Page Two
THE SALEMITE
May 1, 1948
Mcuf 3>a^...
. . . comes once a year, but it takes a whole
year of working, planning and co-operating to
make a May Day. This year our thanks and
appreciation go to . . .
. . . Betsy Boney and Jane McBlroy, Chair
man and Vice-Chairman, who efficiently have
co-ordinated the work of the May Day Com
mittees, and have done all the big and little
things to make May Day the best ever.
. . . Dottie Smith and Betty Ann Epps who
with their committee worked especially hard
to design, make and fit the May Day cast into
costumes.
. . . lone Bradsher and Polly Hai'rop who
made up the dances in the pageant and who
conducted practices in the Dell.
. . . the Nominating Committee, Sara Clark,
Nancy Wray and Mary Jane Hurt, who col
lected ballot boxes, counted votes and attended
to the mechanics of selecting the Queen and
the Court.
. . . Jane Morris and Joyce Privette, in charge
of publicity for making arrangement for pic
tures and seeing that May Day' developments
got into the news.
. . . the girls in charge of properties. Ruby
Moye and Katherine Ives who tracked down
such things as trumpets, staffs and toadstools
for the pageant.
. . . Margaret Carter and Virginia Summers
who worked with the Salemite staff in compil
ing and distributing the May Day program.
. . . Lib Price and Peggy Sue Taylor who sel
ected and supplied appropriate background
music.
. . . the Entertainment Committee, Ann Mills,
Susan Johnson, Joyce Brisson and Claire Craig
for adding their ideas and efforts to the suc
cess of May Day.
... to Katherine Ballew in charge of finance,
who kept the May Day books out of the red
during this past year.
. . . the committee in charge of Wee Blew
Inn, Dot Massey, Dot Arrington, Miriam Bailey,
Betty Biles, Claire Phelps and Gerry Hancock
who sold sandwiches and milk every Monday
and Wednesday night to make May Day finan
cially posisble.
. . . you who don’t mind sitting on wet grass
or slaping the hungry mosquitoes in the Dell
to watch the culmination of the creative work
of the 1948 May Day Staff.
Salemite
lone Bradsher, Tootsie Gillespie,
Sophisticated Sophomore
Discovers Linguaphone
Published every Friday of the College year by the
Student body 8f Salem College
Downtown Office—304-306 South Main Street
Printed by the Sun Printing Company
OFFICES
Lower floor Main Hall
Subscription Price—$2.75 a year
EDITORIAL DEPAETMBNT
Eaitor-in-Chief Carolyn Taylor
Associate Editor —— Laurel Green
Mary Porter Evans
Peirano Aiken
Dale Smith
Associate Editor
Assistant Editor
Assistant Editor
Make-up Editors: Helen Brown, Betty Biles
Copy Editors: Joan Carter Bead, Clara Belle Le Grande
Music Editor Margaret McCall
Sports Editor Gloria Paul
Editorial Staff:
Buth Lenkoaki.
Editorial Assistants: Dot Arrington, Tommy Distabile,
Betty Beal, Frances Horne, Catherine Moore, Sis Hines,
Helen Creamer, Mary Lib Weaver, Frances Beznick,
Carolyn Lovelace, Clinky Clinkscales, Robert Gray,
Suzi Knight, Wilma Pooser, Beverly Johnson, Joy
Martin, Frances Gulesian, Avalee Mitchell, Betty
Holbrook.
Typists:: Ann Eixey, Janet Zimmer.
Pictorial Editors: Peggy Watkins, Martha Hershber
ger.
BUSINESS DEPARTMENT
by Frances Gulesian
“There’s a sucker born evey min
ute” may be true, but how much
more profound is “You can’t tell a
book by its cover.” For instance,
there’s a brackish-orange book on
my desk with the title Linguaphone,
Cours de Conversation.
Now I’ll admit that nobody’s
heart is going to start beating faster
when they see that, but what an un
suspected world of pleasure and
knowledge is waiting within! I
honestly believe that if this book
only had the chance it would top
Peace of Mind and Inside XI. S. A.
by next Sunday. “Plot,” I hear
you screaming, “plot, plot!” Well,
I dou’t want to give the story away,
but it deals lightly with a rather
involved French family (ha! can’t
you sense the international-spy angle
immediately?) which has a myster
ious set of friends whose relation
ships are just liopelessly entangled.
Wherever you look, there are al
ways four generations of people (if
you like horses, you ’11 be mighty dis
appointed in this boek) to deal with.
This makes the reading a bit heavy,
but some of the more fanciful chap
ters make you forget the entangle
ments.
One of my ff.vorite parts is the-
thirteenth lesson, which calls itself
“Les Saisons.” Having been a nat
ure lover ever since Wordsworth, I
read that section with enchantment.
Not only did it give a sensuous de
scription of each season, but in the
second part there was as snappy a
bit of repartee as I’ve ever heard:
“What weather makes it in the
spring?” “The weather is unusual
ly good, neither too warm nor too
cold; but it is necessary to suspect
oneself of rain storms of March and
April.” Now that’s the way I like
to hear a man talk-—in good literal
translation. That’s one of the best
a
things about this book—all the char
acters are so genuine and plain-
spoken.
I know you’re already so thrilled
that you won’t believe what I’m
going to say next, but what reason
have I for imagining things. Does
everybody remember those little
gems introducing each even gem-
mier chapter of Barefoot Boy With
Cheek. Well, just where cculd Max
have gotten them but in this Lln-
guaphone book? Because frankly,
as even Shulman’s most devoted fol
lower will have to admit, it’s com
mon knowledge that Balzac never
really said, “Mon oncle est mort”
—history tells us he came from a
long line of single people, and as
for Voltaire’s saying “Le crayon
est sur la table,” that’s nothing but
wishful thinking. For this little
book specializes in elementary aet-
tenees; what could be more basic
than “II fume la pipe” and “Lundi,
mardi, mercredi, vendredi, et sam-
edi”? Perfect! Typical! What could
be more conclusive? Could any
reasonable person want more proof?
There are no limits to the cheery
things I might put in this book re
view, and though I realize you could
read on forever. I’ve got to stop;
but just let me mention the very
best thing of all. You simply will
scream. The whole adorable little
book is recorded! I know that’s
hard to take in, almost too good to
be true, but you’ve got to believe
me. Up in the French room there’s
a little black ease with records of
four hysterical Frenchmen reading
it, every single word. I tell yon
it’s a prize. You’ve never lived
until you hear them scream inco
herently about family relationships.
Moral: To listen to my words is
to read the book, to read it is to
remember it, and to remember it is
pure insanity.
Grenadine Etching” Adds
New Sparkle To History
Business Manager
Assistant Business Manager
Advertising Manager
Joyce Privette
Betsy Schaum
Betty McBrayer
Asst. Advertising Manager Mary Faith Carson
Circulation Manager Janie Fowlkes
by Jane Morris
If you are looking for a novel
with which to amuse yourself and
the fellow members on your hall, as
well as pick up some new, “price
less” cliches, then read G-renadlne
Etching by Robert C. Ruark. It ap
pears to be a parody on the histor
ical novel so prevalent these days.
It can best be described as a com
bination of Forever Amber, Anthony
Adverse, The Sun Is My Undoing
and anything else you can mention
along those lines. Tossed in for
added interest are Hemingway de
scriptions and a somewhat mollified
version of parts of The Hacksters.
Grenadine is a sultry female with
long silver hair who is raised by a
megro mammy, proficient in the art
of black magic; and has a baboon
as her only companion in her youth.
Despite this her life is unusual and
varied to say the least. In the
course of about sixty years she man
aged to pile up a fortune in the
slave trade, invent the cigarette,
marry three assorted men and have
quadruplets in addition tt events
too numerous to mention. Her sex
seems completely irrevelant to many
of her actions and exceedingly relev
ant to others.
The book is written in the style,
of scholarly Max Schulman if that
is possible. The story is tedious in
parts, raw in others, rather hilarious
throughout. Although it was never
meant to be world shaking, if you
have the time and read it for it’s
a welcome change from the wear and
tear of daily living. •
0^ AIL ^lUncf^
by Catherine Gregory
t
Calm with a peace beyond understanding,
radiant with inexpressible light, the broad r.oll-
ing terrain of Heaven stretched boundlessly on
ward toward the absolutely evanescent horizon,
broken only by the faint shimmering outline
of the Magnificent Gates of Unsurpassed Pearl-
iness. Golden light filled the atmosphere, bath
ing all in unearthly radiance. Sweet winds
brought delicate, everchanging perfumes. The
mighty diapason of the celestial organ filled
the firmament with awe-inspiring chords. In
the interim could be heard the faint twings of
the single-stringed golden harps. The harps
brought into prominence the people who were
playing them, who at first might not be appar
ent because of their ethereal (unbodied) form.
Tastefully arranged about the landscape, they
sat and lay in graceful attitudes with express
ions of calm repose and ineffable wisdom.
All but one, that is. For away in one corner
seated diconsolately beside a transcendental
bush, was Little Mumbly. Only recently trans
posed to this state, (Have you forgotten, 0
fickle reader, that she met her death in the
Salemite a few short weeks ago?), she had not
become completely acclimated. Her mind was
now, of course, filled with Unspeakable Wis
dom, but once in a while, an earth-thought
would creep in. She sighed.
Immediately the great organ crashed to a
stop. The perfumed winds stood still, and the
celestial light turned greenish. Then all began
to tremble with the sound of heavy footsteps.
Nearer and nearer thy drew, and came to a
stop before Little Mumbly. Creation waitejd
breathlessly while the mighty being spoke.
“You sighed?” thundered the powerful voice.
Burning with shame and horror at what she
had done, Little Mumbly put her hands over
her face and whispered “Yes” through her fin
gers.
The voice became gentler.
“Why, small one?”
Little Mumbly .sank lower, and mumbled mis
erably, “Because I was bored.”
The Angel Gabriel (for he it was) drew back
with surprise. “Good heavens, this is Heaven!
No one is bored here—how utterly preposter
ous !” He waited haughtily for a moment, then
overcome with curiosity, leaned down a bit.
“Ah, I say—ah, what does Earth have that.
IS better than this? Confidentially, of course,”
he said in a lowered voice.
“Well,’’said Little Mumbly, made bolder by
his tone, this is real nice, and it sure is lovely
here, and I sure do like it, but sometimes I
think about Salem. I just can’t help it,” she
said sadly. “And today is May Day, and I
wanna go back so bad!” She burst into tears.
The Angel Gabriel eyed her reflectively.
“You’ll never be happy here,” he said. “We’ve
had some cases like you before, and there is
really only one thing to do.”
He looked carefully around in all directions,
and then motioned for her to follow him behind
a nearby transcendent bush. There he bent
down and began poking in the loosely-packed
celestial dirt. A few turns and he had broken
through, for Heaven is but a thin, thin shell.
Several twists enlarged the hole to sufficient
size to afford a view of the Earth, much closer
than you’d think. The Angel Grabiel stood up
and dusted his hands on his translucent robe.
Then he pointed to the hole.
“Go,” he said to Little Mumbly, “and don’t
come back.”
Seconds later a small misty object lit in a
tree near the edge of the bustling May Dell.
With a worried frown Little Mumbly leaned
forward and listened, clutching a branch.
“Now Aunt Bessie, you sit right here on the
edge of this little hill and you can see real good
— Whoops — Aunt Bessie, are you all right?”
“Mama, I swear I have been studying hard since
Easter! I work like a dog, but I—now wait,
Mama, I can explain those D’s”. “Oh Jerry,
the dance tonight is gonna be so wonderful!
You’re not dancing with anyone but me!” “No,
I’m not going to dance tonight! No, indeed! Do
you know what that rat did? He had the nerve,
the unmitigated nerve, to telegraph me last
night and ...” and so on. '
And further up the hill she heard: “Where’s
my costume? Where is my costume!” Where’s
Boney? I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
“Oh my gosh, the loudspeaker is broken!”
“Where, oh where, is the May Queen?” “Some
body please zip me up”, ad infinitum.
Little Mumbly leaned back and sighed. “This,
she said happily, “is Heaven!”