University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER XXIII

OTHER STUDENT ACTIVITIES

Student life is many sided. The literary societies,
intercollegiate debates, the Y. M. C. A., and athletics
by no means include all the enterprises which claim
a share of their fresh vigor and enthusiasm. They
strut the stage as members of the Dramatic Club,
they woo applause as singers of glees or players of
stringed or other instruments, appear as goats of
wondrous hue and circumstance and later as affiliates
in Greek letter fraternities and ribbon societies.
They pay the fiddler in german clubs, the confectioner
and the liveryman after "Home, Sweet
Home," and by the time four years have run their
eventful course they have seen and felt much, and
the world finds them ready for the battle of life, in
which history bears witness they quit themselves
like men.

Corks and Curls, published by the Greek letter fraternities,
mentions the following Chapters as located
here: Eta Chapter of Phi Kappa Sigma, Eta Chapter
of Delta Kappa Epsilon, Virginia Alpha Chapter
of Phi Kappa Psi, Omicron Chapter of Beta
Theta Pi, Alpha Chapter of Chi Phi, Virginia Omicron
Chapter of Sigma Alpha Epsilon, Omicron
Chapter of Phi Gamma Delta, Upsilon Chapter of
Delta Psi, Zeta Chapter of Kappa Sigma, Psi Chapter

of Sigma Chi, Virginia Delta Chapter of Alpha
Tau Omega, Alpha Chapter of Pi Kappa Alpha, Beta
Chapter of Zeta Psi, Virginia Beta of Phi Delta
Theta, Lamda Chapter of Kappa Alpha, Beta Iota
Chapter of Delta Tau Delta, Minor Chapter of the
Legal Fraternity of Phi Delta Phi, Alpha Chapter
of Lambda Pi, Pi Mu Chapter of Nu Sigma Nu,
Sigma Chapter of Phi Rho Sigma, and Pi Phi Chapter
of Theta Nu Epsilon.

Among the clubs and organizations—so-called in
contradistinction to fraternities—are the State and
school clubs, the Arcadians, the Graduate Club, the
Raven and Beetle, and a half score other societies.
Among these the Eli Banana was founded in 1878,
and is the oldest of the Ribbon Societies. T. I. L.
K. A. has a shorter history, but it is of the same general
character. Both are purely social. The Thirteen
Club takes its members from the rolls of Eli
and Tilka, and has for its motto: Superstitio solum
in animo inscii habitat. The Z Society is the most
secret ribbon organization. Its membership, like
that of the Thirteen Club, comes from Eli and Tilka.
Its notices or signs are written in the night-time on
buildings or sidewalks. The members of the Seven
Club are unknown. They are likewise nocturnal
sign writers. The O. W. L. gets its members from
the ranks of editors-in-chief of student publications.

There are other organizations, such as the Glee
and Mandolin and the Graduate clubs, whose reason
for existence is declared by their names, and one
whose name—"The Hot Feet"—does not yield more
than a puzzling modicum of information.

In the spring of 1902 several residents of East
Range, stirred by the spirit of unrest, organized a
baseball team for the dual purpose of exercise and

contests with teams from other localities in college.
This team's reputation was supported by the good
fellowship and congeniality among its members
rather than by its success at baseball, and this fact
influenced the choice of a name. The third baseman
recalled a team from North Carolina with equal
congeniality—and probably more skill—which
starred under the name of the "Hot Feet," and this
application the East Rangers took to themselves.
When baseball days and examinations were over, the
alumni, retuurning to participate in the celebrations
of Finals, took home very strange and picturesque
stories of these "Hot Feet" with their hospitality
and ringing song.

The following fall more "feet were warmed" and
the organization—loosely imperfect—was completed
and preparations made for the coronation of a king.
True to all predictions, in the spring Ernest I was
crowned King of the Hot Feet in a ceremony which
immediately attracted the attention of college, unused
and opposed to new organizations. From this
time onward, the "Coronation" was regarded as one
of the occurrences of the session, and the next spring
it was awaited with great interest and expectancy.
The "Hot Feet" did not disappoint the University,
and before an audience composed of three hundred
students and several professors the second king of
the "Hot Feet" was vested with sovereignty. This
was King Vski I and his "inaugural address" will
long be remembered as one of the wittiest and happiest
speeches ever heard in the University. His
choice of one of the Dramatic Club cast "girls" as
queen met with general approbation and, along with
the Wizard and Court Jester, "she" delighted the
royal subjects and audience by her gracious manner.

The Heir Apparent, a football boy of some two hundred
and forty pounds, was also a favorite, and with
his short socks and chubby legs he was the object of
much attention.

The triumphal procession around the college was
then made. The King, seated upon his automobile
chariot with beer-keg wheels, bore his honors with
gentle courtesy and was very solicitous as to the
welfare of the Heir, who followed him upon a single
rolling keg, directed by the Jester. The ermine
mantle of his majesty and the armor of the Generalissimo—attired
as a knight of the fifteenth century—were
in contrast to the wig and red robe of
the Lord High Chancellor, while the petty officers
with their insignia, followed by the loyal subjects,
each in his dressing gown with a red foot on his back
and a "Happy Hooligan" tincup on the side of his
head—made a picturesque group, which has been
well preserved by the photograph of the Coronation.

Although it would seem that the organization has
no serious purpose other than to make fun for college
and themselves, some of the most brilliant men
in the University have been numbered in its ranks.
Ever since its foundation, the "Hot Feet' have had
as members the editors of all three college publications,
some members of the Advisory Board of the
Athletic Association, the presidents of the classes,
and have made more degrees than any other organization
of anything like the same size.

The members for the first year or so were exclusively
from East Range, but at present the place
of residence has been made subordinate to the congeniality
of the man and his willingness to serve the

organization, so the college impartially contributes
its quota.

The song of the society—known as the "Hot Feet
Song"—has carried its fame and reputation far and
wide. It is the composition of one of the founders,
set to parts of a well-known light opera, and is the
best marching-tune in college.

While partaking somewhat of the nature of the
"Hasty Pudding" Club at Harvard, the "Hot Feet"
of Old Virginia are a more original and unique organization,
embodying the spirit of fun and merriment
so familiar to colleges and college men.

The success of the "Hot Feet" is due in large
measure to that love of extravagance, burlesque, and
horse-play which fills many cities of the world every
year with merry-makers throwing confetti and
doing a thousand absurd things in obedience to an
amiable and frolicsome mood. Before the "Hot
Feet" and their grotesque but harmless pranks came
the calathump, a reckless uprising of students with
no aim but to make a noise as rowdy and foolish as
the civil authorities would tolerate, and the better
natured "dyke," an escort of honor thrust upon a
braw wooer on his way to the worshipful presence
of the lady of his dreams. This description, true to
the life, will bring back to the memory of many a
victim the terrible cry of "dyke," if indeed a victim
ever forgot it:

"That ominous quiet which in the books always
lets you know of the approach of a fine large catastrophe,
had been brooding over College all that October
afternoon, and about nightfall it hatched out
that most startling phenomenon, a dyke. To the
uninitiated, the first intimation that that thing had
arrived was the mournful sound of a young fishhorn

over on Monroe Hill. It was immediately echoed
from East Range, and then from the Lawn the
single word `Dyke!' cut into the air and made the
clock feel doubtful about the time.

"In five minutes College was alive with the
Dykers. Old clothes were torn up, tied on sticks
and broom handles, saturated with oil and elevated
to the honorable position of torches. Coal scuttles
with the assistance of tongs and pokers, sprang at
once into prominence as substitutes for shawms and
sack-buts; while loving hands bore aloft in reverent
pride the monarch of horns—the Big Horn of the
Range. This celebrity lived in 21 West Range, and
was regarded by the dwellers in that precinct with
an affection hard to understand to those who have
never heard its voice. The animal—for I have never
gotten over the feeling that it was alive—was, when
at rest, some four feet long, but by a telescopic arrangement
could be lengthened much beyond that
for use. No mortal lungs could ever blow enough
air into it to produce even a grunt from its sinister
jaws, but he who knew how to draw it out and telescope
it quickly had the proud pleasure of producing
a sound which would have made a phonograph despair.
Its note was a very rough, hoarse bark, and
had no redeeming features.

"When I arrived at the Lawn on the evening in
question a wonderful scene met my eyes. The light
from some hundred torches made the arcades as
bright as day, and advancing up the Triangle at a
comfortable run came nearly half of College. A
pale man in a dress suit, with his cravat on the back
of his neck, and a frightened, hunted look in his
eyes, led the band. He walked entirely on his heels,
and remarked now and then to those in his immediate

vicinity, who were assisting him along, `Don't
be so funny!'

"A small and very fierce red-headed man and an
obese boy with sad eyes held torches for him at the
correct angle to allow the oil to strike the brim of
his hat and run merrily down his neck, and the big
horn rested lovingly on his stiff collar and from time
to time poured its tale of love into the fearful hollow
of his ear.

"Up to the old Rotunda steps the host came on,
and in an incredibly short space of time the victim
was standing on the porch, while the crowd yelled
`Speech!' If the man had ever seen a dyke before,
he would have remained silent, but he seemed to
think that the whole business was just a novel way
of getting him to talk; so he pulled himself together
and nervously reached around for his cravat, but his
hand encountering the awful muzzle of the big horn,
he gave up the search, and in a conciliatory Casabianca
tone began: `Fellow Stu—'

"There are no records to show that any man ever
got farther than this. His opening words turned
the tumult loose again. The horns went wild, the
torches waved and rustled, and the crowd cried,
`Speech! speech!' when there was no speech, and
making a rush for the orator bore him back down
the Lawn at a most enthusiastic pace.

"Quick as thought a double line formed in front
of the house in which the entertainment was in
progress, and through whose hospitably open doors
could be seen the bright lights and expectant faces
among which he was so soon to make his unwilling
appearance. As the unhappy man went down the
line on the arms of his two conductors, the crowd
closed in behind him until the door was reached,

when their united impetus bore him with a tremendous
rush right into the hall, and left him to the sympathy
of the ladies. Several sly gentlemen took this
opportunity to slip in with him, and thus escape;
but one, who could not forbear pausing on the
threshold to express his exultation, had the humiliation
to be caught by the crowd and receive as neat
a dyking as the most fastidious could desire.

"It was about this time that the fierce little redheaded
man, whom I had the misfortune of sitting
by in the Latin class, spied on the outskirts of the
crowd my reticent figure, and shouted `Here he is!'
It was said afterwards that the big horn barked
twice. I only heard it once. The crowd yelled
`Dyke! dyke!' All the joke of the thing had evaporated
for me, and, like the old Homeric heroes
when the long-shadowed spears became too numerous
for them, I remained in that place, not any
longer at all."[1]

Once upon a time the gayest period in the session
was commencement week. The final ball was a
great social event in Virginia, and girls flocked to
it from far and near. All night the arcades heard
the flute and violin in the Rotunda, the dancers dancing
in tune, and all that goes with a night of youthful
revelry, but the glory of the final ball has been
sadly diminished. The Easter dances by the German
Club, Tilka, Eli, and other organizations; the
ball games on Lambeth Field, the gay gatherings
there, full of life, movement and color—everything
that is Easter week at the University has made that
the merriest time of all the year. A tolerant good
nature goes with the season, the lectures proceed,

and the students, who were up late the night before,
go to sleep discreetly right under the professorial
nose; on the ball field battery and basemen make
errors galore, but lecturer, and grand stand, and
bleachers pardon all corks and muffs and wild
throws, not for the sake of the Easter girl, but because
she is abroad in the land.