Saturday, March 19, 1932.
Member Southern Inter-Collegiate
Published Weekly by the Student
Body of Salem College
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Editor-in-Chief Sarah Graves
Managing Editor .. Mary Louise Micljey
Associate, Editor Margaret Johnson
Associate Editor Dorothv Heitlenreich
Feature Editor - Julia Meares
Feature Editor Beatrice Hi
Feature Editor ..i Susan Calc
Feature Editor Elinor Phill
Poetry Editor Martha H. Davis
Ass't Poetry ISditor Isabella Hanson
Music Editor Mary Absher
Society Editor losephine Courtney
Sports Editor Mary Olhe Biles
Local Editor Mildred Wolfe
luiercollegiate Editor Miriuna Stevenson
Business Manager - Mary Alice Beamun
Advertising Mgr Edith Claire Leake
Aist. Adv. Mgr. Ruth McLeod
Asst. Adv. Mgr Grace Pollock
Asst. Adv. Mgr Mary Sample
Asst. Adv. Mgr Isabelle Pollock
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Asst. Ad. Mgr. Mary Catherine Siewei
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THOUGHTS FOR Today
. . Let me live in a house by
the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by—
The men who are good and the
men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.
I would not sit in the scorner’s
Or hurl the cynic’s ban—
Let me live in a house by the
side of the road
And be a friend to man.—”
—Sam Walter Foss.
... “A fire—mist and a planet,
A crystal and a cell,
A jelly-fish and a saurian.
And caves where the cave
The Salemite seriously hesitated
about going to print this week after
the omission of Y. P. M. and Music
Hour. One does have to fill up
space, you know.
Here’s to the Spirit of Spring, ev(
though it is a cold crisp morning!
Let’s go on a treasure-hunt for
Easter vacation! Maybe the Bunny-
Rabbit will leave us a corsage of
violets instead of Easter eggs.
It has been just a little too cool for
the Spring Fever to affect our ardent
spirits as yet. But warm days
coming—and laziness is a good sign.
Elections come but once a year, and
yesterday was the momentous day for
1932 at Salem. The good-will of all
was evident from sunrise to sunset.
Guess I’ve got it—don’t know
why—its been too cold lately but I
guess I’ve got it any how. Do wish
Sara hadn’t made me write about it
though—yes, you’ve guessed—it’s that
old favorite — “Spring Fever.”
Wouldn’t be so bad if this were to be
piece on Thanksgiving, ’cause then
I could think of so much to be thank
ful for, thankful for the raisins in
toast the other morning and
thankful that, if I have to come to
school, I can come to Salem, and
thankful that I’m not a dumb bell
some people I know.
’s sorta hard to say why one sea-
should make a person feel any
differently from another, but they
No, that’s not what I mean
either, ’cause I can always tell my
self from Dr. Rondthaler for in
stance, or from Miss Forman’s Judy.
What I mean is that some times of
the year make you feel one way and
another season gives you an entirely
mixture in your self-starter-
anyway, that’s what Spring does. But
funny how it affects some people
when that languid ozone, (or what
ever it is) starts to circulating about
the first of March, some people just
naturally have to play baseball, or
ring-around the rosie, or roller skate.
Anyway they seem to forget tihat they
should study. That’s the very timi
Miss Brown begins to give longei
assignments and Miss Ferguson gives
another test—they feel it their duty
as girl scouts. And every one,
Mrs. Rondthaler, gets out his oi
last summer’s straw hat. They feel
sorta guilty, too, about giving them
the cook or maid, imagining that they
should be kept and retrimmed
painted for a Christmas present
for a week day bonnet. In spite of
these guilty feelings new hats and
suits fairly jump out about Easter
time. Even in the dean’s office and
in the book store the people go about
their work with almost as much pep
as a snail with paralysis would have.
They keep dreaming about green
meadows and blue skies and summer
vacations and fishing.
Now, of course I can’t stop with
out saying something about the Sen
iors, wihose thoughts always tur
love in the spring time. The
things seem to get mixed up in their
minds. They get to wondering if
they can find some one to pay their
doctor’s bills and buy their make-up
and build their fires before the next
cold spell comes. Spring seem
be exactly right for courting and
moonlight walks, and the birds and
flowers help a lot, I’m telling you.
Now after this lecture you should
know some little some thing about
spring fever. At least you should
admit it’s a good feeling—some times'
Yellow daffodils on the hill,
delicate green grass like felt for the
feet, wind to stroke the hair,—Spring.
Lovely Spring that makes sylphs of
leaves us clothed in flowing softness—
arms outflung to the sky, eyes closed-
tiptoe in delight.
From the hill of solitary ecstasy
blossoms flower, with shells of rosy
petals and tender shades of green, like
maidens of dreams in their charm,
scattered by Spring with a lavish
Spring is like a Willow, weeping
only warm rain-tears, graceful as the
sister goddesses, exquisite in \
daintiness. Spring is like down, sen
tive and gentle, like white clouds
the hand. Spring is like a brook,
dreamily lapping soft music.
Spring is better than all these—
Spring is the personification of youth.
Youth glowing into life, awakening
to beauty, laughing silver laughtei.
dancing with Pan. Youth with a red
mouth, wide eyed and silken haired.
Youth in love.
Trouble is a sieve through which
we sift our acquaintances. Those
who are too big to pass through
The meanest kind of slander i
knowing smile and a shrug of the
—William L. Brownell.
IP € IE T IP y
“I have been trying,” Godfrey mut-
Scowling down as he plucks the
‘To find a word that spring time
And tell of a song the blue bird sings.
And all the comings of new green
“I have been cursed for a note of
Fit to tell you about gray walls
Early in April when clouds asunder
Drift, and the sun of morning falls
Over the church and the brave bell
“And I am quite sure I shall lose
Having no worthy word to say
Of Alison walking in this sweet sea-
So demurely and yet so gay,
And so surprised when she looks my
A FARMER SPEAKS
“Work indoors? I’ve never even
Thought of it; for what should I
Do cooped up in an office,
A dingy ceiling for my sky.
“See the wild geese now returning,
Their dark wings outlined against the
See that clump of slender birches
Around whose feet the fern frouds
Young calves that hug their mothei
Flappy chickens breaking through the
I can watch these if I want to
While I’m working; I can smell
Hay repassing in the fields, or move
Freely about my acres as I choose.
Why should I ever want to leave?—
“Scent of earth has filtered through
Till I’ve become a fragrant part
Of seasons, fields and forest.”
I know my mind and I have made
Not from your temper does my doom
Love me or love me not, you have
In this, that is my portion to the end.
Your presence and your favors, the
That you could give, you now can
What lies between your beauty and
Not even you can trouble or betray.
Mistake me not—unto my inmost
I do desire your kiss upon my mouth;
They have not craved a cup of water
That bleach upon the deserts of the
Here might you bless me; what you
Is bow me down, that have been
loved by you.
—From "Fatal Interview "
Edna St. Vincent Millay.
Sweet love, sweet thorn, when light
ly to my heart
I took your thrust, whereby I since
And lie disheveled in the grass apart,
A sodden thing bedrenched by tears
While rainy evening drips to misty
And misty night to cloudy morning
And clouds disperse across the gath
And birds grow noisy, and the su
Had I bethought me then, swei
love, sweet thorn,
How sharp an anguish even at tl
When all’s requited and the futu:
The happy hour can leave within the
I had not so come running at the call
Of one who loves me little, if at all.
—From "Fatal Interview!’ by
Edna St. Vincent Millay.
“In the Realms of Gold'’
This week-end Mr. Walpole directs our trip by taking us on a
journey to England where we can peek into windows, creep down
wooded lanes and surround ourselves with an English environment
that gets into our bones and sticks there. Judith Paris gets its title
from the red-headed daughter of Rogue Herries and his gypsy wife.
Judith spends her life loving and hating, fighting and protecting her
father’s descendants. The story takes place in the eighteenth century
in the extreme northwestern section of England. Although Mr.
Walpole admits that Judith Paris is a sequel to Rogue Herries, he says
that the former may be read as a quite independent novel as he sees it,
“as a piece of gaily tinted tapestry worked in English colours.” When
you have read Rogue Herries, you will want to read Judith Paris, and
after you have read these, there is no doubt about your joining the
crowd which is anxiously awaiting Mr. Walpole’s next book about the
Next, Mr. Strindberg would take us to Sweden by letting us read
his collection of interesting dramas with the title, Easter and Other
Plays. This book contains “Easter,” “The Dance of Death,” “The
Ghost Sonata,” and “A Dream Play.” The first of these is a story
of personal resurrection and change in the soul. The Heyst family
undergoes misfortunes of all kinds. The play is not didactic, although
it is tihe voice of the author. "Easter” is a drama of haunting beauty.
“The Dance of Death” is the longest play in the book. It is a realistic
philosophic work, which is dominated throughout by tragedy. Critics
believe that in the double tragedy, “The Dance of Death,” Strind
berg has produced the most unforgettable—if not the most hopeless
and depressing—of all his tragedies of married misery. “The Ghost
Sonata,” the shortest play in the collection, is fascinating as well as
original. The personages here play out their strange fates before us
as in a disordered dream. The last play, “A Dream Play,” is ranged
by many Strindberg critics with his greatest works and is regarded as
a starting point for a new genre of symbolic drama. Since the author
is trying to imitate the disordered, yet apparently logical form of a
dream, anything may happen: everything is possible and probable. You
will not be sorry if you read this play.
After seeing Sweden as August Strindberg would have us see it,
Sherwood Anderson, American, would have us sit down and think.
In A New Testament we see Mr. Anderson as he sees himself. There
are a groping for thoughts, turmoils, and introspective discoveries that
are full of rhythmical unities. Read A New Testament and try to
decide what you think!
Judith Paris Hugh Walpole
Easter and Other Plays August Strindberg
A New Testament Sherwood Anderson
Of all the menaces to the world—
Hitlerism, property tax, kidnappers,
liquor—all these included, without a
doubt the corsage is the worst.
, I do not mean the dainty bunch of
violets or the sophisticated sheaf of
gardenias, but I do mean the com
monplace Easter corsage. Can you re
call or imagine any thing more irritat
ing to the aesthetic souls of us Ameri
cans than a mass of pink rose buds tied
together in a superb mass, resting—
■call it resting if you like—on a showy
background of straggling ostrich
Of course, it isn’t so bad when you
consider the sentiment connected with
it, that is, if you will let the corsage
remain in the ice box. But the sad
fact is that people wear such and
worst of all, they take great pride in
Dean Vardell would be mobbed if
he should insert “Turkey In the
Straw” in a recital of Bach, while “P.
V. W.” would probably be drawn and
quartered if she should exalt the
merits of The Lily White Journal in
a lecture on the works of Goethe—■
but nothing ever happens to the per
son who wears a sophisticated
Schiorapelli model and tacks a knot of
flowers on the waist. Cannot a gown
he a work of art? Any how—such
are the troubles of mankind. May
my prayer be thus,—
“Lord—deliver me from corsages—
SPRING SONG OF 1932
Old Chaucer scratched his head and
frowned. Then he began slowly to
“What that Aprille with his showers
The drogthe of Marche hath perced
to the rote.
And bathed every veyne in suich
Of which vertu engendered is the
Looking up from his work Chaucer’s
face lit up with a satisfied grin.
And, spring held both his sides and
“Why, that’s tihe same old story, son.
Couldn’t you think of some thing
But several hundred more years
of spring rhymes brought tears in
stead of laughter to Spring’s eyes.
He hears about light Zephirus’
gentle kisses until he grew disgusted.
Why did every body have to write
about the blameless little crocuses?
Why did every body have to sing
about the trees “decking themselves
anew in green” ? Why did the little
birdies cause such a commotion ? Why
did every body shout to them “Sing,
then Ye birds. Oh Sing”? In fact
Spring was hailed so much, sung,
written, welcomed so much that he
began to wonder why every body was
suddenly inspired to write about his
coming, and why those who could
not write danced around singing
As Spring shook hands with
Winter in 1932 he asked him, “Why
is it they make my life miserable with
their wretched songs, and let you
Old Winter laughed until his
white beard shook. He called over
his shoulder to Spring, “Oh, you’re
too easy with them. I freeze them
till they keep their mouths shut.”
Again, when he met Summer he
cried frantically, “Why do they
smother me with their songs?”
“Oh,” smiled Summer, “You trip
along so gently. I’m so fierce that
I don’t give them a chance to do any
thing but melt.”
“Well,” sighed Spring, “I guess
this will be one time that I don’t
hear ‘When It’s Springtime In the
Rockies’ and ‘Ho, Hum Spring Is
Here Now.’ I’ll change zephirus’
caresses to raging winds. Maybe I’ll
mix in a little snow. I’ll hang the
houses with icicles. And I’ll stand
behind this tree with a great big snow
ball to pelt the first one who dares
to start up an ode to Spring!”
It is very much easier to live down
to our characters than up to our
—William L. Brownell.