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QUEENS BLUES
December 12, 1941
QUEENS BLUES
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
EDITORIAL STAFF
Alice Payne ' Editor An-Chief
Idhienne Levy Managing Editor
Miss Lauba Tillett Faculty Adviser
Mary Jane Hart Associate Editor
Lucy Hassell ^Feature Editor
Ruth Kiloo Music Editor
Julia Keys Library Editor
Marjorie Rogers Exchange Editor
REPORTERS
Patsy Scoggin, Sara Prevatte, Eva Harwell, Franz Rummel, Marion
Miller, Jeanne Love, Annette Mclver, Louise Leitzsey, Tet
Moseley, Nancy Isenhour, Margaret Springer, Mary
Martha Nixon, Helen Vogle, Bettie Payne,
Lib Nash, Ruth Civil.
BUSINESS STAFF
Gail Griftith Business Manager
Helen Hendley Advertising Manager
Helen Vogle Circulation Manager
Dot Harmes Collection Manager
Eleanor Lazenby, Norma Anderson, Thelma Martin, Marjorie Imbody,
Evelyn Powell, Mary Esther Civil, Ruth Wilkes, Polly Foglesong,
Frances Bryan, Kitty Ellmore, Margaret Hawkins,
Carol Kersher, Libby Holmes.
That Time Of The Year
That time of the year, which is the climax of all things,
is, fast arriving: Christmas. It is then that the most im
portant and happiest holidays of the year are spent; memories
from the old year that has almost expired and thoughts of
resolutions and conquest for the New Year are running
through everyone’s heart; it is the birthday of One whom
we love and honor the whole year long.
There are more connotations to the word Christmas
than to almost any other word in the world. To some it
means happiness and reunion with friends and family; to
others it means solitude in line of duty, perhaps on a quiet
hospital floor, or maybe in the midst of some ravaged battle
field. To some it means giving, whole-heartedly and willing
ly, and for every phase of giving there is the joy and fellow
ship that someone gets in receiving. Christmas is far away,
in Paris and Melbourne and San Francisco and Portland;
and, yet, it is right here, in your city, in your homes, in
your heart.
The only unique phase of this season is its spirit. Even
the death rattle of guns, and the boom of cannons in the
distance cannot drown out the peace and contentment that
comes when the chimes ring out the noel of Christmas
^Peace on Earthy Good Will to Menl”
ffi
The Galloping Poll Again
Question: Would you rather have a longer holiday at Thanskgiving
tvith fewer days for Christmas than to have just the single holiday for
Thanksgiving?
Elizabeth Porter: I prefer the change because Thanksigiving vacation
is always so short that one hardly realizes that it is a holiday at all.
Elizabeth Henry: There are two sides to the question. I can’t decide.
Sarah Pardee: I like it as it is now with the single day for Thanks
giving and a long time for Christmas.
Whaley Weeks: I’d rather have a longer holiday at Thanksgiving
to allow for better rest after several months of work. A longer Thanksgiving
would give girls a better chance to rest and an opportunity to go home.
Ruth Kilgo: I think our present set-up is satisfactory especially
considering the problem of those girls whose homes are a long distance
from Charlotte. To them a long Thanksgiving would often mean several
days spent on a deserted campus while those whose homes are nearer could
be with their families. Personally, I’d enjoy a few extra days for Thanks
giving, but I’m content to have the emphasis on Christmas.
Jean Black: I think the present system is best, because during the
long Christmas vacation a lot more can be done than could be done during
t!ie two short vacations. Some of the girls who live a great distance from
the college probably wouldn’t be able to go home during Thanksgiving while
everyone wants to spend a long time at home during Christmas.
Mary Elva Smith: I’m entirely content with the present arrangement.
Eloise Alexander: I think the system we have now is best. It is much
better to make Christmas longer so that those who live far away can have
the best holiday possible.
Sarah Holleman: Since I’m from South Carolina, I find no trouble
because the two states celebrate different Thanksgivings and I am able to
have a holiday at home without triple cuts. If the two states do celebrate
the day at the same time, I’d rather have just the one day at Thanksgiving
and a long Christmas.
Lucille Wayland: I prefer to have just the single day at Thanks
giving because I couldn’t get home in just a few days. I enjoy the spirit
and unity of the students who do spend Thanksgiving Day here on the campus.
Sad L'il Tale
Weep! Weep!
Short Cake was a heap big Indian
chief.
Short Cake had reigned over his
fellow Indians for three happy terms.
He had a peaceful reign—nothing but
labor strikes, unemployment and se
lective service had marred his rule.
Now he was ready to go to the
happy hunting ground (which, con
trary to PC student opinion, is not
Winthrop, in this case).
I do not know why he was ready
to die. It may have been because
Senator Wheeler didn’t want him to
f\in for a fourth term. Ringling
Brothers began an investigation to
see if Governor Talmadge had poison
ed him with arsenic to keep him off
the Board of Regents. It may have
been because his tribe was beaten
by PC’s Blue Stockings on the last
play of the game.
A lot of people thought he was
going to die because he didn’t want
to be drafted, but I don’t believe
that because he could always join the
air corps.
So you see, I do not know why
he was ready to die. But that is un
important.
Now, Short Cake had a squaw. I
do not know if she went to Winthrop
or not. But that is unimportant.
The thing that matters is that Big
Chief Short Cake had a squaw.
The squaw loved Chief Short Cake.
(That was in the good old days when
people married for love and not ali
mony).
Well, as things went. Chief Short
Cake was lying on his bed taking his
last breaths. Even at that late date, a
Listerine salesman stood by warning
against offending.
Well, as his squaw sat impatiently
by, waiting for Short Cake to die so
she could drive into town to see Clark
Gable’s newest picture. Short Cake
did just that—died.
I do not know why he died. We
discussed that up in the third para
graph.
But he died. And his squaw gave
him a decent funeral. (As soon as
she’d seen Gable’s new film).
And therein lies the moral of this
little story—for from this little story,
we moderns get—
“Squaw burry Short Cake!”
—The Blue Stocking.
w
Queens
Lookout
—By Rev. Edward Hancox.
Solomon wrote: “Take us the foxes,
the little foxes that spoil the vine.”
Little foxes are like the little sins
which we overlook. They are innocent
looking, yet cause such damage. We
would not engage in outward forms
of sinfulness, but little sins have a
way of gaining admittance which
bigger sins could not obtain. We
guard the portals of our hearts, but
these slip in unnoticed until they
have become firmly rooted. We ex
amine our hearts, overlooking them,
yet they do such harm, hindering
fruitfulness and blessing.
Let us catch some of these. Here
is one with the name “selfishness.”
Another is named “temper.” Here
are more called “envy,” “jealousy,”
“malice,” “pride” and “evil-speaking.”
They are all innocent enough looking,
when seen separately as little foxes.
We almost make^ pets of them, when
they are in our own vineyard. We
recognize them as faults in another’s
life, but not in ours. We need to let
God show us our hearts, revealing
the true character of these little foxes.
What are we to do with these little
sins? We should confess that they
are sins and slay every one, then
more closely guard the portal by
time spent in reading God’s Word
and in prayer.
A Bike For Christmas
By Lucy Hassell and Mary Jane Hart
n
“. . . with a horn and reel blown
up tires and a red tail light. Pldase
won’t you bring me one?”
Johnny painstakingly finished print
ing it in crooked letters on his lined
note paper and scratched his name
at the bottom. The bell was ringing
and the rest of the children were
picking up their pencils and arith
metic books and leaving. Sticking the
note in the back pocket of his brown
knickers, he took his homework up
to his teacher.
Miss Jameson looked up to smile
as he put his paper on the desk,
and said: “Oh, Johnny, here’s your
paper from yesterday. You’re doing
much better, and I’m proud of you.
Want me to tell Santa Claus how
well you’re doing?”
'“Wish you would!” Johnny grin
ned as he stuck the new paper in
his pocket and ran whistling home
to play.
That night when his mother went
into his room to see that he was
well covered and sleeping soundly,
she stumbled over something. His
pants! Right where he’d taken them
off, the little rascal! She must re
member to collect that two-cent fine
for not picking up his clothes.
Something dropped out of the
pocket and fell to the floor. It was
some folded papers. One was a long
sheet bearing a large “94” on it in
red pencil. The other was a torn
scrap that looked as though it had
been in an active little boy’s pocket
through a hard game of football.
Thinking that it, too, might be a
test paper she unfolded it and went
out into the hall where the light was
brighter.
“Dear Santy Claws,” she read,
“Please sir I want a bike for Christ
mas more than anything els in the
wurld. A silver one with a horn and
reel blown up tires and a red tail
light. Please wont you bring me
one? Johnny Miller.”
“A bicycle!” she thought, opening
the door into her own bedroom. She
had already planned on some bright
warm gloves and a book about air
planes. Bicycles cost so much. The
one in Comstock’s window had a tag
with $37.50 on it.
“Jack,” she said, going over to
the chifferobe where her husband was
laying his cuff links. “Jack, look
at this note I found in Johnny’s
pants.”
He took it and read it.
“Well, I’ll be! And how strongly
he puts it—‘More than anything else
in the world—! Sure do wish we could
give it to him.”
“So do I,” she said a little wist
fully. “Don’t you think we might
be able to manage it somehow? It’d
help build up his appetite, and—all
the other boys his age have bicycles.
Jack, I believe I could get most of
it out of my next month’s house
keeping money—if you could advance
it. Oh, let’s do it. Jack!”
“But, your new coat, Martha—”
“The coat can wait. Please, Jack,
let’s.”
“Well,” and he pulled her to him
and kissed her. “Well, lady, if you’re
going to be a sport like that, there’s
no more golf for me ’til the thing’s
paid for. What a Christmas we’re go
ing to have in this house!”
The words echoed themselves in
her ears as Martha crept quietly into
the other bedroom to slip the note
back into a pair of brown pants.
Christmas morning dawned clear
and cold. Johnny awoke at six, opened
his eyes half-way and stretched his
toes ’til they almost touched the foot
of the bed. Then suddenly he remem
bered what day it was.
“Gosh, it’s Chris’mus!” he whisper
ed, and in just that time he had his
knickers on and was pulling the
zippered jacket over his pajamas.
In another twinkling his socks and
shoes were on, too,
Down the steps he crept, so as not
to disturb Mother and Dad. He
need not have tiptoed, though, for a
moment later his parents tvere snatch
ed from sleep by a yell that spoke
for itself. It didn’t say “Hurray”
or even “Oh, Boy!” It just said
everything all at once.
“Guess we know somebody who’s
h^PPy today!” laughed Johnny’s dad.
And Johnny’s mother said “Guess we
do!” as she settled back to sleep
again. “Jack, P just wish we could
have seen his face!”
And surely they would have given
anything to have seen him as he stood
there hushed, admiring, almost wor
shipping, the new bicycle. His new
bicycle! Its. smooth silverness, the
real blown-up tires, the horn, and
even the red tail light.
With eyes shining and heart beat
ing fast in every little inch of him,
Johnny wheeled his most prized pos
session through the hall and outside.
Down the terrace he went; down the
driveway, out into the street, up the
hill, down the hill, coasting at a
million miles a minute, with the air
rushing past him and the wind whist
ling in his ears. Just wait ’til “Fats”
and the others could see it! Away
he went, faster and faster, down the
hill and around the bend . . .
“Wonder who that could be at this
hour?” said Mr. Miller, sitting up in
bed and listening for the repeated
sound of knocking. “Why, it isn’t
even seven yet.” He threw on his
robe, stuck his feet into his slippers,
and went shuffling off into the hall
and down the stairs.
Waiting upstairs, but hearing noth
ing at all, Mrs. Miller picked up
her quilted housecoat and, putting it
about her shoulders, followed him.
Who could it be?” she mused.
Just as she rounded the curve in the
staircase she heard a man’s voice say,
“. . . it happened at the foot of the
hill ... a truck. Johnny saw me
and turned to wave and shout some
thing about that bike of his, and
then, just like that—he didn’t see the
truck and I don’t guess the truck saw
him either. When I got to him—well
I don t think he even knew what
hit him.”
Dr. Burke handed Jack something
very warm and limp and crumpled.
With a little scream Martha was
by his side. A slip of paper had
fallen from a pocket in the brown
knickers, and through a blurr she ,
read:
. . . more than anything els in
the wurld . . .”
THE STAFF OF THE BLUES
— and the —
MEMBERS OF THE FACULTY
Of Queens College Wish to Extend the Student Body
The Hope for a Very Merry Christmas
And a Happy New Year.