sG me r
the: (SETmus
"SOPHOMORE?
pose of educating the Fish present
in the mysteries of “How to be a
Fish”, or for the purpose of discuss
ing from every possible standpoint
everything from Greek Philosophy
and the Chinese school tax to com
pulsory chapel and the high cost of
Bevo. Well, in this particular bull
pen, we slimes seemed to hold the
floor most of the time^ Many were
the cute little stunts we pulled that
night. Yea, verily, I was beginning
to see the light—the light that
dawns on every good slime about the
first night of his Fish career. We
all learned a new word that night.
Oh, ye gods and fellow citizens, but
old Noah Webster overlooked a bet
when he left the word “pooch” out
of his dictionary. I learned that
night too, what an inspiring and up
lifting little song is found on the
side of a Prince Albert can when
sung to the tune of “Home Sweet
Home.”
Well, the first few nights passed
with a number of similar bull-pens
and then one night between tattoo
and taps, we had a beautiful and ar
tistic little ceremony known as guard
mount, or something like that. Any
way, what’s in a name? That night
I decided to devote my life to writ
ing a book or perhaps a set of books
on “The Trials and Tribulations of a
Fish.”
All this time my military educa
tion was not neglected. I learned the
manual of the bayonet, and scan-
zLl/fiTFO/2.W wor. N Dur/n
mourn" or.
Eh i n n L.ifre
-ThaT- but
rw/iaf’s in a o Qrne.
n o vva y ?
1
bard, how to growl, look mean and
register an expression of disgust at
bayonet drill; learned the meaning
of recall and mess call; and after I
learned the Fish general orders I was
permitted to guard the flagpole oc
casionally against all civilians, cas
uals, and enemies whomsoever. I
also learned two meanings of the
word “military”. “Bull-ticks” I
leai'ned to adore.
It wasn’t long ’till the captain, re
alizing what a military man I was,
gave me a position as his valet and
room orderly. Also the first day we
went out to drill I made such a good
showing that I was advised by one of
the sergeants that I should put in
my application for corporal—which
I did. You know the rest.
Of course it wasn’t long until I
began to get wise to a few things.
One day the top sergeant sent me
over to a sergt. in another company
to see if he could spare him a little
skirmish-line and about a half-pint
of reveille oil. This other sergeant
said that he had just used the last
he had that morning, but that I
could probably get some over at F
Company. They didn’t happen to
have any either, but sent me over to
Milner Hall to see the Reveille Ser
geant. Well, there didn’t seem to be
any reveille sergeant in Milner Hall
so I gave it up as a bad job. By
this time I began to see that some
thing was rotten in Denmark.
About the hardest thing for me to
get accustomed to was the table
etiquette (-) which prevails in the
Mess Hall. It was a long time be
fore I could remember which was
“shotgun” and which was “winches-
ter,“ without stopping and ponder
ing a little while. The first word I
learned was CUSH, and it was al
most the undoing of me. About the
third noon, I completed the first
three courses (?) of the meal, and
leaning back in my chair, I yelled
“Shoot the Cush!” A sudden hush
spread over the table and all eyes
turned toward me. The Junior on
the end of the table looked at me a
minute, and then he proceeded to
hold a council of war with the other
old boys as to what should be done
with such a slimy specimen of the
finny tribe. The outcome of it all
was that I became a different man
from that day on. I realized that a
Freshman’s cush was about as sure
and dependable as Texas weather.
Another popular sport of the Mess
Hall, I mean popular among the old
boys, is the Prune Race. This little
ceremony was introduced at A. and
M. about the time the first Fish
class got to be Sophomores, and will
continue as long as the prune tree
beareth fruit. We slimes are dealt
about eight or ten prunes apiece and
at the signal “get set—Go!” the race
starts, and it is woe unto the man
who finishes last or doesn’t finish
with the same number of seeds as
he had prunes. It’s a hienous crime
to swallow a seed.
The weeks and months sped by
and with the coming of the Christ
mas holidays the popularity of the
Fish increased in inverse proportion
to the number of days till Dec 20.
Many were the invitations I received
to little informal tea parties and
things in Soph’s^ rooms, and right
merrily did the fish-killers play
“Home Sweet Home” and “Merry
Xmas”. The old boys just couldn’t
bear to see us leave without telling
us good-bye and giving us some lit
tle token to remember them by.
After the holidays things were
pretty dull until the time for the
long looked-for Junior Banquet drew
nigh. We had heard numerous
blood-curdling tales and hair rais
ing narratives from the Sophomores
about what had happened to Fish in
previous years on that night of
nights. Of course I had no reason
to doubt what they told me, and to
say that I was a little bit nervous
during those days is expressing it
somewhat mildly. I felt like I was
driving a Ford truck of nitroglycer
ine over a rough road in the^dark of
the moon. Every time the Sophs
would gather ai’ound in little bunches
and let out a few war whoops I