Page Two.
THE SALEMITE
Saturday, February 28, 1931.
MU'.ttiher Southern Inter-Collegiate
Press Association
V\j*ilishfid Weekly by the Student
Iliidy of Salem College
SUBSCRIPTION PRICE
352.00 a Year :: 10c a Copy
EDITORIAL STAFF
Editor-in-Chief Edith Kirkland
Managing Editor Daisy Lee Carson
Associate Editor Sara Graves
Associate Editor Kitty Moore
Feature Editor Anna Preston
Local Editor Lucy Currie
Local Editor Agnes Paton Pollock
Local Editor J-ljanor Idol
Music Editor Millicent Ward
Poetry Editor Margaret Richardson
Cartoon Editor..Mary Elizabeth Holcomb
Reporter Marian Caldwell
BUSINESS STAFF
Business Manager Mary Norris
Advertising Mgr. .... Mary Alice Beaman
Asst. Adv. Mgr Edith Leake
Asst. Adv. Mgr. Frances Caldwell
Asst. Adv. Mgr. Emily Mickey
Asst. Adv. Mgr Nancy Fultor
Asst. Adv. Mgr Ann Meister
Asst. Ad. Mgr. ..Elizabeth McClaugherty
Asst. Adv. M'-r. Lou' e Brinkley
Asst. Adv. Mgr D sy Litz
Circulation Manager M.rtha Davis
Asst. Cir. Mgr. Margaret Johnson
Asst. Circulation Mgr Grace Brown
ALPHA CHI ALPHA
THOUGHTS ON SPRING BLOOD ON THE MOON
THOUGHTS FOR THE
DAY
“ A little thought will some
times prevent you from being
discontented at not meeting
with the gratitude which you
have expected. If you were
only to measure your expecta
tions of gratitude by the ex
tent of benevolence which you
have expended, you would sel
dom have occasion to call peo
ple ungrateful.”
—Arthur Helps.
“Consider the postage stamp,
my son. It secures success
through its ability to stick to
one thing till it gets there.”
—Josh Billings.
“The more you say, the less
people remember. The fewer
the words, the greater the
—Fenelon.
FROM FIREFLIES
Life’s play is swift,
Life’s playthings fall behind c
by one and are forgotten.
Life’s errors cry for the merciful
beauty
that can modulate their isolation
into a harmony with the whole.
Clouds are liills in vapour,
hills are clouds in stone,—
a phantasy in time’s dream.
While (iod waits for His temple to
be built of love,
men bring stones.
In the bounteous time of roses love
it is food in the famished hour
when their petals are shed.
The shade of my tree is for passers-
by,
its fruit for the one for whom I
Flushed with the glow of sunset
earth seems like a ripe fruit
ready to be liarvested by night.
—Tagore.
Spring is here! I saw the first
crocus the other day, just peeping
above the ground and I knew that
spring was on the way, and
that I have seen a whole bed of
daffodils, I am sure that it is 1
What is there about a perfectly
blue sky, wonderful sunshine, first
flowers, and the song of birds that
quickens the step and makes us i
to throw out the chest, breathe deep
ly, and run, run, RUN on forever
I think is must be a new conscious
ness of life, a sense of new be
nings and with that an almost
conscious, and certainly an u:
tered, desire to share the new life
and become heir to its promises.
In spite of the fact that I ap
preciate winter and admire its dazz
ling white beauty, I do get tired of
wearing rubbers, and buttoning my
overcoat. In contrast, spring seems
to be a process of liberation in which
I can shake off the heavy old wraps,
and start out with new freedom and
exhilaration. Perhaps, wraps
not the only impedimenta I might
leave behind, many unpleasant old
thoughts get in the way and prevent
me from appreciating the beauty of
a new day, just as the coat seems
to keep me from getting the full
benefit of fresh air. I want to be
free — free — free from annoying
problems, free from binding sched
ules, free—free from everything,
and I want to go far away. It does
not matter much, where, but I think
I should like to fly over land and
sea and arrive at some lonely mi
tain top from which I could survey
the world. Below I would be able
to see villages with tiny curls of
smoke rising from the chimneys, fur
ther beyond the vas't expanse of
white-capped ocean waves with a
steamer disappearing just below the
horizon, and if I look behind me
I would see lofty snow-clad moun
tain peaks which would make me
glad that my own little spot was
green and warm just then. There I
should like to stay with violets and
snowdrops all around, listening to
the lark singing far above, watching
the fleecy white clouds in the blue
sky, and being thankful just to be
SIDELIGHTS ON SKY
SCRAPERS
You’ve no idea how peculiar it is
to be the Public Library. I’m the
only three story building on( the
Avenue. Empire States to the right
of me, Chrysler Buildings to the left,
while I squat in the middle and
squint up at them.
There are a good many compen
sations though. A while back there
was the most deadly sort of jealousy
between them. First the Lincoln
Building was the tallest in the world.
Then the Chrysler sprouted a peak
and a flagstaff and the Lincoln’s
tower was quite out of joint. Its
windows fairly glittered with wrath
whenever it thought of the outrage.
Next the Empire State took thought
and added a floor or so to its stature.
The dispossed lords of creation
united in loathing that ruler. Re
cently though, after much persuasion
on my part, they are all on speaking
I am “Gran” to all the buildings
in my vicinity and of all the prob
lems they bring to me to solve! One
of the Lefcourts has hiccups in its
radiators. The paint on the Radi
ator Building’s nose is peeling off.
Several are troubled by people jump
ing out of their windows. And worst
of all the Chrysler Building has a
tap-dancer on its forty-sixth floor
who has given it an itch right
where it can’t scratch!
From the depths of my wisdom—I
forget how many volumes I have—
I advise them over or around or
through their difliculties. Then when
they are all solved, I settle my lions,
shoo oif my pigeons, and sleep.
“There’s blood on the moon,”
moaned the old woman by the dying
fire. “A long, deep gash across the
wliiteness . . . soon the blood will
drip from the sky . . . blood . . . blood
on the moon.” Her voice trailed off
into nothingness.
“Stop it, I tell you!” One of the
two men at a small table in the mid
dle of the room turned o her fiercely
and hurled an empty bottle at her
head. “I’m going crazy—Davis, you
lie in your throat! I didn’t kill that
girl. I’ve never killed anybody in my
life. I had nothing to kill her for.
I wad only helping you get the
money. I— I—.” He choked and
buried his head in his arms on the
table.
Opposite him sat Davis with a
crooked smile on his weazened, shad
owed face. His blunted thumb play
ed idly over the dull blade of an old
pocket knife, and with his tongue
in his cheek he cunningly watched
the man before him. “You fool—
you fool!” he whispered hoarsely,
“you did do it . . . The knife was
in your hand when the light flashed
over us. You saw yourself it was
covered with—”
“Blood . . . blood on the- moon . . .
blood—” The old woman’s moan
broke through the shadows. Out
side the wind in the pines carr.ied the
echo far across the swamp to lose
it in thick blackness. The candle
light flickered—shot upward—and
then plunged the room in darkness
save for a ghostly reflection of the
moon through the cracks in the wall.
The man crouched over the table.
There was no sound in the room but
his hard, uneven breathing. Even
in the darkness he could feel the
warped leer of Davis . . . could see
his eyes blazing with hate and cun
ning through the pulsating shadows.
Everywhere he looked he could see
those eyes. His blood pounded in
his ears. He felt as if there were
fingers holding his nostrils—a hand
over his mouth—yet another at his
throat trying to choke out his breath
that reeling blackness.
With a scream he rushed out of
the door and plunged into the swamp
land. Fighting his way with blind
strength, he did not stop until he
reached a little cleared space where
he threw himself flat upon the
ground. His body twitched convul
sively, and he pressed his bared
throat and cracked lips to the cool,
damp earth. Suddenly he stiffened,
and raising himself on his elbows,
watched the light of the moon from
behind him slide through the hanging
ies of moss swinging like grey
shrouded ghosts from other worlds.
~lie man dug his fingers into the
ground, “Go away—” his voice was
hoarse—it cut into his throat. “Go
f! I didn’t kill her, I tell you!
as Davis . . . Davis ... I swear
He pushed that knife in my
hands ... It was dark ... I could-
ee . . . I don’t know what hap
pened . . . don’t know ... it was so
dark—”
e was sobbing aloud to those
strange, silent figures swaying in the
trees above him. “Blood on the
knife ... on the moon . . . That’s
y—Davis is crazy if he says I
did it—I’m crazy—Crazy! I tell
you . . . No, no; I’m innocent . . .
I didn’t kill—”
He found himself face to face
with the moon. There was a stran
gled noise as he sprang to his feet,
his eyes burning into the moon.
Across her whiteness there was a
gash like a knife mark across a wom-
throat The world broke
loose around the man. The moon
swung out of heaven toward him, and
covering his face in his hands, he
irned with a wild cry to be swal
lowed up by the gaping swamp.
Davis sat thumbing his knife,
smiling quietly into the darkness.
From the shapeless huddle by the
came la piercing cackle that
seemed to split the room—“Blood . .
blood on the moon . . . death—”
A GARDEN
The warm wine of spring ai
brings a memory back to me—the
memory of a little girl who dashed
home from school, flung her books
in a corner, gobbled her dinner, and
with basket and trowel in hand, made
for the woods. Sometimes a chosen
c'mpanion went with her—one who
had the love of the woods in
heart, coupled with the rare gift of
silence; more often she went alone.
I can feel with her the thrill as she
fir^t found that bed of “Dog-tooth”
violets, carpeting the edge of the
pine woods with their great velvety
sky-blue faces; and I feel a tremor
of her rage at the stolid farmer who
plowed them under. There i
other violets though—two-toned
that grew between the roots of the
great Beech tree, little sweet white
ones from the marshy banks of the
brook, long-stemmed purple
from the middle of the swamp, and
queer, flaunting striped ones along
the railroad bank. There were
Carolina Pinks that turned “Butter-
milli Hill” into a rosy cloud, and
shy “Quaker Ladies” that settled
like a mist in the fields. It was in
the very deepest of hollows
that she found her real treasures—
Blood-root with its white, lady-like
lily fed by blood red sap, Hepatica
—its round lavender blossoms in
nocently peeping from behind dry
leaves, and frail Anemones—their
ethereal whiteness fluttering on the
stillest day. Here the red, and gold
trumpets of wood live flashed and
pink honeysuckle frothed ovei
bloom.
From treasure to treasure she
skipped until her basket overflowed,
and the sun hung low in the west.
Then she hurried home to a shady
nook in the garden under the apri
cot tree, and there, with the help of
her trowel and water from the crack
ed mouth pitcher, she busied her
self making a perfectly riotous gar
den until her mother had called her
three times to come in and wash her
hands before supper.
Do you, too, know the delights of
a wild-flower garden? If not, may
the Lord pity you!
SEARCH
We heard the song—faintly at
first—and then more clearly. It was
not merely a voice we heard, but a
soul—a soul that had known sor
row and had not forgotten, but a
soul that was trying to forget and
was forgetting. The music was sad
and sweet. We searched for the
singer—only to lose her entirely.
Then softly,, she came back—but
only for an instant. She left us
searching for something we would
not know if we found.
MORNING
So often I have lost you for a while
And thought: “I sliall not ever
find again—
As once I found— my heaven in
For now I seek and seek for it
So often I have wandered—struck
From you in sudden loneliness,
and said:
Something that once was beauti
ful is dead.”
So often, even as I touch your hand.
And seem to hold you— I
The glory that I used to understand,
And all my world is dark because
of this.
But out of every night fresh dawns
So, always, come my mornings in
your eyes.
The sky remains infinitely vacant
for earth to build its heaven
with dreams.
DEEP THOUGHTS
I inscribe my thoughts with a pen
that squeaks—nay, screams aloud—
and there’s one in the room who
tries to sleep—would it be better to
brave the wrath of my companion
and squeak away—or that of our
editor and not pen a line ? Oh!
you’re right—I had forgotten our
editor’s red hair—and the would-be
sleeper lias only light brown. I
squeak on—I can see a kite floating
lazily in the distance. Kite flying is
my favorite spring sport. Please
—can’t we get up intramural kite
teams—the High P'lyers versus the
Fly Highers perhaps.? I’d play by
myself if I weren’t bound by con
ventions—I can hear preparations
going on below in the base—pardon
me—recreation room for the new
dean’s reception—hope there’ll be
olive sandwiches. And I also hope
Miss Lawrence is going to like us as
well as I know we’re going to like
her. You may laugh at the way the
seniors tilt their mortar-boards, but
even the best people do it—I can
remember when Miss Riggan’s wasn’t
so straight and Miss McAnally hung
hers over one ear and Miss Frazer
did well if she got hers on at all—
and look what they turned out to be.
It’s funny how when you get home
for the week-end you feel like school
is a thousand miles away—and as
soon as you get back you feel like
you have never been home. The
Faculty at Davidson gives their sen
ior class a big house party—They
appreciate their seniors while they
are yet with them—’ere it is too late
and they flit away. . . . The smell of
Ivory soap always reminds me of
my soap bubble days—when it was
raining outside and I accumulated
all my mother’s empty spools and
kept my long-suffering daddy busy
by the hour—filling my bubbles with
cigar smoke . . . We welcome Her
mes into our senior class not many
classes can count a Greek God
among their number;—if only he’d
hold his shoulders up a little better,,
he’d come closer to being an ideal
senior . . . Have you ever noticed
how much colder a room becomes
when you feel the radiat(ar—and
find there really isn’t any heat on?
—The spring hair-cutting epidemic
is in full swing—counting Sennie
and Chandler and Kay among its
early victims. It’s a funny thing
to me that girls will go through all
the tortures of letting their hair grow
long and then just when it arrives—
cut it off . . . Spring fever is a dan
gerous thing and very detrimental
to thoughts—it makes me want to
sit and look off into the blue dis
tant haze—and think—about noth
ing.
THE FALL OF THE STAR
Pin-point of gold in an onyx night
Burning a pure white flame
Filling the blackness with crystal
light
Burning on proudly the same;
Serenely secure on a distant throne
You blaze like a jewel that shines
A gem unprofaned by a name.
You twinkle, you laugh, you radiate
fire!
And, cutting a path in the still, black
pall.
Your golden rays sparkle high and
higher
And shine gaily down from the top
of it all.
But ah! like a flash you stumble and
And drop headlong down the Milky
Way—
And emptiness reigns when you fall.
Dear little star, as you lie in the
Remember I say what is true;
Though your gold be tarnished and
left to rust
And your shining days are through
It’s good that the fire of stars burn
bright
But best of all that the fire be
white—
The whitest of stars was you.