Newspapers / Salem College Student Newspaper / Oct. 11, 1930, edition 1 / Page 2
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Page Two. THE SALEMITE Saturday, October 11, 1930. The Salemite Published Weekly by the Student Body of Salem College SUBSCRIPTION PRICE 12.00 a Year :: lOe a Copy Edit EDITORIAL STAFF ir-in-Chief Edith Kirkland Managing Editor Daisy Lee Cars Associate Editor Sara Gra’ Associate Editor Kitty Mo Feature Editor Anna Preston Local Editor I.ucy Cui Local Editor Agnes Paton Pollock Local Editor Eleanor Music Editor Millicent Ward Poetry Editor Margaret Richardson Cartoon Editor..Mary Elizabeth Holcomb Reporter Marian Caldwell BUSINESS STAFF Business Manager Mary Norri Advertising Mgr. .... Mary Alice Beama Asst. Adv. Mgr Edith Leake Asst. Adv. Mgr Frances Caldwell Asst. Adv. Mgr Emily Mickey Asst. Adv. J ^ y t'u'ton Asst. Adv. I Meist* Asst. Ad. Mgr. ..Elizabeth McClaugherty Asst. Adv. n 1 Brinkley Asst. Adv. Mj, Uaisy Li -- tha Davis Circulation Manager Asst. Cir. Mgr. . Margar LITTLE THOUGHTS FOR TODAY There is genius and power in persistence. It conquers all opposers; it gives confidence; it annihiliates obstacles. Every body believes in the determined man. People know that when he undertakes a thing, the bat tle is half won, for his rule is to accomplish whatever he sets out to do. People know that it is useless to oppose a man who uses his stumbling blocks as stepping stones; who does not know when he is defeated; who never, because of criticism or opposition, shrinks from his —Orison Swett Harden The grai’d essentials of liap- ])iness are, something to do, sometliing to love, and some thing to hope for. —Chalmers AN AUTUMN ETCHING Down tlirough the valley creeps a finger of soft grey mist along the ragged edges of the darkening wood. Above, a hilltop bares a gold and crimson breast to a lingering sun. The magic breath of autumn rustles through the leaves in an infant wind, and golden-rods lean from the shad ows for a last glimpse of deep blue and a flush of rose, now fading into a purple sea of clouds. P’rom a dim, forgotten distance the sound of monastery bells floats like a dream enfolding the valley and the hill in a gown of silver lace. A solitary figure outlined against the sky, slowly kneels to tell his beads and even as he prays, around his lips there flickers the semblance of a smile as the laughter of wan dering children ripples through the valley and rushing up the hill, swings out across the heaven to greet the waking stars. THE POIJTICIAL OVERHEAD “I wonder,” jokes a jocular journalist, “What politicians do for a head gear, after they throw their hats in the ring?” “You should know,” chides the North Adams ( Mass.) Tribune, “that politicians always have two hats; one to toss into the ring and another to talk through.” In Scotland a “Dead-End” street is one with a toll bridge at the end of it. PHOTOGRAPHY Photography—what a magic art! Only those who have been subjected to its spell know the true pleasures wliieh one experiences in the process. First of all, there is the period of preparation wliich affords true en- to the feminine heart—we imagine, also to the masculine, but those are emotions which we can ex- only vicariously. Fixing a four-in-hand for the benefit of pos- :.y, sliould not be too ardous a ■ess. The period of training be gins twenty four hours in advance, liieh time tlu)se wlio are bless- ith a superfluity of this world’s goods make a pilgrimage to the hair- and those who are less for tunate, spend an afternoon doing set- ting-up exercises over the lavator ipart luster to flowing locks Both types of individuals spend mor or less i-estless nights; the former trying to lie softly lest they destroy the efforts of the hairdresser, the otiiers, trying to find a position in which the numerous combs will not make too deep an impression on the tender brow. For those who are enlisted in the crusade for learning, tliis time of potography is indeed disasterous, as they find little time to devote to the pursuit of truth. However, since credence is given to the poet’s theory that beauty and truth are identical, their striving for the former may have its effect in the acquisition of the latter. Of course, the last minutes bi the mirror are very important. If the person had illusions about he personal appearance, prior to that time, they should certainly be dis pelled tlien, unless slie is a creature who believes in the unlimited pos sibilities of human nature—and of the camera, let us add. After countless last touches, the fatal moment finally arrives, finds the patient—our vocabulary seems sadly lacking for an adequate term, unless it be “victim”—ushered into the august presence of the photographer. If she has had any doubts as to the effectiveness of hei personal appearance, they are im mediately scattered, and she car imagine hereself Miss America with out any trouble, being quite confi dent that the camera will perform miracles which her mirror proclaim ed impossible'—if she leaves this task to the camera, slie will prob ably feel much more confident and feel that there is little else to be done than to make a true impression, for her image to be preserved for posterity as a paragon of beauty, a joy forever. There are little items to whicli attention has to be paid, but what is easier than to sit up a little straighter, “smile just a little, we don’t want to have you look too mad,” “look right out of the dow,” “blink tlie lips and moisten the ” beg pardon, that should be done in reverse order—wlien one is sure that nothing is the matter with one’s appearance; that tlie smile will reveal a row of pearly teeth, tliat the blossoming rose will appear on the cheek, that the hair will be a mass burnished gold lying in soft ripph and that even the Lady of Shalott would appear pale in eoniparison. Tlie subject smiles a smug, com placent little smile as the photo grapher assures lier th.ut .all will be well, and w'alks on clouds for a w'eek. That picture will be the image of Venus herself. However, reports that pho tography is not quite the miraculous process she has imagined it to be, destroy some of her self-confidence, and the girl goes to see her proofs with a little more trepidation than she showed in the studio. Then, liorror of horrors, O Mores can that ugly picture be a re production of her charming features: She loses every ounce of faith iji human nature, calls fire and brim stone down on every one who calls himself a photographer and decides to take the veil, lest people really find out the stark reality of all her blemishes. Those pearly teeth look like those of a relative of the hyena, those smooth, rosy cheeks, are full of most disillusioning wrinkles. There are even traces of a double chin—W'hich is absolutely false— and that mass of burnished goldi It looks like a reproduction of faded straw, and wisps of hay hanging ALPHA CHI ALPHA The articles on this page Wi submitted hi/ the members of ilpha Chi Alpha, Salem’s national journalistic sorority. It is one of the aims of this honorary organi sation to promote interest in the art of creative prose and verse, and to advance the study of the various phases of journalism. IVith this in mind, the members of Alpha ('hi AlpJia hope that the publication of a few of their original compositions at frequent intervals, will aid them in enlarg ing their circle through some in terest created by their •well-mean ing efforts. In the near future, every stti- dent will be given an opportunity to join with the society in f( wardinq this movement ivhich hopes to foster a more universal ecepression of original ideas in Salem College. Active members of the sorority are Margaret Richardson, Kitty Moore, Eli::abeth Marx, Edith Kirkland, and Miss Eli^saheth lAlly, honorary. THINGS I WOULD GIVE I would pray for the key To loosen the shackles of your mind: For a responsive hand to lead yoi To a sunlit valley Where fresh warm winds would Brush your clouded eyes with fra grant w'ings. And trembling waves of happiness Would crush down the barricade Depression has built around y( Tlien could the lovely dreams That lie deep within your eyes, With quivering lips touch your o And awaken once again tlie smile Tliat lights your face like a perfect dawn After a night of rain. I would give to you The range of the world’s blue sky’ To push the clouds where you will With your soft hands—Even Were it vour desire to hide the brilliance Of the sun’s dazzling beauty And wrap your shining body In the dusk of deep night These things would I give to y Who first drew tlie curtain And unveiled for my eyes. The splendor of God’s world DAWN I glimpsed the artist tlirough his picture from afar. His picture through a mist Of rose and green and molten gold. A faint and pulsing glov/ In silence to break Into a glimmering light ’Twas but a glimpse The Artist drew a silken curtain then And hid His picture’s w'onderous beauty from my siglit. girl about to travel alone was 1 not to talk to strange i station the , L'onduetor asked: e are you going?” “To t” she answered, so he put a Detroit tra in. As the 1 :rain out, she la ughed and said ha, I fooled him that t pulled “Ha, hi I’m going to Chicago.” A French magician performs the spectacular feat of making a hoi disappear. That’s nothing, Henry Ford has made thousands of them disappear. on to the cheek. The once proud, now utterly humbled individual, spends a frantic hour trying to de cide which is the best of the proofs, whetlier it is the best likeness or not, finally gives up in despair and chooses the one whidi .hact first stared her in the face, and seeks the privacy of her budoir to find out whose fault the wreck is. some one tell her she would break the camera? It had managed to break her, she would never be the same again. I.ife has too many bit ter disappointments, and things are not what they seem. The search for beauty had only ended in a ] lation of the truth. HANGMAN’S NOOSE No! They had done no wrong. He had taken her life; they were justified in taking his. No, they had done no wrong; they had killed Iiini and they were glad! glad! glad! Even though Minda and her fath- had been two of the queerest per ns they had ever known, they had loved them. But they had loved Minda much more than they had loved her father. Sometliing like a low rumble of thunder broke from their lips as the rope grew taut and his shrivelled lid fingers ceased twitching and no longer retained their hold upon the of paper he had begged them •ead. It was a poem. They all knew that. He always wrote a poem ifter each of his crazy escapades, giving his reasons and explaining in more or less satisfactory way why ; had done thus and so. Several times his poems had been neficial in proving his innocence, it more often they convicted. Usually the people read the poem, but this time they had not. What need was there ? He had killed Min da. They were sure of that. Why only two days before in a sudden but not unusual burst of temper, he liad threatened to do this very thing. Well, he had carried out his threat, and now lie was paying—paying for the life hei had taken—and paying As the mob turned to leave scene of the hanging, the liangi picked up the crumpled bit of paper s.aying as he did so, “Here is justification.” 'fhey mocked him. Justificati Tliev needed none; hadn’t he killed Minda? Of course he had, and “ai eye for an eye—a tooth for a tooth’ was their law. Again they turned to leave. And again the hangman stopped them—this time not with an exultant cry, but with some inartic ulate sound. His face was deathly white. Some one near took the bit of paper from his limp fingers and read the few lines of the poem. A great quiet fell on the crowd. The w’ild excitement of the moments of the hanging had passed. Instead of satisfaction on their faces, there now was fear and pain and under standing. Flow could they have known—even if Minda had been queer, they had never dreamed of her taking her own life. DOUBI.Y DEAB You are so dear to me I can’t forget That moment rapturous when first You had a little dingus on You looked at me so soulfully and said, “I knew my life was incomplite, yet. Until you caught me in your golden The day for me as well is ma That little dingus, I know what it You back, now that you alway: Me pay the bills. And had I known you fed. At such expensive places. I’d hai Our parting. Now I only can regn You are so dear. —M. M. Waterman YAPPING To be or not to be? That is the question! With all due respects to Hamlet, the question concerns that individual who lacking in self-assur- I a ‘yap’ or am I not?” yap Refra ! adequate definition of t So, are “yap.” Quoting: “A ‘Yap’ is one who carries with him the aura of liis own nativity and try tho’ he may, cannot shake it off nor ever loose it.” Now, if 3'ou aren’t one of these crea tures, comp-an-ee at-tenshun, about face and be one! It’s the greatest indoor, outdoor and all time sport, being a “Yap” or “being yourself.” Many a person in tliis present day of pretense and camouflage denies liimself the ultimate pleasure of ex ercising his naturalness. This, by nature, is one’s most becoming pose, cannot be covered up and is forever coming forward, at intervals. The “Yap” is never concealed in a coat of pretended sophistication (the seeming envy of the modern girl). To the observant eye, this creature is recognized in his true value, de spite the war paint, the battle cry, the would-be-RouIffo Parap’ or Vionnets’. Nature is observ-able and can’t be smoothed out. No mortal need to smother a blush because he is a mortal. If cruel truth will out, as W. C. Simms as sures us murder will do, the indi vidual is never noticed. Ali-h-a, liere’s the rub—“Be yourself!” This is a direct challenge to fol low tliat old impulse “to shine.” Tlien get out and go after tliat im pulse, catch up with it and do some thing. But “be yourself.” Where- ever one goes the person’s best re membered are those who indulge in the simplicity of being themselves. Tlien “Be yourself” and you’ll be seen. But just dare pretend and the old adage gets under the coat— all know, “you can fool some of the people, all of the time—etc.” Be yourself. (Another thing about a “Yap”, gentle reader, is that the true “Yap” is usually yapping about mat ters of no consequence. For in stance !) There’s a garden of dreams, where the erepe myrtle swings. And the roses are white in the gloaming. Where the hush of old beauty lies heavy and sweet. Scarce stirred by the winds that are roaming. There a tiny swing hangs from a gnarled old tree, There the larkspur’s a bluepetaled glory; There the gray flagstones lead through a way that is dim. Like a thread to the heart of a There time holds its breath, there shrubs grow to trees. There beauty grows old in its quest- And the garden dreams on in its fragrance-hung calm. Where even the shadows are resting.' —Elisabeth Eggleston. “Electricity—The Ser'vant in the Home” It does the cooking, refrigerating, sweep ing, washing, ironing and other tasks—and does them all more efficiently and with the expenditure of less effort on the part of the housewife than you can imagine. If your home is not thoroughly electrified you are missing much that makes life worth while. SOUTHERN PUBLIC UTILITIES COMPANY
Salem College Student Newspaper
Standardized title groups preceding, succeeding, and alternate titles together.
Oct. 11, 1930, edition 1
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