Newspapers / Salem College Student Newspaper / Nov. 15, 1930, edition 1 / Page 2
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Page Two. THE SALEMITE Saturday, November, 15, 1930. The Salemite .i-/iunher Southern Inter-Collegiate Press Association I’ublishftd Weekly by the Student l!i)dy of Salem College SUBSCRIPTION PRICE !/!2.00 a Year 10c a Copy EDITORIAL STAFF Editor-in-Chicf Edith Kirkland Managing Editor Daisy Lee Carson Associate Editor Sara Graves Associate Editor Kitty Moore Feature Editor Anna Preston Local Editor Lucy Cun Local Editor Agnes Paton Pollock Local Editor Eleanor Idol Music Editor Millicent W( Poetry Editor Margaret Richardson Cartoon Edltor..Mary Elizabeth Holcom' Reporter Marian Caldwell BUSINESS STAFF Business Manager Mary Norris Advertising Mgr, .... Mary Alice Beamar Asst. Adv. Mgr Edith Leake Asst. Adv. Mgr Frances Caldwell Asst. Adv. Mgr Emily Mickey Asst. Adv. Mgr Nancy Fulton Asst. Adv. Mgr Ann Meistt Asst. Ad. Mgr. ..Elizabeth McClaugherty Asst. Adv. Mojr Loui.^ie Brinkley Asst. Adv. Mgr Daisy Lit! Circulation Manager Martha Davii Asst. Cir. Mgr Margaret Johnson Asst. Circulation Mgr Grace Brown LITTLE THOUGHTS FOR TODAY Friendship is an education. It draw.s tlie friend out of him self and all that is selfish and ignoble in him and leads him to life’.s higher levels of al truism and sacrifice. Many a man has bsen saved from a life of frivolity and emptiness to a career of noble .service by find ing at the critical hour the right kind of friend. Lo knov It c It never grows weary, nothing a sacrifice. Its highest joy is in self-surrender. It gives gladly. It accepts reluc tantly. Better, it says, to wear out in .self-forgetting toil than to live long in complacent self-indulgence. FROM FIREFLIES Light is young, the ancient light shadows are of the moment, they are born old. I miss the meaning of my own part in the play of life because I know not of the parts that other play. My songs are to sing that I have loved Thy singing. The departing night’s one kiss on the closed eyes of morning glows in the star of dawn. In love I pay my endless debt to thee for what thou art. The pond sends up its Ij its dark in lillies, and the sun says, they take the flame by The wind tries only to blow The weak can be terrible because they try furiously to ap pear strong. Migratory songs wing from mj and .seek their nests in your voice You live alone and unrecompensed because they are afraid of yc great worth. THOUGHTS WHILE SITTING (With Apologies) Suppressed desires aren’t good for one—I’d better go jump in those piles of leaves after all. Young faculty members who ride by swell cars—and wave. I can remi ber not so far back when they too were poor walking girls .... Irene McAnnally looks like Greta 1 ho ... . Tlie malicious blankness of an empty mail box—blessed ar they who expect nothing, for the shall not be disappointed .... Di Willoughby was the first woman t attend the University of Virginia— she ought to have a deep sympathy for our co-ed.s .... Dorotliy Tbomp son wore curls down lier back as ; Freshman—and sometimes a hair- ribbon .... The vine on the north wall of Main is like a smear of dried blood—and a Cardinal flashing by is a thread of bright beauty .... Wlio would ever suspect that the present dignified seniors were sc ruly as Freshmen that the Student Council deemed it wise to keep them on strict probation till the thii-teenth of January?—a class witli a past . Sue Jane Mauney went to Agne Scott her first year and was consider ed the most innocent, childlike Freshman there .... The superi ity of red soup over green . . Some people can wear a beret, others can’t—lots do ... . Dr. Rondthaler hates picture show.s—with a purple jiassion .... Mr. Vardell once took the part of Blue beard in an amateur circus .... Tlie distinct humilia tion of sitting down nonchalantly or the arm of a chair while practice teaching—and having the chair slip out from under you .... Societ Hall is the ugliest building on th campus—but perhaps tlie ha]ipiest . . . Mrs. Higgins, when in college was a pupil of Mr. Higgins—girls, there are two bachelor professors left .... Eleanor Idol, when High School, won the prize for writing the best play in tlie state . . I wonder if Liz A.llen, the populai May Queen, ever got mad? . . . O for hair like Edith Kirkland’s- it would be so convenient to teai in moments of perturbation .... 1 wonder liow' many 'jitudents have ever read the talilet on the front of the Sisters’ House commemorating George Washington’s visit to Salem . . . . Just thirty-nine days til Christmas Holidays — tomorrow there will be thirty-eiglit .... Be lieve it or not—the fro.st is on the punkin now—and the fodder’s in the shock .... The place is getting sissy—Anna Preston plays with a baby doll .... The golden appeal of a toasted pimento-cheese sand wich—I’d best amble over and un- suppress that desire .... A CORNER IN VERSE Rose dark the solemn sunset Tliat liolds my thoughts of thee With one star in the heavens Anel one star in the sea. On high no lamp is lighted Nor where the long waves flow, Save the one star of the eveing ■And the shadows far below'. Light of my life, the darkness Comes with the twilight dream. Thou art the bright star shining And I but the shadowy gleam. —Richard Golden. BLIND GIRL If daylight should fail And I go blind With only the garden That grows in my mind I’m half afraid Of what I’d find. It’s true I have given Spring by Spring My heart to the rose But remembering May be a very bitter thing. Who spokei of the rose She hadn’t seen; But hers was a garden Evergreen. WEEK-END TRAVEL In the Realms of Gold “Much have I traveled in the realms of gold.” Where shall we go this week-end into the realms of gold? All the world lies invitingly before us, and the far-away realms are sometimes the easiest to come to. Emily Dickson says truly: “Tliere is no frigate like a book to take us lands away—” We may go back to Herod’s great palace at .lerusalem, dur ing the Feast of the Tabernacle and be spectators of that brief and intense drama, Herod, A Tragedy. Only Stephan Phillips could portray with such moving power the ruthlessness, the colossal conceit of Herod and his fiend love for Marianjie, the queen, the last of the Macabees. In Walter Neimann’s Brahms, we find a most sympathetic and enlightening treatment of that great master of music, who, hungry for the common joys of life, was yet possessed by a great dream and was therefore compelled to walk in lemeliness and suffering of the fellowship of the immortals. Certain People is a collection of six new stories by Edith Wharton, widely diverse in character, feeling, and sentiment, but alike in richness of color and in understanding of sympathy for humanity. Mrs. Wharton’s range includes Nora Fremay, vainly attempting to free herself from the bonds of her deadening life and to go to her sick lover; two senile titans of New York society; the i.sland of Cyprus in medieval times; and murder in an African desert. Here, surely, there is no lack! Emil Ludwig has chosen for his latest study three great ar tists of the past: Michelangelo, Rembrandt, and Beethoven. Be- cause he conceives of them as figures who were “More than men— less than gods—Titans, who accepted battle with the Gods”, he has called these impressive sketches Three Titans. I,udwig not only interprets for us the mystery of the lives and works of these men, but he points out significantly the one-ness of all art and the similarities in temperment and in the destiny of these creative giants. I At the Sign of the Lion is a slender little volume from the Masher Press, containing five short and exquisitely beautiful es says; by Hilaire Belloc. Simply to list some of the titles, such as “The Autumn and the Fall of Leaves,” “On Sacramental Things” and “On Coming to An End” may indicate to those who know something of the “wonder and wild desire” to be found in Mr. Belloc, tlie pleasure that may be found here. This is a book to restore the mind and soul and enable one to ri'turn from tlie week-end of travel in books with the feeling that here, truly, is enchanted land. Herod, A Tragedi/ Stephan Phillips Brahins ! Walter Neimann Certain People Edith Wharton Three Titans Emi! I.uelwig At the Sign of the Lion Hilaire Belloc Anthology of College Verse to be Published Students Are Invited to Submit Poetry A reeent notice lias been received which may interest a few members of the student body. For the am bitious college student this offers an excellent ojijiortunity to “break into print.” It is hoped that this an nouncement will not be hastily read and east aside, Init that it will incite some to serious thinking and creative efforts. “A new anthology of American college verse will be published in May, 19.31, by Harper and Brothers, it has been recently announced the ])ublishcrs. The book will sist solely of poetry written students attending college during the 1930-.31 college year. It will be ed ited by Miss Jessie C. Ueheler, Ran- dolph-Maeon, ’29 and Columbia Uni versity of ’;jo. All students, either undergraduate or graduate, attending any college during the current year, are invited to submit poems for inclusion in the 'anthology. The verses will be .se lected for publication solely upon their literary merit, it was announc ed. If the venture is a success it is expected that it may become an annual affair. The verses may be written upon any subject, but must be limiterl to fifty lines or less. Students w'ishing to make contributions should mail their manuscripts to Anthology of College Verse, care of E. F. Sa.xton, Harper & Bros., IQ East 33 Street, New York City. Ajl contributions must be.in the publishers’ hands by December 10, 1930. —Vivian Laremore. PRAYER - 0 God, today I cannot pray, I cannot say. “Our Father—” 1 do not need a greater pra}'er; . I need a greater soul O God, another day I’ll pray “Our Father—” LIKE KILDEER’S CRYING Tonight I lost my heart’s whole I could not find you any’way’ I turned. Even your sw'ift impetuous words that burned Into my mind, w’cre cold and palely blue.' With the small death that any frail Within a moment, oh, too profound for them. The dusk was velvet, bending Like nJ crushed flower, soft and April sweet. When suddenly, out where half lights edge gray air, A Kildeer lifted from a glassy pond, St eking the shadows of the field be- Flying and crying w'ith a wild de- I lost you then. My thoughts like kildeers flew Over a bridge pond where tlay was dying; The dusk held notliing save their lonely crying And nothing matters—neither love SALEM STATION What Mecca is to the Moham- medanSj Salem Station ,*is to the Salemites. Umimposing, wcflther- bcaten, and altogether battered as it ir years it has sheltered the chief interest in the daily life of Salem College—that is, the chief interest aside from three ratlur important daily meetings. When a Salemite is in distress of any sort, where docs she turn first? To the post office. There is always the hope that it may relieve her anxiety or her fears. If she, on the other liand, is happy and glad, what ])lace makes her even more happy? Of course, it is the po.st office. Iler first waking thoughts deal i of mail! Her last thouglit at night is “I ought to get a letter from Harry to-mor row, and maybe he’ll ask me down to the finals; and 1 will probably get a note from Mary telling me all about her wei kend at Annapolis.” On Wednesdays her theme song runs something like this: “My per mission is due to-day. What in the w'orld will I do if it doesn’t come? Mercy! I hope there’s a cheek along with it!” And all this thinking centers around one lowly building— the post office. There are, you know, post office s and post offices, but there are not two Salem Stations. The original is a sample copy, a one-of-a- kind, and it cannot be duplicated. A w'cary Salemite will trudge through wind, sleet, and rain to reach the dusty doors of Salem Sta tion when nothing under high heaven could drag her from her own cosy room and box of chocolates. There is then, a certain magnetism about a ])ost office w'hich no other build ing—no matter how grand and im posing it may be— can ever possess. Perhaps, the awe-ins])iring letters gilded on the front of the door have something to do with the popularity of the place. There they stand in solitary splendour—“U. S.” Wheth er theirs is the charm that attracts or whether the merit lies altogether elsewhere, we cannot say. Through these same dusty doors, packages pour in every day. There are soft packages and hard pack ages; little packages and big pack ages ; square ones and oblong ones— each bearing a magic superscription I will b Ing n e .loy ti HAPPINESS AND FAITH Talk happiness. The w'orld is sad Enough without your w'oe. No path is wholly rough Look for the places that are smooth and clear, Anel speak of them to rest the weary Ones of earth: so hurt by one con tinuous strain Of mortals discontent and grief and Talk faith. The world is better off without Your uttered ignorance and morbid If you have faith in God,, or man, or self. Say so; if not, push back upon the shelf of silence. All your thoughts till faith shall particular Salemite than anything else in all collegedom. And letters ciune there, too. There are especial ly the formal-looking letters that in vite one to church suppers, to Cousin Cecelia’s wedding, and to store openings (the latter, I regret to say, are almost always received with jirofound disgust). Girls crowd into the,^ post office, and wait in groups here and there. Each brow is anxiously wrinkled as its owner peers excitedly at a certain little square piece of glass through w'hich are reflected—or not, as the ease may be—the intriguing little mis sives that have a charm all their own. One girl elarts forward and nervously spins her dial with the result that the perfectly maddening little door refuses to budge an inch. Next time, she is more careful, and the same little eloor opens and yields its treasure into her waiting hands. Another girl waits and waits until the benign old postmaster says “It’s all put up now. Miss.” She goes out somewhat disheartened for the time being, but is the first to return in eager anticipation of the next de livery. And the story goes on and The old post office guards its story jealousy, and only its own bricks and mortar could tell of the little dreams of joy and sorrow, of sur prise and fulfillment, that daily they see and hear. They could tell this little story better than I, but who are we to take their own from them? SUMMER WINDS I.ike summer winds that swiftly play Their pine tree waters. While forest voices, murm’ring low. Breathe reverent, sweet amens. So you, with loving fingers, touch My hearts long silent strings— And all the world with music thrills. And life forever sings. HSi
Salem College Student Newspaper
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Nov. 15, 1930, edition 1
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