The Raving Once upon a midnight dreary, while we pondered, weak and weary, Over many and many a volume of that dry debating lore- While we nodded, darn near napping, there would come a tinny tapping, As of Doc. Lind's pencil rapping-as it does forevermore. "'Tis that typewriter," we muttered, "Brother Barker's constant bore- Typing notes and nothing more." Brother Wiison, sitting lonely, thinking of his Mary only, Was our coach; and all his soul on us and her he did outpour. And to still the anxious beating of our hearts he kept repeating, "You have whipped the Utah Freshies by a three to nothing score This to Brigham and to High School you must do as I implore- This I wish and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember what was done by every member, On that night that did dismember all our thoughts well known before. Dong into the morrow's dawning, Floyd and Tressa Scott were yawning In the park, while sense was waning during Cora's evening snore, And the pranks of Roy and Leland, made them walk the city o'er- Doing this and nothing more (?). Monday night, our fate uncertain, was at stake while we were flirtin' From our cards the master wisdom of our fine debating lore. Then our past good luck was broken, when the Judges' minds were spoken And the chairman gave the token that the others won the score,- And that we with High and Brigham needed badly one vote more. Luck like this sure makes you sore. Now we sit engaged in groaning, like those sinning souls atoning In the fires of dismal Hades for their sins of long before. While I now this tale am telling, up at Mary's there is dwelling One who vents his thoughts in spelling so that none may say he swore; One who-known as Bro. Wilson-calls debating quite a bore As he mutters, "Never Again." DRAMATICS Tom and Evelyn