PAGE TWO
MAROON AND GOLD
SATURDAY, MARCH 18, 1944
Maroon and Gold Over The Shoulder
Edited and printed at Elon College by students of
Journalism. Published bi-weekly during the college
year.
—EDITORIAL STAFF—
Faye Thomas Editor
Gene Poe Managing Editor
Rachael Cro\^ell Associate Editor
Mary Ellen McCants Feature Editor
Bacil Steed Sports Editor
— IIT.^S IX MSS STAFF—
Virginia Jeffreys . .
Ann Frink . . .
Charles R. McClure
. Business Manager
Circulation Manager
. . Faculty Adviser
—NEWS EDTTOlfS-
Robect Weston
Elizabeth Braddy
Elizabeth Holland
Shannon Morgan
“Spike” Harrell
Wally Snyder
Alina Sprinkle
Virginia Wheeler
Edna Truitt
Mary Lib Wright
-I’KODIJCTIOX Si'AFF—
Charles Brown
Dr. Merton French
Spike Harrell
Linotype Operator
Staff Photographer
. . Press Room
Entered as second-class matter November 10, 1936,
at the post office at Elon College, N. C., under the Act
of Congress, March 3, 1879.
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The Wolves Of Vichy
By the odd chance of the times a particularly
brutal pack of criminals has been found to have been
in charge of imprisoned French patriots in Algiers.
These evil men have now been put on
trial, although they managed to hold on to
office for six months after the allies conquered North
Africa. The pattern for their machinations was made
in Vichy—and came from the Vichy-Berlin Axis. The
result, inhuman treatment of men of good will and
honor, is in keeping with all that has sprung from the
same shameful source. But this group of sadistic ver
min, “varmints,” to speak the frank and open pioneer
word—happens to include a striking as well as a shame
ful collection of vileness and degradation. For a les
son in practical sociology, watch the reports of the
trial and study, dispassionately, if that be possible, the
terrible effects of the abuse of power when power is
granted to evil men.
In any land, and at any time, soc,iety has its weak
lings, its parasites, its scavengers, and its wolves; and
it will continue to have them until the Age of Eugenics
arrives in full force.
Society must be protected always from the un
scrupulous of both high and low degree.
Once again we have an illustration of the way in
which power will be abused when the people are not
protected by some form of constitutional law; and it is
well to remember that we shall always have the task of
guarding society from the enemies within its ranks.
A constitutional government, jealously guarded by
the people, is the only sure and safe guarantee of
safety from the criminal element, political or social,
which is ever to be found seeking selfish ends in high
places as well as in low.
Men who had, in times just as eruptive as ihese,
seen much of human experience, fashioned our own
government. Of recent years, and especially before
events pulled the mask from their fulminations, there
were cults feigning hypocritical scorn of that keystone
of democracy, the constitution. Now the lesson comes
home to all honest citizens, and we know them for what
they are. They are wolves, no matter what guise they
assume—no matter where they are, or to what party
they feign allegiance.
Out of a rich wisdom, fortunately for us, the
founders of our government set up as a first principle
the safeguarding of the nation from the abuse of power.
This birthright we shall not sell or sacrifice. It is
the guardian of the only real freedom ever achieved
in political destinies. The people must control the
power that governs: and the best way to do it is to
divide the governmental functions, making each a
check against the other: as has been the method
in our tri-partite system. The common welfare de
mands that this sound principle, drawn from experi
ence and proved by experience, be kept as the basis
of law.
VOTE IN THE FINALS
It is spring. And spring at Elon brings election
day. Next Thursday the finals in the elections will be
held. On that day the students who are going to fill
the student government and class offices next year will
be chosen, presumably by you, the students. It is im
portant to your welfare and success as a student body
that the persons with ability, leadership, and dependa
bility be elected to those positions.
You howl about wanting student government. You
don’t want too much administrative interference. You
want to run the Council, the Senate, the MAROON
AND GOLD, THE PHI PSI CLI. But you don’t go to
the polls and elect the persons you feel are best suited
to lead those organizations—you just sit back and
gripe about the way those elected carry on their duties.
Each time there has been an election this year, only
a small per cent of the students voted, making the win
ners leaders of the minority. Apparently the proverb
ial Elon spirit is dying. But you have one more oppor
tunity this year to cast aside your indifference and
help bring some of that old spirit into elections again.
Take politics out of their crepe, dust them off, and use
them. And don’t forget to vote Thursday.
mmxw
Courtesy H. Reid William & Mary Norfolk Div.
CINDERELLA
OR
THE NGN-RATIONED SANDAL
Once upon a time, about the year 1944, there lived
a very attractive little lass known to most of us as Miss
Elon Co-ed, but in adherance to Grimm’s favorite fairy
tale character, we'll call her Cinderella Sally. Well,
Cinderella Sally had, what one might term it, a “way
with the men”—a Twentieth Century Wolverine. But
those slinky, crawling reptiles, those regular Elon
snakes, green with jealousy, had our dear, shy little Sal
just where they wanted her—away from the overwhelm
ing grasp of those B. M. O. C.’s. They had her shoveling
coals on the cinders to keep the flames burning for
themselves. She might have been compared to a burn
ing cigarette, absolutely making an ash of herself. (Hope
you didn’t listen to Greensboro Sunday night.)
But our story must continue. And so it happened
that one night, one of those beautiful full-moon Friday
nights, the armored knights, cadets to you, had a snazzy
ball, a rip-roaring jive and romance session. But poor
li’l Cindy Sal, she had nothing to wear. Roommate
had her wrap; the little blonde down the hall had her
evening slippers. Those silver ones which cost $5.95
plus an eighteen ticket: the girl across the hall had
her dress, the red-head had her last pair of nylons, and
so on, ’till they’d borrowed everything she had, right
on down to her hankie. So when the time came for the
dance, er I mean party, our bashful (at Elon?) Cinder
ella admired and flattered them with a bunch of no
count fibs. Then she settled down by the radiator
with her faithful history book. (Now who would do
that here?)
Lo and behold, but who should appear but the
fair godmother, the hostess calling dates, and thus their
conversation:
“Your date’s here.”
What date?” replied Sally, cuz she knew this
was war.
“The boy who’s taking you to the party. Come
on down.”
“Well, I can’t go. Tell him I can’t go. I don’t
have a thing to wear.”
“Get my dress. It's packed in my suitcase in the
closet. There are some sandals on the floor. Take
’em and git!”
Now wasn’t that a fairy if you ever saw one?
And an hour later. Miss Cinderella Sally appear
ed on the bottom step, looking like a real princess. And
there stood her date, Mortimer. Well, a date’s a date,
ain’t it?
The ball! Ah, the ball! Little Sally glided and
hopped all over the floor—from one handsome soldier’s
arms to another’s. It was so. wonderful. And then
suddenly, the bravest of them all, a tall, dark knight,
a student officer, swept her right off her feet. It
was just the kind of knight girls sit in class and dream
about.
“Oh my goodness!” she screamed. “The dorm
closes at eleven-fifteen,” and awey she dashed, leaving
behind one of her dainty little sandals.
And then the next day, determined to find his fair
maiden, the handsome young mart took the shoe and
tried it on each of Elon’s barefoot beauties, until at
last he reached his true love.
Then he spoke to her sweetly. "My dear Cinderella
Sally, I want you for my bride. You’re the one for me.
You wear non-rationed sandals and would never take
my shoe tickets.”
And so they dated and dated happily ever after,
until he shipped out.
Did You Know?
BY GENE POE
Did you put your right shoe on first when you
dressed this morning? If you did you should enjoy
this slight bit of information on why people believe
some of the things they do. Did you know—
That the reason it is unlucky to spill salt is that
the ancient Greeks and Romans used salt in their sacri
fices, and to spill it was an ill omen.
That the reason a cat is said to have nine lives is
that the Egyptian cathead goddess Pasht was so en
dowed.
That Wfi get the belief regarding the lighting of
three cigarettr «oi^ne match from Russia.
That in felwffsing a play the last line must not be
spoken.
That the animal known as the Basilisk is said to
have fascinated by its looks.
That the jewel considered unlucky is the opal.
''^U\P’-aJ"SNOO?\
This week Snip and Snoop takes you gentle readers
up to third floor of West where some of the inmates
will give you a room by room description of the girls
v\ho reside there. Take it away, snoopers!
Here in the corner we have Mary and Martha Yar
borough’s room—those twins who look alike, but still
they jJon’t. Right next door to them, we have the two
littlo angels of third floor, Claudia and Mary Frances.
Gosh, this room is mighty neat and clean—must be
Jean Brower’s and Myrtle Shepard s. How they do
it is beyond us, we can't. Over in the other corner
room, we find Verda Lee mourning for her roommate.
Next to her room, you will see the Griffin sisters,
studying. Seems to be their favorite occupation. An
other studious twosome on this end of the hall is
Sara and Athalene.
Ah, in this room, we find Madam Marie Ziady
telling Coleen’s fortune. You must have faith, Coleen,
if you expect to receive that important letter. Heavens,
what goes on in here? Oh, it is Virginia Ezell dissect
ing one of the many rats while her roommate, Liicille,
looks on in astonishment. Across the hall from them
we have Christine Jobe and Annie Lou Copple—appar
ently slaving over their commercial course.
And in here you will find Maxine Jackson pour
ing out her love problems on the attentive ear of her
roomie, Theo Strum. It seems that she can not decide
between the cadet and a certain civilian in Burlington.
What’s this? Dorothy Bowers cleaning the room while
Luta Self sits dreamy-eyed. Could it be that lucky
fiancee?
Next door we should find Kate Lou, but no, she
is out somewhere with Marie and Sunburn. Note
the art gallery in this room—those lovely men belong
to Josephine and Stella. Now we come to the room
which houses the two torch bearers—Mildred Yancey
and Josie Burt Eaves.
We must move on to the west end of the floor—
time and space are getting short. In the first room we
come to we find Louvina talking about Mr. Weeks and
Jessie writing her daily letter to Jabez. And in ’Liza
and Margaret’s room, we hear the same old story, Bobby
and George. It could be love.
And now dreary reader, we take you into danger
ous territory. Hold on to your papers. We go immedi
ately to the seat of all trouble, Bonnie and Bettie Bob’s
room. We hear Etta giving out with a combination of
Spanish and “I’ll Be Around,” while Betty Bob and
Dot Dil brew a concoction that resembles cocoa. While
Faye Robinson and Hazel Taylor discuss the navy sit
uation, Dorothy Williams and Bonnie dream of a trip
to Florida—to see whom? Hannah is as usual primping
and talking to anyone who will lend an ear.
Realizing that you are nearly exhausted, we will
just take a quick peep into Lib Parker and Dare Mor
gan’s room. Dare and Polly Whisnant seem to be
catching up on their sleep, but where is Lib? Heavens,
she’s patrolling the halls, trying to give some poor girl
a call down—it might be us, so we’ll sign off.
Sorry we haven’t any more dirt to tell you, kids!
Scanning The Pages
EDNA TRUITT
Political discussions in our times have a tendency
to generate more heat than light. They stem from
prejudice, private interest, unsupported conviction; they
are seldom grounded in knowledge. The conversation
which Charles A. Beard creates in his book THE RE
PUBLIC are, on the whole, conducted politely, and they
produce an impressive amount of positive information.
This, it may be, is because at least one member of the
group knows what he is talking about. Among the
fighting questions which the dean of American his
torians manages to discuss without coming to blows are
the following:
Is the United States, in true fact, one nation, in
divisible?
How closely should we be bound today by the con
stitution?
What are the great contributions of Washington,
Jefferson, Lincoln?
When and where is the United States justified in
using its troops?
How far may the Federal government go in pro
moting social welfare?
What are the basic tenets of our liberty, and why
are they important?
How free is speech?
What are the limits of religious freedom?
Do Congress and the President fulfill today the
functions established by the Constitution for them?
What hope is there for the survival of American
democracy?
This is an inspiring guide to the nature of the
American Republic. It is the revelation of the mind of
a scholar who has steadily grown toward wisdom in
a lifetime of thinking about human beings and their
ideas.
ANCHORS TO WINDWARD by Stewart Edward
White tells us that every mah desires happiness. For
haiy)iness that will endure, he need have only four
things which are his anchors to windward in times of
stress. Their possession assures him peace of mind no
matter what may happen. In gaining them he will gain
all else. These four items are stability, serenity eag
erness, and unfoldment.
w.
3-B’s
Bullets
Bombs
Ba
zookas
BY BACIL II. STEED
Solomon said:
"There is nothing new under the sun.”
And this old writer replies:
“True, perhaps. But, under the moon . . .?’
SPRING
The woodchuck, foiled at sleep, awakes.
Fatnt zephyrs murmur, tufts entice,
A host of gulls, like snowy flakes,
Land softly on the fragile ice.
Lo! Gold-haired Spring with whispered tread
Comes near me with her scented breath
To fire my heart and purge my head
And make me cheer white Winter’s death.
Hark! Young birds sing an old refrain.
Bud-flow’rs sigh toward the aged Sun.
Green leaves lie on gray bough again.
Youths, maids, arouse to ancient fun.
Stout Laughter suns his throat and tongue
As Spring light-tripping on her toes
In dells with vernal music rung.
Wakes Grass from ’neath the melting snows.
There, cross-legged Pan pipes Love’s old song.
This wisdom twinkling in his eyes:
“Hail!” Youth, to whom all worlds belong!
Pan’s song is Spring, Spring never dies!”
Mary Lib says her face is her fortune, and it runs
into a nice figure.
KORNY KRACKS: (In the special interest of
the Elon student).
“Put down that cornerstone, Frosh, you know
you’re taking too much for granite.”
OR
“That’s not dirt in your sugar. Miller—you just
dropped your dice again.”
OR
“Run into the roundhouse. Coed, the brakemea
can’t corner you there.”
DRIPS FROM A FAUCET:
Orphan: “I don’t know who I am. I was left on
a doorstep.”
Poe: “Maybe you’re a bottle of milk.”
“How do you find yourself these cool spring
mornmgs?”
Oh, I throw back the covers and there I am.”
MEATLESS JOKE:
for wurstr’*“^'
nervl”^ ^ ^ ^ ^^‘'sage
I like the waves in Ella’s hair;
I know each billow well.
But if she will not neck tonight.
Miss Miles can go to h
Thumbspere.
„ more to say Moe, except . . . some people grow
with responsibility, others swell. It is the fresh egg
that always gets slapped in the pan
Poet’s Corner
guess WHO?
Like Monday’s wash, in fog and haze
Dancing in a daze, our hero wot
His watch chain, three yards and a knot.
Bound the fair blonde to his chest,
His manly and fulsome heart-throbbing breast.
He felt, moreover, confidence complete
In the patent leathers on his feet,
m the razor edge press and stripe
Of his Sunday pants; and his shave-nectar-ripe.
^ “sojer,” a C. T D • an’
With her heavenly eyes bubblin’
Out the light that never was on Ian’
Or sea. forgot the charm of our hero’s cha-in.
She unwound herself, yard by yard
Truckin away to a cut-in;
o" the floor,
Cold, cold on the dancehall floor.
Tragedy major or minor, stalked in the fold
Deserted and cold, on the dancehall fl^ '
Holding the gold watch chain, bold
But beaten, stood our curly-haired hero.
"Ah well,’’quoth he, “A woman is only a
Pawnshop and sell the chain, link by link.
And buy me a good cigar.
It isn’t poetry of course; but what a story
To tell on Tahlta, in the South Pacific.