March 19, 1943.
THE
S A L E M I T E
Page Three.
Women
BARBARA WEIR
There she is! Coming out of
Park Hall — the small girl with
the lilt in her step. Hear that
laugh; it fairly rings. By the way,
let me introduce her to you . . .
Meet Barbara Weir.
Doesn’t she fascinate you? To
begin with, science is about the,
most important thing in her life;
80 naturally you’ve 'already guessed
that she’s a science major. But
don’t think that she sticks strictly
to scientifie subjectsl At math
she’s a whiz — and; and in spite
of all her regular work, this jun
ior Winston-Salemite takes time out
for an extra mechanical drawing
course.
You’ll notice when you talk to her
tow easy the conversation goes.
Thats due to Barbara’s versatility.
The young lady has quite a varied
extra-curricular life. You’ll find
her at home with either a badmin
ton racket or a hockey stick. She
loves' to swim and is plenty good at
l)owling.
Her friends can tell you she’s
•0. k., and to prove it, they elected
her to hold Junior Class money bag.
Do you remember her singing
Christmas carols with the German
€lub? Few people know her musi
cal ability,' but Barbaira has a won
derful way of making the piano re
spond to her touch. She might easi
ly have been a music major; then
look what the science department
would have missed.
To look at her, she is just an ordi
nary girl; but to know her, she is
not “just an ordinary” personal
ity. Those grey-blue eyes will in
trigue you. Watch them sparkle
with enthusiasm and honest-to-good-
ness sincerity when she talks.
Deep down in the bottom of her
heart, Barbara has the desire to
some day be a research chemist.
And so help nte, this day student
can do it. You can say “I knew
I'ei' when.’
The next time you see her, she’ll
Speak to you, and you’ll be acquaint
ed with a girl you’ll never forget.
DON’T SQUELCH
THAT TAPEWORM
There’s nothing like spring
even the slightest tinge of it to
give that certain lift — even with
out the tonie. It must have been
the first warm day that gave us
the dreadful urge. How I wish
we’d never gotten the idea of com
ing out beautiful with the trees,
but we did. We sat around and
tore ourselves apart. T'he immedi
ate decision was that something
had to be done. The ultimate decis
ion was that a complete job of
stream-lining was to be brought
about by the drastic means of star
vation and back-breaking exercise.
The agony was on. Early morn
ings weren’t bad because we did
n’t even mind mincing lightly over
breakfast. During Chapel there was
a loud rumbling that was definitely
not intended as accompaniment for
the speaker. By 12:10 we were not
only miserable but embarrassed. At
lunch it was a matter of literally
tearing ourselves away from th^
eclairs. Up town we trotted in
hope of disconcerting our animal
cravings. It didn’t w,ork. We found
ourselves pacing mournfully up and
down before the bakery. We dashed
madly towards supper like starving
wolves only to weep bitter tears
over the chocolate pie. Every
night we ruined the effects of our
bath by actually scrubbing the floor
with our weary bones . We had dif
ficulty with the steps the next morn
ing.
Was it worth it? The scales aaid
no. Our friends politely said noth
ing and our enemies . We were
happy. We were going to eat
again. Phooey on diets. We said
it and suddenly we spied a calen
dar. It was the first day of Lent,
and we should give up something—
being nice to the roommate, stomp
ing over Miss Byrd after 11:30,
cigarettes — life couldnt go on
without these. We’re on again and
this time it’s a matter of conscience.
Let’s hope it’s not it which loses.
the Week
BETSY STAFFORD
Remember the entertaining news
reporter who held your attention
with her witty remarks in “The
Little Prison?” ... the one who
modestly thanked you when you
complimented her on her splendid
performance? Yes . 1 . that was
Although she enters whole-
ing in the Sister’s House..
Sincere, studious, and understand
ing are a few adjetives contribut
ing to the character of Salem’s blue
eyed blond ... But her keen imag
inative streak, coupled with her
bubbling enthusiasm for everything,
completely bewitches all who know
her.
Although she enters whole
heartedly into other activities, Betsy
is a business student who takes her
work seriously. But she made mode
stly confessed that she’s much more
at home when she Writing or playing
her piano favorite. We, of Clewell,
can vouch for her musial ability, for
any night we hear raucous voices
from Sister’s House way, ac
companied by Betsy at the tiny
organ, screaching “Flat Foot
Floogie.’ ’ I
And her human interest stories
entrance us all. Cept only once in
a long while, someone, other than
Jean Hodge, the rommate, gets an
opportunity to listen to that clear,
ao»thing, speaking voice weave a
tale round some actual experience.
No matter what her interest,
when others are concerned with any
thing, Betsy considers herself last.
A person to whom we can always
confide our innermost secrets, she is
ever ready and eager to help. Or if
we ever happen 'to feel disheartened
with life in general, her remarkable
sense of humor boosts our spirits.
So if you don’t know her, go over
sometimes; we’ve staiAped our O.K.;
and, like Pertelote, we’ve learned
from experience. *
PARODY ON PARAGONS
Blue Monday! We struggle into
our 11:15 English Literature class
hoping to have the monotony of
our schedule broken by some of
those “intelligent” Eng. Lit. schol
ars—could it be the front row? Af
ter fifteen minutes of explanation
by the Professor, we launched into
a discussion of the Seven Deadly
Sins as pictured in the Faeri
Queene. Endeavoring to aid her
poor scholars, the Prof. suggested
that we remember these sins by
the word “pewlags.” Then out of
clear sky she innocently inquired if
any one felt that she had one, at
least of these-er’- “vices.”
It was still as a pin; then sud
denly the second chair occupant
said “No.”
Still nobody spoke; so, stifling her
laughter with difficulty, the Prof.
answered, “No , . . tlien I’m afraid
you’ve missed much. Miss J. - .
One morning while Professor was
explaining Wordsworth’s philosophy
a little difficulty arose in the mat
ter of drawing circles (no doubt
those Juniors and Seniors who have
passed Eng. Lit. are well acquainted
with that “sea of eternity” and
“brief span of life”). Standing at
the board was the Professor, quite
unnaturally flustered. “I just
can’t seem to draw a circle. I’ve
never been able to!”
Then the seventh chair on that
front row—Miss H , offered a bril
liant solution. “WJiy anyone can
draw circles nicely with a piece of
string held in the middle with one
hand, and the circle drawn wy;h
the chalk tied on the other end.”
“Oh, nice. Miss H—! Suppose
you draw our circles for us fpr the
next few classes.”
But, alas! Monday came, and
Miss H— had no string; Wednes
day she had none. And to this day
our circles are lopsided.
But occasionally the people be-
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Well, all we’ve got to say is the
men’s colleges certainly are mak
ing hay while the sun shines what
with State having a dance every
week-end, Wake Forest, j Citadel,
and Davidson. By the way, this
week-end’s dance at Davidson makes
just about the ninth “last dance
for the duration.”
Off to that will be NOBMIE,
CAROLYN, GRETA, FARMER,
BRANTLEY, EDIT-H, LONGEST,
MOTT and KHACKY L. P. S.
Normie will represent Salem, and
Sutt, in the 4-F figure—well. Scab
bard aAd Blade figure, anyway.
Golly, the army must be raising
the monthly salaries these days—
what with Bobby calling MAC five
dollars’ worth in one night.
Can you blame PEGGY WITHER-
INGTON for being disappointed
when, she didn’t see the Lt. at the
O’Neal’s. But, Peggy, you must
remember, rules are rules.
We asked HELEN ROBBINS why
Cohen calls so much and found it
was “just to talk.” Now if it
were love, we could understand this
patronizing the Bell Telephone Co.
—^but—^just to talk!
They have asked LIB GRIFFIN
and BIDDY CRESS to please pay
their enrollment fee at State—it
is only fair.
Have you heard that Gene doesn’t
believe in 3c letters? No sir!
Nothing' less than a special delivery
air mail for SUZANNE!
We want to welcome PEGGY
BURNETT who is a member of the
W. A. V. C. to the campus this
week-end.
Isn’t ANNE HOBSON looking
well? — only one example of Mad
ame Kemp Kelly’s butchering — I
mean barbering. There were ten
others.
Ah, spring (it don’t mean a
thing to us) but you perhaps no
ticed SIS and Jack, JOYCE and
Andre, SEVILLE and Ed, JULIA
and Breck, PEGGY and Phil, COO
TIE and George, and could we for
get FRAN and Bob?
And there was “Ace,” up to see
DOUTHIT. Watch out for these
“Aces” (Vergil) — they’re danger
ous. If you don’t believe me ask
your big sister.
CEIL could not have been hap
pier than she was this past week
end when she finally made that
much talk-of trip to “Philly.” And,
of course, experiences during the
trip hit a new high.
And Martha’s gonna’ hit a new
low if she doesn’t stop this ramb
ling and slamming. See you people.
—Martha.
hind this “strong wall” speak out
—when they’re asked specific ques
tions. For instance today we were
discussing “Khubla Khan” as pure
poetry and the Professor inquired
of Mi«s F—: “Do you think there
could be enough philosophy in
‘Khubla Khan’ to make it a poem
by Coleridge’s definitions?” With
out any hesitation Miss F—> said
“Yes.”
“WJiy?” . . . Dead silence. I’m
sure you know Miss F—” Mean
while the diligent student on Miss
F_,'s left wiggled apprehensively,
“Please, Miss H—, I’m sure Miss
F will answer the question if you
give her time.” Horrible, horrors.
Miss F— had stage fright! And I
can’t remember who answered the
question, but it was probably the
chair next to the window. I guess
this makes the back three rows
“blinking owls.”
PERFECT
. PRINTING
\a plates
PIEDMONT
EKCR/yiHGCa
WINJTON-JALEM
ANY DAY THIS WEEK
The day began with a dreary
drizzle, and as we stumbled through
the half-light to breakfast, we wish
ed the bottom would fall out, and
it would really rain. There was
something so completely miserable
about the half-hearted effort of na
ture today. The tiny new grass
shoots were drowning in the soggi
ness, and the Spring we had hailed
just two days ago seemed lost for
ever. The willow sagged and sighed
uncomfortably through the gray-dim
fog, and six-week tests loomed
again. There wasn’t enough light
in the smoke room — too smokey in
there, and the cigarettes tasted
foul. We went to classes in a con
descending way, and begrudged the
professors a third of our poor, over
worked minds. There was no but
ter for lunch, and the news from
the war-front was disheartening.
We complained. We thought and
talked of ourselves as “the” lost
generation. We let the chill of the
rain seep into our very being, and
'became steeped in nostalgia. We
were restless — the library was far
too dull — we went to walk.
We found a new place — a tiny
(rustic bridge over a , swollen
stream. It was quiet except for the
slow drip, drip from the bare wet
branches, and we were very unhap
py. We forgot today and tried to
look ahead into a dark tomorrow.
Then the sun came out — funny,
that it should just then. Slowly,
unwillingly the world began to dry
out —' the dripping stopped. A bird,
somewhere, dared to sing. The
beams piercing themselves through
the fog made miniature spotlights
for the gay dances of the insects.
We laughed. We talked of the new
spring shoes we couldn’t buy. We
found a flower. Wp took off our
kerchiefs and coats. We started
back to school, and as we walked we
sang. “Bill, Bill, Bill, why did
you lie?’ in raucous voices.
Strawberries and Cream
When I first arrived at college, 1
proudly considered myself an “In
vincible Louisa” determined to
live my life as usual in America,
and to let life “over there” take
care of itself. I wanted no part of
it. I had had nothing to do with
the beginning of the war, and felt
sure that I could do nothing to end
it. Therefore, immensely pleased
with myself, I made college life,
enjoying, the new war song hits, the
cartoons and quips about the Axis,
and the deeply stirring patriotic
movies that were flooding the thea
tres. But all tlie while I sneered
at this display of propaganda.
One day I stood in line hours in
a cold-drizzling rain awaiting a bus
for home, only to realize when it
finally came that I must be packed
in ^nd stand up the entire way. I
allowed myself a taste of revenge
that day as I silently cursed the
Axis. But even this was unable to
disturb my convictions, and I prid
ed myself in believing that nothing
could change my attitude, since it
waa not my war.
However, I reckoned' without the
tiny old lady whom Fate placed
beside me in that crowded bus. I
shudder now, to think how long I
might have gone on with my stupid
convictions, had not that blessed old
lady sat beside me throughout my
trip. A lopsided piece of felt
adorned with one faded rose clung
perilously to her tiny gray head. A
shabby spring coat did its best to
hide the' small mended places in the
dress the woman was wearing. And
yet, despite her shoddy appearance,
there .was such a warm glow on
her wrinkled face, that I was sur
prised and horrified to feel my eyes
filling with tears. Angrily I pulled
my coat a little closer, and turned
my face to the outside window try
ing to visualize a happy week-end
at home.
Then I heard a soft humming, and
turning around I realized that the
tiny old lady was humming,
‘ ‘ There’s a Long Long Trail A’-
Winding. ” On seeing the astonish
ed look on my face, she paused, and
said, “I am sorry, and I do hope
I haven’t bothered you, but my Jim
who has gone to fight always liked
that tune, and he always said —
but then you don’t care what my
MUSICIANS PRESENT
ORCHESTRA RECITAL
W.hen the string orchestra pre
sented its annual concert Monday
night, a large enthusiastic audience
turned out. The orchestra, direct
ed by Miss Hazel Horton Read, pre
sented an interesting and \"aried
program.
Tlie concert opened with the play
ing of “The Star Spangled Ban
ner, ’ ’ arranged esi>ecially for the
orchestra by the orchestration class.
The orchestral numbers on the pro
gram included Geminiana’s “Con
certo Grosso in G minor,” the famil
iar “Pavane,” by Ravel, and Thom
as Dunhill’s “Hosanna.” The play
ing indicated skill and artistry as
well as excellent preparation.
Fourteen year old Barbara Ann
Benson gave a brilliant perform
ance in the playing of the first
movement of Mendelssohn’s “Vio
lin Concerto in E minor.” A pupil
of Miss Read’s for only three years,
Barbara Ann shows remarkably
mature interpreation and facile tech
nique. She played the difficult
concerto with exquisite tone and
feeling.
Of particular iriterest was the
“Pavane,” arranged for harp,
string orchestra, and piano, which
opens with a lovely melody by the
cello. TTie ha^p, used only in this
selection, added much to the pro
gram. The modern composition,
“Hosannah,” contains a lilting
folk tune representing the common
people celebrating a religious fes
tival and ends with various instru
ments chiming inlpiring church
bells.
Noteworthy was the excellent
performance of the piano accompan
iment by Laura Emily Pitts, pinch
hitter for Lib Johnston, regular ac
companist.
Members of the orchestra include:
Elizabeth Swinson (concert master),
Barbara Ann Benson, Lelia Ann
Graham, Bose Ellen Bowen, Kath
erine Fort, Margaret Winstead,
Mary Idelia Benson, Eugenia Shore,
Ruby Wolfe, Laura Emily Pitts, and
Hazel Newman.
The entire performance showed
diligent work and talent on the part
of both orchestra and director.
Jim always said.”
To my amazement I realized I did
care what “Jim always said,” and
I begged the little old lady to tell
more and more. Her gnarled, work-
worn hands clasped and unclasped
nervously in her eagerness to talk
about her son. From the light in
her eyes I knew that the boy meant
the world to her.
Talk and talk she did, first eag
erly, then sadly about her son from
his childhood until the day he en
tered the army. “Ho always said
that when he got back, that we
would sit down at a table of
“strawberries and cream”.— just
Jim'and me.”
With that statement she uttered a
tiny sigh of deep contentment, and
her mouth played around with a
tiny smile. She no longer seemed
shabby; in fact, her entire appear
ance was regal. Eagerly I pressed
her for more . . . “And then what
happened. Do you hear from him
often? Is he expecting a furlough
soon? By the way, where is your
son now?” I smilingly asked her.
She looked at me before answer
ing' and smiled gently.
“Wliere is Jimmy now?” she said.
“Jimmy was killed at the battle of
the Solomons, four months ago to
day.’ ’
I left; the bus as if in a dream.
Surely my hearing was faulty. That
woman so brave, so courageous,
talking and laughing about her
son as if he were living; as if he
were going to be away only a short
time; as if he were on a vacation!
When I finally regained my sense,
I wanted to cry and laugh, and
more than that to do something
really worthwhile! I had given so
little! I begged and implored those
in charge of War Relief to permit
me to do something, anything! I
haunted the Bed Cross offices, I
tried to buy what I thought my
share of War Stamps and Bonds,
knowing, full well that none of this
could in any way atone for the time
I had lost. But “inside” I felt
better. I am still earnestly striv
ing in some way to deserve and to
win my “strawberries and creami”