North Carolina Newspapers

    Page Two.'
Saturday, February 14, 1931.
r Southern Inter-Collegiate
Press Association
J’tiblished Weekly by the Student
Jlridy of Salem College
j!2.00 a Year :: 10c a Copy
Managing Editor ...
Associate Editor ..
Associate Editor ..
Feature Editor
Local Editor
Local Editor
Local Editor
Music Editor
Poetry Editor
Cartoon Editor..Mai
Kitly Moor
Anna Prestoi
Lucy Currie
gnes Paton Pollock
Eleanor Idol
Millicent Ward
argaret Richardson
Elizabeth Holcomb
Marian Caldwell
Business Manager _... Mary Norr
Advertising Mgr. .... Mary Alice Beams
Asst Adv. Mgr Edith Leake
Asst. Adv. Mgr. Frances Caldwell
Asst. Adv. Mgr. ..._ Emily Mickey
Asst. Adv. Mgr. Nancy Fulton
Asst. Adv. Mgr Ann Meister
Asst. Ad. Mgr. ..Elizabeth McClaugherty
Asst. Adv. M"r Lou’ e Brinkley
Asst. .Adv. Mgr. ..._ Daisy litz
Circulation Manager Mtrtba Davis
Asst. Cir. Mgr. Margaret Johnson
Asst. Circulation Mgr Grace Brown
Men give me credit for
genius; but the genius I have
lies in this; When I have a
subject on hand I study it pro
foundly. The effect I make,
they call the fruit of genius;
it is. however, the fruit of la
bor and thought.
- -Alexander Hamilton.
Tell me with whom thou art
found, and I will tell thee who
thou art.
You cannot dream yourself
into a character, you must ham
mer and forge yourself one.
- James Antoni/ Froude.
I wish I had a tail—a really emo
tional one. Mine would have to be
one witli blonde, naturally wavy fur
and a slightly prehensible quality to
emphasize the clinging vine idea.
Consider the possibilities. When
you are regaling your room-mate
with the latest story of your wrongs,
you could stride up and down the
room flailing the air with your tail
and imagining your insulter as
cringing under the blows. Also when
you want to talk back and can’t^ an
ominous but controlled twitching of
said tail would do much toward vent
ing your rage.
In another way a tail, to my mind
would be an infinite asset. When it
is found necessary to squeleh a con
temporary, look at her with the in
personal interest one bestows on a
horned toad or any other addity, say,
“Oh really” in the English way and
dismiss her from the horizon with
a witheringly supereillious wave of
the tail.
A tail would be almost indispen-
sible in the writing of a Salemite ar
ticle. The search for an idea. As
you stalk around the room, the tail
sways meditatively or bangs venom
ously against the desk when the idea
proves particularly obdurant. The
idea appears in sight with a friendly
manner. You write. The tail is
stiff with apprehension. You hunt
for a word as the tail caresses the tip
of your ear thoughtfully. The story
grows. The tail hangs limp. It is
finished! The tail trails clouds of
glory as you marcli in triumph to the
editor’s room. Then like a battle flag
of old, it flaunts its festive colors to
The moon cliild hung over
edge of the great silver moon garden
w'atching the departure of the tiny
moon boats. Every night the tiny
moon boats spread their silver sails
,and launched forth to the land of
men, where the old, old pilots scat
tered moon dust over the eyes of
unseeing people, and every night the
moon child leaned far over into the
darkness and watched the moon
boats glide quietly down the night.
The man in the moon was kind to
his children, and the moon garden
was a lovely place in which to dwell,
but the Moon Child was a discon
tented creature who did not care tc
swing in the moon beams, to build
houses out of moon dust, or ao wade
in the silver fountain as did her
brothers and sisters. Once in her
shortj life, she had glimpsed the
earth. Though the sea of jolly stars
which tumbled over each other and
crowded the night, from her little
perch on the edge of the garden, she
had caught sight of a land of color,
of light, of beauty, and this grand
vision had made her dissatisfied with
her garden of silver sameness. Try
as she might, she could not sit 
placently at the feet of the ma
the moon while he told stories of the
ased-to-be; she could not chase the
silver butterflies through the still,
wliite flowers; she could not laugh
gaily when the fat, old bossy star
tumbled into the fountain; she could
only gaze at the departing moon
hips and dream of the land of i
One night as a moon boat drew
in its anchor and put forth its sails,
the moon child gave one leap from
her perch and landed in the bottom
of the moon boat beneath a pile of
moon dust. The old, old pilot
deaf and almost blind, so, of course
he had not the least idea that he
carried a passenger. Swiftly they
sailed through the darkness leaving
a tliin trail of pale mist in their
wake, and finally they landed upon
a calm, black lake. As the old, old
pilot unloaded his dust, the n
child slid over the edge of the boat
and quietly moved toward the bank.
However, just as she placed one foot
upon the shore of the lake, the big,
wise gold fish, who was juggling a
stray bit of moon dust on his i
beheld the strange figure.
“Now, just who are you, and what
s your mission?” he asked in a big,
wise voice, as he viciously rattled his
fins and made ruffles upon the black
The moon child was so startled
t she nearly fell into the lake, but
she managed to whisper, “I am
moon child, and I have come tc
this land of men.”
“My child,” replied the big,
gold fish, “don’t you know that you
can’t dwell on earth without a soul ?
You are not mortal, you are but a
moon child who can not understand
the speech and ways of man until
you, as man, possess a living soul.
Hop into the tiny moon boat again
and make your way back up the
night to your moon garden. There
is eternal peace and beauty.”
Tlie moon child was so greatly
disappointed w;hen she heard the
big, w'ise gold fish that she could
not keep back a few, cold silver
tears, and when the big, wise gold
fish saw how great was her desire to
dw'ell in the land of men, he prom
ised to help her attain a soul.
“What is in a soul that men should
strive for it—that it should be tlie
one' need for a mortal man?” Anz-
iously cried the moon child. “Tell
me please, so that I may acquire
“A bit of joy, and a bit of sorrow,
a bit of love, and a bit of peace,”
automatically replied the big, wise
gold fish, as if he had often repeated
the contents of man’s soul. “How
ever, remember, my dear, where
these things are found you must dis
cover for yourself. I can tell you
what they are, but you must collect
The moon child immediately start
ed out upon her journey, but before
she had traveled far she hurried
back to tell the big, wise gold fish
that she had nothing in which to
(Continued on Page Four)
The grandfather clock chimed
mid-night. I arose stealthily and
wrapped myself in a long blue
negligee. Then I slipped through
the door and made my way to the
blue divan in the corner and re
clined at my ease. A strange thing
happened. I was no longer the dark,
sallow, rather uninteresting being of
the daylight, instead I was a ravish
ing beauty with hair of misty gold
and eyes of a deep blue black. And
as I lay there, the great glittering
disk of the moon came to the west
window and poured its silver light
over my loveliness. And the man in
the moon leaned over me and be
gan to whisper in my ear. I could
not see his face, but his voice rippled
like wind on still waters. And as I
listened, he told me about all the
affairs of his past, the lovely ladies
he has loved and the ladies, lovely
and otherwise, who have loved him—
until the clock struck one, and the
spell was broken, and the moon
and the man disappeared behind a
The moon is big again tonight and
the midnight hour is at hand. I
shall keep my tryst at the blue divan
and perhaps tonight the man in the
moon will make love to me!
A storm raged outside. The light
ning flashed luridly, leaving the
pauses deathly blank. The beat of
the rain against the glass was sinis
ter. The thunder crashed overhead
as if a giant rolling-pin were trying
to flatten the ridge of the roof. I
sat in the stuffy little waiting-room,
rigid and tense. I had been sitting
so far two hours, waiting for r
from the operating table—just wait
The roof shook under the jar of
the thunder. Tlie lights blinked
and off. From the room across the
narrow hospital corridor came the
shrieks of a woman entering the
shadowed valley.
Dawn from a hill—
Blush pink and cream,
Sky like a shell or a baby’s ear-
Blush pink and cream.
Drowsy little clouds just awake.
Bits of Swan’sdown and fur.
Diamond dew on the hill.
Sparkling, twinkling, changing—
And a sleepy robin’s trill.
Flash of a newborn glory
Soaring from eastern sky.
Path of radiant gold
Blazing and burning nigh,
Rousing a world from night.
Dawn from a hill—
Soft green and gold—
I.aughing and dancing, the morning
Caresses the watching hill—
Soft green and gold.
Burst of a silvery song
Sweeter trill after trill.
Skylark circling into the sun
Dawn from a hill.
Oft’ in the still of the night
We steal far away from the re
And on a lone rock on a hill
My soul and I watch.
We see in the light of the moon
The beautiful dance of our dreams.
And their slim graceful forms sway
then whirl
Then bend with the rapturous
My soul and I tremble with joy
As we watch their white glistenii
And we turn to our God and we S(
That it pleases him to.
In the Realms of Gold
“Much have I traveled in the Realms of Gold”
This week-end w^e will have opportunity to read various and
sundry types of literature—all very new and fascinating. Like
Cortez, with eagle eyes we scan new and uncharted oceans of books,
and it is to be hoped that after intelligent reading of the ones we
choose, we may in truth like him be “silent, upon a peak in Darien.”
The first of our books this week-end is W. Somerset Maugham’s
newest and best—Cakes and Ale. Reading this book is. like
listening to a strangely fascinating song—not light and merely
pretty—in fact, not pretty at all; rather jolly in parts; in parts,
vaguely subtle and intensely realistic and vital. 'There is no su
perficiality; rather a realism of that sometimes rather unpleasant
kind for which Maugham is noted. Taken as a whole, Cakes and
Ale is a book to be read for an understanding, and with that un
derstanding will come a genuine appreciation of the author.
We turn to the Englishmen again, but this time, the one we
choose is in a number of different moods. We pick an enchanting
little red book. Poems, G. K. Chesteron. There is a quality of
utter sincerity and conviction which spontaneously creeps every
where, whether the poem itself be sad, pensive, rather gay and
whimsical, thoughtful, or even one of the somber poems written
about the War. You; will like the collection; it is for you in your
every mood—you’ll like the sincerity of it best of all.
We have a stately book in purple and gold, and many things you
will learn if you delve therein. Its title is Weaves and Draperies,
and its contents range from rich Far East draperies to the delicate
French Renaissance ones, from our friend, plain cotton, to volup
tuous cloth of gold and on to superb Gobelin tapestries, and then
to our delightfully unexpected modernistic weaves and draperies.
All are microscopically analysed, and what you don’t know about
them now, you will know—fear not—if your roving hand and
eager eye fall upon this volume. In addition there are countless
illustrations of them all—vivid, and unusual.
Another book leaves the prolific Galsworthian mind and pen,
and the world at large, and, we in particular, receive the best
seller—On Forsyte ’Change.. To quote Galsworthy himself, we
understand that this novel is more or less of an afterthought, but
you who read the book will in no wise agree with him. It is de
lightful, unusual, but with the unfailing Galsworthian charm, and
the familiar eccentric Forsytes—bound all together into a great
novel On Forsyte ’Change.
Calces and Ale—William Somerset Maugham.
Poems—G. K. Chesterton.
Weaves and Draperies.
On Forsyte ’Change—John Galsworthy.
There is a peculiar fever wliieh
attacks those who are approaching
the time of exit from the sequestered
nooks of their Alma Mater into the
wide open spaces of the cruel world,
in order there to win their daily
bread. If psychologists could find
a cure for the malady, they would be
the benefactors of humanity. The
cases do not Iiave to be diagnosed—
timor de incognito—might be as
scientific a name as any, and the
symptoms are seen in a desperate
effort to write as many and as per
fect letters as possible, to any man
or woman wlio might have the re
motest connection with a school sys
tem, and to join anything which calls
itself a Teachers’ Agency. We, the
poor victims of the disease, spend
sleepless nights wondering how we
can stretch twenty-one hours of edu
cation to meet the requirements of
every state, and devote other aeons
of time, wondering whether there has
been anything with which we have
come in contact during our college
course which might be classified as
“Library Science,” “R h e t o r i e,”
“Speech Defect,” or whether two •
years of Physical Education would
justify us in listing boxing, wrest
ling, foot-bal! and track as subjects
which we could teach with equan
imity. These are not the only items
of a doubtful nature. There is al
ways the question of whether we
should list ourselves as interested in
college, high school or private school
work, whether we would like to be a
President, preceptress, a head mas
ter, dean, or just an ordinary teach
er, and then we have to decide the
weighty question of whether we can
best express our personality in a
platoon school or in an open window
system! O, for the days of the lit
tle red school-house, with “readin’,
writin’, and ’rithmetic.”
Application blanks are thought
less, cruel monsters in a peaceful
world. We think that we have set
tled the questions of the universe and
■lave forgotten about them, and then
thc3f ^'Ome and ask -mpertinent ques
tions about our age—as if anybody
(0!)]d be interested whether wo first
saw H'.’ Irglit of day before or after
the Civil War. There is one page
wfiich must have been left out from
the volume of application materijl —
at least we fail to see why suth in
formation would no„ be invaluafcie to
the prospective employer. After we
liave been- eateciuzcd about our place
and time of birth, we are quite ready
to impart some information about the
status quo of our family both physi
cally and mentally. We tliink it
should be of great value to the su
perintendent to know whether we
are subject to hereditary insomnia or
insanity. Thinking back over our
childhood brings back tlie memory ,
of so many eseapedes and such var
ious companions, that we do not un
derstand why we should not be ask
ed to tell the character of our
friends, in order that the school au
thorities—we hope the gentle reader
has realized that all this pertains to
the art of pedagogy—the school au
thorities, we said, might decide to
what company we are accustomed
and whether we will set a worthy
example to the youth of the town.
There should also be questions as to
how we spend our leisure time, so
that we may be counted upon always
to stay in the path of wisdom and
continue our pursuit—and what a
pursuit it has been—of knowledge,
and mostly of education.
Oh, it were time that one of those
blanks brought in some evidences of
usefulness—but no! the mail box is
empty again. Apparently we are the
only people who take application
blanks seriously.
I may not have brains
But that’s not so bad
Because I have known people who
had . . . and—oh, well . . .
I may lack a lot of qualities rare,
Can’t say I’m original, or the least
But one thing I have got—
I’ve got red hair!

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