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UNL, 1912 Yearbook

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The Nebraska Blue Print
Pearse        Dale        Rohwer        Slater        Wirt


   THIS CORNHUSKER owes much to certain people who have not appeared in the picture of the staff, so it has seemed fit to make of this a sort of Santa Claus page. We shall consider ourselves as having driven our reindeers to the roof, as having slid down the grimy chimney, and as now being ready to distribute our precious gifts. First we will pick out a neat little mustache for "Peanut" Hill. Peanut, as Assistant Editor at the beginning of the year, did more to aid the progress of the book than any member of the staff, and continued to do so until a breakdown from overwork compelled him to sever his connections with the CORNHUSKER. He used to keep the Editor in a good humor by taking him down to Folsom's for lunch and buying him fried oysters and a gin-fiz. So Santa will give "Peanut" a long flowing mustache that he can take back West next summer. And then to Katherine Yates we will give a nice new dollie with real hair and eyes that open and shut; and then -- when we think how faithful a worker she has been we will add an orange and some niggertoes and a set of dishes, for rarely have we known such a good little girl. To Searle Holmes we will give a red necktie to match his hair. To Zack Taylor we will give a sack of rocks. To Mark Hargrave we will give a mirror so that he may see one of the hardest workers any CORNHUSKER could ever boast. To Rex Davies we will give a plug of chewin' and a pair of shoestrings. To Sam Buck we will give a train of cars and a bathrobe to replace the one he wore out last winter, and also a copy of Mother Goose rhymes. To Ruth Munger we will give a brick, symbolical of herself, and a knife to keep her wit well sharpened. And then there is dear little Sammy Cotner's stocking! What a treasure he has been! We will give him of the best in our pack. And what shall it be? Into his tiny hosiery let us slip a pair of purple suspenders and a fancy vest and a little tin sword. To Ernest Graves we will give a bottle of Good Intentions and the wrappers off our oranges. To Bob Ferguson we deliver a choice lemon, and to Ralph Sweeley we give our crown of thorns, filling the rest of his stocking with old newspapers, and the hope that his junior Managing Editor will do more work than he. For Miss Branson and Miss Whitehorn we have woven laurel wreathes.

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The CORNHUSKER Staff Formal

   To Harry Coffee we give a sack to carry his money, -- and add sugar and cream.
   So now, having given our presents to each and every one according to their just desserts as we see them, the Editor takes pleasure in expressing his appreciation of the work done by the following fellow students. It has been a privilege to associate with them, and he personally desires to express his friendship for them, acknowledge his debt, and give them that public mention which can only be but a small return for their able endeavor.


  Literary Editor, Katherine Yates.
  Classes Editor, Mark Hargrave.
  Art Editors, Bernice Branson and May Whitehorn.
  College Life Editor, Sam Buck.
  Varsity Activities Editor, Ralph Sweeley.
  Minor Activities Editor, Ernest Graves.
  Military Editor, Rex Davies.


  Jokes and Literary -- Ruth Munger, Sam Griffin, Samuel Cotner.
  Cartoons -- Paul Sturgis, Donald Wood, Faye Blanchard, Edo Anderson, Walter McGowan.
  Pictures and Engraving -- Leonard Marshall, Ray Martin, Wallace McDonald, Chandler Trimble, Owen Frank, Frank Perkins.


   THE Department of Varsity Activities would be incomplete without a tribute to the most vigilant, the most indefatigable, the most far-reaching activity of all. It is that organization whose power humbleth both the high and the low, which tumbleth the mighty from their thrones and exalteth those of low degree. It is that organization at whose name the hardened student loses color, whose missives are the cause of many sleepless nights, and whose mandates make or mar the career of the wayward, and condemn to the hopeless oblivion of the farm many and many a shipwrecked soul. After having woven wreaths of laurel for our athletes and our debaters, let us tarry yet a moment and lend willing and tender hands to deck the famous Evacuation-elimination-delinquency Committee with garlands of blooming roses.
   The Delinquency Committee is composed of Carl C. Engberg, Professor of Mathematics, principally. He has an office in the Administration building which can always be located on account of the long string of sad-faces that stand in line far out into the hall. The authorities, with their usual kind foresight, have provided racks and receptacles in which students may deposit their hearts before entering. This was deemed advisable to prevent death from choking.
   The Delinquency Committee as a whole sits whenever sufficient business has accumulated. They also sit upon a large number of sluffers at the same time.
   Carl sits all the time. He holds the world record for sitting, so far as we are able to discover. He has been known to sit in one chair for eight hours, at the same time sitting upon thousands of tons of aspirations, bushels of excuses, and bales of bunk. He has a kind eye. He is a ready sympathizer. He can see when a student is becoming physically unable to carry on his studies, and he is so sympathetic that he always recommends a change and rest. Carl himself never has either change or rest. There are too many sluffers and too few excuses. When interviewed recently, Carl said in part:

"No, I am not a mind reader." "But." said the reporter, "how then do you see through all the fake excuses and hard luck pleas that are handed you?"
   "There are only three good excuses in the world," said Carl, "and I have never seen but two of those. All the rest are bunk, and that won't go down with me." From this it can be seen that Carl is truly no mind reader. He is a genius.
   Modesty will not permit us to say how well we know Mr. Engberg. But we have seen him. CORNHUSKER editors, Rag men, football players, dramatists, and other personages of more or less note about the Campus are his dearest cronies. Some of them call on him by schedule. Others miss a week occasionally.
   But when all is said and done, the sluffers owe a great deal to Mr. Engberg -- long life to him. Those who -- like ourselves have come to know him through the years, know right well that that fierce and bloody air with which he greets the incoming culprit is but assumed on account of the seriousness of the occasion, and is meant to do just what it does -- scare him. If it is sufficiently effective, it will never be repeated, because no occasion will arise so far as that particular miscreant is concerned. When one has been going in to explain week after week and year after year, Carl welcomes him with a smile. He knows that the man who comes in smiling and with assurance has a good excuse, and for him there is no gruff growl of greeting. He is the friend of the Man with the Real Excuse -- the man who helps around college, or is working his way and trying -- but look out for the Delinquency Man, if your office is at the Saratoga, and your club just outside the gate.
   And many a man is a farm hand now, or helping father at the bank, because he failed to heed a note from Carl. Such notes are like invitations from the king -- regrets are not permitted.


   IT is quite probable that every University student body is more or less riddled with men and women known to slang by the quite descriptive name of "four-flushers." Men and women who throw a big chest, and talk loudly, and who are always in evidence in any public gathering, leading a yell where no yell ought to be given, or addressing an audience before a curtain, or otherwise attracting the public attention at an opportune moment, the while the real boss, the man or woman who has promoted and produced the play, game, dance, banquet, sentiment, or whatever may be on at the time, sweats in shirt-sleeves behind the curtain. It is morally certain that we have a number at Nebraska. The names of these men are writ large upon the billboards and occupy space in the daily press. But they have no place on this page. It has been our wish and endeavor to seek out the sources of Nebraska's present progress in undergraduate affairs -- to get at the real men behind the guns; the real powers and brains of the student body, and to here expose their names to the gaze of the public, that their lights may no longer be hidden under a bushel. To these men Nebraska owes a debt, which too few realize or show the inclination to pay. We hope that in recognizing them in this manner some of the neglect of the students

as individuals may be compensated for by this, the only possible reward that the CORNHUSKER, as the official representative of those individuals, can make.

The Olympics
Cornhusker Banquet
The Trail
Nebraska-Iowa Debate
Military Ball
Dramatic Club Play
Senior Promenade
junior Promenade
junior Play
University Night
Inter-fraternity Indoor Meet
Kosmet Klub Opera
Ivy Day
Senior Play

The Band

The "Rag

H B Pearse
Dana VanDusen
Igerna Montgomery
D M Rogers
A T Newman
Mildred Bevins
H B Pearse
A A May
Fred McConnell
Randall F Curtis
E W Brannon
J F Mead
Tom James
Sketch or doodleE H Graves
V C Hascall
George Ackerman
Sketch or doodleSam Buck
Searle Holmes


   WHEN there is no divorce suit of sufficient interest to be attended, or no high society scandal to be read of in the papers, your true blue University student will devote his time to politics. Next to the diversions first named, the latter is the most popular form of vice in academic circles.
   College is made up of many types, just as is any other of the many subdivisions of life in America, but these types divide themselves into one of two great bodies, morally -- those who take part in politics, and those who don't. Of course there are various kinds of politics. There is class politics, which is the worst form, and University politics, which is an even worse form.
   The object of class politics is to elect somebody president who will either keep all the frat men off the dance committees, or put one of your men in as chairman, so the whole gang can sneak in free. It doesn't make the slightest difference who the president is, provided he belongs to the right gang. Then he can do no wrong, unless he should forget to pass the plums the right way.
   The object of University politics as distinguished from class is to elect to the athletic board the largest possible number of track, tennis, and basketball men possible, so that football, which is but a minor sport, will not be favored too much financially.
   There is always keen competition for offices in both class and University politics. Not because the office itself is considered such an honor, but because it is a fine thing to get out over the country that Johnnie is president uv his class, by gumbo, and also such news is ordinarily worth some extra collateral from father. Consequently the University is quite full of offices of one sort or another. There are often so many that it is more of an honor to be an ordinary proletarian than the holder of the emoluments, especially since the proletarian is supposed to be honest, and ordinarily a pretty good fellow. The office holder is often his exact opposite.

   University elections are sometimes exciting; sometimes "cut and dried," and sometimes supposed to be that latter, but really the former. Pink Holmes is in authority on this phase of University politics.
   University politics is very similar to politics outside. It is the best politician that wins. The students line up for men, riot upon their judgment of his ability, but upon the emoluments which he may have offered them or which they hope to obtain from him. The candidate must entertain the influential few, pass the cigars, and make the glowing speech and seductive promise. He must secure the withdrawal of some rival candidates and besling the rest with mud. And then on the voting day he must see that his vote is turned out, that his supporters know when to cheer for him, and that as many illegal ballots are cast for him as are cast for his opponent. And after it is all over he cleans himself from mud, washes from his hands impurity, resolves again to follow in the paths of righteousness, and curseth himself for being thrice a fool.
   Our political life this year has been rather pleasant than otherwise, however. Verne Bates was n't elected to anything in particular and the D. U.s have had their Sophomore ring broken. The Iron Sphinx now aver that they are going to run secretly next year. Next year, we will have the Australian ballot system anyhow, and it has been predicted that a great change will come over the face of the Uni politician. Let it come, and keep the change, we say.
   It will mean the end of ring convention politics, stuffing of hurried class meetings, and the stuffing of ballot boxes that has become so great a menace to the candidacy of an honest man. It will also mean more time to vote, woman suffrage, and, as election lasts all day, we presume, no end of refreshments of one sort and another. It may even serve to remove class politics from the joke section of college life, into the sanctity of that section devoted to major activities. We hope so -- for the sake of the politician. Long may he wave.

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   DID I see the Game -- THE GAME? No. I guess I missed it. Let me rise to enunciate. I was there -- there, "four ways from the jack." I got Outside a square meal in the 'wee sma'" hours of the morning, and stood in line so long I feared I would take root and begin to put out branches, but I was there. At last, I was there. I was one of the ten or twelve thousand that squeezed in through the gates at 12:00 P.M. and fought for seats in "Dog's" new bleachers. I was one of the thousands who hollered themselves hoarse when the first Scarlet and Cream jersey showed inside the fence. I was one of the huge mob that swayed to its feet with a yell of imprecation on its lips when Ernie Frank's touchdown was not allowed in the first quarter. I let my heart go down into my boots with the rest when Conklin recovered Gibson's blocked punt and ran for a touchdown, and I was one of the crazy crew that nearly rocked the stands to pieces when old "Purd" and "Shonk" slammed and banged their way like wild engines through the far-famed Michigan line, for our second touchdown -- the one that was allowed.
   And let me tell you that never was there such a game. Even the Ames game of 1908 was tame and spiritless in comparison.
   But the players were not the only ones working. I played no small part. I am quite certain that the shove I gave my right hand neighbor when Purdy started on his famous 28-yard line plunge added at least the last figure to his distance. If my foot hadn't slipped on the new boards of the stands, Conklin would never have gotten ten feet with his fumble. I strained with Gibson for that fumbled forward pass. and I cussed with Stiehm and

Shonka and every one else when Hinckey refused to allow us to score in the first quarter. Every time Craig got the ball I was the first to tackle him, and every time Thompson, the famous "Bottles," came to earth in his line smashes, I felt his knees grind in my arms.
   Oh, I played a great game -- on the bleachers. I had tears in my eyes one moment, and blood the next. I don't think I sat down at all during the whole course of the game, and I don't recall having noticed any one else using that privilege. Yes, there was, too. There was a girl not far from me who sat down. It seems some one hit her so hard she had to. It was not against the rules to strike a woman that day. The game was so fiercely played both on stand and gridiron that the fallacious distinctions of class, race, and sex were momentarily abolished.
   Gee, but that was some game. Every time I close my eyes even now I can see those huge stands waving and trembling under their weight of gaily clad eager humanity. How many thousand pretty girls laughed and quizzed before the teams appeared. How many more sat up and took notice when they did. Then the roar that seemed never to die, as the two teams trotted on the field. The deathly silence, and the bated breath that hung on the whistle just before the first kick-off. The trembling knees, the straining eyes, the tense nerves. The final soul relieving yell that poured from every throat when the ball settled at last to the ground, and the real game was won.
   Six and six was the score. What more do you want.?

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© 2000, 2001 T&C Miller