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October 24, 1941
Member North Carolina Collegiate Press Association
Founded by the Class of 1922
Published Weekly by the Students of Queens College.
Subscription Rate: $2.50 the Collegiate Year
Alice Payne Editor-in-Chief
Miss Lauba Tillett Faculty Adviser
Idbjenne Levy : Managing Editor
Ruth Civil Associate Editor
Elizabeth Nash Associate Editor
Lucy Hassell Feature Editor
Ruth Kilgo Music Editor
Maby Jane Haet News Editor
Bkttie Payne Exchange Editor
Pat Stoyle, Charlotte Williams, Mary Sue Barnett, Mary Martha
Nixon, Elsie Moseley, Helen Vogle, Betty Lou Spears, Patsy
Scoggin, Louise Leitzsey, Marjorie Rodgers.
Gail Grifitth Business Manager
Helen Hendley Advertising Manager
Helen Vogle Circulation Manager
Eleanor Lazenby, Norma Anderson, Thelma Martin, Marjorie Imbody,
Evelyn Powell, Mary Esther Civil, Ruth Wilkes, Polly
Foglesong, Frances Bryant.
The South's New Shame
Seldom does something happen in the South of which we are
very ashamed. It happened twice in Louisiana—the first time
being the Huey Long regime and the second time, the em
bezzling scandal at L.S.U.
This time the lightning strikes closer—in our neighbor state
of Georgia. Governor Eugene Talmadge by his despotic, ruthless
actions has caused the Southern Association of Colleges to drop
from its roll the University of Georgia. He has stirred up a great
controversy about the racial situation, and he has started the
entire nation laughing at the state whose “tobacco-chewing, red-
suspender-wearing governor” cries out that Georgia is for
Georgians and wants no “foreigners.”
In order to be a center of learning, a great university has to
have its freedom to grow. Censorship and unnecessary restric
tions do not make a school great. This is definitely not the way
to make the University of Georgia rank among the colleges of
the nation. In fact it can be compared somewhat similarly
with the restrictions on learning being imposed by Hitler—
not anywhere nearly as strict as yet—but certainly a step in
The students may not immediately feel the blow of Governor
Talmadge’s very unwise acts. But certainly their educational
standing will suffer.
Many people in Georgia are strongly against the policies
of this would-be American version of a dictator. In fact a radio
station in Atlanta has as its call letters W.S.B.—and it widely
publicizes the fact that the letters stand for “Welcome South,
Brother”—an attempt to counteract Governor Talmadge’s attack
against “foreigners.” But Governor Talmadge will not have to
worry about “foreigners” coming into Georgia if he continues
along his present line of action. No one in his right mind would
want to go to a restricted university and a despotic-ruled state!
This is a shameful situation which overshadows even the
South’s lynching problem. And we of Queens College sympathize
with you students of the University of Georgia. We hope your
rights will soon be restored.
Dots and Dashes //
Hangover from Rat Day: This
little joke (?) was found tacked on
the door of the Day Student Build
Freshman: Say, what was that stuff
we drank that tasted like milk of
Sophomore: That was starch water.
Freshman: So that’s why I woke up
feeling stiff this morning!
• • • • • •
The maneuvers have certainly taken
over Charlotte—or the Charlotte girls
have taken over the army judging
from the number of Army emblems
that are being worn these days.
What girl went visiting with four
soldiers late Saturday night? She
found the door to her friend’s house
open, walked in, sat down, made her
self at home, and waited for the host
to appear. After waiting a half hour,
she had some misgivings when sev
eral strange people walked in and
glared at her without saying much.
Of course, the result is obvious. She
had walked in the wrong house—the
one she wanted was just next door.
In case you wonder who it is, just
see whose face is still red from em
About A Soldier--
Boys Will Be Boys
In October of 1940,1 had my first glimpse of the country where
I was so soon to make my home. Everyone made me feel like
a celebrity, although my only distinction was that I came from
another countr3\ From the first day, questions were forced
at me on every subject, but always the same one was included;
“What do you think of our college boys?” Then, I was reluctant
to tell everybody, but now, I have been persuaded to tell you
what I think of them, comparing them with British college
First and foremost, I want you to erase the idea that you
cannot have fun with a British boy. . . .You surely can! Remem
ber they are not as the movies portray them. The biggest differ
ence, however, is in their attitude towards you. The British
boy is honored to date you; whereas you are honored if the
American boy condescends to ask you for a date, and having
asked you, he thinks nothing of breaking the date to do some
thing be;tter, if the occasion should arise. Yet, the American
boy is much more loyal to his friends. He will not fool with
another man’s girl, or try to snake on him; if a girl is wearing
another fellow’s pin, he leaves her alone, but this is when the
British boy starts rushing you. After all, if a boy gives you his
fraernity pin, you must be a swell girl and why should he
It is not easy to lay down definite distinctions, however,
because college boys are much the same the world over. They
fuss because you wear make-up, but do they date you when
you omit it? They do not give you credit for a grain of sense,
but they want to be amused; and cut short any attempts to carry
on a deep discussion about politics or psychology. They expect
you to look charming and feminine all the time, and then com
plain because you will not play six sets of tennis or thirty-six
holes of golf. Yes, college boys are complex creatures, who so
often forget the little things they ought to remember, but after
all, what would life be like without them?
Did you hear about the call Ade
laide Henry received from one of her
numerous swains before breakfast
one morning? It seems that he had
walked all the way from uptown out
here to see her, stopping at the Grill
to make sure she was at the college.
Ain’t love grand?
We are all anxious to see the hand
some stranger Jane Norton talks
about so much, and who is coming
to see her this week-end.
I think Patsy Scoggin has found
it rather hard to get “back in the
groove” again after that glorious
week-end at home. (Note: Buddy was
We can’t imagine what the extra
special attraction is down at the in
firmary these days. It was funny,
though, to see the sudden influx of
people down there at the close of Rat
Sara Estes seemed in a rather
jubilant as well as sort of romantic
mood at the first of this week. Could
it have been the result of her visit
to Reidsville? I wonder.
While on the subject of love I
overheard the other day a girl relat
ing her sad experience as:
My love has flew
He done me dirt
How were I to know
Him was a flirt
To all which love
Let I forbid
Lest her be done
Like I been did.
It’s been kinder hard to remember
all these new girls and keep their
names straight in my mind. However,
I have quite a few of them placed
now. By their idiosyncrasies, I know
some of them.
If it’s about Jerome, she’s talking,
it’s Maie Newland.
If her favorite word is “Really?”
it’s Dot Swearingen.
If she’s in a mix-up about dates
and boy-friends it could be lots of
people but is probably Sara Prevatte
or Ruth Civil or Rosemary Vincent.
If they are simply devoted Room
mates (and one is planning her West
'Point week-end) they are Alice
Aiken and Katherine Baldwin.
If it’s about a certain Davidson
choir singer she talks, it’s more than
likely Portia Vinson.
Anita Kefauver had a wonderful
time at the V.P.I. hop last week and
I hear other rumors that a certain
handsome baritone came into the pic
Claudia Paschal has her missing
ring back now. She says it was as
simple as could be.
Saturday nite and me without a
date! Well, I’ll do my bit for the
U.S.O. by helping the U.S.A. (and
I do mean Army). What was that
about a dance that Miss Henderson
was so vigorously advocating? At the
“Y”? Umm—Doesn’t sound so good
but one never knows. Besides if Jim
does call I’ve gotta be planning some
thing. Can’t date him again. But,
gosh, I just remembered we were
’sposed to sign up yesterday. Maybe
its not too late. There shouldn’t .be
many suckers. Anyhow, I’ll call
Miss Henderson and see what she
says. Then I can go? Oh, you’ll let
me have Jane’s ticket. She backed
out? (Wonder why. Maybe this
wasn’t such a scrumptuous chance
after all.) Well, I’ll count on “Lady
Luck” as my fairy godmother to-
nite. The chap I get—I can’t be any
worse off than he is.
What a crowd! All of Fort Bragg
must have marched up. I had no
idea—^jeeps, bugs, company cars, and
plenty of pedal digit infantry pa
trolling the street and cluttering it
with confusion and khaki. 1-2-3—Wow,
for once the girls are out-numbered
(not like Queens-Davidson nite, no
siree!) Didn’t know this section of
town was so treacherous. I quiver in
my high-heeled boots; in this gang
I’d feel dressed up in saddles. Uni
forms—what’s the fascination? They
just show what a Hart-Shaeffer-Marx
suit can do for a fellow. I must be
going against the traffic here. The
civilians move into the occupied “C”
territory while the soldiers advance.
Wonder how I’ll get my “Charles
Boyer” for the nite. Oh, name tags
and numbers; luck’s ag’in me. Oops
—too late, here comes teacher ma
neuvering a couple of lads over
here. Why didn’t I study my Greek,
German, Spanish, Russian, Italian,
and what not—then maybe I could
pronounce their names. He’s got me
by the arm and steering me to the
line on the stairs where we await our
turn in the “mess hall.” Now begin
the usual questions—Where from?
What doing? How do you like it
here? And the series which follows.
The answers are unimportant, its
just a crude form of conversation
which tides you over until some topic
of mutual interest is struck. Then
you exhaust your knowledge of the
subject and try to remember where
he’s from. Yes, Canada! Well, how
did he get roped in on Uncle Sam’s
roll call? A volunteer? How noble!
Tables stacked with food—fried
chicken, potato salad, cheese, pickles
and everything. We ate army fashion
of course—that is by tearing the
poor, unknowing fowl limb from
limb, and talking in the same gesture.
Scottie across the table is a jolly
lad (of 38 years). Why didn’t I rate
him? What’s that he’s saying about
my eyes? I believe he really can
tell fortunes. And my cheek-bones;
I never had noticed. He’s pure Scotch
or was it Irish? Anyway he’s got a
terrific accent. They’re still coming
in. Can Queen’s girls smoke in here,
do you suppose? Well, why not?
Give me the high sign in case of
danger. I’ve climbed his family tree
and he, mine. By now the ice cream
is soup. Let’s go downstairs and see
what’s up. The halls are barricaded.
Soldiers sprawled everywhejre—not
as a result of disastrous maneuvers
but just finding a place to “grub.”
By now I’ve memorized the army rou
tine and can almost distinguish lieu
tenants, sergeants, and privates.
Ping pong? Anything to ease the
tension and broaden the distance—
alcoholic breatli is my pet aversion
(even if it is only the result of beer).
And now for some square dancing!
That’s “his line.” And when he swings
you, you swing, even me of the
“envied(?) model height” while he
is a mere bantam weight. And there
my minute friend looks up to her
“Joe Louis” build six-footer. All
the time my date keeps saying “I
thought I was short until—” And the
army does have all kinds. It’s a
study in “individual differences.” The
orchestra never showed up (it was
the army orchestra, too), but a juke
box in the gym sufficed for those so
inclined. We inclined on a bench on
the cat-walk. As I said, square danc
ing was “his line.” We watched from
a dark corner but nothing happened
Honest!! There were prizes too
but that didn’t affect me. Lucky in
love? Heck no, not even on punch
boards or prize drawings. The in
tense warmness became rather stifling
so we went to get more cokes (“pop”
as all those Yanks called it). Again
we talk. He delights in delectable.
Southern dialect while I listen with
both ears so as to understand the
gist of his nasal twang. What’s this?
Maneuver News. In the camp they
publish a real weekly newspaper.
This is just a mimeographed issue.
Not bad! Some of them must be able
to read and write. This guy—he’s
a dern decent sort of fellow. I’d never
guess his age. Through high school
and worked at a hotel in N.Y.C.
Didn t dare asked him what he did
because I was afraid it would be a
bell-hop. He was regulation size.
Lieutenants, corporals and captains
stroll in. You can spot them by their
shoes—in contrast to the typical Li’l
Abner style dusty brogans displayed
by most of the boys. Poor kids, they
have^ it tough, though. The hit pa
rade s over. Here comes a good-look
ing chap. From Lake Placid with all
its skating, tobagganin’, skiing, and
its six other delicious pastimes. He’s
the kind you’d like to know better
—just plain “Stew.”
We gather around the piano but
they don’t seem to know our ditties.
At last, here she comes—my life
saver saying it’s time to go home.
Am I ready? (Refrain, kid, you
mustn’t act too enthusiastic.) We
raced to get our checked valuables.
Must we go so soon? Well, I hate
to, but—. But now what? Somehow
they managed to get outside with us
and follow to the car. I know they’ve
got until twelve but by then I will
surely have changed to a pumpkin
or a rat. We gotta get rid of them.
In the first place it’s against the
rules. (So what?). We climb in and
they stand there and get sentimental.
Don’t think it hasn’t been fun ’cause
it hasn’t, or has it? My address?
Sure. And of course I’ll answer it.
Then we talk more about maneuvers
and rifle practice. Again we insist
and I start the motor. It’s the only
way to throw them off. If they don’t
take the hint, just race the motor
and throw them off bodily.
Well, how did you like yours? Drip?
Mine was a thunder shower by com
parison. Whatcha mean through high
school? No one would ever have
guessed it. But now aren’t you glad
we went? Dear old sons of America
—they’re doing it all for us. And
most of them make you proud. Be
sides what’s one Saturday nite for
defense? They’re a grand bunch of
chaps all sorts—even beating Heinz*
57 varieties. And all of them in for
the same thing. There’s something
about a soldier—does it ever give
you that certain feeling inside?
The Faculty and Stu
dent Body of Que^s Col
lege wish to extend their
sS^pathy to Mrs. J. M.
McEwen at the death of