Worcester Polytechnic Institute - Peddler Yearbook (Worcester, MA)

Page 15 text:

When the end of the Summer term drew nigh. Sir William was all prepared to die. His coffin was ready, his bier was all made, And so were the garments of sombre shade, In which the mourners would be arrayed, When they marched to the grave in solemn parade; His death, which occurred not a moment too soon, Was announced to take place on the 16th of June. At Seven Dix St., on the eve of that date, The mourners collected about half-past eight. The procession started precisely at nine, With Drum Major Fuller leading the line; While next came the Drum Corps, whose music divine Was acknowledged by all as exquisitely fine; Then followed Sir William, with coffin and bier, While our escorts, the Seniors, brought up in the rear. With steadfast steps we marched along, The envy of the gazing throng. But the “ Preps ” and Middlers gathered there With patience could no longer bear To watch the fun they could not share; And so they laid a crafty snare, Across our line to make a rush, And steal Sir William in the crush. The Middlers came down like wolves on the fold, But instantly wished they’d not been so bold; For they met with a sudden and total defeat, While Sir William went on undisturbed up the street, Ignorant still of the doom he should meet, As a just reward for his crime and deceit. At the top of the hill he was solemnly tried, And condemned to be hung by the neck till he died. 9

Page 14 text:

And now began the daily grind Of “Comfort” and “Chanvenet” combined, Free-hand drawing from two till four, And Practice each week ten hours more; And every day when work was o’er, Came the regular daily chapel bore. The only thing that relieved us much Was learning to swear in good, strong Dutch. Nor did we shine in class-room alone ; On Field day, also, our talents were shown In running and jumping, and eating too; There wasn’t a thing we couldn’t do. Of worthy opponents we’d only a few In the foremost athletes of ’82; And we yelled that day till our throats were sore From cheering the winners of ’84. Field day o’er, we next will speak Of that fatal examination week. Now cribbing wasn’t a science then, And so it happened that eight of our men, By some mischance of tongue or pen, Failed of the requisite six times ten; And so were released from the turmoil and strife Attending a technical student’s life. We prepared next, term, in a royal way, For the execution of Chanvenet. A committee for torches, another for wood, With instructions to steal as much as they could, Thus doing evil to bring forth good c 00 By saving expense, as every one should; While other committees made the coffin and bier, Which should, with Sir William, in flames disappear. 8

Page 16 text:

Old Chanvenet’s days thus finally o’er, And Summer vacation gone once more, As Middlers all we now were known ; Middlers, to whom no love is shown, Middlers, who have to “go it alone,” And struggle in vain to hold their own Against the force of the rest of the school, Arrayed against them by common rule. Though we had to yield on a standing vote, Yet on other occasions worthy of note, When numbers alone did not decide, Neither Seniors or Juniors, nor both allied, In vain attempts to humble our pride, Could beat us in anything they tried; And the records prove without deceit That the class of ’84 “ couldn’t be beat.” Next term as Seniors we returned, Grave, dignified and somewhat learned, We now began with might and main To exercise both hands and brain. We struggled hard, and oft in vain, O’er formulas for stress and strain; While in the shop we worked like fun, To get our Straight-Line Engine done. On New Year’s eve, with tongues of flame, We hailed the year that bears our name; And from the throng assembled there, Around the bonfires’ brilliant glare, There breaks upon the midnight air The loud, discordant fish-horn’s blare. Announcing to the listener’s ear The advent of another year. IO