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Saturday, November 8, 1930;
,tfntiher Southern Inter-Collegiate
V,\jblishftd Weekly by the Student
flody of Salem College
$2.00 a Year :: 10c a Copy
ALPHA CHI ALPHA
Editor-in-Chief Edith Kiri
Managing Editor Daisy Lee Carson
Associate Editor Sara Grai
Associate Editor Kitty Moore
Feature Editor Anna Preston
Local Editor Lucy Cui
Local Editor Agnes Paton Pollock
Local Editor Eleanor Idol
Music Editor Millicent Ward
Poetry Editor Margaret Richards
Cartoon Editor. Mary Elizabeth Holcomb
Reporter Marian Caldwell
Business Manager Mary Not
Advertising Mgr. .... Mary Alice Bearr
Asst. Adv. Mgr Edith I^ake
Asst. Adv. Mgr Frances Caldwell
Asst. Adv. Mgr Emily Mickey
Asst. Adv. Mgr Nancy Fult(
Asst. Adv. Mgr Ann Meist
Asst. Ad. Mgr. ..Elizabeth McClaugherty
.■\.sst. Adv. Mjr Louise Brinkley
Asst. Adv. Mgr Daisy Lit
Circulation Manager Mrtha Davi
Asst. Cir. Mgr Margaret Johnsoi
Asst. Circulation Mgr Grace Browi
THE SILVER THREAD
'J%(; slender, silver thread that
held the world is broken, and the
spinning ball whirls away from the
brink whereon I stand, leaving only
breathless moment hanging nto spa
Sharp lights, grey skyline, towers of
white marble piercing a deep blue of
shadows, loom in the distance a:
earth turns slower and slower upon
its onyx a.xle. Across the void floats
the cries of confused people that
rush madly over a heaving surface
of valleys, mopntains, mud and dust
—clutching little gods of wood and
silver to their breasts—tumbling ov
er each other in their haste to reach
the region of the darker shadows.
I am not sad because I am left
behind in this silence that throbs
with pain. I was rather tired of
being jostled bj that wild-eyed
crowd who mixed their pleasure
and their sorrow as they mixed their
wine, but until today I did not know
how weary one could be. I did not
feel the lonliness of that tree strip
ped bare by ruthless autumn, stand
ing penciled against a burning sky,
until today. Yesterday I could have
entered in the race, and laughing
with the wind, could have outstrip
ped that surging mass . , . today I
am faint and weak. Yesterda
could ha\c wrinkled the brow;
their grey'-bearded philosophers
today finds me unknowing and
afraid—Yet I am infinitely wiser ,
Until today I did not know that y(
could break that slender sih'i
Santa Fe. The very name
jures up visions of covered wagons
and “caballeros,” Indians and dash
ing “senoritas.” It lies in a eup of
the cactus covered desert, a strange
medley of modern times and tlie old
Indian and Spanish Villa. Creamy
tan, thick walled 'dobf casas and
false-fronted atrocities stand side by
side. At the head of the main street
is thi- cathedral of Wiila Gather’
Deaili Comes for the Archbishop, a
heavy romanesque building, startling-
ly unlike the rest of the city—a
In tlie streets sluiffle wrinkled
Indian men witli vivid blankets zig-
zag(‘d witli red, flung over their
shoulders showing faded blue jeans
bele-v\-. Cowboys clank alonfjj in
higli heeled lioots, enormous spurs,
gaudy shirts and worn sombreros.
Black clad Mexican women ch;itter
to each otlu r. Fat women in knick
ers, gaudily bedecked with Indian
jewelry and eostiinies from Fifth
Avenue, add a final cosmopolitan
touch as they wander tliroiigh the
shops or sto)) to see a Spanish
dancer in the plaza.
Over this, a red mountain and an
intense blue sky watch undisturbed,
as they did in tlie days when Santa
Fe was a quiet Indian pueblo.
r.ife of man may be compared to
vari-eolored toy automobiles that are
wound by the gentle liand of God.
A Human Life is a toy automo
bile, wound by (iod’s hand, and
placed on the eartli, His carpet.
From this .spot tlie automobile starts,
and follows its own course according
to the dictates of its Original Being.
At first it goes along its journey,
speedily running in circles. Some
times it ha])pens that it is wound
too tightly, it tries to break all speed
limits, and consequently bumps into
a chair, a table leg, or a wall. Tlien
irns in another direction and
starts again jerkily, jumpily, hesi
tatingly. After a while it picks up
former pace and proceeds speed
ily on its course, wandering aimless-
'y heri' and there.
And voices clearly sweet through
And far.’iway the evening bell
Peals softly out across the quiet
Wiiere tlie.se men have their life,
tiu ir woe and weal;
Dusk sinks; and all is well.
As quielj calm U])on the village fell.
Came clear upon the air the vesper
While up above in deep sky, a
Peeps o’er the silent hill.
Higli on the wings of air their voi(
As hymns of praise to their O'
(lod they sing—
't’liese simple folk—
'I’heir lowlv peace-filled homes t
I'or through the day that may
dark or light
Tin V bear their yoke.
And up above the simple, lowly
(Jod hears their prayers and humble
He spreads His liands
O’er all the little village nestled
Among the mountains looming bare
And high above the lands.
He guards their quiet town as still
Their God for bounteous, fruitful
And as they wend their way to eheer-
Through winding paths in deepn’ing
The vesper bell still clearlv calls.
WHO ARE THEY?
For your own sake and mint
hope you will never meet me, because
you would be disillusioned, and I
hate disillusioned people. This is
n to r
e to sei
(I s])lit the infinitive intention.ally
to ecrrect the fatal error you have
made in thinking me semi-intelli-
They (I’ve never met them, but
I intend to someday with murder in
my eye and a can-opener in my hand
to ri'p the bungling, careless devils
up the back.’ cut me o«t with fin
gernail sissors—my nose turns up,
my hair kicks uj5 in a most undig-ni-
fied way and my chin curls up to
meet my upper lip. The nail sissors
broke before they got my hands and
feet, and they used the bhmt ends to
slash out; the awkward things. They
used shears on my mouth and shoul
ders and made them too broad, and
then they chopped up what .should
have been my personality and tied
the shreds in untidy knots aroiuid
the bad qualities they bestowed on
I'm" disagreeable and ill-tempered
and morbid and disgustingly sensi
tive, and I hate you for agree with
This is not a personal description,
because one can’t personally describe
hot air and sham and bluff, and they
created me solely to give those words
a tangible background; it is not a
character sketch, because I have no
character. I’m not going to tell you
what it is because I’m tired of talk
ing to you.
What kind of animal are you any
how if you have never been in
after-the-announcement of mid-i
mester grades humor like mine?
are in one now, look in the m
and see if you don’t look to
just as I look to me, and
and help me curse them because they
did it all.
IF WE’D ONLY UNDER
Could we, as He of old, find the
That hides the inner souls of one
And see the naked heart and spirit.
Yet know the inner train of thought,
Often we would find it purer,
Dearer than we’d ever planned.
And we’d love each other better
Because we’d really understand.
How we judg-e each other harshly
Knowing not life’s hidden force,
Knowing not the stream of action
Is less turblent at its source.
Seeing not amid the slimy mire
Many, many golden grains of sand;
For we’d love each other better
If we’d only understand.
—Daisy Lee Carson.
iwn, jumps and almost
stops; only to be rewound. After
ward it proceeds smoothly, steadily
moderately, no longer aimlessly on ;
iw planned journey.
The toy cars that are not rewound
by the liand of God finally rur
n, and stop—some halfway
e over half-way across the room
their span of life. Many never starl
tlie spot whereon they wert
first placed. But the toy automo
biles that are wound again by the
God always cross the room^ success
fully, and at the end stand triumph-
the other side.
A CHINESE TEMPLE
As the doors of the inner cliamb
slowly opened, and the glimmering
idol appeared in view, the exotic, al
luring odors of burning incense
wrapped themselves around our bod
ies. One delicate whiff bespoke of
soft^ jasmine and yellow springtime.
Another spicy, pungant whisp made
us dream of Arabian nights and
strange, enticing maidens. A frag-
ant odor of lilacs and iris breathed
of its French origin. Creeping in
from no where and leaving in its
path a breath of spring in Japan, a
fresh scent of young, sweet cherry
blossoms floated around our heads.
P’nihraeing all these aromas, yet not
over-powering them, was the dreamy
soothing perfume of a Manchurian
garden — - Chinesi^ forget-me-nots
igled with the faint fragrance of
Minosa blossoms and the fresh scent
lulberry leaves. As the doors of
inner shrine closed softly and
the glimmering idol disappeared
from view, the delightful little odors
crept back into their small pots and
--Mary Virginia Pendergraph
In the Realms of Gold
“Much have I traveled in tie
A splendid way to travel is to “go places” with men who “do
tilings”—big things. Somehow, the places have an added glamour
when they are seen through the eyes of a real interpreter.
Shall we be good scouts, and fearbssly enter the Jungle with
William Beebe? We’ll tramp for miles and revel in luxuriant
beauty and leave it to William to kill all the lions. Tlie monkeys,
w'hom William calls “An Old-time people,” will especially interest
us with their antics and chattering. Beebe, insists on giving them
a human interpretation. Jungle Days by William Beebe is a re.al
ticket for a week-end jaunt with adventure guaranteed.
l''or those of us who love our adverture safe and sound, Chris
topher Morley offers an exciting but harmless week-end in and
about \ew York. Forty-Four Essays will take us on a breathless
tour everywhere from the Broad Street Station to the Home for
Friendless Canines. We’ll ride Morley’sBoil-roaster and listen to
him chat about—well, cabbages and kings. There’s no question about
it, the week-end with Morley will be fun galore and profitable
Being very mundane and quite human, we’ll need a good, solid
sandwich for our week-end. Bertha Conde’s Business of Being a
Friend is real food for thought and just the riglit size. The little
essay is a serious one, for its subject is very serious. It is a recipe
for making and keeping friends, a sort of conduct guide. Miss
(;onde refuses to root friendship anywhere save in God, but, rooted
thus, she believes it will grow in any soil.
A week-end visit will certainly interest some of us. How
abouti a trip to Germany to spend the day with Beethoven? Ro-
main Holland has given an intimate portrait of the man and his
work in Beethoven the Creator. He lias .succeeded in making the
musician visible through his words; he has made the mu-sie nearly
audible, too. Mu.sicians and would-be’s will find real experience
in this book.
Tiien, saving the best for the last, we who revel in romance
will S])end our time with a great romancer. Louise Schutz Boas has
made Sir Walter Scott available in her Great Rich Man, The
Ramanir of Sir JValter Scott. It is exceedingly interesting and
it answers the ‘Is it true?' with a decided affirmative. Scott’s own
career is as intriguing as his own imaginative romances, and the
sweetness and audacity of his character rivals those of his most
Beebe, William—Jungle Days.
Morley, Christopher—Forty-Four Essays.
Conde, Bertha—The Business of Being a F'riend.
Holland, Romain—Beethoven the Creator.
Boas, Louise—A Great Rich Man.
I like to watch running water as
it moves w^ith perfect ease and non
chalance along the way which is
marked for it by the bed of the
stream. Anyone might wish for its
ability' to take things as they are
and find amusement and pleasure in
them all. At one moment the water
may be leaping over steep rocks and
easting a silver spray into the air,
while nt another it lies idly in some
cool spring and rests before entering
upon another series of jumps and
Last Sunday in tlie heart of a quiet
valley, I w'atched a tiny brook as it
rippled and came toward me. Some
of the water seemed eager to plav':
and was careful to ihit tjie rox-k.s
which jutted up in its path, while '
some was inclined to take a less
strenuous course, and swept slowly
along near the bank where it might
M'ander at leisure in and out of quiet
nooks and inlets which lay unheeded
by the more boisterous traveler.
Finally the brook assumed a com
plete change of appearance, for the
owner of the land liad built a small
dam near by, and had thus provided
himself with a lovely pond where
water lilies bloomed, and sparkling
goldfish darted here and there. The
sides were lined with rocks, and be-'
yond them lay a neat gravelled path,
along which inviting stone benches
had been placed at various intervals,
As the water glistened in the sun
light, it seemed to speak an eloquent
tongue to whisper of the joyous sur
prise which it was experiencing at
being a part of this new' found
splendor of which it had never
dreamed as it wound down the moun
tain side in its shallow course.
Here wai a world of other- water
with depth and breadth, whicli re
quired time foW investigation. I
imagined different ciirrents hurry
ing along on top of and underneath
the surface, intent upon travelling
over every inch of the new found
domain, and finally reaching the top
of the dam smoothly and the stream
b e d below with a triumphant
“splash!” How glad they were to
make a noise once more; such splen
dor was fine for a while, but it
could not give the same satisfaction
to running waters that came with
their return to a narrow winding
brook where they might sing and
leap for joy.
Streams have human qualities
which appear quite clearly to me. In
looking at one of them I can find
joy, light heartcdness, beauty, smiles,
energy, love of adventure, and long
ing for quiet. All these are in tl'ie
song that it sings, the mov'ement.s
that it makes, and the picture that' it
forms as I look wonderingly upon
it thinking that I have never seen a
in the west.
Of a silver sheen,
And the world is mine tonight!
I’ll dance and play
I’ll swing and sway.
And I’ll laugh in my delight.
I'll pluck a bloom
With its faint perfume.
To twine in my midnight hair.
I’ll catch a moth
By its frail wings soft.
Then I’ll laugh and leave it there.
I’ll bow to the dawn
On tile glistening lawn,
And sing a lighter lav,
Till th * sun’s bright blaze
Sc.atters mist and haze—
Then I’ll fly at break of day.
or a lone star in the west,
or a frosty night
or leaves that rustle in the scrawny
boughs of oaks,
Father - ^ I thank Thee.
For the flaming sky of evening
For the stealthy approach of dark
For the black silhouette of branches
against the twilight.
Father! — I thank Thee.