THE BATTALION ❖ ♦♦♦ *•> <%+ *;* ♦♦♦ ♦». >♦* »♦. ♦♦, ❖ hJ. ❖ DERE RUMMITT. ❖ ❖ +& ♦j* ♦j* »j* ♦♦♦ *$► The Last Line on the Offense, May 6, 1924. Dere Rummitt: Ain’t life grand! Huh? I ask you? Just think way back to that first time we learned that a cow wasn’t a bird and couldn’t be an automobile be cause it couldn’t blow its own horn. Remember when pa first told us that the pocita for bull was heifer and not bull-et. We got all shot up over that. But now we’ve got a good line on it. Education has great possibilities. I am now even inclined to think that some Profs are human, others hu mane, still others humorous, at least half-witty. Improvement marks our ever me andering steps toward advancement of our civilization, for women are get- tig tired of woman suffrage and are ready to go back to the ancient state of “woman sufferage”—even forego ing wrinkle removers and permanent waves. “What can the modern girl do ? Professor, you’d be surprised.” How happy we were v/hen we found out that a “slide-rule” was not a state law against throwing banana peelings on the sidewalk and that a bar-ometer was not a by-product of the steel in dustry, and that micro-scopes were not minute bacterial organisms. And Colonel Turner has taught us that Rembrandt’s “Blue Boy” was a picture and did not take part in the inevitable and interminable military science struggle between the Reds and the Blues. , How amused we were when we dis covered that information bureau clerks couldn’t tell one that day they were married and always forget to give their wives flowers on their birthdays. Speaking of nature, harken back to the time we were told that dogmatic was not the contraction of an alge- bracially educated quadruped of the canine specie. And how queer that Minnehaha was an Indian princess and not a series of boisterous laughs. Indeed, this is a world of wonders —and we wonder if the Chem build ing doors shall close on us forever June 3. • College has its returns, its bene fits the lessons — plenty of each. Some like the trees shall leave Some like the flowers bloom, Some like the house—.fly, Some will their studies resume. Some like the birds shall sing, Some like the concrete—set; Lord G'od of Hosts, Be with us yet! Lest we forget! Far called our navies melt away, On Dune and Granger twist, And hear we dreadful tales Of how Bob Sherman broke her wrist. Eve drank my cakes as they’re bought By friend or foe—I did not care. The Aggie tennis team is earnestly working in preparation for the con ference meet to be held in Dallas May 16-17. The Aggies have been hampered by the continued rain all spring but Captain Rounds states that jvery effort will be made to keep the courts in shape for the final two weeks of practice. The team jour neyed to Rice Saturday and went down 5-1 but they were handicapped by the fast, high-bounding court that the Owls were accustomed to. As usual, the Texas Longhorns are the favorites for the conference championship but the Aggies are striving to give them a battle for the premier honors of the Southwest. The Aggies have the best team they have had in several years and with the con tinued growth of interest in tennis, hope to lay the cornerstone for fu ture championship teams. Captain Rounds and Hinman have been playing unusually good tennis this year. Captain Rounds has been playing in No. 1 position and meet ing the ace of opposing teams. yet has given a good account of himself in every place. Little Red Hinman, playing in No. 3, has been the main stay of the squad. Underwood and Darby have performed in sensational style at times and will undoubtedly get right at the conference meet. C*]llllll!lilllI]|||llllllll|[ll|||||||||||UI!||||||||||[]|||||||||i||[:||!|i||||||!C]||||llllllll[]|IIIIIlllll!E]llllllllllll[llllllllillllE]llllllllllllElllllllllllllC]li:<| I MOTHER’S DAY j 1 pM§ Jl % 8 1 Send your mother your photo- | | iWa mm 1 II graph. You sure please her | | with it. Have it made from Longhorn negetive. | I THE COLLEGE STUDIO | 5 IIIE]lllll!IIIIIIE]IIIIIIIIIIIIE]illlllllllllE]llllllllilllE]!IIIIIIHIIIE]ll!IIIIIIIIIE]!limilllllE]IIIIIIIIIIIIE]||||lillllllE]lllllillllllE]lllllllillllE]llllllllllilE For ’twas on the marge of Lake Lebarge He sat and I heard him declare In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt, He sat and I saw him sway, Then his talon hands gripped the keys, My God! That man was not Louie Clay. He hailed him a taxi from the street He rode along a path of briars, Then the chauffeur turned and his eyes they burned And I knew him for Jimmy Myers. And on the floor of a cheap saloon He drew him a painted face, That the storms of time nor efforts of man Will e’er be able to erase The face was that of a woman fair Foam-mist in his eyes he almost lost it. Then the bar keeper came to the table, A Mexican replica of “Pewee” Fawcett, He smiled in accents loud and bold. His eyes were like a charcoal burner, In them a dream-round, full, a moon And I’ll swear ’twas not Turner, But College must end with the sign of the Goat, A sheepskin held tight—with the thought of “I gotter,” And the end of its sitting and think ing, And dreaming love ever more for our Alma Mater. I am having a job finding one. Yours in commencement, TOM. TENNIS TEAM PREPARING FOR CONFERENCE MEET <8>'9><$><$><$><$><$><$><$><$>