University of San Francisco - USF Don Yearbook (San Francisco, CA)

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CONTENTS Fight 'em Harvard (Story) - - - - 7 The Dreamer (Verse) - - - - 14 Parent or State? - - - - 15 The Mirror (Verse) - - - - 19 The Derelict (Verse) - - - - - 20 Sunset (Verse) - - - - - 29 Hough Weather (Verse) - - - - 30 Ueorge Washington and Patriotism - - - - 31 Easy Money (Story) - - - - - 33 The Habe (Verse) ... - - - - 42 Night Law School - - - - - 43 The Hose of Don Pablo (Verse) - - - - 46 Dick Eights His Wrong (Story) - - - - 49 A Pledge (Verse) ... - - - - 55 Editorial - - - - 56 In Memoriani .... - - - - 60 Alumni - - - - 62 Law School Notes - - - - - 68 I’niversity Notes - - - - - . 77 Athletics - - - - 82 High School Notes ... - - - - 89 High School Athletics - - - - 93

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Fight ’Em Harvard Edward I). Keil, ’25 AD you happened to stroll into the University Club of New York one bright morning in early spring, you could not but have noticed a tall, strong, impeccably tailored and exquisitely groomed young man engaged in the arduous occupation of blowing great gusts of heavy Turkish tobacco smoke towards the massive ceiling, for lie was the only occupant of the room. The gentleman is J. Bentley Partmour, of New York and Tuxedo. J. Bentley’s great-great grand-daddy happened to visit America long before Prohibition was thought of and, with the aid of a few bottles of poor rum possessed himself of enough property on old Manhattan Island to keep his descendents, J. Bentley among the number, from starving, and to leave a comfortable sum over for jumps to Deauville, Miami, and Coronado. Outside of these annual excursions, J. Bentley’s life was taken up in buying and wearing clothes and experimenting in various brands of Oriental tobacco. But J. Bentley, like all men, great or small, who view the affairs of this vale of tears with too much complacency, was destined to be Fate’s little play-toy, precisely at the time that he was basking in its sweetest smile. Idly he gazed out into the teeming street. He watched the flitting forms of stenographers as they hurried along— and the little, bent men, with washed-out complexions—clerks, Partmour guessed they were—and thanking God that he, J. Bentley, was not one of them, with a feeling of infinite superiority he reclined in his chair and sent a long, languorous trail of smoke ceilingward. “Hello, Partmour—glad to see you!” Partmour slightly turned his head, a little petulant at having his restful self-congratulations so rudely disturbed.