Newspapers / Salem College Student Newspaper / March 20, 1953, edition 1 / Page 2
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J pras Pacre Two THE SALE MITE Who. 2>a We Km4u? ... Ladies, We’re Doomed We Seniors, we Juniors, we Sophomores, we Freshmen. Who do we know? Seniors, first. Remember the other week end when you were at Carolina and a nice looking boy approached you? He had heard you went to Salem, so he asked you if you knew so-and-so. “No,” you replied, “She doesn’t go to Salem.” But yes she did. She was a freshman and this boy’s sister. You sorta blushed when he casually remarked that he “kinda thought everybody knew everybody ' at Salem since it was such a small college.’ But you hadn’t known his sister—a freshman. Juniors, next. Rememher the nights you went over to see your little sisters and you were so surprised that Clewell seemed so dif ferent? You remembered most of the sopho mores, but not-all of them. The freshmen you just didn’t know. You got to know your little sisters and their roommates. You learned seven or eight new names the first week or so. Have you learned seven or eight names every week since then? Sophomores, now. You’ve lived with the juniors and are living with the freshmen now. Yet how would you do on a Senior poll? Rememher the other month when you wanted a ride to Davidson and someone said that so- and-so, a Senior, was taking a car? You had to get someone to point the senior out to you because you didn’t know her. Remember how you sorta squirmed to ask her because you’d never even known her name before ? So now you know her name, but do you know the other seniors? And Freshmen. Remember the first week at Salem when there were just freshmen and a few upperclassmen here? Names and peo ple were important then and you learned them—learned the freshmen and. the upper classmen that were here. Then the herds de scended and dozens of new faces and new people came. You couldn’t learn them all, you thought, but you tried while sitting at assigned tables. But who do you know dur ing elections? When names of candidates are read af lunch, do you find out who these can didates are? When you vote do you really know something about the girl for whom you vote? Remember the other day when someone you hardly knew' called you by your name ? It was a surprise to you because you didn’t know her name. You had kind of assumed that no one knew you that you didn’t know. It made you feel good to know that someone knew you that you didn’t know. And yet it made you feel kind of guilty because you didn’t know her. Lots of people know you. Who do vou know? OFFICES Lower floor Main Hall Downtown Office 304-306 South Main Street Subscription Price $3.00 a year Published every Friday of the College year by the Student Body of Salem College Printed by the Sun Printing Company Editor-in-Chief Selma Jean Calhoun Associate Editors Alison Britt, Connie Murray Managing Editor Sally Reiland Feature Editor Betsy Liles Feature Assistant Bessie Smith Copy Editor Bebe Boyd Make-up Editor Donald Caldwell Pictorial Editor Lu Long Ogburn Headline Editor Betsy Turner Music Editor Edith Flagler Business Manager Joan Shope Advertising Managers,. Marguerite Blanton, Maggie Blakney Circulation Manager Toddie Smith Faculty Advisor Miss Jess Byrd By Cynthia May It was spring—spring all over the world so I decided to come out of hibernation. I spread my wings and glided through the warm air and dodged white fluffy clouds in the blue sky. The earth below me was green, and large forsythia bushes spread their heavy flowered branches in spiral sweeps. Pansies raised their colored faces and nodded .as I went by. Below me I saw a college cam pus. It was just a little southern campus. 1 saw two of the students sitting in the Square and I decided to go down and hear what they were saying. “Here I am almost twenty-one and I’m not saved yet. If my gallant knight doesn’t come soon, 1 am fated to die. I can see him now — riding swiftly down the street, the muscles on his white horse straining to out-run time. He will sweep me into his arms and carry me away and I'll be saved.” “Oh, come off it. The age of chivalry is dead,” the other said, “He’ll speed down the street in his blue convertible, honk his horn, and you will run out to him.” I was horrified at this conver sation and decided to see what the rest of the world had to say about this. I flew swiftly north. The country side below me was a maize of color all blurred together. Soon I saw a large northern university. Two girls were sitting on the cam pus. I swopped down behind a daffodil and listened. “But, June, I am almost twenty- three. Soon I’ll be graduated from here. Oh where is that handsome knight on his white stallion that will steal me away ?” “Listen, honey, Chivalry is dead. If you want a man you have to look for him. He isn’t going to come to you. He’ll borrow his Dad’s car to take you out and won’t even open the door for you.” “Achoo.” “What was that?” “I don’t know.” Oh why did I have to sneeze; the pollen of that daffodil would have to tickle my nose. Well, maybe I had better move on. I shall go to France. Surely people aren’t saying the same thing there. The ocean below me was calm. Porpoise .sunned their backs mom entarily as they leaped into the air and then dove headlong into the water again. Little white caps danced on the brims of lazy wave lets. And soon there was Paris below me. I slipped down quietly and crouched behind a glass on the table of a side walk cafe. “But, Madam, I - know he will come. He will bow down before me, kiss my hand and murmur, ‘Je t’aime ma petite choo choo . He will appear from nowhere, tall and handsome. And then he will carry me away in his strong arms. “Mademoiselle, the age of Chiva- Iry is dead. If it happens at all, you will bow down before him and then snatch him. I know; I had to.” Madam’s hand reached for her glass, so I flew away quickly. The mourftains of Switzerland loomed before me. Two skiers were sit ting before the fire at the foot of a steep slope. I hid behind one of their skis and listened. “Oh, when will he come. That brave skier who will take me to his ski hut to live happily ever after.” “I hate to tell you, but if he comes down that slope, you’ll go after him. If you land in a snow bank, there you’ll stay. He won’t help you out. Chivalry is dead.” I couldn’t take any more of this. I Chivalry is really dead. The whole i world agrees. Ladies, we’re doomed, i Oh, what is that? Why, it is Joe Spirit with his super powered wings. ■ “Hey, Joe, wait for me.” Letters To The Editor “Honor” is not limited to the college campus. Certainly, the un paid “Y” bill and telephone bills in Bitting are important. However, there is a serious situation just across the Salem Square. The owner of a local soda shop was very considerate to Salem stu dents w'hen he allowed us to open charge accounts with him. We have showm him our appreciation by “forgetting” or failing to pay $80.00 that w'e owe him. A total of 55 students owe him from 25c to $8.00. Manv of these bills were charged last December and still remain unpaid. The situation has improved in the past two or three weeks—when over $100.00 was unpaid at that time. There still remains this un paid bill and I believe we are making a serious mistake if we wait longer to pay. Let’s not let 22% of our student body pull down the standards of fairness and honesty which have always been associated with a Salem girl. "Betsv Turner The Bald Spot By Alison Britt The organist pushed the last note of the offertory into the stillness of the church just as the last usher received the last nickel from the little boy on the back row. There was a second of hushed silence. Then the ushers marched down the aisles in formation holding glowing wooden, partially filled collection plates stiffly in front of them. As they stopped at the altar, Daddy, holding his plate as stiffly as the others, turned his back to me, and I could see the bald spot that he tries hard to cover. I looked down at my blade-gloved hands during the prayer and won dered why Daddy tried to cover the bald spot. “Amen” and the prayer was over. Daddy, having finished his duty, came to sit beside Mother on our row. The broken, tinted sun light glowing through the tall stained-glass window beside us glared on Daddy’s horn-rimmed glasses, and I could not see his eyes, but I guessed that they were peaceful as blue eyes should be. His outward appearance was al- March 20^|i By Alison Britt, Connie Murray, and Betsy Turner I ways calm and peaceful, but inside I there were worries and uncertain ties. Daddy knew what he wanted and he fought for it. The shiny smoothness of the new bench under , me reminded me of how Daddy I fought for the new church and the new benches. Daddy often has to cover up his feelings. He joked with the doctor when one of us was sick, but we , Britts could see how lined his face j became. He was calm when I was given the lead in the Senior play, but his bald spot lighted up and ^ he clapped louder than anyone else on opening night. Though he closes his big prob lems into himself and works on them quietly and privately, he can teach a fist-pounding Sunday School lesson. And he almost burst a blood vessel when the curbing in front of our house was laid a little higher than the yard. The preacher made his final ges ture and closed the Bible. Daddy’s hand smoothed his hair in the back to try to cover the bald spot, and my black-gloved hand turned the pages to the last hymn. Dear Diary, It’s over now. At one point 1 didn’t tjiij[ it would be. Thoughts of disgrace and huii iation crowded my mind as I walked theJaj mile to Pain Hall and room 9362. The wiii, sheets were distributed and the Phakespeap test had started. 1 sat there—test in hand and hand onstp mach. Yesterday I had decided that would inspire me to study. So I had retutDoi from the “We sell everything from silly ptit| to unabridged editions of “Alice in Wondo. land” Store with gooey gumdrops, picklj peppers, salty sardines, cavity candy, melti malt balls, and one box of Nabisco crackm Having set up shop in the quiet, serene at mosphere of our dorm, where thirty girls canned and bunny-hopped toward a fut® fame on Broadway, I proceeded to stack fad in my bitty brain. Daintily munching oj, salty sardine, I read “Measure For Pleasun, “The Cyclone,” “The Way You Don’t W« It,” and “The Summer’s Tale—all by ui friend aud yours—.Willie Phakespeare At the end of four hours, I was eonfida of my knowledge. I knew the exact speedli a cyclone, how to measure out pleasure, 4 way I didn’t want it, and what tale the mer had told (and it was all a big lie). S no one knew more than I. With a start, 1 realized that 1 had waste ten minutes of my test time in fond remw cence. Brainful Beatrice looked at me with as she dotted the “i” on page nineteen out a new pack of notebook paper. After much contemplation and coii.^iderattl thought, I decided, by way of eliminati| that the first step should be to read Ik questions. 1 glanced at the first one, ni my eyes, turned the paper upside down, realized that it was right side up the fe time. Question number one read: 1. Analyze “The Cyclone” in view of GtfS and Latin sources of neo-platonic art euphuistie tendencies. Use this in view ofH twenty-fohr major characters, and fifty m characters, and their philosophies of life. Think before you read! Time limit: I? minutes. After reading this I turned green, leftlll room, came back with sunglasses, and p: ceeded to the second question. [ 2. Diagram and label the anatomy * Phakespeare. How did this influence writing? Time limit: one and a half min# The third question read something like 3. Write a short essay (2000 words) facts about Willie and his eating habits, materials found in pieces other than textbook or the library. Footnotes, ] Time limit: three minutes. Due to complaints my professor had de#* that tests were too long. In an effort to # mize physical strain and mental taxation, had been given a shorter test, designed bring-forth our ability in a few minutes. After the screams and moans in our m# ture snake pit had subsided, we were all to see the advantage of it and to concenW’l fully on our work. So, you see. Diary, that’s why I’m wril* this in the infirmary. I wish that awning H not been there, or I’m sure the twelve drop would have done the trick. It the test that unnerved me—it was the P that did it. “Don’t and I had no pencil. use ink—use 'I'V* Cil i
Salem College Student Newspaper
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March 20, 1953, edition 1
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