949
May 6, 1949
THE SALEMITE
Page Eleven
Gr€jj Diii|
by Betsy Farmer
I walked out of the house with
its noisy people and smoky haze.
The deserted beach seemed even
more desolate in contrast to the gay
scene within. All along the beach
the gruff waves pounded out their
' rather mournful symphony of foam
and froth. Most of the houses were
boarded up and rather stark in
their lonliness. The valiant little
-jetties ran out to meet the oce^n
and then dashed against it in a
sprout of spray. The beach was
still smooth with that smoothness
■ that come§ from a winter of idle
ness with only crabs and waves to
mar its soft surface. Spring had
not come, and the late afternoon
sun strove vainly to break through
the muddy clouds that hung sul-
’ lenly overhead.
I turned to walk down the beach.
; Slipping off my shoes, I let my
long'pent-up toes curl comfortably
in the cold sand. It was a good
' feeling to catch a little shell and
' fling it away. It gave me a kind
■ of wild abandon that made me feel
' my kinness to the primitive savage.
I wanted to run down the beach
. until I could run no more. I wan-
' ted the wind to run its fingers
through my hair, and the salty
moisture to make it glisten as it
streamed out behind me. I felt
free, as though no power on earth
■ • could hold me back.
• I don^t know how long I walked
and ran down the grey and tan
beach. I chased the sophisticated
terns and made them scatter in a
flurry of wild flight. A skittish
crab scurried for lus sandy home.
When I finally thought of turning
around, I had gone far down the
beach. The feeling of exhiliration
had passed, and I had returned to
the world around me. The clouds
had grown darker, and they appear
ed ominous and foreboding. The
sand clung to my ankles and tried
to drag me down. The ^nyriads of
shells cut at my, feet, and the jet
ties loomed high and weathered in
front of me every hundred or so
feet. The terns wheeled and cried
with a restlessness that anliounced
Music Hour
Presented
The School of Music presented a
students’ recital Thursday after
noon as the regular weekly Music
Hour program.
All performers were advanced
music students. Their recital in
cluded* piano, voice and violin selec
tions.
Pianists and their numbers in
cluded Norma Lee Woosley of Clpm-
mons, ^^Pigaudon” (McDowell);
Hula Mae Cain of Fayetteville,
^‘Melodie, op. 10, no, 1” (Mosz-
kowski) ; Martha Bowman of Hick
ory, ^'Andante and Variations,
from Sonata in A major” (Mo-
7.art); Jean Tegtmeier of Mountain
Lakes, N. J., Adagio molto and
Pre’sttssimo from Sonata in 0 minor,
op, no. 1” (Beethoven); and Elea
nor Davidson of Gibsonville, ^'No
velette in E major, op. 21, no. 7”
(Schumann).
Students of voice and their sel
ections were Poslyn Fogel of Geo
rgetown, S. C., "Ah, Love but a
day^^ (Protheroe); Sarah Ann
Slawter of Winston-Salem, "Spring
Came” (Edwin MacArthur); and
Katherine Ives of New Bern,
‘'Traume” (Wagner). Betty
Sheppe of Martinsville, Va., and
Petty ' Jean Mabe of Clemmons,
sang the "Flower Duet” from Ma
dame Butterfly (Puccini).
The two violinists and their sel
ections were Daniel Hodge of Wins
ton-Salem, "Sonata in G major, no.
6” (Mozart); and Bennie Joe Mich-
of Gastonia, "Maiden with the ^
the impending storm. Softly the
first drops of rain fell. There was
the clean smell of the rain in place
of the smell of the sea. It fell
harder, and the pellets of rain
tasted fresh and sweet as they
mingled with the salt on my lips.
The rain seemed to be waiting
for me to get inside before it hit
with all its fury and majesty. I
ran toward our cottage. The shells
passed underfoot unnoticed, and the
sand was just that part of the
earth on which I ran. Like all of
nature, I ran in the face of tke
coming storm.
When I reached the house, I felt
almost reluctant to go again into
the warmth and bustle of my
friends. The moment of solitude
was gone as the first torrents came
crashing down. I opened the door,
and the warmth and friendliness of
the room seemed to reach out. I
became just another one of ^the
group that took me in, full of con.
cern, set about drying me out.
Polly Studies
Lit. And Art
But In Vain
by Polly Hartle
Why do these things always happen
to me?
My majors are English and Art.
My test shows my mental ability
Has corroded and fallen apart.
Whereas I have studied music and
dance,
French, drama and history, with
wrath
I find that my carelessly taking a
chance
Placed me first not in LIT. but in
MATH!
Heat Waec
by Jane Watson
The August sun has not yet sur
rendered to evening its midday
triumph 'over the small Florida
town which swelters beneath it.
There is very little traffic this
time of day, and the almost bar
ren main street stretches broad and
shining. The shimmering heat
waves rising from its surface beck
on and dare anyone to step bare
footed on its blistering cement.
The suffocating, stuffy smell of
roasting peanuts from the corner
stand permeates the air. The few
cars seem to be heading toward
the beach and they short-temper-
edly honk their disapproval at any
delay. Their shiny surfaces catch
the sun rays and flash back multi
colored blazes of defiance as they
hurry toward the enticing bay, bril
liantly blue, sparkling in the dis
tance.
Pedestrians, too, head for the
beach, their bathing suits wrapped
tightly in a towel.' The sandals of
the young girls slap the pavement
eagerly, and the moccasins of the
boys showing beneath their rolled-
up dungarees pad softly, though
equally as eager to be away from
the heat. Loiterers have chosen
the small patch of shade in front
of the drug store. Here the crisp,
clean smell of antiseptics coming
from the screened door vies with
the sticky smell of melting tar
from the street. Grocery-laden
housewives in once crisp and neat
cottons climb wearily into their
cars complaining, ‘' This heat has
become unbearable. ’ ’
(Ed Note: The Salemite is happy
to print these descriptions written
by freshmen in English composi
tion.)
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