Newspapers / Salem College Student Newspaper / Oct. 17, 1931, edition 1 / Page 2
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Page Two. THE SALEMITE Saturday, October 17, 1931. IP € IE T IR y - AT AUTUMN INTERCEPTED MAIL The Salemite Member Southern Inter-Collegiate Press Association Published Weekly by the Student Body of Salem College SUBSCRIPTION PRICE $2.00 a Year :: lOe a Copy EDITORIAL STAFF EdUor-in-Chief .. Sarah Graves M nj! ditor .. Mary Louise Mickey Associate Editor .. Frances Douglas Local Editor Fatsy McMullen Feature Editor Dell Landreth Feature Editor .... Dorothy Heidenreich Poetry Editor Martha H. Davis Literary Editor .... .... Margaret Johnson Music Editoi Mary Absher Society Editor Susan Calder Sports Editor ....... Nancy Miller REPORTERS Beatrice Hyde Mildred Wolfe Zina Vologodsky Ml iry Miller Miriam Stevenson Betty Stough BUSINESS STAFF Business Uanager .. . Mary Alice Beaman Advertising Mgr. .. .. Edith Claire Leake Asst. Adv. Mgr Mirtha Bothwell Asst. Adv. Mgr Grace Pollock Asst. Adv. Mgr. ... Mary Sample Asst. Adv. Mgr , Isabelle Pollock Asst. Adv. Mgr Emily Mickey Asst. Ad. Mgr. Ma iry Catherine Siewers Circulution Mgr Sarah Horton Asst. Circ. Mgr Ann Shuford Asst. Circ. Mgr Rachel Bray LITTLE THOUGHTS FOR TODAY “The Walrus and the Carpenter Were walking close at hand, They wept like anything to see Such quantities of sand: “If tliis were only cleared away They said, “ it would be “Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of spring Your Winter-garment of Re pentance fling: The Bird of Time has but a little way To flutter—and the Bird is on the Wing.” —Omar Kliayyan. PARAGRAPHICS Coolish weather . . . thrilling foot ball games . . . excited crowds . . . clear nights . . . warm, cozy blankets . . . clean-cut mornings . . . boys and girls strolling with school-books under their arms .... school days .... Fall! The circus is coming—rah, rah! Rah, rah! Won’t we have fun frolie- ing with the Stee-Gee’s on Hallo- If you have a cute snapshot of your room-mate in her favorite pose, why not turn it to Zack or Lou Brinkley and win the five bucks for the annual contest? We like Music Hour. Do you? It’s nice to see Miss Minnie J’s smiling countenance on week-ends. What would we do without her and Diana, anyway? Peaches (alone, in dumplings, or in cake) have got on Ye Para- grapher’s distraught nerves. Oh, for some more good chicken salad like we had last Wednesday night. Wonder whose birthday it was? FALL OR DOWNFALL? This seems to be the Fall issue of The Salemite. Not only for a pun, but also for the benefit of my woe begone spirit, do I say that this will eventually be the downfall of The Salemite this week. According to our revered Prexy, winter is near at hand. According to Mr. Vardell, winter is far, far away in the distance. Let us com promise and say—“This is Fall.” We can easily do this, for the birds are migrating southward , the brown leaves are falling to the ground, re luctant girls and boys have reported for school, and football season is here in all its glory. Here is con vincing proof that this season is really Fall. But in mine heart, this season is Downfall. I surrounded, by mid semester quizzes, the horror of practice-teaching for the first time, 15 antiquated novels to be read by the end of next week, super theoreti cal methods courses, the lack of dates (social engagements to go out had by some young Seniors twice weekly—this is sour grapes!), and a few other chief grievances in life— I am approaching my Downfall in life. Pardon—I forgot to mention my most terrible grievance of all—my state of supreme broke-ness ! I don’t have a red cent (except my silver luck-piece in which a penny is en closed and on which is engraved “Keep me and you’ll never be broke.”) And, funny thing you know. I’ve never been entirely broke as long as I had it. It really is a luck- But tlie state of Dead-Brokeness drove ye Editor to use drastic means in attaining her purpose in life (which purpose, Mrs. Woodhouse, by the way, did not inspire). I am ashamed to admit it, but because ye Honorable Business Manager (who is also D. B.) and I ardently desired to see the show at the Carolina the first of next week, we took the passes for writing the best article and get ting the most ads ourselves. Really, now, don’t you think this article is the best thing in this week’s Sale mite! Please help ease my conscience by saying “Yes” to my plea. To show the dreadful state of mind ye feature-writer is now in, let us quote “Yours Fraternally” from Eugene Fields’ works: “An editor in Kankakee Once falling in a burning passion With a vexatious rival, he Wrote him a letter in this fashion: ‘You are an ass, uncouth and rude, And will be one eternally,’ Then, in an absent-minded mood. He signed it ‘Yours fraternally.’ ” P. S.—Please send all red pills, sugar-coated capsules, and liquid potent-medieines for the mentally deficient to The Salemite Box, Mrs. Best’s office in the Book Store. THE JOY OF BEING THE EDITOR (Purpose of article: To receive a few small gifts of dopes, nabs or what not every now and then from kind- hearted people.) Getting out the paper is no picnic. If we print jokes people say we are silly; If we don’t they say we are too ser if we clip things from other papers We are too lazy to write them our selves, If we stick close to the job all night We ought to be out hunting news. If we go out and try to hustle We ought to be on the job in the If we don’t print contributions. We don’t appreciate true genius; If we print them, the paper is filled with junk. If we make a change in the other fellow’s write-ups, we are too critical. If we don’t we are asleep. Now like as not some fry will say, We swiped this from some magazine -(we did). When autumn casts a splendid, shining garment About the gay world’s poverty and When there is gold in every tired meadow, When trees, half hushed to sleep, have bloomed again— Oh then it is we feel God’s depth of purpose, The mercy that His hand alone If He can paint the very soul of nature. His love can cause our weary hearts to glow! Our faiths grow dim .... His good ness never falters— Each scarlet leaf has told this truth to me 1 The snows will come—but after them the springtime. It is a part of life’s long mystery. The songs we sing grow reedy and old-fashioned. Dear dreams may turn to dust be- But through the autumn, burning and impassioned, God tells us that real beauty never —Margaret E. Sangster. OLD SONG “ ’Tis a dull sight To see the year, dying. When Winter winds Set yellow woods sighing, Sighing, O sighing! When such a time cometh, I do retire Into an old room Beside a bright fire. Oh, pile a bright fire ! I never look out Nor attend to the blast. For all to be seen Is the leaves falling fast. Falling, falling!” If my present fondness for Chris topher Morley were to avert itself I should be forced to like him for the sake of his one essay, “Confessions of a Smoker,” because, in the essay he gives me a certain satisfaction of knowing that I have not been the only person whom fathers, mothers, grandparents or what not have tried to bribe into giving up undesirable habits. Now I do confess that my confession is probably of a worse nature than that of Morley, because, where his habit did not create any great social anxiety when practiced in public, my habit always calls forth great vents of “Oh’s” and pe culiar varieties of facial contortions when displayed before or in the presence of society. I must tell you —I am cursed with the overpowering tentacle of cursing and swearing. ]5ut my case may not be as degrading as it seems, for really I have not, as yet fallen into the deepest depths, because I find that with great mental tax I am able to ward off my vent- ments in the presence of the preach er. This may be because I have not been around a preacher lately. I started to tell you about the reaction of my family. Well, I have a horror to ray family at times be cause instead of going in a closet to swear I have brazenly and openly said what I felt when I felt it. Upon these occasions my father, who had once been a student in a theological school and had once preached in the church of George Washington in Alexandria,' did not become very ex cited but he showed his extreme dis pleasure by sudden contractions of ONE TREE IN AUTUMN So little wind would ruin all this gold One lightest breath out of the autumn sky. And not a single slender stem would hold. . . . And we should learn how flaming things must die. Let me look long upon this, while I The delicate leaf, the thin and shining stem. In this, their hour of glory, their brief day Of golden airs that hover over And let the end come, if it must, by night. When I have gone, and shall not Thinking how one tree, in that gold en light, Flames on and on, a still flame, now, as then. Golden forever, now .... it might be so. This once .... this once .... for all I stayed to know. —David Morton. THE MODERN HIAIWATHA (With apologies to Longfellow) He killed the noble Mudjokivis, Of the skin he made his mittens, Made them with the fur side inside. Made them with the skin side out- He, to get the warm skin inside. Put the inside skin side outside; He, to get the cold side outside, Put the warm side fur side inside. That’s why he put the fur side in- Why he put the skin side outside, Why he turned them inside outside. STAINED GLASS WINDOWS Stained glass windows make the • light Like songs of beauty from the sun. I.ife could shine through us like that. You and me and everyone. —Rebecca McCann. the eyes and jaw. Mother had a bet ter idea. She immediately offered me a fairly nice bill to be given at the end of three months if I had given up my noxious habit. Aha— thought I, here is a means of making money. But alas! I have never re ceived the first offer. But why is there so much hum and haw about tlie use of cursing? I have read that a person who swears is less dangerous in a fight or in any dis turbing circumstance than one who does not swear. This is a great satisfaction, especially for my ene mies if we ever meet in conflict. And then again there are so many more outlets for emotions which are worse than blasphemy that it seems to me that cursing should be established as a cure for dementia praecox. Cursing has always been used even by some of the greatest men. Can I imagine a conversation with Byron, Henry VII or Louis XI without a few descrip tive words? No, I can not. Litera ture is ehock full of curses and no one is the worse for reading it, un less he or she be weak-minded and no one claims to be weak-minded. Lest you get the wrong opinion of me you must understand that my cursing is not of the most degrading nature. Some cursing is of vulgar, filthy and degenerating, but not is not. My cursing is constructive. I have been trying to convince the family that an occasional and (in a quiet voice) are more re fined than outbursts of rage which would sieze me and create such a bedlam that papa and mamma would be happy to trade their earthly abode for pandemoninum. Editor’s Note:—This is the identical letter found in the Salemite offiice. If the owner recognizes herself in the non-de-plume, she may call by said office for said letter. October 12, 1931. Miss Salem Belle, Salem College, Winston-Salem, N. C. Dearest Madam Belle: In reply to yours of the 23rd, con cerning various important things stated in said communication, I here by and hereon proceed with my de fence which of course you will think is lousy but on the other hand, I, the author and sponsor of this dec laration think it is swell. I think the word nerve was used in said letter and was desired to con vey a meaning which I in turn wish to convey to you. I ask a certain little lady to attend a football game and she refuses on the grounds that she is physically unfit but the next thing I hear is that she expects to attend another game with another boy and then tells me to be at the game. I feel hurt, shunned, stomped on and many other kinds of grief and false pride. If I ever intended on going to the game I would absolutely put my foot down and refuse to be a party to such an outrageous affair. I hope it rains and none of you have a good time, if it don’t rain then I hope it is so hot you can’t sit in your seat. If you go over in an auto I hope you have a flat tire, in other words I hope you have a sorry time and that you all get griped with each Glad you all had a lot of success with your rushing and I know you are glad it is over. I’ve been praising Allah ever since we’ve been through. I think we got a good bunch too, eleven in all, but I’ve been telling them they are the sorriest specimens of human beings ever since pledge night trying to even up all the nice things I liad to say to them before that time. I think you spoke of anger in your last letter I’m so hot right now that I believe I could ring your pretty little neck if you were within grab bing distance, every time I get a letter from you, you tell me about some crazy boy that is all I see— boys, and I know all about them. Whooray for the charity worker maybe you can do something for the depression. I’ve joined the salvation army. Sometimes make speeches and I always take up collection. If you want your sins washed away drop a dime in the hat when it passes. I’m glad to hear that you are teaching and I would like to put in application to enter your class of learning. What do you teach about —everything in general; if you do I would like to know how to be popular in five lessons and to play the piano without knowing a note and how to be a big business man and draw $10,000 a week. I hope you are well and that you will have no further trouble, if you do remember I’m the doctor. Tell everyone hello for me and write Very, very, very truly yours, BILL. Dictated but not read. W.W.B.-Office wife. P. S.—Excuse the typing but I also am a beginner. By the way how bout being me new office wife the one I got can’t do anything but attend to business. BRITISH DEPRESSION Protesting cuts in their wages un der the new economy regime, 100,000 English Communists paraded along the banks of the Thames. They marched to the music of twenty bands, flourishing red flags, pictures of Lenin, and banners which flaunted the message, “Serve, yes; Serf, no!” Although the demonstration was or ganized and orderly, thousands of Communists spent that night in Wormwood Scrubbs prison, singing I “The Red Flag.” —Edward Fitzgerald. Confessions of a Curser
Salem College Student Newspaper
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Oct. 17, 1931, edition 1
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