North Carolina Newspapers

Page Two. THE SALEMITE Saturday, May 7, 1932. The Salemite Member Southern Inter-Collegiate Press Association Published Weekly by the Student Body of Salem College SUBSCRIPTION PRICE 2,00 a Year :: 10c a Copy EDITORIAL STAFF --in-Chief Josephine Courtney iate Editor Margaret Johnson ate Editor - Dorothy Heidenreich .... Susan Calder ... Elinor Phillips ... Mildred Wolfe Literani Editor Music Editor .. Society Editor ... Mir n Stev .. Phyllis Noe Kathleen Atkin; ... Mary Drew Daltoi Sarah Lindsay REPORTERS Elizabeth Gray Martha Binder Margaret Long Dorothy Dodson Courtland Prestc Bust BUSINESS STAFF Manager Sarah Horton tdvertising Manager Mary Sample Iss’t Adv. Manager Ruth McLeod las’t Adv. Manager .... Isabelle Polk Iss't Adv. Manager Grace Pollock iHs’t Adv. Manager Claudia Foy Iss’t Adv. Manager .... Mary Delia Irvin iss’t Adv. Manager Caro McNeil Urculation Manager Jane Willian: Iss’t Cir. Manager Eula Mae Jon« Iss’t Oir. Manager Mary Frances Linney LITTLE THOUGHTS FOR TODAY Look up and not down; look forward and not back; look out and not in; and lend a hand. —Edward E. Hale. Because perseverance is so difficult, even when supported by the grace of God, thence is the value of new beginnings. For new beginnings are the life of perseverance. —E. B. Pusey. Every day is a fresh beginning; Every morn is the world made new. You who are weary «f sorrow and sinning. Here is a beautiful hope for you; A hope for me and a hope for you. —Susan Coolidge. If you are addicted to answering “Bob-White” calls, yon keep your lips puckered for a whistle most of the time. The habit is a nuisance, but it is flattering to hear your whis tle answered. Conceit! Nomination for the best couple at the Junior-Senior Tea Dance: Mary Virginia Pendergraph and Belle Denmark. Here is a guess—or a bet, if you like—that every Junior on the cam pus will cross the street at least three times for the mail on Sunday just to feel her new Senior privilege. One of the hardest workers in this school is Dean Vardell, who directs the commencement chorus in his shirt sleeves. He is threatening to stand on top of the piano if the basses do not hit their E flat. “Sumer is mosquitoes! Kill the Have you been swimming: First splashes began the first of the week, and since that time the pool has been doing a rushing business. It’s more fun than an ice cream soda and ti ' “ as refreshing. SAIL ON, SALEM The past week the responsibilities of holding campus offices passed from the shoulders of the Seniors to w group of student leaders. The cap and gown of the President of Student Self-Government went to a ^ wearer; the President of Y. W. A. lighted the candle of a new president and Insights chang ed editors and business managers; the President of the Athletic Asso ciation handed worries and hop( and prospects of a new athletic field to a newly elected president; and the Salemite staff of the past year sang their “Swan Song.” No great catastrophe has resulted m this sudden change. Indeed, the difference is hardly felt by the student body, except those to whom the honors and responsibilities have fallen. After all, they have served apprenticeships under the whose places they have taken. The Seniors are still here to comfort and :plain and give much needed help to the partially green material. It f with no vaunted feeling of impoi :e that the newly elected leaders :pt their duties, but rather with hesitation and trembling—fear lest they be incapable of meeting the de mands that will be made of them. While the Seniors are still here, the steadying influence that they giv ,nd the cheering insistence o ‘Don’t worry” give help for which he new girls are grateful. Bewildered, they look at the Sen- ors, thinking, “Whatever shall we do when they are gone? No one can take their places.” Of course ne ever can, for there is no one else like them. Yet, Salem has to keep sailing in one way or another. ~ lext year the new crew will have gained confidence and, whether the ship stays in the same path vhich it sailed this year, si how it will find port. ECHOES While some speeches might bear repetition and many are recorded print, it is seldom that a talk is i peated word for word immediately after it is spoken. On May Day morning Salem College .and its guests stood before the archway on the back campus and heard Dr. Rondthaler leliver a beautiful and impressive ipeech on “The Wonder of a Tree.” In the stillness and warmth of the spring morning his voice sounded deep and majestic, and echoed clear ly with every word. It was a; the message were too important, beautiful, to be lost in a single teranee, and the words came back second time to engrave themselves indelibly on the minds of the audi- e. i'here they remain, forced -) memory by repetition. A tree I wonderful part of creation. Let ennoble our lives by looking to the tree. IT CANT BE DONE You Can’t. Imagine Anna Preston without a Pepsodent Mary Virginia Pendergraph with- t the Lord Dunsay leprechaun pression. Mary Absher strolling indolently around the square. Jo Courtney being mannish. Phyllis Noe with run in her stoek- eighing mg. Margaret Wall walking toes. Elizabeth Willis hundred pounds. Elizabeth Boone being irrespon sible. Mary Katherine Thorpe being like anyone except Mary Katherine Thorpe. Dorothy Heidenreich in ruffles and pantalettes. Rachel Carroll without a word t( say. Margaret Johnson being “hossy.’ Sarah Graves being “snooty.” Wanna Mary Huggins being any thing except furious. Jane Williams looking sophisti eated. Mr. Campbell without the suspic ion of a blush. Jo Walker playing croquet. IP € IE ¥ 1C y « MY MOTHER I knew her first as food and warmth A silken lap, soft arms, a tender breast; Then, as fear came into my world, was a never-failing refuge too. Then I discovered play—my play mate she. Unwearied in gay ingenuity. And yet at the same time in her I Time taught me more and mor compreliend Pier understanding sweetness j And as my life’s horizon grew i Her meaning to myself was mag nified By vision that had shown at last to see A love that could enfold the world- Oh, there were restive and impatient When wilful childhood craved own wild ways And flung aside tlie gently guiding Blind hours when I was slow to derstand. But patience and a love that would not fail Always prevailed—how could they but prevail ? And now so well I know her that I know The graciousness of her will alwayi Like daybreak in my spirit, and will be Through all my life a radiant mys tery Since love like hers ever exceeds the Of mortal plummet, sound we ne’ei so deep. Eternity itself will not suffice To fathom it. If all through para- My mother’s love shall lead me won dering, Is God’s a slighter and a shallower thing? Plow shall I dare to dream that I close lier Maker in the mind she oi flows ? —Amelia Josephine Burr “AS TINY AS MATT BROWN” “Miss’ee Lizzie, Miss’ee Lizzie Old Uncle Albert, frantically yelling at the top of his cracked, high-pitch ed voice, stumbled up the wide front steps of the beautiful old wliite colonial mansion in the north- tral part of North Carolina. Uncle Albert was evidently in a big hurry, for his hoary locks were rumpled, his green tie (“That used to be Marse George’s, Yas’m”) was untied, and hanging over his purple-clad shoul der, and his wrinkled brown hands shook more than uslial with excite ment as they opened the front door to the old southern home. Once inside the house, Uncle Al bert did not pause a half second tc look at the old walnut furniture that Mars’e George’s grandfather had eut and formed from his oi walnut forests on that very land, the antiquated red crystal lamps adorned with white roses and heavy brass-engrossed stems, or at samplers, neatly-stitched with blue and white threads, hanging on walls of the high-ceilinged reception- hall. Uncle Albert was used to these things; in fact, he had impulsively run in and out of this same mansion in just such a manner since he had been about four years of age. But today something more than usual was in the air, and Uncle Albert, from his excited appearance, was the bearer of the news. Mrs. George Neal, Uncle Albert’s “Miss’ee Lizzie,” a tall stately wom an, looked up from her home-made scrap-book as the old family slave MISCONCEPTIONS {Robert Browning') This is a spray the Bird clung to. Making it blossom with pleasure, re the high tree-top she sprung to. Fit for her nest and her treasure. Oh, what a hope beyond measure Was the poor spray’s, which the fly ing feet hung to,— o be singled out, built in, and sung to! This is a heart the Queen leant on Thrilled in a moment erratic re the true bosom she bent on Meet for love’s regal dalmatic. Oh, what a fancy ecstatic Was the poor heart’s, ere the w’an- derer went on— Love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on ! BUILDERS Who builds him a house of ston With a roof against the sky. And a base where ivy roots spread thick. Was born with luck in his eye; For a house will not start, nor i At a wish or an oath or a sigh— I know—for I’ve built as mad do. With wishes white and red. But the wind gets in, the moon shines through. And the walls shake at my tread; Who builds him a house of a rhyme Must look for the rain on his he. SHE COMES NOT WHEN NOON IS ON THE ROSES She c t when Noon i; Too bright is Day. She comes not to the Soul til reposes From work and play. But when Night is on the hills, and the great Voices Roll in from Sea. By starlight and by candlelight and dreamlight She comes to me. —Herbert French. came breathlessly into the left par lor. Her young daughter, who, seat ed on a footstool at her mother’s feet, had been studiously laboring over Caesar’s campaigns in Gaul, joyously leaped to her feet at the ap pearance of Uncle Albert and placed a chair for him before the crackling fire. “Lena’s boy ha’ come, Miss’ee Lizzie. He ha’ come at last,^’ Uncle Albert gasped as he seated himself in the leather-backed chair. “Really, Uncle Albert? Now, isn’t tliat fine. Josephine, Uncle Albert has another grandson. And how is the mother feeling. Uncle Albert?” Mrs. Neal thoughtfully inquired. “She’s all right, Ma’m. But the baby-boy—Miss’ee Lizzie—he am de one. He am de smalles’ chile whut this plantation. Yas, Ma’n “Come, Josephine, let us go down to Lena’s cabin right away and see what we can do. IJncle Albert, you look tired out. Suppose you go back to the kitchen and get Aunt P'ercy to give you some roast chicken and ap ple pie, while Josie and I go to see Lena. It will do you good," Mrs. Neal suggested. After the weary old man had plod ded his way back to the spacious kitchen where he was to eat roast chicken and to spread the ne’ his new grandson to his heart’s tent, Mrs. Neal and the long-legged, overgrown, fourteen-year-old Joseph- ine set out for Lena’s cabin, they made their way down the path way bordered by balanced rows of stately box-wood trees, and walked FULFILLMENT In the distance the red thing shone like some gigantic balloon fastened to earth. Separated from Bobby as it was by forbidden and unexplored territory it had an en trancing air of mystery and excite- ”3i- at least three of his six years he had admired and longed closer the huge red ball that lay far beyond the fenced in front yard and the few paved streets, be yond even the railway line at the foot of the low hill. In summer it partly covered by heavy branches, but in winter it lay in full delightful view. He never tried to consider the details, what it was, what he would do when he reached I.S enough that it was desir able, that it was almost compulsory that he reach it and discover it for himself. t was plain that he could expect aid from his mother or father. Whenever he tried to tell them about he found that they were always absently thinking about something else. They only undersood that for ae tiresome reason Bobby wanted go across the tracks, and he al- tdy knew he w'as forbidden to do that. Many times he had tried to slip off and find his way there, but off the two or three familiar streets, he became tangled in a maze of forked roads and alleys, so that with some difficulty he found his way This warm April morning he found himself, by an accident, possessed of entire day of freedom. After his mother and father had gone to the ity, the maid who stayed with him as called home suddenly, and had o time to find anyone else to take are of him. Admonishing him to be good and not to leave the street, she left him alone at the breakfast table. His first step in his new freedom was so automatic that it was almost unconscious. He reached over and poured his oatmeal into the kitchen sink. Of all the things in his com pulsory daily routine, oatmeal was, perhaps, the most unpleasant. Though sound spankings and a moth er who believed in making children eat what was good for them had forced him into submissiveness, he hated oatmeal with an intense pas sion. All unpleasant things were associated in his mind with oatmeal, and he always thought of it first when he was mentally listing his grievances against his family. There could be no better way of spending a free day than in seeking to reach the object of his desire. He might never have another chance. So, he set out, and trudged along the streets in the hot morning sun, keep ing an eye on the red circle. By some miracle he managed to keep the correct route, although he had to ask the way to the railroad several times. When he reached the steep banked tracks, for the first time he was a little fearful, but, panting a little, he scampered over and ran up the low hill on the other side. In a few feet he came face to face with his object. Never had he dreamed that it could be as beautiful as it really was. Round, of marvelous shiny tin, colored a brilliant red, it was much higher than he. Now he saw new attractions that he had never seen before because he had been too far away. Bright pictures of a small boy and his moth er adorned one side, while on the other were letters that he knew made words but could not read. The last one looked something like Cat, but he didn’t think it was that. It didn’t matter. For a log time, he stood blissfully before the marvel which he had traveled so far to see. Then, happy, he trotted back home. The noon sun brightened the edges of the brilliant red sign and the testimonial of the lady who said that she always fed her son, “Hines Qual ity Oats. —Dorothy Dodson