Page Two.
THE SALEMITE
Saturday, October 17, 1931.
IP € IE T IR y -
AT AUTUMN
INTERCEPTED MAIL
The Salemite
Member Southern Inter-Collegiate
Press Association
Published Weekly by the Student
Body of Salem College
SUBSCRIPTION PRICE
$2.00 a Year
:: lOe a Copy
EDITORIAL STAFF
EdUor-in-Chief ..
Sarah Graves
M nj! ditor ..
Mary Louise Mickey
Associate Editor ..
Frances Douglas
Local Editor
Fatsy McMullen
Feature Editor
Dell Landreth
Feature Editor ....
Dorothy Heidenreich
Poetry Editor
Martha H. Davis
Literary Editor ....
.... Margaret Johnson
Music Editoi
Mary Absher
Society Editor
Susan Calder
Sports Editor .......
Nancy Miller
REPORTERS
Beatrice Hyde
Mildred Wolfe
Zina Vologodsky
Ml
iry Miller
Miriam Stevenson
Betty Stough
BUSINESS STAFF
Business Uanager ..
. Mary Alice Beaman
Advertising Mgr. ..
.. Edith Claire Leake
Asst. Adv. Mgr
Mirtha Bothwell
Asst. Adv. Mgr
Grace Pollock
Asst. Adv. Mgr. ...
Mary Sample
Asst. Adv. Mgr
, Isabelle Pollock
Asst. Adv. Mgr
Emily Mickey
Asst. Ad. Mgr. Ma
iry Catherine Siewers
Circulution Mgr
Sarah Horton
Asst. Circ. Mgr
Ann Shuford
Asst. Circ. Mgr
Rachel Bray
LITTLE THOUGHTS
FOR TODAY
“The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand,
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
“If tliis were only cleared away
They said, “ it would be
“Come, fill the Cup, and in the
fire of spring
Your Winter-garment of Re
pentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a
little way
To flutter—and the Bird is on
the Wing.”
—Omar Kliayyan.
PARAGRAPHICS
Coolish weather . . . thrilling foot
ball games . . . excited crowds . . .
clear nights . . . warm, cozy blankets
. . . clean-cut mornings . . . boys
and girls strolling with school-books
under their arms .... school days
.... Fall!
The circus is coming—rah, rah!
Rah, rah! Won’t we have fun frolie-
ing with the Stee-Gee’s on Hallo-
If you have a cute snapshot of
your room-mate in her favorite pose,
why not turn it to Zack or Lou
Brinkley and win the five bucks for
the annual contest?
We like Music Hour. Do you?
It’s nice to see Miss Minnie J’s
smiling countenance on week-ends.
What would we do without her and
Diana, anyway?
Peaches (alone, in dumplings, or
in cake) have got on Ye Para-
grapher’s distraught nerves. Oh,
for some more good chicken salad
like we had last Wednesday night.
Wonder whose birthday it was?
FALL OR DOWNFALL?
This seems to be the Fall issue of
The Salemite. Not only for a pun,
but also for the benefit of my woe
begone spirit, do I say that this will
eventually be the downfall of The
Salemite this week.
According to our revered Prexy,
winter is near at hand. According
to Mr. Vardell, winter is far, far
away in the distance. Let us com
promise and say—“This is Fall.”
We can easily do this, for the birds
are migrating southward , the brown
leaves are falling to the ground, re
luctant girls and boys have reported
for school, and football season is
here in all its glory. Here is con
vincing proof that this season is
really Fall.
But in mine heart, this season is
Downfall. I surrounded, by mid
semester quizzes, the horror of
practice-teaching for the first time,
15 antiquated novels to be read by
the end of next week, super theoreti
cal methods courses, the lack of
dates (social engagements to go out
had by some young Seniors twice
weekly—this is sour grapes!), and
a few other chief grievances in life—
I am approaching my Downfall in
life.
Pardon—I forgot to mention my
most terrible grievance of all—my
state of supreme broke-ness ! I don’t
have a red cent (except my silver
luck-piece in which a penny is en
closed and on which is engraved
“Keep me and you’ll never be
broke.”) And, funny thing you know.
I’ve never been entirely broke as
long as I had it. It really is a luck-
But tlie state of Dead-Brokeness
drove ye Editor to use drastic means
in attaining her purpose in life
(which purpose, Mrs. Woodhouse,
by the way, did not inspire). I am
ashamed to admit it, but because ye
Honorable Business Manager (who
is also D. B.) and I ardently desired
to see the show at the Carolina the
first of next week, we took the passes
for writing the best article and get
ting the most ads ourselves. Really,
now, don’t you think this article is
the best thing in this week’s Sale
mite! Please help ease my conscience
by saying “Yes” to my plea.
To show the dreadful state of
mind ye feature-writer is now in, let
us quote “Yours Fraternally” from
Eugene Fields’ works:
“An editor in Kankakee
Once falling in a burning passion
With a vexatious rival, he
Wrote him a letter in this fashion:
‘You are an ass, uncouth and rude,
And will be one eternally,’
Then, in an absent-minded mood.
He signed it ‘Yours fraternally.’ ”
P. S.—Please send all red pills,
sugar-coated capsules, and liquid
potent-medieines for the mentally
deficient to The Salemite Box,
Mrs. Best’s office in the Book
Store.
THE JOY OF BEING THE
EDITOR
(Purpose of article: To receive a few
small gifts of dopes, nabs or what
not every now and then from kind-
hearted people.)
Getting out the paper is no picnic.
If we print jokes people say we are
silly;
If we don’t they say we are too ser
if we clip things from other papers
We are too lazy to write them our
selves,
If we stick close to the job all night
We ought to be out hunting news.
If we go out and try to hustle
We ought to be on the job in the
If we don’t print contributions.
We don’t appreciate true genius;
If we print them, the paper is filled
with junk.
If we make a change in the other
fellow’s write-ups, we are too
critical.
If we don’t we are asleep.
Now like as not some fry will say,
We swiped this from some magazine
-(we did).
When autumn casts a splendid,
shining garment
About the gay world’s poverty and
When there is gold in every tired
meadow,
When trees, half hushed to sleep,
have bloomed again—
Oh then it is we feel God’s depth of
purpose,
The mercy that His hand alone
If He can paint the very soul of
nature.
His love can cause our weary hearts
to glow!
Our faiths grow dim .... His good
ness never falters—
Each scarlet leaf has told this
truth to me 1
The snows will come—but after them
the springtime.
It is a part of life’s long mystery.
The songs we sing grow reedy and
old-fashioned.
Dear dreams may turn to dust be-
But through the autumn, burning
and impassioned,
God tells us that real beauty never
—Margaret E. Sangster.
OLD SONG
“ ’Tis a dull sight
To see the year, dying.
When Winter winds
Set yellow woods sighing,
Sighing, O sighing!
When such a time cometh,
I do retire
Into an old room
Beside a bright fire.
Oh, pile a bright fire !
I never look out
Nor attend to the blast.
For all to be seen
Is the leaves falling fast.
Falling, falling!”
If my present fondness for Chris
topher Morley were to avert itself I
should be forced to like him for the
sake of his one essay, “Confessions
of a Smoker,” because, in the essay
he gives me a certain satisfaction of
knowing that I have not been the
only person whom fathers, mothers,
grandparents or what not have tried
to bribe into giving up undesirable
habits. Now I do confess that my
confession is probably of a worse
nature than that of Morley, because,
where his habit did not create any
great social anxiety when practiced
in public, my habit always calls
forth great vents of “Oh’s” and pe
culiar varieties of facial contortions
when displayed before or in the
presence of society. I must tell you
—I am cursed with the overpowering
tentacle of cursing and swearing.
]5ut my case may not be as degrading
as it seems, for really I have not, as
yet fallen into the deepest depths,
because I find that with great mental
tax I am able to ward off my vent-
ments in the presence of the preach
er. This may be because I have not
been around a preacher lately.
I started to tell you about the
reaction of my family. Well, I have
a horror to ray family at times be
cause instead of going in a closet to
swear I have brazenly and openly
said what I felt when I felt it. Upon
these occasions my father, who had
once been a student in a theological
school and had once preached in the
church of George Washington in
Alexandria,' did not become very ex
cited but he showed his extreme dis
pleasure by sudden contractions of
ONE TREE IN AUTUMN
So little wind would ruin all this
gold
One lightest breath out of the
autumn sky.
And not a single slender stem would
hold. . . .
And we should learn how flaming
things must die.
Let me look long upon this, while I
The delicate leaf, the thin and
shining stem.
In this, their hour of glory, their
brief day
Of golden airs that hover over
And let the end come, if it must, by
night.
When I have gone, and shall not
Thinking how one tree, in that gold
en light,
Flames on and on, a still flame,
now, as then.
Golden forever, now .... it might
be so.
This once .... this once .... for
all I stayed to know.
—David Morton.
THE MODERN
HIAIWATHA
(With apologies to Longfellow)
He killed the noble Mudjokivis,
Of the skin he made his mittens,
Made them with the fur side inside.
Made them with the skin side out-
He, to get the warm skin inside.
Put the inside skin side outside;
He, to get the cold side outside,
Put the warm side fur side inside.
That’s why he put the fur side in-
Why he put the skin side outside,
Why he turned them inside outside.
STAINED GLASS
WINDOWS
Stained glass windows make the
• light
Like songs of beauty from the sun.
I.ife could shine through us like that.
You and me and everyone.
—Rebecca McCann.
the eyes and jaw. Mother had a bet
ter idea. She immediately offered
me a fairly nice bill to be given at
the end of three months if I had
given up my noxious habit. Aha—
thought I, here is a means of making
money. But alas! I have never re
ceived the first offer.
But why is there so much hum and
haw about tlie use of cursing? I have
read that a person who swears is less
dangerous in a fight or in any dis
turbing circumstance than one who
does not swear. This is a great
satisfaction, especially for my ene
mies if we ever meet in conflict. And
then again there are so many more
outlets for emotions which are worse
than blasphemy that it seems to me
that cursing should be established as
a cure for dementia praecox. Cursing
has always been used even by some
of the greatest men. Can I imagine a
conversation with Byron, Henry VII
or Louis XI without a few descrip
tive words? No, I can not. Litera
ture is ehock full of curses and no
one is the worse for reading it, un
less he or she be weak-minded and
no one claims to be weak-minded.
Lest you get the wrong opinion of
me you must understand that my
cursing is not of the most degrading
nature. Some cursing is of vulgar,
filthy and degenerating, but not is
not. My cursing is constructive. I
have been trying to convince the
family that an occasional and
(in a quiet voice) are more re
fined than outbursts of rage which
would sieze me and create such a
bedlam that papa and mamma would
be happy to trade their earthly abode
for pandemoninum.
Editor’s Note:—This is the identical
letter found in the Salemite offiice.
If the owner recognizes herself in
the non-de-plume, she may call by
said office for said letter.
October 12, 1931.
Miss Salem Belle,
Salem College,
Winston-Salem, N. C.
Dearest Madam Belle:
In reply to yours of the 23rd, con
cerning various important things
stated in said communication, I here
by and hereon proceed with my de
fence which of course you will think
is lousy but on the other hand, I,
the author and sponsor of this dec
laration think it is swell.
I think the word nerve was used
in said letter and was desired to con
vey a meaning which I in turn wish
to convey to you. I ask a certain
little lady to attend a football game
and she refuses on the grounds that
she is physically unfit but the next
thing I hear is that she expects to
attend another game with another
boy and then tells me to be at the
game. I feel hurt, shunned, stomped
on and many other kinds of grief and
false pride. If I ever intended on
going to the game I would absolutely
put my foot down and refuse to be
a party to such an outrageous affair.
I hope it rains and none of you have
a good time, if it don’t rain then I
hope it is so hot you can’t sit in your
seat. If you go over in an auto I
hope you have a flat tire, in other
words I hope you have a sorry time
and that you all get griped with each
Glad you all had a lot of success
with your rushing and I know you
are glad it is over. I’ve been praising
Allah ever since we’ve been through.
I think we got a good bunch too,
eleven in all, but I’ve been telling
them they are the sorriest specimens
of human beings ever since pledge
night trying to even up all the nice
things I liad to say to them before
that time.
I think you spoke of anger in your
last letter I’m so hot right now that
I believe I could ring your pretty
little neck if you were within grab
bing distance, every time I get a
letter from you, you tell me about
some crazy boy that is all I see—
boys, and I know all about them.
Whooray for the charity worker
maybe you can do something for the
depression. I’ve joined the salvation
army. Sometimes make speeches and
I always take up collection. If you
want your sins washed away drop
a dime in the hat when it passes.
I’m glad to hear that you are
teaching and I would like to put in
application to enter your class of
learning. What do you teach about
—everything in general; if you do
I would like to know how to be
popular in five lessons and to play
the piano without knowing a note
and how to be a big business man
and draw $10,000 a week.
I hope you are well and that you
will have no further trouble, if you
do remember I’m the doctor. Tell
everyone hello for me and write
Very, very, very truly yours,
BILL.
Dictated but not read.
W.W.B.-Office wife.
P. S.—Excuse the typing but I also
am a beginner. By the way how
bout being me new office wife the
one I got can’t do anything but
attend to business.
BRITISH DEPRESSION
Protesting cuts in their wages un
der the new economy regime, 100,000
English Communists paraded along
the banks of the Thames. They
marched to the music of twenty
bands, flourishing red flags, pictures
of Lenin, and banners which flaunted
the message, “Serve, yes; Serf, no!”
Although the demonstration was or
ganized and orderly, thousands of
Communists spent that night in
Wormwood Scrubbs prison, singing
I “The Red Flag.”
—Edward Fitzgerald.
Confessions of a Curser