Waggener Hall

Posted on June 5, 2013 by Jim Nicar

With images of oranges (left) and pecans (right), Waggener Hall was originally home to the School of Business Administration.

Down the hill and to the east of Garrison Hall, standing proudly along Speedway Street, is Waggener Hall. The building was named for Leslie Waggener, a professor of English and one of the first eight members of the faculty when UT opened in 1883. Waggener served as faculty chair for a decade, and as president ad interim in 1895.

Dedicated on April 15, 1932 at a cost of about $350,000, Waggener Hall replaced a series of cheap wooden shacks that once lined Speedway. They were initially built as barracks for World War I, and were refitted ( poorly) as classrooms as enrollment soared after the war.

Designed to blend in with the familiar Mediterranean Renaissance style of other campus structures, Waggener Hall was constructed of white limestone, multi-colored brick, and a broad red-tile roof. The clean lines and sharp details were a welcome addition to the Forty Acres, and the twenty-six terra-cotta medallions that adorned its walls sent a clear message as to the purpose of the building. Each represented an export of Texas at the time: oil, cotton, lumber, corn, pecans, and cattle, among others.

The building was ostensibly designed for the School of Business Administration, but for several years had to share its quarters with the English, math, and public speaking departments, along with an anthropology museum housed on the top floor. Business Dean John Fitzgerald had a library room installed on the north end of the second floor, today used by the philosophy department. Un-air conditioned until the late 1950s, classrooms were outfitted with ceiling fans, and windows were opened on warm days.

Above: An architectural rendering of Waggener Hall.

Above: A busy Waggener Hall in the 1930s.

Above: Waggener Hall was home for business typing classes like this one in 1937.

Just under the eaves of the building are twenty-six terra-cotta representations of Texas exports. Some are easy to recognize: an oil rig, cotton, pecans, and peaches. But there is also a tree, meant to represent lumber, bees for honey, and bricks and a trowel to indicate masonry.

Above: The architectural drawing for a terra-cotta medallion to represent wheat. The final designs were often different from the initial concepts, now seen on the northeast corner of the building (image below).

Above: Cotton has long been an important product of Texas. While most of the building’s ornamentation is agricultural, if Waggener Hall were designed today, a very different series of exports would be represented.

Business moved next door to the more spacious Business-Economics Building in 1962, and the Waggener Hall was remodeled for other uses. Today, the departments of philosophy and classical studies call the building home, and an extensive Classics Library can be found on the first floor.

Above: Imposing Mediterranean light fixtures guard the east entrances to Waggener Hall.

Above the doorways to the stairwells are signs that indicate Waggener Hall was once designated as a fallout shelter. A common sight on the campus at the height of the Cold War, these 1950s markers are among the very few that haven’t been removed or destroyed, and provide a layer of history to the building. (See “Better Hid than Dead” for a history of UT fallout shelters.)

This ornate brass “faculty mail” box is found on the first floor, and is the last of its kind on the campus.

Above: Old and new. Waggener Hall was headquarters for the School of Business Administration for three decades until it moved into the Business-Economics Building (today’s Kozmetsky Business Center) in 1962. While Waggener is adorned with Texas products, the colorful ceramic pieces on the current business building are meant to be more abstract. Created by retired UT art professor Paul Hatgil, the rows of small, raised circles were meant to be reminiscent of buttons, as the many inventions of the 1950s had transformed the modern world into what was then called a “push button society.”

The Bare Facts of Streaking

Posted on April 11, 2013 by Jim Nicar

Streakers on the run! A scene on the Main Mall in the spring of 1974.(The author has censored images to avoid unnecessary controversy.)

Famed journalist (and UT alumnus) Walter Cronkite labeled it “a grand spring adventure,” while Tonight Show host Johnny Carson declared it offered a whole new meaning to the term “big man on campus.” In the tradition of student shenanigans, it was worthy of its predecessors: night shirt parades, phone booth pile-ups, car-stuffings, and panty raids. For college students in the spring of 1974, the fad of the moment was streaking.

The University’s first documented “streaker” was seen dashing across the South Mall on the unusually warm afternoon of February of 5^th. Wearing nothing more than a grin, a photo of the event was published on the front page of The Daily Texan, which claimed any photographs were “taken by curious onlookers who felt the run might have historical significance.” At a time well before smart phones with cameras were available, just how the bystanders knew to be on the mall at the right time with their cameras loaded and ready remains a mystery. But once begun, the streaking craze quickly became, well, fashionable.

For the next several months, evening “streak-ins” were a regular feature on the campus, most common on the street between Moore-Hill and Jester Center residence halls, or at the corner of 21^st and Speedway Streets, in front of the business school. At times, hundreds of spectators gathered and chanted “Streak! Streak!” as daring exhibitionists obliged. Most streakers appeared in small groups of two or three, though occasionally twenty to fifty at a time were reported. Some rode bicycles – or motorcycles – and a few carried bags of candy to toss to the appreciative crowd.

Above: Hundreds of spectators gather on Speedway, between the business school and Gregory Gym, to watch an upcoming “streak-in.” Below: Later the same evening, a streaker with cowboy hat and boots. Only in Austin.

Those more daring streaked in daylight, some from the Main Building, along the West Mall, to Guadalupe Street, but more common was the post-lunch “One O’clock Streak” down the South Mall. Professors who taught in classrooms that faced the mall often had to wait a few minutes before the lecture began, as students were peering out of the windows instead of waiting in their seats.

One notable incident occurred March 1^st, in Dr. Michael Spiegler’s psychology class in the main lecture hall of the Business-Economics Building. (It’s now the Kozmetsky Business Center, though the auditorium disappeared after a 1990 renovation.) A lone streaker entered the classroom, ran across the stage behind Dr. Spiegler, then darted up the center aisle and made his getaway. The streaker wore a white mask and was described only as having blond hair and tan lines.

As might be expected, the Dean of Students office took a dim view of college scholars traversing the campus in nothing but good intentions. It promptly outlawed the practice and announced that disciplinary action would be levied against any student caught streaking. At first, UT Police officers set out to simply catch, arrest, and fine individuals for public nudity, but streakers weren’t likely to have their University IDs on hand. Besides, students learned to avoid capture by recruiting several fully-clothed friends to run with them as a moving barricade. Wanting to avoid physical force, the police turned to cameras and photographed faces for later identification.

Fines for streaking were usually $50, but could amount to as much as $200. In response, the Association of Streaking Students – or A.S.S. – was organized and accepted donations to help their fellow streakers financially.

Stores on the Drag weren’t about to be left out of the hijinks, and soon students were sporting t-shirts which announced themselves as “Streaker Peepers,” or members of the “Longhorn Streaking Team.” Weekend Streaker Sales touted prices reduced to the bare minimum.

The fad wasn’t just popular in Austin. Other member schools of what was then the Southwest Athletic Conference eagerly participated. Streakers were reported at Texas A&M, Texas Tech, and in the more conservative hallways of Baylor. Streak-ins became such a regular occurrence at Southern Methodist University in Dallas, onlookers brought dates. The SMU Mustang band sometimes serenaded the crowd with music from “The Stripper,” and, of course, campus security always attended.

By mid-March, streaking had become so common in the United States, the National Safety Council reportedly released a list of safety tips. The council urged everyone to wear sneakers for protection and better traction “for that all important speed.” Wearing reflector tape was also advised for nighttime streaking. Where to place the tape was not specified, though the council’s report mentioned “tail lights.”

In April, students at Texas Tech goaded their fellow Southwest Conference schools to see which could get a streaker to safely cross their own campus first. This was a daunting task to those in Lubbock, as the Tech grounds were quite expansive. The gauntlet, though, was taken up by those in Austin. Less than a week after the challenge had been issued, an unidentified UT student, clad only in his Longhorn spirit, hopped out of a car parked in front of the Littlefield Fountain at 2 a.m. and quickly made his way north to the Kinsolving Dormitory. Verified by witnesses, students at the University of Texas claimed the first and only Southwest Conference Streaking Title.

Unfortunately, the University administration opted not to honor the victory with a floodlit orange Tower.

How “Texan” is the UT Tower?

Posted on March 23, 2013 by Jim Nicar

Above: Does this building look familiar? Brace yourself…

The Tower. It’s the signature, iconic symbol of the University of Texas. Bathed in warm orange lights to announce academic honors and sports victories, crowned in fireworks for spring commencement, it’s been a backdrop for freshman convocations, football rallies, concerts, and demonstrations. Architect Paul Cret intended the Tower to be the “image carried in our memory when we think of the place,” though author J. Frank Dobie, incensed that a state so rich in land would build something better suited to New York City, branded it a “toothpick in a pie.” While a college is sometimes described as being housed in a metaphorical “ivory tower,” the University of Texas doesn’t settle for expressive substitutes. We have a tower all our own.

What will surprise many is that the Main Building and its 27-story Tower, now so identified with Texas, is actually a blend of many sources, most of them not from the Lone Star State. And the proudest of Longhorns may cringe to learn that part of the inspiration for the building’s design came from, of all places, New Jersey.

The building’s designer was Paul Cret (pronounced “Cray”). There’s a persistent campus myth that he attended Rice University in Houston (more on that here), but Cret was born in Lyon, France, graduated from the prestigious Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Paris, and immigrated to the United States. When he was hired to be the consulting architect for the University of Texas in 1930, Cret headed the architecture school at the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia and maintained an active private practice. His office was on Market Street downtown.

Completed in 1937, the Main Building was both the University’s central library and focus of Cret’s campus master plan. As the monumental structure on the Forty Acres, the architect was careful in his choice of materials and talent. Some of this was recruited from Texas, but much of the building, both physically and conceptually, arrived from beyond the state’s borders.

Visitors to the Main Building will likely recognize the Austin shell stone – locally quarried limestone packed with fossilized shells – used to frame the doorways in the building’s front loggia. Inside, the Magnolia Gray marble along the walls of the “grand stairway” was shipped from West Texas. And some of the bricks from the old Main Building, made in Austin, were recycled for the inner walls and air shafts of the new structure.

Robert Leon White, a UT graduate and member of the architecture faculty, contributed to the design of the interior of the building, and served as supervising architect for its construction. Peter Mansbendel of Austin, an internationally-known master artisan in the first half of the 20^th century, was responsible for most of the elaborate wood carving in oak and walnut.

Aside from those few native sources, much of the rest of the building is from outside Texas. The walls of the Main Building and Tower were constructed of Bedford, Indiana limestone, known for its hardness and durability. The Mediterranean red-tiled roof, a defining characteristic of most UT buildings, was authentic, as the tiles were shipped from Spain. Marble used for the steps, floor, and benches in the loggia, the steps of the grand stairway, and even the water fountains, is from Tennessee. In the reading rooms, a variety of other marbles, from light grey to rose to charcoal, were imported from such faraway places as Missouri, New York, and Vermont. The ornate brass light fixtures found throughout the building were designed by Edwin Cole of Chicago.

Above: Construction of the Main Building in 1935. The Tower’s book stacks were designed by Snead and Co. Ironworks from New Jersey.

The Tower itself was initially intended to house the library’s book stacks, and Cret hired Snead and Co. Ironworks from Jersey City, New Jersey to design and construct them. The company was world-famous for its innovative approach to library shelving and published two books on the subject. Its clients included the Library of Congress, Harvard, Stanford, and Cornell Universities, along with the Vatican Library. Built of cast iron, the Tower’s infrastructure supported the 27-floors, four-faced clock, and belfry, as the Indiana limestone was wrapped around it.

Above: One of several proposed versions UT’s Main Building and Tower. Copies are on display in the Tower’s observation deck. The originals are preserved in the Alexander Architecture Archive in Battle Hall.

What of the Tower’s design? Cret sketched several possibilities, including a Tower that was a short, wide, solid mass (pictured). But the version most popular with the Board of Regents happened to be one that was, in part, inspired by the newly completed city hall building in Camden, New Jersey.

That the appearance of the Main Building was influenced by other structures shouldn’t be a surprise. As with writers, artists, or musicians, it’s not unusual for architects to be inspired by ideas from colleagues or predecessors. The University’s first library building, created by Cass Gilbert and today known as Battle Hall, took its cue from the Boston Public Library.

Camden, New Jersey sits directly across the Delaware River from Philadelphia, and the Camden City Hall building was constructed from 1928 – 1931, just as Paul Cret was hired by the University of Texas. The architects for Camden’s building, Alfred Green and Byron Edwards, learned their trade from the Beaux-Arts Institute of Design in Philadelphia, founded by graduates of the Ecole des Beaux-Arts to train American architects in the French method. Cret was both a patron and guest lecturer of the Institute, and interacted regularly with Green and Edwards throughout their careers.

Made of light gray granite, the City Hall was (and still is) the dominant sight on the Camden skyline. It was an object of great interest during its construction, and Cret was able to view its progress from his Market Street offices as he contemplated the plans of a new library in Austin.

Above: A post card view of Camden’s City Hall. The physical similarities between it and the UT Tower are too numerous to dismiss. Along with the general shape of the tower, clock, and belfry, the massing of the lower part of the building – even the rustication of the first two floors – resemble the Main Building in Austin.

Attack of the Academs!

Posted on February 23, 2013 by Jim Nicar

All hail the University of Texas professor! Tireless researcher, espouser of knowledge, valiant defender of free inquiry, appointed distributor of homework and grades, and, on occasion, “other duties as assigned.” From time to time, faculty members have been required to perform above and beyond their usual academic roles.

In the early years of the University, the 40-acre campus was a magnet not only for aspiring scholars, but the town cows, which were free to wander and graze about Austin. The campus sported a wealth of wildflowers, newly-planted pecan and oak trees, and lush English ivy that tenaciously clung to the walls of the old Main Building (where the UT Tower stands today), all of which was an irresistible treat for the four-legged visitors. The munching and mooing, though, was a distraction to lectures. Professors had to regularly interrupt their classes, meet in front of Old Main, and as a group, shoo away the boisterous bovines. It was, perhaps, good practice for herding longhorn students through their degree requirements.

By 1915, the University of Texas boasted 2,300 students, most of them divided into three departments: law, engineering, and academic. The Academic Department included the “arts and sciences” curriculum offered today by the Colleges of Liberal Arts and Natural Sciences, and was contained almost exclusively in Old Main. The engineers were housed in what today is the Gebauer Building, and the old Law Building, once nestled into the southeast corner of the campus, was removed in the 1970s and replaced by the Graduate School of Business (GSB).

Two of the departments – law and engineering – have had an ongoing rivalry for more than a century. Most of the time it’s been a good-natured feud, though there have been episodes that would better be described as all out rumbles, and which required faculty intervention. The Academic students, informally called the “Academs,” typically remained neutral, and were either too busy pursuing their degrees or visiting Scholz’ Beer Garden to bother.

Texas Independence Day on March 2^nd often provided an excuse for student shenanigans, and professors were always wary as the day neared. It was one of only two spring holidays and had been loudly celebrated by the University since 1897, when a group of law students borrowed a brass cannon from the Capitol, fired it repeatedly on the campus, and nearly broke out the windows of Old Main. (See How to Celebrate Texas Independence Day)

Early in the evening of March 1, 1915, UT President William Battle made a harried call to all faculty still on the campus. The engineers and laws were at it again at their usual spot: the old water tank. Placed on the north side of the campus, about where Painter Hall is today, the tank was installed in 1904 as a safety measure against water shortages that plagued Austin at the time. It was never used for its intended purpose, but its 120-foot perch was an instant hit with students, who dared to climb the tank’s legs and paint class initials on its walls. Almost always, the perpetrators were from the law or engineering departments. (See Rumble at the Water Tank)

Professors arrived at the tank to discover a full-blown scuffle in progress. The engineers held the high ground – at the top of the tank – while the laws were determined to dislodge them. The law students were having trouble, though, as the engineers had come prepared with an ample supply of eggs acquired from the University Cafeteria. Dropping the “hen fruit” from the tank’s platform discouraged any would-be climber.

The faculty immediately took control and sent the students home, though not before several professors were splattered with egg yolk, including English professor and future Plan II founder Dr. Hanson Parlin. Determined to prevent any more activity that evening, four members of the faculty remained on the grounds: Harry Benedict, who taught applied mathematics and astronomy, and was Dean of the University (what would be the provost today); Edward Bantel, a civil engineering professor and the Assistant Dean of the Engineering Department; Hyman Ettlinger, an instructor of applied math; and Milton Gutsch, who taught Medieval History. A spotlight owned by the electrical engineering department was hastily installed on the roof of the Engineering Building and pointed north to illuminate the water tank. The foursome settled into the northwest corner room on the first floor, where they kept watch throughout the night. According to all accounts, they found a chess set to help keep them occupied. Card games, such as poker, had been specifically prohibited on the campus by the Board of Regents.

Above: The Engineering Building, today’s Gebauer Building. With a makeshift spotlight installed on the roof, the four faculty members stayed in the room on the first floor (one floor up from the ground floor) seen on the far left corner. From there they could look north to the water tank.

At the first sign of daylight on March 2, and satisfied trouble had been averted, the four bleary-eyed instructors decided it was finally safe to return to their homes. Three of them – Benedict, Ettlinger, and Bantel – elected to make a final pass in front of Old Main before they wandered off to the west and north campus neighborhoods where most of the faculty lived.

The Victorian-Gothic old Main Building featured a tall central tower with two shorter towers at the east and west entrances. Atop each of the towers was a short flag pole. As the three ambled to the west side of the Old Main, which was out of the line-of-sight of the Engineering Building, they discovered, much to their chagrin, a large flag hung on the western pole, with the rope flying loose in the wind. Fluttering in the pre-dawn breeze, the flag read “Academs 1915.” The Academs had struck at last!

Above: The Old Main Building, where the UT Tower stands today. Flags are flying from each of its three towers, with the west wing on the left. The water tower can be seen to the north, while the Engineering Building is out-of-sight, behind Old Main to the east. And yes, there were lots of bluebonnets on the campus in the spring. (For more on that topic and the bluebonnet chain tradition, go here.)

If the flag remained, there would be a new round of class rushes, and the all-night vigil would have been for nothing. There was but one choice: the flag had to be removed.

Resigned to the task at hand, the three ascended to the top of the central tower of Old Main, climbed out of the window onto the roof, and precariously made their way to the west wing. The flag’s untied halyards were flapping in the wind, four to six feet from the roof’s edge. What to do? The three pondered a moment, and hatched a plan to remove the flag and preserve the campus peace.

Above: Three UT faculty take a precarious early morning walk on the roof of Old Main. This drawing, along with one of the accounts of the story, was found in the Thomas Taylor papers in the Briscoe Center for American History, which houses the University Archives. Taylor was the first dean of engineering studies, and an avid recorder of UT student life.

There, on top of the west wing of the old Main Building, a little after 6 a.m. on March 2, and after having been awake all night, Benedict (a future UT president), grabbed the coattails of Ettlinger, who in turn had a firm grip on Bantel’s right ankle. Standing on his left leg, Bantel leaned out over the roof, and after a few tries, successfully grabbed the rope and secured the offending flag from its pole.

And what of the water tank incident? Six students were brought before the Faculty Discipline Committee and were suspended and banished from the campus for two weeks, though one of the offenders was defiantly seen on the Forty Acres almost any time of day. When confronted about his trespass, he argued that there was a U. S. Post Office in the rotunda of Old Main, and as a United States citizen, he had a right to mail letters, check his post office box, and attend to any other postal matters that he desired.

The faculty, perhaps tired of shooing away belligerent cattle from the campus, took no further action.

The Love Life of Bugs McCall

Posted on February 13, 2013 by Jim Nicar

Above: University of Texas freshmen in the early 1900s.

“The Education of Women at the University of Texas” was the title of an article penned by UT President George Winston in the autumn of 1898, and printed in the inaugural issue of The University of Texas Record, UT’s first monthly news journal. Winston wanted a new residence hall on the campus exclusively for women. While UT had been co-ed from its 1883 opening – progressive for the time – housing female students on the Forty Acres was unacceptable to many state leaders, who thought the girls would be better supervised by staying with local Austin families. Housing costs in Austin, though, were just as expensive for the women as they were for the men. “For a woman of limited means or dependent entirely upon herself, it is far more difficult to obtain an education in the University,” argued Winston. The employment opportunities for men to pay their way through college did not exist for women, and the absence of moderately priced housing for co-eds was a formidable barrier against women enrolling in the University.

William Prather (photo at right), who succeeded Winston as president in 1899, continued the campaign. He convinced the Board of Regents to include it in the budget that came before the 22nd session of the Texas Legislature in 1901. Eager to assist Prather, members of the State Federation of Women’s Clubs organized a letter writing campaign and made personal visits with lawmakers to urge support for a Woman’s Building. The dorm was still controversial, though, and nearly failed. A special session of the Texas House of Representatives convened in September to consider a bill for University appropriations, and an amendment was immediately proposed to strike out the lines that pertained to the Woman’s Building. A lengthy debate ensued, and the vote on the amendment ended in a tie, which required Speaker of the House R. E. Prince to cast the deciding vote. Prince held the conviction that “the door of opportunity to attend school institutions should be alike open to men and women,” and decided in favor of the dorm.

Opened in 1903, the Woman’s Building was placed on the west side of the campus, purposely located some distance away from B. Hall, the men’s dorm. Designed to be U-shaped, with a courtyard that opened to the south, only the eastern half of the Woman’s Building was completed. Sporting the same yellow buff brick and limestone trim as other early UT buildings, it was topped with a broad-hipped red-tile roof. Its most distinguishing features were a row of Romanesque arched windows framed in limestone on the ground floor, with a similarly arched main doorway that faced east, toward Old Main.

While the facilities were comfortable, residents had to follow a strict code of conduct, especially in matters involving men. Ladies were allowed only three social outings per week, all dates had to be chaperoned, and any male visitors had to leave the dorm by 10:30 p.m. At night, the shades had to be drawn while the lights were burning.

~~~~~~~~~~

Among the would-be callers to the Woman’s Building was Edwin “Bugs” McCall (Engineering 1907), a lanky, six-foot country boy from the small town of Weatherford, Texas. According to engineering Dean Thomas Taylor, “His first year was devoted to courting the co-eds collectively and borrowing fountain pens individually. He had never seen so many girls in one place in his life.” But Bugs wasn’t as socially sophisticated as some of the other students, and his sentimental suggestions to the ladies often fell on deaf ears. It wasn’t long before McCall became a bit cynical towards the fairer sex.

His fortunes turned dramatically in his junior year, when a beautiful lady named Belinda arrived in his English class. She was well known on the campus, lived in the Woman’s Building, had the distant adoration of the male student body, and was jealously despised by almost every campus female. The young instructor of the class was smitten with her as well.

Part way through the spring term, the instructor asked his students to write an original poem. Belinda presented these lines:

“Chirp! Chirp! chirped the robin,

Coo! Coo! cooed the dove.

In all the world over,

No thought except love.”

The instructor, perhaps with stars still in his eyes, praised the verse for its “pure diction, fine imagery, deep feeling, and sustained intensity,” and promptly submitted the work to the student monthly University of Texas Magazine (known as the “Mag”) to be published.

When the poem appeared, though, Bugs was less than impressed. Borrowing a fountain pen, McCall drew from the experiences of his youth on the farm, and set out to break the maiden’s heart with an outburst worse than hers:

“Moo! Moo! mooed the muley,

Phst! Phst! phist the cat.

My darling Belinda,

What were you driving at?”

McCall’s words were published in the Texan student newspaper, just below a review of the issue of the Mag. Every male on the campus rushed to the lady’s defense, and McCall soon lost his standing among many of his fellows. Finding himself an outcast, Bugs loafed between classes in the rotunda of Old Main, hoping to avoid the scowls of his former friends.

But while shuffling his feet in the rotunda, McCall was surprised to see girls in greater numbers smile at him. Some even stopped to chat. Bugs had become a hero to the campus co-eds, for he “took on that sentimental sissy in English III.” He was invited out in mixed company often, and eagerly accepted. By the end of the spring, “Bugs” McCall was the social lion of the University, though he still had to be out of the Woman’s Building by 10:30 p.m.

The Bluebonnets are Blooming!

Posted on February 9, 2013 by Jim Nicar

Winter seems to have skipped Austin this year. Except for a few cool days around the start of January, the city has managed to avoid the heavy dousings snow and ice that have created havoc farther north.

Spring usually arrives around Valentine’s Day, when the Texas Ash trees – always the first to bloom – just begin to show new leaves. But this year, the trees have gotten off to a three-week head start. Some trees were sprouting growth by the last week of January, and already have enough foilage so that’s it’s not possible to see through the once bare, wintry branches.

The greatest surprise is on the UT campus, where mature bluebonnets are already in full bloom. The photo above was taken this past week at the head of the East Mall, next to the Main Building. Bluebonnets and other Texas wildflowers traditionally arrive in mid-to-late March, which make these a full six weeks early.

It’s good to see the Texas Bluebonnet on the campus again. For years, the Texas state flower has been scarce on the Forty Acres, but recent efforts by the staff who take care of the grounds have made a special effort to guarantee the bluebonnet’s return.

Old Main in the spring, around 1900.

Such efforts weren’t always needed. For the University’s first half century, the campus in springtime was awash with bluebonnets, along with poppies, yellow daisies, and the bright red blossoms of the prickly pear cactus. The old Main Building was a golden island in a blue sea, and the wildflowers were an invitation to campus picnics.

On a campus overflowing with bluebonnets, UT co-eds enjoy a picnic in 1899. The Woman’s Building, the first residence hall for co-eds (where the Flawn Academic Center is today), is in the background.

In the 1910s, the abundance of wildflowers helped create an annual tradition among University co-eds. Inspired by a similar rite at then women-only Vassar College, graduating seniors passed an immense, handmade chain of real bluebonnets, representing tradition and responsibility, onto the shoulders of junior girls who were dressed in white.

By 1922, the ceremony became known as “Swing-Out,” and was organized by Cap and Gown, a women’s student organization. The event was intended to recognize women leaders on campus, and to formally transfer the mantle of responsibility to the junior class. It was a prominent part of the annual Senior Week, which featured activities for all graduating seniors, both men and women.

Originally, a chain several hundred feet in length was made from bluebonnets attached to Spanish moss, but as more buildings appeared on the campus, the supply of both flowers and moss didn’t last. In 1928, a reusable chain of paper bluebonnets was created, and thereafter maintained by the sophomore class.

The Swing Out ceremony in the 1920s, on what is today the South Mall. Senior girls in caps and gowns have passed the bluebonnet chain, representing the ties of leadership and tradition, on to the shoulders of the junior class, dressed in white.

In 1955, Cap and Gown agreed to expand the ceremony to include both women and men, and Swing-Out evolved into an event to honor current student leaders and announce the leaders for the following year, including the new student body president. But the event grew less popular in the 1960s, and the 1964 edition was the last for several decades.

In the 1990s, a new version, called the Swing-Out Awards, was created to honor outstanding accomplishments and contributions by student organizations on campus. The awards are presented in April, but if the bluebonnets are going to start blooming earlier in the year, the ceremony might need to be rescheduled…

How to Borrow a Bell

Posted on February 4, 2013 by Jim Nicar

or, What the Fulmore School gave to B. Hall, and vice versa.

The Fulmore bell safely resides in the courtyard of the school.

It was the final day of November 1911, as a chilly, peaceful, lazy Thanksgiving morning dawned on the University of Texas campus. The only holiday of the fall term, most of the residents of Brackenridge Hall – or B. Hall, as the men’s dorm was called – expected to enjoy some extra sleep. An inexpensive residence hall intended for the “poor boys” of Texas, B. Hall’s inhabitants didn’t possess many luxuries, and that included alarm clocks. For years, in order to wake everyone in time for breakfast and class, a designated bell ringer strode through the hall with a cowbell promptly at 6:45 a.m. every morning. But the University faculty took a dim view of the cowbell, thought it an unworthy instrument to rouse young college scholars, and at the start of the 1911 academic year had electronic chimes installed as a “more dignified method.” While this eliminated the need for the crude cowbell, the musical chimes turned out to be less than effective on slumbering students, who constantly had to pass up on breakfast in order to make it to their 9 a.m. lectures.

Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! The morning quiet was abruptly interrupted at the usual 6:45 a.m., but not by a sound usually heard in the hall. A fire alarm? Startled residents rose from their beds and hustled outside to investigate. The noise came from the top of the building. As they peered up to the roof, they discovered a 30-inch brass bell, installed in a makeshift belfry in front of the community room on the fourth floor. How it arrived and who delivered it was a mystery, but the dorm’s inmates weren’t about to let such a gift go to waste. After a noontime Thanksgiving Day dinner, which was universally praised as the “best ever served in the hall,” the 120 residents gathered upstairs for a proper bell dedication. Junior law student Teddy Reese, who was also UT’s head yell leader, provided the oratory, described the history of the cowbells used in the past, dwelled on the failure of the electric chimes to serve their purpose, and expressed the “heartfelt and sincere thanks that is in the bosoms of all B. Hallers for the modest and benevolent donor of the bell, whomever it may be.” Katherine Smith, only the second woman to serve as the hall’s steward, officially christened the bell. “There not being any champagne at hand,” reported The Austin Statesman, “the ‘Belle’ christened the ‘bell’ with a bottle of good old Adam’s ale.” The bell was immediately put to use.

Some of the residents of B. Hall in a 1911 group portrait. Hall steward Katherine Smith is standing on the first floor, center, in the white dress.

In a remarkable coincidence, just as the unexpected bell arrived at B. Hall, a similar bell disappeared from the Fulmore School in South Austin. Opened in 1886, the Fulmore School was initially housed in a whitewashed, wooden, one-room structure just off South Congress Avenue. Austin resident Charles Newning presented the school with a bell in the early 1890s. A prized possession, the bell was rung a half hour before classes began every morning, and again as school ended for the day, so that parents knew their children would soon return home. Its familiar peal had been a part of the neighborhood culture for decades.

Early in 1911, the Austin School Board elected to build a new brick building for the Fulmore School, two blocks south of its original location. It was completed over the summer and formally dedicated on November 17, just two weeks before Thanksgiving. A short wooden bell tower, which looked something like a miniature oil rig, was constructed for the old bell, but it hadn’t yet been installed before the bell disappeared.

The Fulmore School in the 1930s. The building was completed in 1911, with a wooden bell tower (and brass bell) to the right.

As news of B. Hall’s good fortune spread to South Austin, the custodian of the Fulmore School began to wonder if the hall’s newly acquired bell, and the school’s missing bell, might just be one and the same. In the middle of the afternoon on Thursday, December 7, while most of the hall’s residents were in class, the custodian ventured to the UT campus and took an unwise risk. He entered B. Hall alone, quietly crept up the stairs to the belfry, and tried to examine the bell, which sported a fresh coat of red paint to disguise its former appearance. But the intruder was soon discovered, the bell rung in alarm, and B. Hallers sprinted from all parts of the campus to defend their home. According to accounts, one resident giving a speech in his law class heard the bell, abruptly stopped talking, and dashed from the classroom with no explanation. An engineering student was in the middle of a calculus problem at the chalkboard when the bell sounded. He muttered an apology to his professor – engineering dean Thomas Taylor – then jumped out of the first floor open window and hurried to the hall. Before the frightened custodian could make his exit, he was surrounded by a vocal mob of B. Hallers and doused repeatedly with so many buckets of cold water that he later remarked he’d had his bath for the week. But while the bell hadn’t been visibly identified, its familiar sound was unmistakable.

A week later, Dr. Harry Benedict, then serving as Dean of the University (what would today be called the “Provost”), received a letter from Arthur McCallum, the Austin school superintendent. “At a meeting of the school board yesterday afternoon,” wrote McCallum, “I was instructed to ask that the Bell which someone took recently from the South Austin school be replaced or put where someone can get the bell without suffering the humiliation of being watered.” McCallum explained that the bell had “summoned the children of that community to school for a long-long time, and I believe that the people of South Austin are more attached to the bell than the boys of B. Hall.” Certainly the custodian missed the bell, as he had been forced to improvise and use a cowbell of his own to call the children to school.

Benedict, himself a UT graduate and a former resident of the dorm, passed the note along to B. Hall steward Katherine Smith.

The fall ended with the bell secure in its B. Hall roost. It continued to be employed through the new year and into a chilly January, which included a rare, mid-month snowstorm. But as time wore on, the novelty of the bell waned, and “some embryonic reformer” began to urge his fellow residents that it was time to return the item to its true owner. As related in the Cactus yearbook, “So well did this Luther preach that ere long he had converted enough to make the project possible.” Since no one was willing to admit to kidnapping the bell, residents had to come up with a creative solution that would preserve B. Hall’s dignity.

On January 31, 1912, a letter was delivered to Superintendent McCallum from the “B Hall Boys.” It read, in part:

“Referring to the deplorable and regrettable loss of a bell from one of your ward schools and feeling deeply, but unresentingly, the insinuating remarks that have been made in regard to, and on account of, a certain melodious and more or less valuable bell which now swings in the B Hall belfry, we, collectively, individually, and separately, have unanimously agreed to heap coals of fire on your august heads (except the bald ones) by presenting free, gratis, and for nothing, and without trouble on your part, the same melodious, magnificent and misappropriated bell above referred to. This bell will be sent at our (or your) earliest convenience to the South Austin school which is suffering from ‘cowbellitis’ as once even B Hall did.”

Crossing the new Congress Avenue Bridge, B. Hallers return the Fulmore School bell atop a horse-drawn flat wagon on February 4, 1912.

Clangity-clang! Clangity-clang! The following Saturday afternoon of February 4, amid brief snow flurries, shoppers along Congress Avenue were amused by the ridiculous sight of a horse-drawn flat wagon loaded with about 20 residents of B. Hall, all dressed in various garb. One incessantly rang a bright red bell, and two others, one with a barrel and wooden pole, and other with a tuba, provided musical accompaniment. The sight and noise attracted nearly a hundred local school children, who followed along on foot or rode bicycles. At each street corner downtown, the wagon stopped and yell leader Teddy Reese led the group in “Fifteen Rahs” for the bell. The wagon continued across the bridge, over the Colorado River, and on to South Austin and the Fulmore School, which was three miles south of the University campus. Upon arrival, and with much fanfare, pomp, and ceremony, the bell was presented to the school’s custodian, who graciously accepted the gift.

A century later, the bell still proudly resides at the Fulmore Middle School, minus its coat of red paint.

A few years after the incident (and, perhaps, after a statute of limitations had expired), Teddy Reese confessed to instigating the bell’s capture. In 1910, a new Congress Avenue Bridge was constructed to replace the older, unsteady pontoon bridge that once crossed the Colorado. A year later, the city’s electric trolleys extended a line across the bridge and into South Austin, and UT students began to take their dates on the trolleys to the south side for afternoon walks. The weekend before Thanksgiving, Teddy and his date spied the Fulmore School bell on the ground next to the new building, and Teddy decided that it would make an excellent alternative to the chimes used in the hall. Teddy approached his best friend in the dorm, Walter Hunnicutt (who would later compose “Texas Taps,” better known as the Texas Fight song), and together they recruited a crew of about 10 persons, all sworn to secrecy. In the late night hours before Thanksgiving, the group paid the B. Hall chef to borrow his horse and delivery wagon, went to the Fulmore School, carefully loaded the 300-pound bell so it wouldn’t ring, then returned to campus and quietly hauled the bell upstairs, where it was rung at the break of dawn.

Having returned the brass bell, the trusty cowbell was once again heard in B. Hall.

How to Woo a Legislature

Posted on January 7, 2013 by Jim Nicar

It’s that time of year again. The 88th Texas Legislature convened January 10, 2023, and our University president – just as his predecessors before him – is mindful of UT’s relationship with the current occupants of the Capitol.

Legislative relations can be tricky. Because the University is state-supported, the president, while wanting to adequately convey the needs, priorities, and aspirations of the campus to lawmakers, is prevented from roaming the halls of the Capitol to lobby on the University’s behalf. While alumni and other supporters have since assumed this important role, such was not always the case, especially in UT’s infant years. What’s a University president to do?

An ingenious Sidney Mezes called on all of his resources and devised a creative, novel, and apparently successful, approach just over a century ago.

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The old Main Building on the UT campus in the early 1900s.

It was a mild and pleasant Saturday, February 18, 1911, when members of the 32^nd Texas Legislature gathered at the west entrance to the University of Texas campus. Shuttled from the state capitol in a caravan of electric trolleys, the legislators had been invited by UT President Sidney Mezes to a barbecue lunch, privately financed by a group of Austin citizens, and an opportunity to visit the buildings and grounds. The invitation was a welcome respite from a rather hectic legislative session. But if the lawmakers expected a simple, quiet meal, they would soon discover that on this particular day, the UT campus was anything but tranquil.

The trolleys arrived promptly at 11:30a.m., and as the legislators disembarked and stepped onto Guadalupe Street, they were eagerly met by a cheerful President Mezes, most of the faculty, and the 25-member University Band. The visitors were politely ushered on to the campus, directed to the West Walk – which in future years would become the West Mall – and up the hill toward the Victorian-Gothic old Main Building.

Waiting for the legislators were almost 1,000 male UT students, which stood shoulder-to-shoulder along each side of the walk. As the lawmakers ambled up the hill, the gauntlet of students smiled, cheered, bowed, saluted, and made certain their guests felt two and three times welcome. In 1911, classes were normally held Monday through Saturday, but on this Saturday morning a brief suspension was ordered. The Texan newspaper requested that every student participate “with your yelling apparatus well oiled.”

Above: Labeled “We Entertain the Legislature,” two small photos tucked away in a corner of the 1911 Cactus yearbook may be the last surviving images of the event. Top: The West Walk (now the West Mall) viewed from an upper floor of Old Main, while male UT students line each side. Most are sitting, waiting for members of the Texas Legislature to arrive from Guadalupe Street in the background. Bottom: Led by the University Band, lawmakers begin their procession up the walk. The wooden fence on the left secured a portion of the construction site for Battle Hall. Click on the images for close-ups.

The procession continued to the crest of the hill, and then around to the south doors of Old Main. Along the way, the group paused to view the progress of the new University Library, then under construction. Today known as Battle Hall, its broad, arched windows, red-tiled roof and colorful decoration would soon lend an air of architectural sophistication to the campus.

As the legislators approached Old Main, they were met by more than 600 University coeds, “clustered like a great bouquet” at the front steps. The girls sported their best Victorian dresses, serenaded the lawmakers with The Eyes of Texas, and pinned flowers on the lapels of their guests as they were escorted inside to the University Auditorium. According to Austin Daily Statesman, the transition was startling, as the legislators had been “greeted by the masculinity and strength of the school, and then suddenly found themselves overwhelmed by femininity, grace, and beauty.”

The University Auditorium in the Old Main Building.

The auditorium was crammed well beyond its seating capacity. On the main floor, House and Senate members sat in the front center section, surrounded on three sides by the male students and faculty. The upstairs balcony was reserved for the female members of the University community, as cheering, yelling, or anything else above a polite applause was considered “unladylike” and strongly discouraged.

Displayed on the auditorium walls were large charts, painted on canvas, which compared the University of Texas to other state universities (e.g. legislative appropriations given to universities in Illinois, Wisconsin and California, among others, had been awarded more in a single session that the University of Texas had received over its entire history), UT enrollment from each Texas county, and other information that might be of interest to the lawmakers.

Head yell leader and law student Gene Harris bounded upon the stage and conducted a boisterous series of UT yells in honor of the legislators. Among the cheers were the always popular Rattle-de-Thrat Yell and the Nine Rahs.

In response, the lawmakers stood and performed an impromptu oratorical stunt of their own, though the specifics were, unfortunately, not recorded.

President Mezes assumed emcee duties, welcomed everyone to the campus, commented briefly on the state of the University, and flatly told the legislators that UT’s future had been entrusted to them. Mezes then introduced four of the lawmakers – two each from the House and Senate – who addressed their colleagues in turn, emphasizing the needs of the University and expressing the desire to fill those needs.

One of the presenters was to have been Sam Rayburn, a UT Law grad and the newly elected Speaker of the House, but legislative business required Rayburn to remain at the Capitol. In his stead was Austin Kennedy, who led the House in the previous legislative session. Kennedy prefaced his remarks by claiming no gift for oratory, and then promptly launched into a dramatic, heartfelt speech. He’d been denied the prospect for a higher education early in his life, and made an emotional appeal to his fellow lawmakers to ensure that such an opportunity existed for future generations of Texans.

The old Engineering Building, currently the Gebauer Building.

With the program concluded, a hungry crowd of legislators left the auditorium, retraced their steps outside Old Main, and then turned east to the Engineering Building, today known as the Gebauer Building. Waiting for them, sprawled on long tables on the front lawn, was an immense barbecue spread of beef, mutton, and pork, along with bread, pickles, and coffee. The lawmakers took their seats and were served by the best-educated wait staff ever assembled in the state: the University Faculty.

After lunch, legislators took time to informally visit the University’s facilities, inspect classrooms and laboratories, talk with the students, and then took the mile-long stroll back to the Capitol. As the Saturday afternoon session began, the lawmakers discussed the funding of the University.

For the University of Texas, the 1911 legislative appropriation was the most generous it had yet received.

Of Deans and Turkeys

Posted on November 21, 2012 by Jim Nicar

Twas the week of Thanksgiving, and all through the campus, the turkeys were hiding, or wearing dark glasses.

Turkey Day is fast approaching! The campus will soon be vacant, as most UT students leave Austin to enjoy a few days with their families before making one last push through the remaining weeks in the semester, and then on to final exams.

hildebrand_lg Just over a century ago, some enterprising students decided to help themselves to Thanksgiving dinner at the expense of the faculty. In 1912, Charles Francis and a few of his fellow law students were unable to make the trip home for the holidays. Short on cash, they hatched a scheme to “borrow” a turkey that belonged Judge Ira Hildebrand (photo at right), then Dean of the Law School. “Plans and arrangements were perfected and on the night before Thanksgiving, we invaded the coop of Judge Hildebrand and selected one of his best gobblers for a main course.”

As they left, one of the turkey rustlers left a watch fob near the coop that was popular with senior engineering students. It was hoped that “our beloved dean would ascribe the loss of his turkey to marauding engineers.”

The Thanksgiving feast was held in a secluded section of the East Woods, then northeast of the UT campus. Today, it’s the site of Townes Hall, home of the UT Law School.

Above: A brass watch fob popular with UT engineering students. “The Old Man” refers to engineering dean Thomas Taylor, and the large check mark – dubbed a “ram’s horn” by students – was Taylor’s trademark check for a perfect grade on a paper or exam.

Friday morning, as classes resumed, Judge Hildebrand opened his lecture on corporate law with a loud denunciation of the presumed engineers who had absconded with his prize gobbler. He praised the law students, whose ethics and high moral standards would never sanction such an offense. But the canny judge added that it might not be amiss for the poor Dean of Law to be avenged for the loss of his turkey.

The students took the hint, and were more than eager to please. A few weeks later, another banquet was planned in the East Woods “as a preliminary to the Christmas holidays.” This time, the main course was supplied by the coop of Thomas Taylor, the Dean of Engineering. But instead of a watch fob, the group left a page torn from a law school textbook on equity, with a sentence underlined in red ink:

Equity looks on that as done which ought to be done.

The First Proposed Texas Union

Posted on October 5, 2012 by Jim Nicar

The Texas Union building we know today was opened in 1933 along the West Mall after an extensive $600,000 fundraising drive by University alumni. Called the “Union Project,” and headed by then Texas Exes president (and former U.S. Attorney General) Thomas Watt Gregory, the effort constructed not only the union, but Hogg Auditorium, Anna Hiss Gymnasium for women, and Gregory Gym. The project was extraordinary, both for its size, and that much of the fundraising took place during the early years of the Great Depression.

On average, pledges from alumni ranged from $25 to $100, though A.J. Stephens from the small town of Waedler, about 40 miles southeast of Austin, pledged $1, as that was all he could afford at the time. Gregory personally responded: “I wish to say with all candor, that I really consider this contribution of yours one of the most valuable that I have received. It shows the proper spirit and loyalty and I want to thank you most heartily.”

But the Union Project wasn’t the first try at a union. A national trend in the 1920s, elegant union buildings were being constructed on college campuses across the nation, many of them named as a memorial to honor those who had participated in World War I – the “Great War” – which had ended in 1918. No one yet knew there would be a second world war in the years to come.

A student effort to build a union at the University of Texas began in the spring of 1922. There was so much interest, UT President Robert Vinson suspended classes for a few hours one day in March, and called for a campus-wide convocation to discuss the idea. Students dubbed the proposed building the Texas Memorial Union, organized themselves to raise the necessary funds, made plans to include the alumni, and had an architectual rendition produced (see image above). But the project lost momentum over the summer, when Vinson resigned his position at UT to head up Case Western Reserve University in Cleveland.

Photos: Above – the 1922 rendition of the proposed Texas Memorial Union. Below, the Texas Union building opened in 1933 and designed by architects Paul Cret and Robert Leon White.