Newspapers / Salem College Student Newspaper / Nov. 5, 1937, edition 1 / Page 2
Part of Salem College Student Newspaper / About this page
This page has errors
The date, title, or page description is wrong
This page has harmful content
This page contains sensitive or offensive material
• Page Two. THE SALEMITE Friday, November 5, 1937. Published Weekly By The Student Body of Salem College Member Southern Inter-Collegiate :^ress Association SUBSCRIPTION PRICE $2.00 a 10c a Copy EDITOEIAL STAFF Editor-In-Chief Elou;se Sj^le Business Manager Helen SWfli EDITOEIAL DEPARTMENT Musie Editor ... General Editor Sports Editor ... Laura Bland Alice Horsefield . Cornelia Wolfe Assistant Editors:— Florence Joyner Mary McColl Staff Assistants :•— Anna Wray Pogie Peggy Brawley Helen McArthur Sara Harrison Mary L. Salley Betty Sanford Elizabeth Halt Helen Totten Emmfi B. Grantham Mai'"aret Holbrook Rarfl Burrell He.en Savage Betsy Perry FEATUBE DEPARTMENT Feature Editor Staff Assistants;— Mary Turner Willis Mary Thomas Cramer Percival Mary W. Spence Cecilia McKeithan Maud Battle Josephine Gibson Evelyn MoCarty Leilii Will ams Betty Bahnson I'cggy Rogers BUSINESS DEPARTMENH' Assistant Business Manager — Edith McLean Advertising Manager Prather Sisk ADVERTISING STAFF Peggy Bowen Virginia Taylor Rebecca Brame Mildred Troxler Virginia Carter El zabeth Winget Grace Gillespie Germaine Gold Margaret Patterson Pauline Daniel Bill Fulton Circulation Manager Exchange Manager Associate Exchange Manager Prances Watlington Associate Exchange Manager — Sybil Wimmer Assistant Circulation Manager . .. . El.zabeth Piper Assistant Circulation Manager Millicent McKendrie Assistant Circulation Manager Christine Dobbins fISPRKSBNTKD FOP» NATIONAL ADVERTISINS BY ' ' - AT KANCCM HAUNTED HOUSE A drab old house on the meadow Seen from a train; Its color eaten by sunlight, Its years washed in by the rains. In the tarnished dusk it stands there, Emptied or our delight; Its windows, like eyeless sockets, Stare on an endless night. Suddenly one raw sunbeam Writhes like a thing in pain, And the eyes of that grim house sparkle •— And go dead again. —Louis TJntermeyer. • • * • PORTRAIT OF AN AMERICAN He slobbers over sentimental plays And sniffles over sentimental songs He tells you often how he sadly longs For “the ideals of the dear old days.” In gatherings he is the first to raise His A'oice against “our country’s shameful wrongs” He storms at greed—His hard, flat tone prolongs The hymns and mumbled platitudes of praise. I heard him at his office Friday past: “Look here,” he said, “this talk is all a bluff;” You mark my words, this thing will never last Let them walk out — they’ll come back soon enough. We’ll have all hands at work, and working fast! How do they think we ’re running this — for love! —Louis Untermeyer. INDIVIDUALITY “Oh, she’s queer!” That’s the remark you hear so often when a girl is trying to be different and show individu ality. Before you make a statement like that, think at least three times because you may cause destruction of a very im portant idea or even a personality. After all, most of us do things because we believe they will appeal to the majority of people. Have you ever stopped to think where you would be if somebody had not been “crazy” enough to try to dis cover a new continent — the one that you live on right now? And what about airplanes and cars and moving pictures? Not all of us are able to discover or invent, but if somebody should have that type of mind it is up to us to encourage that person and not say she’s “queer” or “crazy” or “mad.” Don’t you see that we would still be living in the dark ages if it were not for unusual people with new and individual ideas? There may be several girls right here on our campus who will some day make a name for themselves. There is certainly real tal ent at Salem; so let’s not be children and silly and criticize new ideas. At least we can give the individual a chance. You know, when we criticize something that we know nothing about, we are only showing our own ignorance. Criticism doesn’t hurt the real individual nearly as much as it hurts the one who criticizes; so if you are tempted to call a new idea “crazy” or “silly” or “dumb” — just think what a bad im pression you will make on intelligent people. And remember that anybody can follow the crowd, but it takes a real indi vidual to be different and outstanding. —B. 1»S7 HwaliK I95« Assockied G38e6iot8 Pt^ts Dittitetor of GDlle6Ki9Di6est NationalAdvertisingServicR tnc. Coliftf ■ ■: .4 420 Mad .>). Y. rHi-,-- ciscc She: “I just adore dark men.” Her: “You’d have a swell time in Africa. ’ ’ Left-handed tea cups may be con verted to righthanded ones by turn ing them around. “No, I’m sorry I can’t marry you,” said the lovely miss to the ardent swain, “but I’ll always ad mire your good taste.” Sunny smiles are sometimes worn by shady people. POTPOURRI I Origin of Trousers I Trousers are man’s adaptation I to meet changing conditions. ‘ Both men and women originally wore skirt-styled costumes. The addition of horsemen to armies about 900 B. C. necessitated di vided skirts. Some hundred years later “skirts for each leg” —or pantaloons—came into be ing. With the introduction of machinery, inconvenient or dan gerous clothing was further modified. I KASH-KUSH-SEBEB I wandered one day through the great deep forests of the Jazepath lands near the swollen river of Dam- onol n. Suddenly great flashes of lightning startled me and the roar of thunder deafened me. The rain began to descend in huge, dark drops • I turned and ran towards the opening of a large cave. I am hum an, but my fear of the Unknown was conquered by my fear of tho.se wild, desperate voices of nature, which had threatened me outside the cave. So I entered. I struck a match and looked about to see what kind of a place I was to spend the next hour or so in. I uttered a startled oath when I dis covered that I was not in a cave at all but in what appeared to be the opening of a tunnel. I crushed my notebook into a paper and lit the top of it to light my way. Slowly, cautiously I stumbled along the tun- nel. When I had crept in this way for fully three minutes I stopped in amazement and looked f.head of me. The torch I held made the sides of the tunnel gleam with the burn ing glow of sapphires, rubies, emer alds. Surely, I was going mad! But no, I touched the wall and discover ed that it was crusted with jewels — feet and feet of stone studded with riches 1 I joyfully moved forward — still puzzling but eager to know more of the strange place. All at once the tunnel stopped and I burst into a huge room. I held my ^ feebly burning torch high and look ed about me in astonishment. This was a room fit for the royal po tentate of an oriental court. The floor was of smooth, polished marble; the walls were studded with precious jewels. There was a throne of gold with rich purple coverings on it. The richness and magnificence of the scene almost paralyzed my eyes. To have stopped to think how and why the splendor was displayed in an underworld cave room in the land of Jazepath would have paralyzed my mind. So I stood there drinking in a sight fit for the eyes of a king only. * On an enormous, beautifully carv ed oaken chest there stood a golden casket. On the lid of the casket was a single diamond which caught the light from my torch and sent it back in a light so clear and blue that it hurt my eyes. I moved towards the I casket and fearfully opened it. Sure ly, if I believed the fairy tales of my youth this casket should be full of evil sprites and imps who would jump out to torment me when I open ed the box. But in the box I found not the sprites but weath which ia truly greater than the “wealth of the Indies.” I concealed my treasure beneath my long coat and fearfully made my way back to the opening of the tunnel. I was mortally afraid that the owner of the cave would return and would find me there and that the drops of my blood would decorate the floor with clear, ruby splotches. When I came to the daylight once more the storm had cleared up so I proceeded hurriedly on my way. My treasure 1 am going to give to you. In the casket I found what is greater than diamonds, richer than pearls. I found the manuscript and notebook of that ancient philoso pher, Kash-Kush-Sebeb, — that 11- lustrous aged one who lived when the land of Jazepath was in the morning of its life—who lived when the Wicked Hordes of Black Fairies were struggling- with the Pure Hordes of the White Fairies. Kash- Kush-Sebeb was living when the sun and moon talked to the good and pure people and when the thunder and lightning talked to the wicked. I’m going to tell you some of the wise tales which I found in the note book of the great philosopher, Kash- Kush-Sebeb: “Once upon a time were two little girls who lived in Beautiful Laijd. The name of one was Faith; the oth er’s name was Doubt. They were ha-PPy girls and they lived a happy life. There were no bad elves or sprites or wicked giants in this beau- tiful land to do them harm. Good fairies and kind spirits hovered over the ancient roofs of this town to help the girls and their friends. (Continued on Page Six) ARE WE MONKEYS OB ARE WE MEN? Monkeys they say are great mimics. So, unfortunately, are college students. One girl starts a fashion fad; three hun dred ape her. And individualities are lost in the rush to be fashionable. But the loss of individuality of intellect is a far graver and far worse significant danger than the loss of individuality of style. It is easy enough for a student to get through four years of college training without a great deal of original think ing. Most of the thinking has already been done for her, either by the teacher or by the text-book. All she needs is a well applied memory. Yet surprisingly enough, all things of any consequences have been done by some one with more than a well-trained memory. Some one who has gone a step further and done a bit of thinking for herself, independent of the class room. She is an individnality. These individualities make up the progressive front of a college. They refuse to be awed by traditional thought, to be bound by the stultifying phrase “It has never been done before.” They originate and they imitate. Salem class rooms and Salem organizations need more of these individualitiea. —H. M. POUF! ALL OVER! Well, after so many weeks of waiting, three hours — and pouf! all over. Hobgoblins, ghosts, cross-eyed, be-whisk- ered gentlemen conversed with charming ladies by the light of Jack-0’-lanterns; from course to course people searched vainly for table No. 24; rhymes jingled while Robert played; facial contours improved with the addition of false noses; and balloons popped with impish glee. Of course, we Seniors haven’t yet finished discussing it. From left and right come such remarks as, “Wasn’t it wonderful?” “I had a grand time!” “Did you sit with that boy from Virginia?” It was wonderful. Some of us learned that there were such words as “inoculate” and “rarefy”; and the rest of us discovered they were difficult to spell; still more found they had no per sonality. All I have to say is I envy the rising seniors; I offer a genial bit of advice that they start now thanking Dr. and Mrs. Rondthaler for the good time they are going to have next year, for we can never tell them how very much we enjoyed their dinner party. —P. B.
Salem College Student Newspaper
Standardized title groups preceding, succeeding, and alternate titles together.
Nov. 5, 1937, edition 1
2
Click "Submit" to request a review of this page. NCDHC staff will check .
0 / 75