| Summary: | THE INDIAN JUNIORS '12 The wind is blowing hard enough to get a fellow’s goat; It’s cold enough to freeze the tails off from Hart’s overcoat; Ice freezes on his whiskers and the snow flies down his neck, But he gets here all the same—that’s his job, by “heck.” While the Faculty’s all snoozing and the students are in bed, And the Halls are all in darkness and the place is pretty dead, Hart shovels in the coal thru the Philly furnace door, And then goes to the other Halls and shovels in some more. Well he hauls out the ashes and he shovels in the coal. For there ain’t colder weather at the cold North Pole; And if the weather changes or the lights are growing dim, Why everybody goes to work and lays it onto him. If the water pipes are frozen or the pump is out of whack, Or the cows are running short on milk or business growing slack, When window lights are broken or someone has a fit, Somebody knows just who’s to blame—but it’s Hart that catches it. He’s a carpenter, a plumber, or a blacksmith, if he tries; A mechanic, and a teamster—to all these trades he’s wise; He hustles ’round the campus with his tool kit in his hand, And he fixes things and helps folks and works to beat the band. He does a dozen things at once and is requested to do more; But he has a large and cheerful grin and never waxes “sore;” He gets up early, goes home late, attends strictly to “biz., And we are some inclined to think he is the best what is. He chews our Piper Heidseick and he mooches our Twin Oaks, And we beg his when we are “out”—us naughty ones what smokes; So here’s to good old Hart Monroe, and may his tribe increase, And when at last he graduates, may his bones rest in peace. Page 82
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