Page Two.
THE SALEMITE
Saturday, March 7, 1931.
Mitwher Southern Inter-Collegiate
Press Associatimi
Published Weekly b}' the Student
■f'lidy of Salem College
SUBSCRIPTION PRICE
$2.00 a Year :: 10c a Copy
EDITORIAL STAFF
Editor-in-Chief Edith Kirkland
Managing Editor Daisy Lee Carsoii
Associate Editor Sara Graves
Associate Editor Kitty Moore
Feature Editor Anna Preston
Local Editor Lucy Cu
Local Editor Agnes Paton PoUoclc
Local Editor Eleanor Idol
Music Editor Millicent Ward
Poetry Editor Margaret Richardsoi.
Cartoon Editor..Mary Elizabeth Holcomb
Reporter Patsy McMull
BUSINESS STAFF
Business Manager —. Mary Non
Advertising Mgr. .... Mary Alice Beaman
Asst. Adv. Mgr, Edith Leake
Asst. Adv. Mgr. Frances Caldwell
Asst. Adv. Mgr. Emily Mickey
Asst. Adv. Mgr Nancy Fulton
Asst. Adv. Mgr Ann Meistf
Asst. Ad. Mgr. ..Elizabeth McClaugherty
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Asst. Adv. Mgr Daisy Litz
Circulation Manager Martha Davi
Asst. Cir. Mgr. Margaret Johnson
Asst. Circulation Mgr Grace Broi
THOUGHTS FOR THE
DAY
I expect to pass through
this life but once. If, therefore,
there is any kindness I can
show, or any good I can do
iny fellow-being, let me do it
now; let me not defer or neg
lect it, for I shall not pass
this way again.
— A. I}. Jlegeman.
When a man has not a good
reason for doing a thing, he has
one good reason for letting it
alono.
— Walter Scott.
is beautiful.
—Socrates.
FROM FIREFLIES
The tree is of today, the flower
old,
it brings with it the message
of the immemorial seed.
Feathers in the dust lying lazily
content
have forgotten their sky.
The flower which is single
need not envy the thorns
that are numerous.
The world suffers most from the
disinterested tyranny
of its well-wisher.
The cloud gives all its gold
to the departing sun
and greets the rising moon
with only a pale smile.
Flower, have pity for the worm,
it is not a bee,
its love is a blunder and a burden.
There are seekers of wisdom and
seekers of wealth,
I seek thy company so that I may
sing.
Through the silent night
I hear the returning vagrant hopes
of the morning
knock at my heart.
My
love comes
bringing to me the eternal wealth
of the old,
• —Tagore.
IN DEFENSE OF FOOLISH
MOMENTS
There are times when rebellion
against the established ways of life
is justifiable. I have come to
conclusion after careful and (
seientious consideration and I
truly say that I know, what I
talking about and may thus fill the
first requisite for any good compo
sition. (1 set down this last observa
tion in order that the reader may
look in vain for other good qualities
which he is most) likely to find lack
ing in my work.)
But, never mind, I shall make good
use of my knowledge of the subject.
This inside information eame to me
when I first had a moment of sudden
and violent hatred for tlie fact that
“Life is real, life is earnest,”—i
hatred which was not lasting, but oni
which at the same time demanded
action. After some experiments I
found it could best be treated in
of two ways, depending as all good
psychologists say, upon my environ-
The first is prescribed for the soli
tary person; it consists of a complete
and itemized outline of all (
grievances of the moment, followed
by sundry remarks of a detrimentary
and disapproving nature about the
most hated objects of one’s passion.
Such treatment is very satisfactory
when taken in complete privacy be
hind walls without ears, but in the
majority of cases one’s surround
ings forbid this cure. Having tried
it myself with sensational but sat
isfying results, I realized the need of
a second treatment to be used under
different circumstances. This I found
in the helpful influence of Foolish
Moments.
This very name brings an eager
ness to my whole body and a great
longing to my spirit that I might be
majestically caught up and entranced
by them once again. Since the cure
is very pleasing, however, it eomes,
true to form, in small doses and is
effective only after periods of great
dissatisfaction with the world
general and certain people or objects
in particular.
A hard day at school, one thirty-
two cent library fine, five “straights’"
on the next day with Lab included, a
good pieture-show uptown that one
hasn’t seen and won’t see, “F” on an
English paper standing for an idiotic
fatal error, no mail, and a run in
one’s last pair of hose. This formula
is certain to bring about serious
agreement with the aforementioned
saying. If, then, on reaching home,
one finds it impossible to be alone,
one can indulge in Foolish Moments.
What bliss! L)o you ask why ? Let
me explain. These moments may be
filled with absolutely anything that
is foolish. They provide opportunity
for any sort of crazy thing one w
to do. If at home, one can
whatever is farthest from lesson
assignment or try shocking the fam
ily in a number of ways. Tiddledy-
winks with the younger children
sometimes amusing; hop-scoteh is
better yet.
I have often had my foolish mo
ments on the way home from school,
thereby sparing the family some
agony. If several of my friends feel
quite mad also, all of us can go to
the drug store and spend the money
that was intended for the
French parallel book. Or, we may
take plenty of time getting home and
indulge every ten steps in fits of
laughter over nothing at all. Per
haps we have a daring contest and do
whatever nonsenscial thing com
the darer’s mind first. Finally, best
of all, we may suddenly find our
selves headed for the theater to see
the good show that we simply don’l
have time to see.
This is the sort of Foolish Mo
ments I mean; what is my defense of
them? If you have never had
don’t try to imagine what good they
will do but indulge sometime. I
defend them to the ignorant in order
that the latter will try them. To
the experienced person they need
be defended but extolled with the
most superlative accents. They sup
ply the alternative for what would
otherwise be real physical and mental
inertness, and restore one much more
(Continued on Page Three)
FROM A FELUCCA
A white tomb in the desert.
An Arab at his prayers
Beside the Nile’s dark waters.
Where the lone camel fares.
An ibis on the sunset,
A slow shadouf at rest.
And in the caravansary
I.ow music for the guest.
Above the tawny city
Resounding the muezzin’s
Clear call as the sun sets,
A mystery, a silence,
A breathing of strange balm,
A peace from Allah on the wind
And on the sky his calm.
—Cole Young Rice.
TO A DEPARTED FRIEND
Lonely? Yes, I’m lonely!
F'or you have gone away
And left me only memories
Of a happy yesterday.
Miss you? Yes I miss you!
For you’re not by myi side.
With smiling eyes and laughter
To bring me joy at eventide.
Want you ? God knows I want you!
I'or hardened cynic that I am
You taught me life’s great lesson
To trust my fellow-man.
TO—
I’m clasping you so closely
Into my heart
No winds can waft you away.
You are clasping me so closely
Into your soul
Closer and closer each day,
O winds blow through the trees
And over the sea
And through the stars above
I’m not afraid!
You cannot blow
P’rom out two souls their love.
I DID NOT HEED THAT
SPRING WAS HERE
I did not heed tliat spring was here
The city streets were chill and
grey.
When lo, I passed a window where
White dogwood blooms wen
display.
. I could not quickly
MEMORIES OF HEAVEN
I did not know what angel’s voice
I heard
Sing upon the night.
So clear, so tender, so divinely full
Of loveliness and light.
Aching and wonder stirred,
And memories of heaven. Now I
know
The vision i
I felt warm
grass,
I heard the singing sand-dunes
call!
—John Richard Moreland.
ADVENTURE
Who would not love to go
Out where the breakers blow.
Curling and green and slow.
With a rose sail?
Lands there are far away.
Marvelous in the spray.
Turquoise by night, by day
Gold as the grail.
Morning’s the time to start
Just with a tipsy heart.
Wisdom a tiny part
Taking, you fail.
—William Alexander Percy.
WEEK-END TRAVEL
In the Realms of Gold
“Much have I traveled in the Realms of Gold”
^ This week-end we have books of divers natures to consider and
enjoy, so let us settle ourselves with a bright cheery lamp over
our left shoulders, and a cosy fire flickering at our feet. To put us
into just the right mood for a evening or so of supreme content,
we glance first at a certain slim volume whose exterior belies, and
rather belittles the strength and virility, the beauty and the Irish
whimsicality whicli lie cheek to cheek within its covers. This
certain volume is The Mountainy Singer by MacCathmhaoil. Irish
of the Irish is this book of short and purposeful poems. They are
each filled with an intense love of Nature—indeed, of all beauty—
and with a masterful knowledge of the most secretly hidden of
Erin’s folklore and legends. It’s as Irish as a shamrock or as Pad
dy P’Shauglmessy in a green cap . . . We start from dreams of
clay pipes and blarney stones, and soon are deep in the charms of
that most delightful of companions—the familiar essay. Many of
these on every topic imaginable, and written with a fascinating
lack of formality—are bound together in a book entitled Essays
by William Hazlitt. The name, William Hazlitt, is enough for
many readers, but to those of you who are just making his ac
quaintance, it is well to remark that in the field of the essay he
is almost without a peer—not even excepting the genial Montagne
and that likeable fellow called Lamb. Hazlitt’s essays have a re
freshing lack of over-familiarity, and his views on everything in
general are altogether delightful and often amusing.
We seem to lean toward the Irish this particular evening, but
nevertheless, it is with a real anticipatory thrill that we forsake
Mr. Hazlitt (though not without a secret regret) and return to
Ireland by way of The Crock of Gold by James Stephens. Here
we find the supernatural element—the weird, the mythological, and
the very unusual stories which seem so characteristic of James
Stephens. In a reminiscent mood we think of Dierde and with
an inward purr, and with an outward wriggle of satisfaction we
begin The Crock of Gold.
For the last pleasant evening of this weekend we will revel in
words of magic beauty, bits of vivid description, and haunting hints
of romance bound together by a certain intensity of thought and
purpose. We find all of these qualities in Collected Poems by A. E.
Light and shadow, twilight and dawn, blazing sun and remotely
glowing moon, tender emotion and intensely compelling strength of
theme—your every mood is awaiting you on the written page; your
chair IS waiting, and the fire has begun to flicker cheerily.
The Mountainy Singer MacCathmhaoil
William Hazlitt
The Crock of Gold James Stephens
C ollection of Poems ...j ^ g
THE ORIGIN OF THE
BELIEF IN GOD
{A translation of Lucretius’ Poem^
And also Primitive man beheld
The workings of the heavens in their
And saw the seasons come ’round
Each in its own time.
And he could not know
By what great Power
Tiiese things moved.
Then the thoughts came to him
That all things were entrusted to
the deities.
And each God in his own place of
refuge
Could shake the universe
At His will.
In the heavens he placed
The realms and abodes of the Gods
Because the Sun and the Moon
seemed
To revolve through the sky.
Sol, tlie jocund light of day
And Luna, the austere sign of night
Meteors, firebrands wandering by
night
And planets, flying flames of Heaven
Sun, clouds, snow, hail, storms,
Zephyrs, thunderbolts—
Swift crashings and threatening
All r
veal themselves in the firma-
O unhappy race of men who
Attribute all things to Gods
And join to them bitter moods,
What sorrows, what wounds, what
We hand down to posterity!
It is not real piety to turn about
And to approach a stone altar;
To lie prostrate on the earth
And open one’s hands in supplication
Before the shrines of the gods.
Nor to link vows with prayers;
The ajtars w'ith the blood of many
animals.
Nor to link vows with prayers
But all things can be held
More peacefully in the mind.
P'or, when we are conscious of
The heavenly realms of the great
world—
The Heaven that is fixed
Above the gleaming stars
And we remember the paths of sun
and moon.
Then with cares and sorrows pressed
Within our hearts
We, awakening, begin to raise our
heads
Courageously—
Lest the Illimitable Power,
Which turns the shining stars in
their revelvings.
Overwhelm us.
^‘SCRATCHY”
Perhaps it is rather strange to be
gin at the end, but since that is the
most unusual thing'about “Scratchy,” ■
it is there that I shall begin. Her '
tail starts off with a fine flourish of
long, silky green hairs and curves
gracefully upward giving promise of
more to come. But here, in the exact
middle, we are unexpectedly stopped
by the fact that there is no more. To
tell the shameful truth, when
“Scratchy” was a kitten her proud
tail had found its end in the slam
ming of a screen door. “Scratchy’s”
body is long and thin, her head being
attached in the usual manner. An
other noteworthy object of her an
atomy is her eyes. They are as
clearly green as the peaceful waters
of the ocean on a day when no break
ers tumble its surface into a dark
blue mood. All the sin and mischief
since Eve seems concentrated in her
eyes, and they can hold one en
tranced almost as a snake can charm
a bird. Her fur is naturally long
and a soft, silky gray, but her un
tamed ancestors have handed down
a streak of jungle wildness, and
“Scratchy” goes about with her love
ly fur in innumerable knots, because
of which she has a terrible time serv-
—Patsy McMullan.
WE VISIT MY ESTATE
That cloud, now! Just below that
strip of blue!
You like it? That’s mine too!
—Richard R. Kirlc.