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Vol. V. No. 7

October, 1005



Pictures in the Grate

Leaves From a Reporter's Note-Book

Notes by the Way

Wrecked on the Pacific

Hit or Miss


Class, Club and School Notes


The Flower


Published Monthly by the Students of The National Farm School








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The Gleaner

Vol. V.

National Farm School, October, 1905

No. 7

JEoftortal Department.

Louis Condor, '06, - - Editor-in-Chief
Victor Anderson, '07 - Associate Editor

Department jEOltors.

Marcus Leon, '07 - - - Hit or Miss
Abe Miller, '07 .... Athletics
Louis Rock, '07 - - Class, Club and

School Notes
Meyer Green, '07 - - - Exchanges

^Business Department.

Harry Frank, Jr. '07, Business Manager
> - Ass't Bus. Mgrs.

Samuel Feinberg,'o7
Howard Orcutt, 'oS

Subscription Price - 50 cents per year
Payable in advance

Address all business communications to
Harry Frank, Jr., Farm School, Pa.

A Cross in this Circle means that

subscription has expired.
All subscriptions will be renewed
until notice to discontinue is received.

Entered in the Post Office at Farm School, Pa.
as second-class matter.


At present we have more cattle than we have ever had in the
history of Farm School, and in view of this fact the authorities
found it necessary to build an annex to the old barn, to house all
of the young stock.

During the early part of August the students set to work
to clear a plot for the foundation. In order to accomplish this a
large walnut tree, which had been growing there for over fifty
years, had to be removed, and it furnished considerable work
for the students. The foundation was laid and the building was
begun immediately after.

The work in building and laying the foundation was entirely
performed by the students of the Farm Department, and it is
quite a tribute to their skill as amateurs.

The new barn is the fourth structure of its kind to be built
by the students during the last three years. It is well-built and
affords ample room for the young stock; a considerable portion
of the second floor is reserved for hay and other feeds.

A change has also been made in the old barn. A new granary
has been built, and the old granary will be used as a machine shop
by the Professor of Agriculture.


A spirit of enthusiasm that the game of football seems to
convey, has indeed infused new life into football candidates of the *
Farm School. They are out in great numbers this year and still f
continue to be at this time of the season.

Last season there were enough candidates for two elevens.
Gradually the squad dwindled down to thirteen men, and the
regular team was left without a scrub team, thus giving them
very little practice. This year the spirit that was manifested
by the candidates the first day continues. As a result, the regular
team have had considerable practice, and they, in turn, have
developed a competent scrub team. The regular team was treated
to a grand surprise this year in the form of a football outfit, given
by the campers. Our eleven is in good shape to give any team of
its class a hard fight. It is considerably heavier than last year's
team, and also exceeds it in speed.

Did You Ever?

He heard an awful racket,

The sound of many feet,
Just as if a band of " Injuns "

Were tearing down the street.

His eyes were on the motley throng.

Ah ! then he understood —
Saw them making for a door

As fastly as they could.

He followed them quite eagerly,
With eyes most everywhere;

He done just as the others did,
Stood behind his chair.

He noisily dropped in his seat,

Grabbed his knife and fork in haste,

And lo ! He heard a kindly voice —
'Twas Condor saying Grace.

He flushed up to his temples,

Then dropped his head in shame.

At last he raised his eyes and looked.
See ! All were doing the same.



Pictures in the Grate

When the day's hard toil is over,

An' the hour's gettin' late,
I love ter sit in the armchair

Before the big open grate.

With my slippered feet a-restin'

Ton the an '-irons at the side,
I feel like a Rockefeller

An' my breast swells up with pride.

While outside the cold win's bio win'

An' rattlin' the winder pane,
It kinder sets me ter hummin'

Ter drown its ghostlike refrain.

An' I hum the tunes of boyhood,

Thet I used ter sing each week ;
The gospel hymns an' the ole songs

Of the schoolhouse by the creek.

But my voice seems growin' fainter,

An' at last becomes quite still,
An' my eyelids feel so heavy

Thet they scarce obey my will.

An' I'm jes' about a-slumb'rin'

When I waken with a start,
But the yule-logs only crackle

An' the moonbeams 'round me dart.

Then I take my brown-skinned meerschaum,

Jes' ter smoke ter keep awake
An' ter watch the flames a-playin'

Hide an' seek about the grate.

As they hop, an' skip, an' scamper,

Up an' down the chimney flue,
Then squat right behin' some timber,

Jes' ter keep out of my view.


There's an ever-present solace,

Sort of balm fer wounded hearts,
In that ruddy glowin' fire, f

An' the warmth that it imparts.

Always lendin' cheer an' comfort,

Ter the rich an' poor alike,
Never makin' no distincshun

As ter whom it gives its light.

Seems ter me I see reflected

In the fluctuatin' blaze,
My whole life as I had lived it

In manhood's halcyon days,

When I courted a sweet lassie,

Jes' a country gal, an' when
We angered, quarreled, an' parted,

Nevermore ter meet again.

Ah, too plainly are enacted,

Those sad scenes of long ago,
Each flame playin' without error

Its part, as if prompted so.

There's the two logs, burnin', glowin',

'Twas our love when it burned bright ;
Then the flames turn a shade paler,

Love was dyin' in the night.

Now the light grows fainter, dimmer,

An' the yule-logs break apart;
Thus were our affections severed,

When love fluttered from our hearts.

Jes' a spark glows fer the moment,

Then goes out, leavin' behin'
But a pile of smokin' ruins,

Ashes — ter throw ter the win'.


So was I, but like the ruins,
Of the fire thet had gleamed;

I had loved a country maiden,
Of a happy future dreamed.

I had wooed with heart so loyal,
While the light of love was bright,

But alas, it sputtered, flickered,
Then went out leavin' the night.

Leavin' but the smoulderin' ashes,
My achin' heart ter burn,

An' the mem'ry of a sweet face,
Thet would nevermore return.

Leavin' but a wretched mortal,
With a form all wrecked an' bent,

Ne'er again ter bear love's burden,
With life's joys ter be content.

While an old man sat so lonely,
In an armchair 'fore the grate,

Pipe and song had been forgotten,
With the irony of fate.

And as darkness closed about him,
A belated moonbeam crept

To his cheek, and found a teardrop,
Showing that the old man wept.

Bang ! Crack ! Boom ! Cizz ! Tra la la ! Boom !

"Good heavens," yelled the visitor. "What's that terrible

"Oh! don't be alarmed," said Stern. "That's nothing serious.
Just Mr. Halligan going up the steps, singing."


Leaves from a Reporter's Note- Book

by elmore; i. lee, '04.

Under the above heading will appear a few recounters of
my experience in newspaper work and a few tales of encounters
that fellow reporters have met with. For reasons purely personal,
the name of the city in which many of these happenings occurred
is withheld and the personages represented in the narratives are
fictitious. The first of these experiences which follows has been
appropriately entitled


It was Dick Pearson's first week as a newspaper reporter-
Although inexperienced in that line of work, he had put up a bold
front and made application for a position on the Times. It so
happened that Bill Dudley, whose route included the fashionable
district of the city, failed in health and at the advise of his physician
resigned his position, that he might go to the country to recuperate.

The Times, therefore, was short a man, and Pearson was after
the job. True, he had never wielded a pencil and note-book in
his life but when Bob Cramer, who was occupying the city desk
at the time, asked him if he ever had any experience in newspaper
work, Pearson was as unconcerned as though he was an old hand
at the business and told him that he had seen two years of active
service on the New York Sun, and besides he was well acquainted
with the city, having lived there before going to the metropolis.

The result was that Pearson was to have a "try out" and
if he made good a steady berth. His route covered the fashionable
part of the city and included the Oakland Police Station, Jink's
undertaking establishment and the Iroquois apartment house.

The first night's experiences were quite novel and as a whole
favorably impressed him. He enjoyed the solemn silence of the
undertaking establishment, the criminal-like atmosphere of the
police station and the glamour and social life of the apartment
house. He was enthused with the weird feeling of excitement
that accompanies one when on the trail of a good story. The
hustle and bustle was to his liking and especially the interviews
with strangers, for Pearson had a line of talk that would have
done credit to a book agent or a life insurance solicitor.

That feeling of self-importance on being permitted to peep
at the "blotter" on which the record of daily police arrests are
recorded, and to peruse the book in which the records of fires,


accidents and murders are kept soon asserted itself in his make up.
To think that he was allowed to enjoy the honor of being in the
presence of the august police sergeant was an unparalleled pleasure
in his career and one which he highly valued. To keep on the
good side of the performers of the law was a duty he owed to
himself and he proposed to nurse it.

Pearson was well pleased with the outcome of things. The
first night had netted him a suspicious character case, while the
second evening a shooting affray presented a strong feature. He
had studied the styles of his fellow reporters and had written
his story accordingly. The most important events had been told
in the first paragraph or following paragraphs and the details of
the affair had wound up the story. What pleased him most was
the few alterations and corrections that were made upon his write-
up after it was submitted to Bob Cramer.

News was scarce in his district on the fourth day and on the
fifth he was badly scooped on a petty robbery. The other morning
papers had made a big thing of the occurrence and one of them
had featured it with a No. i head, but the Times did not have a
line about the affair. Cramer drew Pearson's attention to the
matter and inquired the cause. Dick had replied that there
wasn't any record of the robbery at the police station, whereupon
Cramer sarcastically remarked that the police officials were not
giving out news about robberies and that the reporters had to find
them out themselves. Cramer had intimated that a repetition
of the affair would mean a swift journey homeward, and Pearson
did not need any further explanation as to the real meaning of
the intimation. But it was an object lesson to him — the first time
his inexperience had asserted itself.

There is nothing in newspaper work that displeases an editor
more than to have his contemporaries scoop him on an important
story and there is nothing that will suffuse his countenance with
smiles more quickly than to have the better hand of his rivals.
A reporter who can bring in scoops becomes a valuable adjunct
to the paper on which he is employed, and in time there is generally
a very pleasing adjustment in his salary.

'Twas the Sunday evening of the following week that Pearson
was assigned to cover the sermon of one of the foremost ministers
in his district and to attend to his route as well.

The police had made very few arrests that day, in fact only
four, when they had i aided a speak-easy and caught four negroes


shooting crap. Other than this nothing had transpired to mar
the tranquillity of the sabbath day.

Congregated in the assembly room of the station house were
Frank Howley, of the Post; James Withersbee, of the Dispatch,
and Larry Ogden, of the Gazette, discussing their different assign-
ments. After comparing notes, Ogden exclaimed: "Gee, but
I'm sorry that this is Sunday."

"Why, how's that?" queried Howley.

"'Cause I'm just as thirsty as a duck out of water. Too bad
that Sikes isn't open. But to change the subject, who's the new
guy that's working this route for the Times. He isn't as chummy
as poor Bill Dudley. I disliked to see Dudley give up the job;
maybe he didn't put me wise to many a story that I'd have been
scooped on."

"I liked Dudley myself," chimed in Withersbee, "but I don't
care a rap for Pearson, his successor. He appears to be stuck up
and acts like one of those guys that knows it all. He was trying
to hang around me last night in the hopes of getting next to some
story, but I gave him the slip. Perhaps if he had offered to get
rid of some of his coin at Sike's I would have loosened up. To tell
the truth I don't fancy him and if I could be the means of having
him fired, I'd do it."

"I'm with you in that respect, Jim," put in Howley, "and
say, I've just thought up a novel scheme. What do you say to
sending 'Ducky' Pearson on a wild goose chase. He's too green
to get next to what we're up to. There will be loads of fun. Here's
what I propose: I'll drop around to Jink's and telephone to
Pearson and make believe that I am Cramer. You remember I
worked under Cramer when he was city editor of the Leader and
can impersonate him to perfection. I'll send Mr. Pearson on a
big assignment, but it will be a warm one and a long jaunt into
the suburbs. Don't you think that Pearson will give up his job
in disgust when he finds out that we've made a fool of him? I
think so — in fact, I know so. But first let's put Coaxley wise."

Sergeant Coaxley was informed of the trick about to be played
and willingly assented to help in its fulfillment.

"He might as well be initiated now as any other time," he
replied, as a broad grin suffused his countenance.

Howley warned his associates to act as unconcerned as possible
and slipped around to Jink's, which was about a block from the
station house. On the way he passed Pearson who was bound


for police headquarters. The two exchanged compliments then
the latter proceeded on his way.

When Pearson entered the station house he found Withersbee
and Ogden busily comparing notes.

"Anything doing, Sergeant?" he asked, as he approached
the desk.

"Raided a speak-easy this afternoon and made a small haul.
You'll find the names of the captives on the blotter," replied
Coaxley gruffly.

Just then the telephone rang and the Sergeant answered
the call.

" Hello! is this the Oakland Police Station? " queried a mascu-
line voice.

"Yes," grunted Coaxley; "what do you want?"

" Why, this is Cramer of the Times. Has Pearson arrived yet ? ' '

" He just came in. Do you wish to speak to him? "

" If it's not any trouble, I wouldn't mind."

"Just hold the line a moment," and Coaxley laid down the
receiver. " Pearson," he said, "Cramer wants to talk to you."

Pearson had been busily copying the names of the negroes who
had been arrested in the raid and was greatly surprised at being called
to the phone. Cramer must have some important news for him
he thought as he picked up the receiver. "Hello! Mr. Cramer?"
he asked. "Yes; that you, Pearson?" came the reply and without
waiting for an answer the voice continued: "I just got a tip on
a good story. A baker committed suicide on his wife's grave
early this evening in the Laurel Hill Cemetery. Shot himself
through the head. I don't know any of the details, but you will
be able to get something about it from the night watchman. We
called up the morgue but they have not received any word as yet.
Skip out as fast as you can and remember, not one word to anybody. "

Pearson was too deeply agitated to hear any more and flung
the receiver on its hook and started for the door. At last he was
on the trail of an exciting bit of news. He would put forth every
effort to write up a story that would be a revelation even to Cramer
himself, and if he would keep quiet he would scoop his fellow

"What's up, Pearson?" queried Ogden, as the former was
opening the door to the street.

"Just a hurry up call from the office," replied Pearson, as he
closed the door with a bang.


A moment later Howley appeared on the scene and the reporters
and Sergeant Coaxley enjoyed a hearty laugh to themselves as
Howley repeated the conversation they had had over the phone.

" But how in the deuce did you manage to keep from laughing? "
asked Withersbee, as he poked Howley in the ribs, good naturedly.

"I just made myself believe that I was in earnest, so it was
an easy matter. But think of the jaunt he will have at this hour
of the night, trying to discover the spot where the awful tragedy
was committed. I tell you the ghost-like atmosphere of a grave-
yard is an awful tension on one's nerves in broad daylight, but
imagine the ghostly feeling that must pervade one's body while
in the proximity of a cemetery at night. The thought of such a
thing is enough to give one the creeps. This assignment will test
Pearson's nerve."

"Rather his than mine," put in Odgen. "But say, fellows,
it's nearly eleven o'clock. Let's back to the office."

Whereupon the three schemers warned Coaxley to keep mum
and after bidding him good-night left the station.

Howley was correct in his suppositions. Pearson found it a
long journey by trolley to the cemetery and it was nigh half-past
eleven when he reached the lonely, gloomy place. Silence reigned
supreme and it took him fully five minutes to summon up enough
nerve to enter the graveyard. The gravel in the road crunched
by his feet gave forth a creeking sound and the summer breeze
seemed to wail a soft and pitiful death chant as it whistled by
the tombstone. Pearson had summoned all of his courage to
continue onward in the hopes of finding the spot where the suicide
had occurred, when directly in front of him, he thought he saw
the dim outlines of a prostrate form . He stopped short and listened .
His beating heart seemed to be thumping against the very frame
of his body as if trying to break its way to freedom and its beats
seemed to echo through the cemetery. He was fast losing courage
and was ready to faint from the nervous tension under which he
was laboring, when a gust of wind slightly moved the dark object
which had held his attention and the moon which had been hiding
behind a black cloud appeared in the heavens in all its brightness
and flooded the graveyard with a silvery light. What Pearson
thought was the dim outline of a man proved to be only an arbor
vitse bordering the roadside moving to and fro in the breeze.

{To be continued.)


& Notes by the Way <&

Seen and Heard by an Alumnus.


He possessed another name, but I trust the interest in his
"show" experiences will not be diminished by the fact that I
choose to introduce him as The Manager. I am sure you will
not dislike him. He was the kind of a man who would invite
you for a drink instanter than he became acquainted, and I doubt
if you would possess the moral courage to say No. Not that I
would idealize this form of goodf ellowship ; but it must be borne
in mind that had he the fortune of a good home, his first would
have been to drag you home to dine. He was what is termed a
"good fellow." In appearance he was neither handsome nor the
reverse; he was about the middle height. He was a man about
town, who knew everybody, or of everybody, though everybody
did not know him. Now he was rich, and now he was poor —
rich when he had money with which to entertain his friends, poor
when he had not the price of two drinks, for he would never keep
his own company. A solicitor by profession, he more often solicited
the wages of pleasure from the daughters of Eurynome — the Graces
— than he solicited an honest penny from the god of industry.
Yet, he was no lazy fellow, for whatever task he once made up
his mind to perform, he performed better than the most discerning
would give him credit for, and when it became necessary to spread
the "salve" The Manager became a "captain of industry."

It was after a long spell of idleness that The Manager was
induced, by a friend who had purchased the controlling interest
of a stranded "fake" vaudeville show, to undertake the active
managership of same, to which he consented with great reluctance,
as he hated to leave his beloved streets — his home — and to bury
himself amid rural surroundings for any length of time. In view
of the fact, however, that his task was to end immediately after
the termination of the "fair" season, generally lasting during the
months of September and October, he consented. It was already
the middle of September, which in a measure accounts for the
fact that the Excelsior Gaiety Company were in dire need of some-
thing more than mere wind and bluster, and it was The Managers'
friend who proved to be the "sucker" who bit the bait thrown to
him by a smooth-talking stranger. Thus The Manager became
the head of the Excelsior Gaiety Company.


Now, in relating what is to follow, with reasonable accuracy,
I wish it to be understood that these experiences are real experi-
ences, and if they take on the element of tameness, it is because
they are real, such as have fallen to the lot of The Manager, and
likely to fall to the lot of any other man unfortunate enough to
be placed in the position of manager of a " fake ' ' show.

As before intimated the company had been stranded, and it
was a hungry company that greeted The Manager when he arrived
in Williamston, or near Williamston, for the worthy burghers
of the aforesaid town did not look with any favor upon the hungry
and thirsty company, and the latter feared personal violence
therefor. The company could hardly recollect their last pay day,
but when they saw their new manager their hopes experienced a
revival, and they dreamed beautiful dreams, the nature of which
it is needless to relate. On the strength of these hopes the fearless
bicycle performer pledged eternal love to the fair ex-prima donna
and promised to make her his wife as soon as the next pay day
dawned upon them. The sword swallower the celebrated Borrappa
Boreah, son of a Zulu chieftain, gave vent to his feelings by swallow-
ing a dozen fiery swords, which had the effect of making him
gloriously drunk, which looked suspiciously as though he had
somewhere procured some cheap whiskey in quantities too much
for him. The Manager was very wroth thereat — because of the
cheapness of the whiskey. The philosophy of The Manager forbade
him to acknowledge too much good whiskey ; but bad whiskey, ugh !
The remainder of the company were likewise jubilant, except a
pessimistic fellow who claimed to have hailed from Missouri and

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