The Whistle
University of Chicago - The Daily Maroon
Dec 14, 1928

...Too mangy and old to be dangerous
Princesse Dorothy.......
........Good enough for the Nobel.
Sis.....What IS your last name?
Lady Louise..........
.....A lady even if she does tweek!
Del.......Rave on, rave on, rayon.
Charlie the Spaniard............
........and his little book.
Abdullah the Misgog............
........Our dot specialist.
.....We literati must have our food!
Le Turque Noir................
.......Are rug sellers people?
Helen of Troy.....Page Menelaos.
Clarice......Where are your capitals?
L'Enfant Adore................
.........Too damn argumentive.
The Servant at the Forge........
.......But in New York...
My Lady Cecilia......Just dreams.
La Defendante...............
............Lady Louise's boy friend.
Kate from Joliet...............
...........Crack your whip, Kate!
Querida Nina.......Petitely petulant.
Kay of Crestwood............
......."Only low talk permitted here."
Captain Absolute..Now, now Captain!
La Brassiere....What's in a name?
Leon II...........The last line demon.
G.H.B. '28.....................
................Trains them most artistically.
The Gentleman in Black..........
..............Our official mystery.
Di Princessi........We have lots of time.
nefertiti......With a seal like that!
Delcastillo.............Our Spanish Don.


In Athenaeum, staid and dry
Learn'd arguments we now espy.
There the liberated female
Tells in most disgusting detail
That all men are low, low, low!

Now for argument inductive
She has one indeed destructive
Holds the darned sheik up to view
And thereby seeks to shew
That all men are low, low, low!

We'll admit that he's no pippin'
And her take off of him's rippin'
For if he's a fair example
If of mankind he's a sample
Then indeed all men are low, low, low!

Still component doeth speak
And the much berated sheik
Day and night you know By Hades!
Is surrounded by those ladies
Who claim all men are low, low, LOW!
Anonymous but doubtful on style


Here's to Chicago
The home of chapels that beam
Where under the turf lies buried
Its football team.
Anonymous republication - probably his

--Princesse Dorothy


A soldier boy, with hair as soft as peach down, lay
On fields of Flanders...
"Oh turtles," he cried, "I'm winged.
Carry on the
Fight boys, and wave the
Flag of America on high..."
He died at 3:05 that afternoon...
Anonymous - could be his


Virginia, sweet, if I must with thee dwell,
Let it not be among the plants and trees
Of nature's landscapes. Places such as these
Provoke the tides that through my nostrils swell;
And every yellow goldenrod's a knell
That tolls with ev'ry pollen-bearing breeze
As soft I whisper words of love -- then sneeze.

Ah, life 'midst nature's beauties would be Hell!!!
But contemplate a little kitchenette
With flowers painted safely on the wall.
No pollen-bearing goldenrods at all
Will interrupt our happy tete-a-tete;
And I shall only use my noble nose
For coughing -- up -- When you are buying clothes.
Anonymous - noble nose rings a bell from one of Tiger's previous remarks; probably not his


Passion is not the desire to perpetuate the species; it is merely exquisite mental oblivion.

Love is neither sweeping or whole hearted, it is simply the casual inability to control the emotions.
Anonymous republication - must be his


I have tried to be loyal
I have tried to be fair
I have tried to be faithful
I have tried to be square
'N what tha Hells tha use?
Anonymous - must be his

Anyway, whoever wanted to wear white gloves or a swallow tail--
Anonymous - must be his

Love, like the weather, is betimes
As dark as it is fair;
And what one loves so very much
One does not wish to share.

I think it might be easier
Perhaps to like the rain
If one were sure there could not be
A hope for sun again.
Anonymous - could be his


I never thought another year
Could pass and be so fair,
And find me not in England
With Christmas coming there.

It isn't that there's very much
Of anything to see.
It's just the way that Christmas comes
To England every year.
A bit of snow - the same far stars --
Old bells still ringing late--
The same old Christmas carols,
From midnight until eight;
A cheery face at every door,
Mute gifts of sweets and pence--
It haunts me to the very core
Despite sweet years of peace.

I must go on and show no tears
But in my heart I care,
Yuletide will come to England
And I will not be there.
Anonymous - but too positive to be his


Words, words, interminable words!
On and on they roll!
Words, words, interminable words!
Engulfing my soul!

Peace, peace, blessed peace.
Holy calm at last.
Peace, peace, soothing peace.
You are now of the past.
Anonymous - unlikely



Am her gone?
Are her went?
Will her ne'er come back to I
Nor we see she again?
Oh, cruel Fate,
It cannot was.
Anonymous - too unusual to tell

by The Stumble Bum


Ten o'clock ... people from philosophy exams flopping into their seats with that disgusted, bewildered air that only a philosophy quiz can give.....Where IS that order pad? .... Oh, coffee and apple pie ... what! no apple pie! Well, a donut then. This coffee IS weak ... No, damn you, I flunked it!
Anonymous - unlikely

Yore pore ol pardner,


When the Tiger from his lair--
Crawled into the Whistle chair,
It began.
And the advertising men
Have relented now and then
To the clan.
On our erstwhile peaceful pages
Daily now the battle rages,
Not so well.
When the lonesome Stumble Bum
Damns the dames and beats his drum
Then it's Hell.
Crassness Cross's a thing o'glory
And across the pages gory
It has passed.
Turque Noir from time to time
Enters crude and vicious rhyme
He won't last.
While the campus has to hear
"Poe"tic ravings from Brassiere
Oh! He's rough--
The Phoenix here they flay--
Who although they never pay
Steal our stuff--
And the ladies for our sins
Safe behind their pseudonyms
Razz us too.
Why they even-- (awful bounders)
Ride poor Leon till he founders
Cruel to do.
Where brave men and angels pale
Del steps in -- she doesn't fail
Sure she's hot.
But the poetry she writes
And the wise cracks she indites
Well -- they're not.
All the contribs fight and wrangle
In a never ending jangle
Day and night.
But the Tiger, ugly beast
Isn't bothered in the least
Let's 'em fight.
So what started out in fun
As a line for verse and pun
Is a shambles
And the poor conductors bed
Where he rests his weary head
'S full of brambles.
Here by dint of toil and slaving
Is the best of all their raving
In a heap
Read it, Whistleers, if you will
Please, Oh please, don't call it swill
Read and weep.
Anonymous - could be his

"After All -- Xmas is merely the 25th of December ..."
The Blind Tiger

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