Page Two.
THE SALEMITE
Saturday, May 14, 1932.
The Salemite
Member Southern Inter-Collegiate
Presf Association
Published Weekly by the Student
Body of Salem College
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$2.00 a Year :: lOe a Copy
a\ il ip in A € in I a\ il ip in aV
)IT()RIAL 5
cAff
Editor-in-Chief Josephine Courtney
AssoclaU Jiditor Margaret Jolmson
Associate Jidilor .... Dorotliy Heitlenreich
Literary Uditor Susan Calder
Literary Editor Elinor Pliillips
Music Editor Mildred Wolfe
Society Editor Miriam Stevenson
Intercollegiate Editor Phyllis Noe
Poetry Editor ' Kathleen Atkins
Feature Editor Mary Drew Dalton
feature Editor Sarah Lindsay
REPORTERS
Elizabeth Gray
Martha Binder
Margaret Long
Dorothy Dodson
Courtland Preston
BUSINESS STAFF
Business Manager Sarah Hort.
Advertising Manager ..
Ass't Adv. Manager ...
Ass’t Adv. Manager ..
Ass’t Adv. Managn .
Ass’t Adv. Manager
Ass’t Adv. Mamge,
Ass’t Adv. Manager
Circulation Manag r
Ass’t Cir. Manager .
Ass’t Cir. Manager Mary Fi
M I
iry Sampl
... Ruth McLeod
Isabelle Pollock
.. Grace Pollock
Claudia Fo;
Delia Irvii
',aro McNei
16 William
Eula Mae Jone
!S Linney
THE “SALEMITE”
ANNOUNCES
A ,meeting of the Editorial
and Business Staffs at dinner,
six o’clock, on Thursday, May
19. That is the time to criti
cize or to praise (if you can)
this paper. It’s a good publi- i
cation, of course, but It has its
weak points. Tell your sug
gestions to any member of the
S'alemite Staff, who will be
glad to add them to her own
comments at the,dinner.
—The Editor.
PARAGRAPHICS
What will we do if it rains
afttrnoon? Have a heart,
Weatherman. Here coriies a bright
remark from the promoter, director,
and producer of Greek playi
Salem — one whose initials are as
familiar as “H. R. PI-” in England:
“The Greek maidens might dance
into the glen in w’hite raincoats and
give a most delightful effect.” By
•love, so they could!
FOR BETTER OR FOR
WORSE?
Progress is inevitable! It is no
unlikely that this very phrase is run
nin^ through many of our minds, and
with it the terrorizing prophetic state
ment quoted by Dr. Anseombe, “If
the Conference at Geneva fails, there
will be, in this generation, a world
doubt to some of us, it
means next to nothing — merely a
general statement that may concern
someone, but certainly not us. In
others there is a feeling of the ter-
i^le destruction of war and the sig
nificance of our own position. Our
generation ! That means us — and
it is our duty to make progress^ real
progress, and to throw off the im
pending cloak of economic, spiritual,
and ethical darkness that may come
to destroy our civilization as it has
others. We are—most of us—smug,
iplacent, and well-satisfied with
ourselves and our life. We have
stopped striving. We perhaps have
become easy prey to any sort of
propaganda and shallow ideas. We
have believed that tlie world would
go on, endlessly and automatically
progressive. Nothing
hindrance to progress nor a better
help-mate to ruin than a stagnant-
minded peoph
What can we do? One of the
many things is to read.
little, almost insignificant thing, but
it is invaluable. If each of us would
keep herself intellectually alert to
the affairs going on around us, to the
greatest thoughts of the greatest
minds of our day, to the economic
political movements, to scientific and
educational research and discovery
we would be contributing vitally to
progress. We must build up for
ourselves the assimilative b a
ground necessary for clear and well-
grounded thinking. If we can crowd
out distorted and maimed concepti
from our mind, and introduce in their
stead well-defined and authorized
ideas, we are doing our part.
—D. H.
Now that term papers and note
books are finished, take one deep
breath before time to plunge into
exams. Two weeks from today it
will all be over, and everybody will
go to the tavern to see George Wash
ington arrive.
. With the grief and sympathy of
all the world we add our humble
words of sorrow for Charles Lind
bergh, Jr. For months we have
hoped that he would miraculously be
found alive, protected by the guar
dian angel that a child so adorable
must have. The news of the dis
covery of his body is heartbreaking.
Friday, L3 passed safely enough.
The roof still remains on the Sister’s
House, and birds still perch on the
hands of the clock. But Miss Shaff-
ner almost ruined her golden harp in
the rain when she practiced with the
Greek maidens.
Juniors feel their importance and
also their awkwardness at presiding
over the soup bowl. Babe Silver-
steen is probably the most entertain
ing new hostess.
ALPHA CHI ALPHA
This is Alpha Chi Alpha issue of
the Salemite. All the contributions
on this page are contributed by mem
bers of the local chapter of the na
tional journalistic sorority. Alpha
Chi Alpha makes it a policy to co
operate with the editor of the Sa-
lemite and publish a page of origi
nal writings once a month.
Alpha Chi Alpha is a journalistic
club, having as its purpose the pro
motion of journalism and the en-
•agement of original writing at
Salem College. Upperclassmen who
have served at least one and a half
years on either the Salemite staff
3r the staff of the Sights and In
sights are eligible for membership.
Underclassmen and upperclassmen
Vho are not in the club but who have
original writings hidden away in
closets or in the bottoms of trunks—
get them out and hand them to
ye Editor, or to Dorothy Heiden-
reich. They will be greatly appreci
ated and will be published sooner oi
later.
My lord of wealth is “roughing it
With gun and beagle hound.
He calls a spade an implement.
For loosening the ground.
The boss of ticker tape surveys
The changes stocks have made,
eeing the world through no false
screen.
Calling a spade a spade.
The skillful agriculturist
I.ives in a lowly hovel.
He digs among his vegetables
With what he calls a shovel.
—J. C.
MEMORIES
In Remembrance of My Mother
(Selection from Miniatures by J.
May, translated by Zina Vologodsky)
The sun set early, and the last
pink ray was still trembling on
the top of the far away mountain, as
a farewell, caressing and tender, as
a blush .of a child.
The wind extinguished the last
breath of the dead day.
The lamplighter passed and busily
lighted the gas. And the little tongue
begun trembling. It will tremble
igh the whole night, such dark
and fearful night as some one’s soli
tary life, until the lamplighter will
put it out in the early grey morning.
Mother stands at the window and
looks into the street and breathes
the evening sadness and quiet grief,
which the dawn brought on its thin
nest wings. She is not very old, my
mother. And when in the evening
she parts her hair in long braids,
then she looks like a young girl.
And her face is pale, and a
smile trembles on her sorrowful lips.
Then I remember the paintings that I
saw in the cathedrals. There I saw
women like mother crying over the
crucified Christ.
She holds her hand, pale and thin,
on the head of my little sister and
speaks softly.
“I am so cold! I am remembering
Julius. Now he would be repeating
clearly, ‘Mama, Mama.’ And leading
him by his little hand I would take
him to the statioii to meet father. Do
you remember his eyes? blue, oh, s(
“Mother, why are you crying!
Wlien father will come he will be
angry again. You know it, mother
you are like an old woman ... I want
to have a young and beautiful mother.
I want my friends to say, ‘Ann has
a pretty mother.’ ”
I am sitting in the corner in a big
grandfather’s armchair, w’ith my legs
under me. And because it is dark
in the room, and because mother’s
■voice is trembling,- I am getting sad,
and anguish slowly presses my heart.
I want to cry from pity for myself.
I am forgotten.
Mother lights the large lamp. I
pretend to be asleep. She opens the
top drawer and bends over it. I
know — there lies mother’s white
edding dress, the orange blossoms
and the half-burned candles with
gold thread around them. Tliere
the shoes of my little dead
brother.
She is almost ready to sob.
I open my eyes and say angrily:
“When father will come. I’ll tell him
that 3'Ou were crying.”
We hear steps. Father enters.
“Father . . . .”
Mother rushes to me and kisses me
quickly. I embrace her, press my
head to her breast and I hear how
her heart beats. My mothei
My poor mother! . . . .
‘What did you want to say?” asks
father frowning.
I look at the eyes of my mother
full of tears, and I say slowly,
“Good evening, father.”
EXEGI MONUMENTOS
“Why, my poor man! What is
wrong?” exclaimed the librarian up
on bumping into a form crouched or
a chair near the classic section of the
library. “Oh! you can’t be, no, but
you are—Horace ! I know by your
toga. But what is the matter? Have
you bumped your head on Orion’
dagger or the great Bear?”
“Alas, it was neither. I care nc
at all for celestial bodies now. Some
moderns have been disturbing all the
habitants of Hades with the most
fabulous gossip. Just this morning
a newcomer, a cousin or something
of Ursula Parrot dared to tell
tliat her cousin had made a greater
monument of her Strangers May Kisi
than I had of my Odes, which she
never intended to read. To think
that the Aeneid, the Odyssey, The
Frogs, T)e Amicitia, Lysisti
my own works would be n
Being afraid that I had not built
monuments more lasting than bronze,
I have ventured to come to earth
and examine the status of the
classics.
My first blow came when I saw
Cerebrus. Usually, you know, he is
terrific, but today he didn’t even no-
when I slipped past him.
All three of his heads were stuck
books. I suppose some
thought he might lighten
his hellish existence by giving some
thing to Cerebrus. Any how, one
head was busy with Strange Lady,
another had Ballyhoo, and the last
devouring the Silver Screen.
about him lay Thirteen Women, Beau
Lover, True Story—oh hundreds of
which I’ve never heard. I was s
amazed that I am still a bit giddy.
“Oh yes, I have already examined
the books, and I am convinced that
the classics can never really die.
But, it is late, and I must return be
fore Cerebrus finishes those three
books and finds that I have escaped.
You must, however, do one favor for
me. Among the classic books I hav
found that there are about fifteen
diligent students who have discover
ed great literary monuments, but of
the fifteen there are two whose
names appear much more frequnt-
ly than any others. Congratulate them
for me and tell them if I come again
they will receive a copy of my Odes.
“O yes, I am about to forget
tell j’ou their names: One is M. J.
Smith, the other is the set of initials,
P. V. W.”
—E. P.
SNAKE EYES
A shudder ran through the tall
grass in a swerving line from the
sill of the knobless door of the shack
to the foot of the giant black walnut
silhouetted against a smoky
yellow sky—a line of waving grass,
and yet there was no wind. The
waving ceased as suddenly a
begun, and into the clearing around
the knotted tree-roots slunk the slim,
gray body of a rattler, his twenty
smoke-colored rattles chattering like
human teeth. Wind began to trem
ble uneasily through the leaves of
the big tree. It whined plaintively
around the shack at the foot of the
walnut, tugging at the ragged tin
scraps with which it was roofed and
muttering around the rag-stuffed
windows, then scurrying off through
the glade, fresh with green grass and
sprinkled with mountain daisies. A
ifling breathlessness hushed the
ashing grasses and rustling leaves.
A heavy quiet smothered the glade.
There was no sound, no movement,
mly the smell of rain in the thick.
For a moment the snake paused,
lis shapeless head swaying drunk-
;nly; then slipping noiselessly out
of sight in the weeds, he sped along
the ground to the doorsill, leaving
the grass quivering in his wake.
The storm was coming. Black,
in-soaked clouds surged up from
behind the mountain, and from the
bald cliffs beyond the glade came an
echoing crash of chestnut limbs,
snapped in the rising gale and hurled
into the thickets. With the
a starved beast, the storm wind
swooped down upon the valley. The
great tree shook in violent gusts of
soaking wind. The yellow sky grew
darker than the black mountain, and
a chill tainted the heavy, warm air.
It grew blacker. The rain fell in
leaden sheets but not pierced or
shattered by the shrieking wind.
Great pieces of icy water smote
upon the shaken cabin, forcing
trance through the mud-chinked
cracks, and jagged streaks of light
ning glared whitely on the glade
cowering before the sickening earth
quake of thunder to follow.
Outside all was terror, fear of the
inside of the cabin was squalid
fort and stale, musty warmth,
legless chair lay the snake, coiled
tensely, with his narrow white eyes
fixed on the figure squatting
backless chair across the room. The
old man was muttering to himself a
he swung the clattering door of hi
sootv stove back on its broken hinge
to stack dry bits of chestnut wood
his fire. He was a gray with
ered creature, this Snake man, with
thin, greasy beard and skin like
umpled parchment. His feet and
5 bowed legs were wrapped to
double-size with grayed greenish
'loth. A pair of khaki riding breeches
sagged around his thick waist, and
,n ancient gray-green shawl was
•lutched around his narrow should-
rs. He had a thin, twisted nose and
normous blue-veined ears, and eyes
like the storm-cold, black, tempestu
ous, shot through with gold flecks
like lightning.
Slowly and deliberately he stoked
his brushy. fire. Methodically he
turned to pile the surplus wood be
side the tin pail of rusty nails under
the window sill. His eyes fell on the
watchful rattler. “Ye’re beautiful,
Shygard, damn ye ! I wouldn’t lose
one bit of ye fer nuthin’. That I
wouldn’t—not even yere pisen
fangs!” chuckled the old fellow, leer-
ing.
He dropped the sticks on the
earthen floor and turned toward the
sliip’s bunk which had been built into
the cabin wall. He pulled back a
filthy plaid blanket, and with a pair
of blunted scissors began to rip at
tlie grimy toe-sacks tacked to rotting
planks which served as slats and
sides of the bed. “It’s niglits like
this when the wind is a-snarlin’ and
the rain a-slashin’ at the old tree
that the witches charm mought be a-
wurkin best!” he growled to himself.
“Now whar mought that herb charm
be?” and he began to slash at the
foul bed covering, cursing softly. At
length he paused. “Snygard!” he
called. The snake hissed sullenly
and darted a forked tongue through
pale, thick lips, but he did not
move. “Snygard!” This time the
tone was impatient. “Come here !”
The snake’s hard, little eyes fastened
themselves on the old man’s back,
and his neck began to sway, coiling
and uncoiling. Turning sharply, the
met the black glare of Sny
gard, and the command on his lips
died to a whisper, “Snygard! Mi-
gawd ! He’s got me !”
Fascinated, he gazed into the nar-
w bright eyes of the snake. He
began to pluck at his lips and shake
his head, and his great, gold-flecked,
black eyes dilated and contracted
;eking to gain mastery, yet fast
losing it, staring blindly into the
long, steady eyes of Snygard. A
burning streak of lightning seared
the pitchy sky, and the thunder
shook the cabin until the blackened
pot crusted with the hard, cold re
mains of yesterday’s mush, rattled on
; and the rusty nails.clanged
against their tin pail, but there were
other sounds inside—the whistling
gasp of the old man’s breathing and
istling like the crackling of
dry leaves. Falteringly, the old man
stepped forward. Hesitating he
made one final effort to wrench his
gaze from the snake’s eyes, but Sny
gard uncoiled his sleek gray body,
whipped back his head, and harden
ing his contracted pupils, stared re
lentlessly at the haggard Snake man.
The old man sobbed convulsively and
took another step toward the snake.
A shudder ran through the tall,
Wet grass in a swerving line from
the sill of the cabin door to the foot
of the dripping Black Walnut tree,
a line of waving grass, and yet there
was no wind, for the storm had
passed and an unearthly calm had
hushed the tiny glade, and the yellow
sky was clear. The waving ceased
as suddenly as it had begun, and
across the broken limb splintered b
lightning, and into the cleari
around the knotted tree-roots wri*
Snygard. The old man was as
as the storm.