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Page Two. THE SALEMITE Saturday, May 23, 1931. Member Southern Inter-Collcyia Press Associaiio Published Weekly by the Student Body of Salem College SUBSCRIPTION PRICE $2.00 a Year :: lOe a Copy j:ditorial staff Editor-in-Chicf Sarah Gr Managing Editor Mary Louise Mil Associate Editor I ranees Douglas Local Editor Patsy McMullen Feature Editor Dell Landreth Feature Editor .... Dorothy Heidenreiel Poetry Editor Martha H. Davif Literary Editor Margaret Johnson Music Editor Mary Ahshei Society Editor Su. m Caldei Sports Editor Nancy Mlllei REPORTERS Mary Miller Betty Stough Miriam Stevenson BUSINESS STAFF • Business Manager .. Mary Alice Beaman Advertising Mgr Edith Claire Leake Asst. Adv. Mgr Emily Mickey Asst.' Ad. Mgr. Mary Catherme Siewers Asst. Adv. Mgr. Ida Baker Williamson Asst. Adv. Mgr Grace Pollock Asst. Adv. Mgr Margaret Davis Asst. Adv. Mgr Sennie HengeTcld Circulation Manager Ethel MeMinn Asst. Cir. Mgr Mary Sample Asst. Cir. Mgr Sara Horton THOUGHTS FOR THE DAY I-ife! we’ve been long together Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; ’Tis hard Lo part when friends are dear— Perliaps ’twill cost a sigli, Tlien steal aw'ay, give little warning, Choose tliine own time; Say not good-night—but in Bid me Good-morning. —Anna Letitia Barhauld. The secret of happiness is not in doing what one likes, hut in liking wliat one has to do. —James M. Barrie. PARAGRAPHICS We heard a Junior say she going to get restricted so that her unpopularity would be less notice able. No, in spite of the damaging evidence, it was not us. Guess again, Ye old school spirit seems to us to have grown the difference be tween Louise Stevenson and Babe Silversteen since open mass metings hav become all tlie rage. Long may Minnie Hicks is hereby granted her touching plea that she be allowed tlie privilege (?) of appearing be fore tlie public eye, in print. Sorry to emit the pictures of before and after, Minnie. Another time, maybe. Pandemonium — little children -slipping into the pantry behind Mama’s back after the forbidden jam—a clear night—Vogler’s emer gency ambulance—rebellious spirits at the breaking point—will-o’-the- wisps—a fire-truek or two—foggy atnu)sphere—Chaos. What with the new golf-course and bridge, we won’t know the old place next year. Thanks to Those-Who- Are-In-Authority! FAREWELL THOUGHTS “The day is dark and cold and dreary. It rains and the wind is never The vine clings to the mouldering Unfortunately I have forgotten the rest of that choice passage but the above is a fitting background for my doleful emotions, —1'is with mingled feelings of gladness and regret that I pen these faltering words — gladness that I may henceforward meet the editor’s steady gaze w'ith blithe and guileless heart concealing no unwritten though promised assignment; regret—that the world may no longer profit by tlie wisdom of my thoughts. Oh well —Life is like that—no joy without its smear of woe. ... If events turn out according to expectations, I shall put through a very measley ( mencement—having been exposed to German measles twice within the last three days.—If such is to be, I shall strive to get a large part of the Senior Class in tlie same pre dicament (note the clever way of avoiding the choice between it and them for the pronoun) — for, you know, misery loves company. ... I wish I could give a recital ia some- tliing—I’d love to sit on a stage em bowered in flowers. I’m awfully good at piano lifting — in fact, my achievements in that line have al ready received public recognition— wonder if the public would care for a whole recital of that? If suffi cient requests come in, I’ll consider How many of you could go to Russia and get up and make a talk like Zina did Wednesday? She cer tainly deserves a lot of praise and credit for the way she has adapted herself. . . . After a whole year I still can’t tell the Price twins apart and am reduced to saying “Hello Price” — but I can recognize the Miekeys and that’s more than most can claim. . . . I’d love to ride horse back one of these warm sunny days —but the only horse I ever rode up here died soon afterwards and since then I’ve been a bit discouraged. . . . The library haunters have had a hard time lately between the bats and the night-flying baby blimp.— Like a sucker I ran out three times to see the latter and haven’t seen it yet .... It is indeed a blessing that the Juniors have got Senior privileges — they are the heaviest drug store drinkers of the lot and through long practice they could put up the most pitiful tales to get one to leave one’s books and triudge across the street for a puny little dope. ... I prophesied fair weather for May Day—yea, and everybody laughed in my face; now it is I who laugh. Pay me a dime and I’ll tell you tlie weather for any day in the ensuing week. . . . The lily pond with its iris border looks like the illustra tion of a Japanese picture book. . . . In parting, I w'ould like to leave this pathetic picture in your minds — the picture of a dream I had last night — and unfortunately told before breakfast. I saw a throng of kindly interested people look on wliile a Higli Scliool principal presented “Old Miss Lucy” witli a gold medal in token of appreciation of her fifty years of faitliful service !—Pity gentle readers — and drop by my school room some sixty years hence. YOU Can’t read nothin’ Can’t write nothin’ Can’t sing nothin’—that’s true Can’t eat nothin’ Can’t drink nothin’ Can’t find nothin’ to do. Time ain’t nothin’ C:..‘h ain’t nothin’ Life ain’t nothin’ but blue. Friend’s ain’t nothin’ The world ain’t nothin’ Nothin’ ain’t nothin’, but you. POETRY SMOKE RINGS Bad men Want their women To be like cigarettes— Just so many, all slender and trim, In a case Waiting in a row To be selected, set aflame, and When the fire has died. Discarded. More fastidious men Prefer women Like cigars— These are more exclusive Look better, and last longer; If the brand is good, Tiiey aren’t given away! Nice men Treat women Like pipes— And become more attached to them The older they become! When the flame is burnt out, They still look after them. Knock them gently (But lovingly) And care for them always—^ No man shares his pipe. SUMMER WINDS Like 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. THE ORGANIST Feeling tones that shake the soul. That vibrate in the wood—the ground. That move the air; Pressing keys and flinging out New harmonies that strike the heart, And raise a thirst, A stirring hunger with no bounds; That holds and cries for what— It knows not what; Finding something fleeting—a word, A thousand mystic moving words. In a tone or two. —L. V. G. REST Ah, could I lay me down in this long glass And close my eyes, and let the quiet wind Blow over me,—I am so tired, so tired Of passing pleasant places. All my life, WINGS OF THE MORNING From many morning-glories That in an hour will fade. From many pansy buds Gathered in the shade, From lily of the valley And dandelion bud, From fiery poppy-buds Are the Wings of the morning made. Have I looked back at loveliness and sighed; Yet at my hand an unrelenting Tugged ever, and I passed. All my life long Over my shoulder have I looked peace; And now I fain would lie in this long grass And close my eyes. Yet onward! —Edna St. Vincent Millay. THREE HOURS The moon was like a boat one night, And like a bowl of flowers; Three butterflies were riding there, Named for three lonely hours. The first hour was the hour the night Was a dome of peace; The second hour was the night Gave my heart release From all old grief and all lost love. And the third hour was wheijt I found that I was reconciled To Heaven and Earth and men. WEEK-END TRAVEL In the Realms of Gold “Much Have I Travelled In The Realms of Gold" How about a week-end in the “great open spaces?” Here the glow of molten sunbeams encase you and prairie winds whip sting ing wisps of hair across your faces, and bring the pungent odor of freshly mown wlieat wliieh stands outlined like wigwams with curly crests against a dark, intensely blue sky. If you really crave that bigness of heart and soul that can be found in the fastness of lonesome prairies, that makes you breathe so deeply that your chest hurts, then lose yourself (a far from difficult task) in Giants of the Earth. Too much monotony and lonesomeness? Oh no, not when you’re living in the dramatic lives of Store-Hans, Per Hansa and his wife, helping them conquer the prairie by back-breaking labor and endure the suspicious opposition of native settlers. Deep down in your heart, confessed or not, lies every woman’s admiration, and perhaps love, for a cave-man. Here he is—made to order, big, handsome, and mean ohmygosli, in the person of Trank Taylor in The Land of Promise, a comedy that doesn’t belie its name. A funeral, a disappointing will, a waitress wife, a gentleman loafer, a fascinating heroine, and our man of the brawny chest — all this laid out for your delectation, besides a faultless love story. If your soul is wearied, perchance of make-believe, then Madam Sehumann-lleink is your soul-preserver. This near-auto-biography of tlie last of the Titans follows lier from the deepest despondency and nonenity to the topmost pinnacle of that difficult mountain. Success. Humor and sadness, enemies, love and hate; if you’re human you can’t help but like it. Giants of the Earth Q. E. Rolvaag The Land of Promise w. S. Maugham Schumann-Heink Mary Lawton BOVINE DREAMS This is the kind of weather that makes me wish I were a cow, so tliat I might literally skip bounding away on my fantastic toe (?) and listen to Pan’s pipe of merry whis tled tunes on my way to pasture—■ the lovely, lazy, gloriously luxuriant, heavenly dreamful, beauteously splendid pasture of the good old sum- Ah! Already I anticipate my first good wallow in the fragrant smelling alfalfa-flower, letting my senses run riot. All my spare cud-chewing time will be spent in sniffinf the breezes; they will smell like honey to me, so long pent up in my stall. As the lowing herd winds slowly, my sore, overstrained eyes will peacefully seek the billowy clouds that make a second Sistine chapel overhead, and I will gaze and gaze until their cradle-like motion rocks me to sleep. Oh! I’ll stretch and yawn and frisk —stamp up the grass and head for the swimming hole. I’ll wear woven garlands of white clover on my hair, (pardon, m3' ivory horns), and make mud pies by the creek. I’ll bury my hoofs in the sand, and build the ten royalties a pyramid. Then I’ll chew my cud happily by the hour. So Cheerio! Kamerad! Come be a contented cow with me. Arm your self with your sling of bull—fight to the bitter finish—then join the herd in the green pasture, (Notice please this is a classical illusion to the well-known New York Play.) You can have your picture taken sur rounded by carnations and be a con tented cow indeed! A HANGOVER To the Editor of 2'he Salemite. Dear Editor: I must relate this dream (or shall I call it night-mare?) to someone, and as you are so patient and long- suffering you will be the victim. It began like this: Last night after I had passed from this world of reality into sleep I chanced to walk into a biology laboratory—not that there’s any thing strange about that. But, sitting close around the tables were dozens of litle crayfishes whose note books bore tlie names of their col lege which I shall disguise complete ly by calling “Calem” College. The professor Crayfish whom they ad dressed as, but I shall leave his name also a deep secret by disguising it as Mr. Shambell, stood on one side of the room, and as I entered was calling out, “the head labels are: Pliylum, Vertsbrata, class mammalia, and the peculiar species Homo. It so happens that it is very hard to obtain.” On the table was the “Homo” fragrant with formaldehyde. One little Crayfish took her handkerchief in her fourth walking leg to wipe the tears away , which the fumes of formaldehyde caused to stream down lier mandibles and maxillipeds. With disecting needles and various instru ments the little crayfishes worked laboriously over the Homo from car- tex to cerebellum. My heart ached for several poor crayfishes who, when they brought their drawings to Mr. Shambell were confronted with the frowning remark, “Go back and draw it as is. To others he said, “label the parts.” Then looking at his watch, “Oh, it’s almost time for that five o’clock date. The last one who goes out turn off the lights and put down the windows.” Tlien swiftly moving his chitinous exo skeleton by means of his six walking legs, he closed the door with a bang which startled me into wakefulness, and I immediately reached for the Tell me, dear Editor, do you think it was a ease of mental debility or just too much strawberry shortcake? I will also complety disguise my name by signing myself Yours dreamily, Mulia Jeares. HAIL, SHAKESPEAREANS! Teacher: “What did Juliet say when she met Romeo in the bal cony?” Pupil: “Couldn’t you get seats in the orchestra?” —Southern Collegian.
