University of Missouri College of Engineering - Shamrock Yearbook (Columbia, MO)

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f in 1 is ia fx se- we Pflgf 74 After the Ball is Over THE TUMBLEBUCVS LAST BALL Good citizens, I beg your graceg That I may pause for hriefcst space, And relate to you in behalf of a friend, The advancing shade of a hitter end. Dame Nature gives this news in 'hand That I may herald throughout the land, And proclaim to the people of our great state The swift approach of the lLl1Il'lbIClJllg',S fate. My knowledge came in this strange wayg IVhile trudging along the road one day I stopped at the crest of a long, long hill And was idly sitting and resting my fill. My eyes they roved from side to sideg No wonder soon that they espied A weary hug beneath a tree, IVho sat and gazed direct at me. This tumhlehug sat with jealous eye, And guarded his luggage parked nearby, Neighbor, I heard this creature say, I beg of you the time of day. You're welcome, said I, Hh70l1,1'C welcome to I't's one and after and I must go . But stay, it said, and he of good cheer , I have a story I wish you to hear . The poignant appeal in the hug's brown eyes, Persuaded me not to pass him hy, So I seated myself there under a tree And I heard the dying hug's noble plea. I'n1 the last of the line of nohle hugs And my hody is weakened by constant tugs I long for cobblestoncs of another day On which it was my wont to playu. know 5 ,Q 'J -5521! if-Rfb.:

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Efiiciency to the Last Philips finally died and was being taken to his grave. Six of his fellow pro- l'e:-ssors were bearing hini to his last resting place when the coffin lid suddenly opened and Mr. Philips was heard 'i1O'1fC1J'llL1'liZ 'l'lie1'e are too many of you on this job, if you'd put a wheel under this casket you could cut out the services of tive men and do the work in half the time. The absent ininfled jewelry salesman was getting married. He was presenting' his bride to be with the ring when he hesitated. VVith this ring, said the minister. lVith this ringfl said the salesman,', we give a written guarantee, reininding the customer that money is cheerfully refuncleclf' i..l. . lflcldie Dyer, liarcl working Associate Editor, who has been forced to listen to- the radio all winter will leave for a trip to the Maine woods on or about March 21 in hopes that he will meet the writer of the Stein Song there alone. - . ON ST. PATRICK'S BALL .Beneath the lamplight's shaded glow YV moved in couples two by two, And with the musies ebb and flow She casts on me her spell. She weaves it o'ur the polished Hom- On silver slippered feet, A pattern bright, of sound and light, Into the music's beat. And she, the weaver of the spell, VVho in my heart has inacle a hell, lVill never knowg That all my world is standing still As a giant oalc on a granite hill Because l love her so. J. H. R. ihrge 73 i il l l ll l-il 'X aa 'N' ai sig maxi 5 I 3 l f -Y ag. JA. I

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V , 1 . ' ,. .I 4 . '- s, .----alla n x 5-1 N li if wife Willy, I have never seen times like those today And I am glad my life is slipping away, I-Ieartless machines like steel clawed hands Arc death to the 'I'umblehug's modest demands. ur F116 rumbling carts on the inacadam Have given away to modern train. The business section stretches far And the horse gives way to the motor car. urw lhe concrete strip has come our way VVith oilgrimcd surface here to stay. And the wagon bows to the glittering shine Of the automobiles and their worrisome whinesf' The bug he sighed and continued to say, Oh, for the good old-'Fashioned dray. YVith the song of the teamster in' raucous blast Recalling to us the glorious past. The IlliI1St1'Cl.,S llarp has had its due lVith the hunl:sman's horn that we all knew. The olden hard must hang his hcadg His lays are fallen flat and dead. Thu world is crazy, or it seems to be, And I know that you will agree with me, So I :nn sitting here, friend, and telling you Of the joyous past that I once knew. un 1'is rumored about on every hand Tlmt there's hardly rx -horse left in the land. So I figured that by nineteen-hundred-thirty-six XVC bugs will be in one hell of a fix. Paeons of song through scores of years Have paved the way for copious tears, But never yet has knell been rung I.:i111enting the VE!l'llSllll'lg horse's dung. -Milo, the Vagabond Poet. ' rv r P5135 15 vwmfsd .., may va pg V Y 1 I w l. X, W il 1 w 4 w w 1 v ll P N. l I yi I w f. - - W- I- ,-4-I 1 AL- , I