22
THE BATTALION
“A SOLDIER.”
OVERALLS
From all accounts it seems that as
far as taking a swipe at the profiteer
goes, down here at A. and M., we are
not coming up to our old “rep”
Over at State and down at Rice
everybody is donning the overall.
Can you imagine Capt. Muller step
ping jauntily down the avenue clad
in blue denims and wearing a “hard-
boiled” grin to match them. Sgt.
Tyler might mistake him for one of
his gold-bricking stud'ent labor
Fish and want to know why the
dickens he wasn’t busy picking up
cigarette butts.
That would be embarrassing to
say the least, but supposing Ike Ash-
burn would appear in an undersized
pair of these anti-Cheatum suits, and
somebody would want to know who
the big plumber was And just sup
pose Mr. Ashburn hadn’t used a good
ripe judgment in purchasing his suit
of blue and that it was not only an
inferior garment, but a garment that
fitted him too soon, well now, if
he should get out here on the Military
Walk some noon hour and forget
himself so far as to bend over and
these overalls would give up the
ghost and fly madly off of Mr. Ash-
burn’s person in all directions. There
would be a panic on our boulevard
to which the Soph-Junior scrap
would look like a cent’s worth of
change in comparison.
In the first place old Nitro-Cellu-
lose Slovacek would blow fire call;
then, the chemical wagon headed by
Rasburymussen would rush to our
commandant’s aid while a cordon of
huskies would be strung around him
to keep out all inquiring campus suf
fragettes who can never understand
Why they are not allowed to go
where they please.
In the meantime, Capt. Muller
would have run home, changed from
overalls to working clothes, and is
sued an order for the Bolsheviki
Sons of Rest to go out of the way
while the infantry scouted around
for a barrel of sufficient length and
heart girth to take the place of Mr.
Ashburn’s deceased blue denims.
Such an event as this would almost
force Prexy to declare this day a
legal holiday forever afterwards and
Mr. Ashburn and his overalls would
be immortalized by embryo Fish
who have not yet seen the light of
day.
’23—♦
If things that are plentiful are
cheap, then lead is awfully cheap at
College Station.
The bars upon your shoulder
Or the uniform you wear
Don’t mean that you’re a “Soldier”
In this wide world of affair.
’Cause a man’s a man in battle
And your uniform so bright
Isn’t worth an empty cartridge
If you don’t stand up and fight.
It’s the stuff inside the buttons
That counts while you’re up there
And you don’t rate the title “Soldier”
If you don’t fight on the square.
The title “Soldier” should be sacred
And not called to everyone
That sports a classy uniform
Or just totes around a gun.
And a mud-soaked blood stained
doughboy
Fighting in the jaws of hell
Is the cleanest type of “Soldier”
And a fighting man as well.
Once I saw a “Soldier” dying,
(Yes, he’s worthy of the name).
Just an ordinary private,
But O! he sure was game.
And before the big call sounded
For to pass his last review,
He took me by the hand and said
Goodbye old Pal to you.
Tell my sweetheart that I love her,
God bless my little Jane
Tell mother I died smiling
And I didn’t feel the pain.
Gee! I envied him his rating,
’Cause he died and did not flinch
Tho his heart inside was bleeding
There’s a “Soldier” every inch.
And I know another “Soldier”
Tho’ she never shot a gun
And she never sees the trenches
Or she never killed a Hun.
She’s the mother of that “Soldier”
I watched dying over there
She’s a super kind of “Soldier’’
For she gave more than her share.
She gave her country all she had.
Her pride, her love, her joy.
She’s a splendid type of “Soldier”,
For she gave her only boy.
’23
Fish: I hear you went over to the
lunatic asylum today and they
wouldn’t let you in.
Soph: No.
Fish: Well they can’t tell one
lunatic from another over there.
’23
Soph (on morning after the Jun
ior banquet) : Freshman, didn’t I
hear you slipping upstairs at 4:00
a. m.?
Fish: No, that was when I slipped
down after crawling half-way up!
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Soph: Look here Fish, let me g
you a piece of my mind.
Fish: Won’t it be robbing you'
’23
Prof. Brayton: What’s the f
mula for milk.
Bug Hunter: C-O-W, sir.