Newspapers / The Salemite. / May 2, 1931, edition 1 / Page 2
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Page Two. THE SALEMITE Saturday, May 2, 1931. Mtrtriher Southern Inter-Collegiate Press Association l*a')lishr.d Weekly by the Student fliidy of Salem College SUBSCRIPTION PRICE f2.00 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 - .. Eleanor Music Editor - Millicent Ward Poetry Ec'.ilor Margaret Richardson Cartoon Editor..Mary Elizabeth Holcomb Reporter Patsy McMullan Asst. Asst. BUSINESS STAFF less Manager Mary Norris rtising Mgr. .... Mary Alice Beaman Adv. Mgr Edith Leake Adv. Mgr. Frances Caldwell Adv. Mgr. Emily Mickey Adv. Mgr Nancy Fulton Adv. Mgr Ann Meister Ad. Mgr. ..Elizabeth McClaugherty Adv. M"r Lou'-e Brinkley Adv. Mgr. ..._ Daisy Litz ilation Manager Martha Davis Cir. Mgr. Margaret Jiahnson Circulation Mgr Grace Brown THOUGHTS FOR THE DAY Do not conclude that a man is modest because he lowers his eyes before eulogy. Observe rather, whether he holds his head high before , just critl- —Charles Wagner.- It is a good and safe rule to sojourn in every place, as if you meant to spend your life there, never omitting an oppor tunity of doing a kindness, or speaking a true word, or mak ing a friend. —Ruskin. Be not simply good—be good for something. —Ilenrj) David Thoreau. FROM FIREFLIES Spring scatters the petals of flowers that are not for the fruits of the but for the moment’s whim. Joy freed from the bond of earth’s slumber rushes into numberless leaves, and dances in the air for a day. Let my love, like sunlight, surround In the mountain, stillness surges up to explore its own height; in the lake, movement stands still to contemplate its own depth. A liglit laughter in the steps of creation carries it swiftly across time. One who was distant came near to n in the morning, and still nearer when taken away The freedom of the storm and the bondage of the stern join hands in the dance of sway ing branches. I touch God in my song as the hill touches the far-away sea with its waterfall. SKIES “I could not sleep for thinking of The unending sky, with all its million suns Which turn their planets everlast ingly In nothing, where the fire-haired comet runs.” I see the sky at dawn—a promise. I st!e tlie sky at dusk—a fulfillment. I see grey skies and blue, misty skies and crystal, forbidding skies and leering, wrathful skies and calm. What am I ? A being and a noth ing I am — a will-o-the-wisp al ways seeking new skies. They haunt me and intrigue me ... I an sailor pacing tlie dawn watch upon a still, chill sea in that calm before tlie storm. My eyes are rapt upon that “white north sky” which fades from grey to grey in farflung infinite space, and fuses on the vague hori zon. It is the sailor’s sky—t threat ... I am a child buildins castles on airy nothingness. Skies beckon and enchant — sunny skies, laughing skies, whispering skies, promising skies. “The calm mid heaven” radiates a glow while state ly clouds sail by majestically even as swans glide unruffled over a placid lake. It is the child’s sky—a prom ise ... I am a poet lying upon a little hill and breathlessly watching the fugitive sunset. “The western sky is turning gold; ’twill shortly now be grey, And o’er the stately mountain heights fade glimmers of the There ig a waning sky, a wasting, empty sky that fades like a forgot ten fire. There is a sorrow in the evening sky, a pathos, a poignacy, which I, the poet, may feel and hold witliin my being. There fal's a brooding hush, the last breathless heritage of tliose “still, ecstatic fad ing skies” which laugh and are no more, which die and come not again. The sky is overcast—it grieves. I am a mad-man, and I rave mocking ly at moon, yet pale in infancy. Wliat is my life but even as yon “red, lurid wreckage of the sunset” now parting from the desolate sky, as a lover divorced from very life? The heavens mock me in turn, and, fren zied, I shrink away—for what am I but “dumb and mad eyeless like the sky.^” At last I am the lover waiting im patiently beneath a midnight moon and a sky of darkling blue—for wliat? This sky serenely smiles and tilting her starry diademed head, slie whispers “Beauty and love; pa tience and peace” to a whole world wliich sleeps, and to one pulsing mortal who waits wide-eyed and eager. Skies change. Sometimes as high and clear as a distant hunter’s horn, again tliey are as misty and broken as a tremulous laugh emerg ing from a tearing sob. This “noc turne du ciel” is one vast expanse of throbbing beauty and I find my self, a lover in love with a sky, wait ing upon a hilltop at midnight. What am I.? A being and a noth ing I am—searching for lovely and unlovely skies—and always search ing. But now, I fear “this dawn is overdue” and I, the will-o-the wisp, must wander on. —Frances Douglas. A FAMOUS CLOSE SHAVE The Battle of Brandywine we fought near Chadds Ford in Penn sylvania. It was a famous victory —for the British. But now after a hundred and fifty four year.s, we smile with N. C. Wyeth when see his handsome sign done for Chadds Ford’s only barber. Big as the one-story frame shop it sur mounts, colorful as the history be hind it, the sign radiates art and humor: CHADDS FORD * SHOP * THIS IS THE PLACE WHERE WASHINGTON & LAFA,YETTE HAD A VERY CLOSE SHAVE GEO. SCUSE TONSORIAL ARTIST POETRY I am learning with every year How to hold my life straight and still. And how to curve my mouth at fear And how to soften my hard will. I have learned by heart silk words Of no worth, and so of no weight; I have swallowed cream thick with And held my lips still and straight. After listening long to clocks I shall be stiff, armored, and masked. And lie down quiet in a box With all my questions still un asked. Sometimes tho’, before I am sealed And hard under a square of dirt, I shall cry out once; I shall yield To the child in me that is hurt. ALWAYS Dear, if I leave unsaid A word or two. Love you for all that is And all that’s done. Love you with life between Your hand and mine; Love you for all of earth And all of time; Love you and always must Come weal, come woe— 3ve you the mtore because Love costs me so! —Ijilla Vass Shepherd. BEAUTY “Life has loveliness to sell. All beautiful and splendid things. Blue waves whitened on a cliff. Searing fire that sways and swings, And children’s faces looking up Holding wonder like a cup. Life has loveliness to sell Music like a curve of gold. Scent of pine trees in the rain, Eyes that love you, arms that hold. And for you spirits still delight. Holy thoughts that star the night. Spend all you have for loveliness, Buy it and never count the pang; For one white singing hour of Count many a year of strife well last. And for a breath of ecstasy Give all you have been, or could be. narvelous the plan that shall Pass into some other life. When I have finished all my tasks Upon this earth, And leave a place for Youth to f Youth with its invincible fortitude And indomitable will That defies age-old traditions— Youth with its valiant spirit, Free, liberated Ariel! Oh, yes, I shall gladly go And with a joyous cry fling my frayed Banner to some dauntless youth Who stands alone Upon a wind-swept hill! —Gene Boardman Hoover, i The Troubadour. WEEK-END TRAVEL In the Realms of Gold “Much Have I Travelled In The Realms of Gold” Some books are like dull, nondescript stones which give never a sparkle nor a gleam to lighten the world; other books are like intricate mosaics-bits of “many-coloured glass” scintillating and flashing in the sunlight. Warmth offsets coolness, light, shadow; and laughter, tears. Only as a mosaic can The Ozford Booh of Regency Verse be justly described. Poems carefully chosen, ex pertly matched, and subtly fitted into place make the whole a picture of prismatic colors,—an inlaid pattern of rainbow moods, a mosaic made up of gem-like parts. All the best poetry of 1798 to 1837 is included in this particular mosaic, and the whole is an admirable accomplishment. Folktales are almost always alluring even to a casual reader, although casual readers do not necessarily appreciate their worth. A new folktale which is particularly well done is The Phantom of the Shore. A realistic story, inasmuch as a folktale can be realistic The Phantom of the Shore is a story of the northern coast where men are men and women servants usually. This cheerless forbidding background is the scene of a folktale, which, unlike most of its kind, is not too fanciful to be interesting. The Irish of the Irish writers is with us again. This time Paddy comes dancing along in the pleasant guise of Lady Augusta Gregory. The occasion is Our Irish Theatre. Authors like Lady Gregory are no dilettanti—they know their business from the bottom up. Tliere is, probably, no modern writer who could better tell the story of the Irish theatre than Lady Gregory, and the result of her effort is a remarkable book of first-hand knowledge. Knowledge is valuable, but experience is infinitely more so. Lady Gregory has an abundant measure of both, and because she has instilled into her book a great portion of her own presonality. Our Irish Theatre is a distinct feather in Ireland’s cap. The Oxford Book of Regency Verse Edited by Milford The Phantom of the Shore Leeds Our Iri.!h Theatre Gregory “ON GENTLE RAIN” After the first sharp pang of sor- w, weeks, years, and perhaps a lifetime of gentle, aching grief fol lows. But these years should be brightened and strengthened by hope and promise of regained joy. One can see in gentle rain a paral lel to these years of grief. One night last week the rain was pouring down. The wind whizzed around our house; it sounded as if it : destroying all it possibly could. All of our family was glad to be safe at home. The next morning I put on a heavy coat and a beret and walked out in the garden. The air was soft but cold. A steady, gentle rain was falling, and a gentle wind stirred noiselessly through the black trees. The dark black sky of the night be fore had faded to light grey. There was no sound except the unmusical call of a lonesome bird. But always the gentle rain was falling. It fell so softly that I could not hear it. And it was so listy that I could scarcely see it. As I walked through the garden, saw results of the storm of the preceding night. Almost all of the jonquils and hyacinths were bent over and touching the moist earth. Those which still stood erect were covered with tiny beads of water and were flecked with dirt. The pansies puckered up as if they had been turned wrong side outwards. Here and there small rocks and bits of glass had been unearthed and were lying in the wet path, and golden but limp bells, had fallen from the forsythia bushes and were also lying in the path. All of the garden seemed to be drooping. But as I looked more closely, I saw that everything was not droop ing. Fresh green tulip plants were coming up, and Iris plants were al ready budded. These seemed to have been refreshed and invigorated by the rain of the night before. They may have needed the rain in order to bloom. And surely, the earth held many plants, although I could not see them, which were strengthened by the rain. The violet leaves, which bordered the flower beds, were crisp and green, hut I feared that the violets were dank like the pansies. When I delved down among the leaves, however, I saw that the violets were fresh and radiant. There were pur ple ones, and blue ones, and white ones tinted with blue. They were the one bit of unspoiled beauty in the garden. And still the gentle rain was fall ing. The storm had come, had de stroyed, had gone. The gentle rain made one think of the storm and also of the bright days before the storm. Now in spite of the new plants coming up, one felt that there would never again be sunny days. But sunny days will come again. The flowers which were spoiled by the storm will not blossom again on sunny days this year. But next year the roots of these same flowers will send forth blossoms. —Margaret Johnson. A FAMILY TRAGEDY In the decade which we fondly term the “gay nineties,” when our fathers were just little boys, a cer tain family was moving from a small town in the western part of this state to an even smaller one in the eastern part. The journey was so long and transportation at that time was so slow that they were obliged to stop twice during their journey. The first stop was at Charlotte. It wa9 there that the tragedy occurred. Papa and Mama, as we shall have the audacity to call them, with their six children spent the night in the Empire Hotel, the most modern in the city. It had flowered carpets, brass cuspidors, over-stuffed furni ture, feather beds, and flowers on the shining lamp shades. But the crown ing glory of the Empire was the perfectly beautiful gold and silver starred oil cloth on the wall back of the wash stand. The children glori- (Continued on Page Four)
May 2, 1931, edition 1
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