COLLEGE had been in session only about a month when it became the keen desire of the Freshies to try their hand at suppressing their hated rivals, the Sophs. Accordingly, on the 28th of October they were given the chance at the Olympics held on Nebraska field, the morning of the day when Nebraska conquered Missouri at football.
   As early as eight o'clock on the day of this memorable event vast droves of this fall's crop of Freshmen begin to swarm the field garbed in their fighting togs for the occasion soon at hand which would decide for good and all the question of whether or not they were superior in scrapping ability to their opponents, who would be disqualified from the day of feats owing to the fact that they would be Juniors next year. Therefore it was plain to see that the outcome of the scrap meant a great deal to both the Freshies and the Sophs.
   Almost as early as the first-year contestants the Sophs made their appearance, also wearing their war garments. From then on, up to the time of the big mixup, the blue vault above fairly rang with the war cries of both sides; each trying to outdo the other in lung power. After the individual stunts began, such as boxing, wrestling, and running, their cheers became even louder, and class spirit seemed to run wild. Whenever a down was made on the wrestling mats, or some Grecian-built boxer met his Waterloo, or some fleet-footed runner crossed the line, the cries of the winning side often became so intense that language failed to express the outburst as it really was; therefore it will no doubt be best not to try at all. Freshies and Sophs are noisy beings, anyhow.

   The final test of strength was the scrap for a flag placed at the top of a pole; the object being to get the flag at all hazards. The class first doing this to the satisfaction of the judges was to be awarded the laurels. At a signal the fight began with a mad rush; there was pushing and hauling; there was tearing of hair and gnashing of teeth; there was much grunting and gasping for air, not to mention perhaps a little cussing now and then when some proud defender of his class got an extra hard jolt on his jaw from the fist of one of his hated opponents.
   This mad rush continued for fully five minutes, and it seemed as though neither class was going to be able to muster up strength enough to keep the other side away in order that they could get their hands on the much-desired flag. However, it happened that among the valiant Freshmen who fought upon that field there was one whose pedal extremities were graced or adorned, as it were, with a pair of fiery red socks. Now this fact in itself may appear to the passing reader to be a very trivial detail, perhaps one which should not be referred to; but on the contrary the fate of this bitter contest hung upon this single thread for whether it was that the brilliant color of these articles of adornment blinded the eyes of rival warriors, or whether it was that some peculiar attribute made others unwilling to approach that immediate vicinity, the fact remains recorded in undying history that the man who finally worked his way manfully to the top of the pole and tore down from aloft that proudly floating streamer was a Freshman who wore hosiery of scarlet hue. Thus, the day was lost for the Sophs. More war cries.

   THERE are days and days. There are Charter Days, Dandelion Days, and "Sneak" Days. There are Christmas Days, Sundays, and pay-days. But there's one day that stands out from all other days. The memory of it follows you off the old campus when you turn in your locker key and close your notebook for the last time. It accompanies the co-ed schoolma'am to her allotment of chalky atmosphere (out somewhere in the state). It tags the CORNHUSKER engineer to the unsurveyed tracts of the wild and woolly West. It follows -- well, it just stays by you.
   It comes with the spring time, the birds, and the flowers. It comes with the white dresses, the Easter hats, and the springfever. It is symbolical of hope, joy, and -- puppy-love.
   Once a year, about the 1st of May, we lay our fur caps down in moth-balls, chuck our books under the bed, and saunter in the dewy morning down to the greening Campus. We stand around bareheaded in the sunshine, while a serious-minded Senior pipes out his soul on the

sweet spring air. We crowd around to see the retiring class put in a crop of tender, clinging ivy.
   Then we move across the soft turf to watch a troup of Senior co-eds, -- sweet, dignified maidens in cap and gown, frisk lightly around the May-pole, with its banners of sacred Scarlet and Cream afloat.
   And that long sunny afternoon at the State Farm! You talk the "sweet nothings" to the girl you met in Chem. Lab.; while the track-meet jogs merrily on. You eat your lunch in a pasture nook while the red sun slips over the tree tops of Peck's Grove. Then on an overturned chicken-coop you sit with Her and watch the installation of the Mephisto-like Innocents, followed by a fascinating melodrama staged by the Dramatic Club. You eat peanuts and shiver while the night breezes flap the stage curtains. Last of all, the breathless choice of riding home atop a surcharged street car, or of wandering back afoot, tired and happy, by the "long way round." Oh. YOU know all about it! Dear old Ivy Day!

   A HEAVY gloom hangs over the Campus. The only moving objects are the solitary figures of a few professors, and they walk with bowed heads apparently engaged in deep and solemn thought. The warm rays of the February sun are out of harmony with the day. Only yesterday all was alive with busy people hurring here and there; today all is deserted. What can it all mean? Has some unholy crime committed incurred the disfavor of Providence? What great calamity has befallen this once happy and cheerful people? The "whys" and "wherefores" by the thousands crowd into our minds. What can it all mean? Perhaps some revered one has "shaken off this mortal coil" and the silence is a tribute to his memory. Unwittingly we wonder if a red necktie is not out of place. Worry will do us no good; it is there, and the cruelty of fate can not be arrested. If only the flags were at half-mast or the sound of a funeral dirge came

mournfully over the balmy breeze. we could understand. But all so strange -- perhaps it is a tribute to dying winter, yet that does not sound reasonable. We make inquiry of one of the sad old professors. In a sadder voice he tells us that it is Charter Day, the birthday of the University; at three o'clock a little track meet will be held in the armory; and about eight in the evening some graduation exercises will take place in the Temple. Few people, he said, attend either, and no one is particularly interested. This the birthday of the great educational institution of the West! Then that which is the most improbable is so, but it seems more like a funeral, and we must require further proof lest the professor has unwittingly misspoke his wrong intention. A birthday! A birthday!! A birthday!'' Do you really want us to believe it?