Page Two
A/oi • . .
Editor’s note: This editorial was written by
Lola Dawson/class of 1952, and appeared m
the Dec. 8, 1950 Salemite.
It’s December 8 the calendar says, almost
Christmas 1950, and I’m a junior in college
Outwardly, it sterns as if things have changed
very little since I have been at Salem. Ihe
Seniors are getting ready for Senior Vespers,
the Juniors are preparing for the Christmas
Banquet, and the “Y” cabinet' is planning its
annual visit to the Negro Orphanage. One
look in the newspaper tells me that life is not
the same as it was when I came here as a
Freshman in ’48. V. J. Day had been June 6
of that year, and we hoped that, at least, there
would be peace and harmony among all na
tions. Now in 1950 we are at war again in
Korea. The boys are fighting courageously
so that we can always have our Christmas
Banquet, our Senior Vespers, and our Orphan
age party. But there is an air of pessimism
surrounding all of us. WE are wondering if
this is our last candlelight service in Memorial
Hall, our last festive banquet in the dining
room, and our last visit to the Negro orphans
who look upon us as Santa Claus.
No one in my family is in Korea. I have an
older sister teaching school and a younger
brother in High School. I’m not affected
direptly by this war; so I can celebrate Christ
mas as I’ve always done. I can go home on
Friday, catch up on my sleep, and then get
myself caught in the rush of buying Christmas
presents. I can decorate the front door with
the silver star and put lights and silver tinsel
on the Christmas tree. I can switch the radio
dial on “Martin Agronski’s Views On The
News” to one of soothing Christmas carols.
I can avoid the. news in the paper and look
instead at the comic strips, Dorothy Dix, and
the feature section. I can go to parties, sing
“White Christmas”, and drink egg nog. At
Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, I can listen
to the choir and think of the cashmere sweater
I’m getting Christmas morning.
But these are not the things I want to do
during the season which celebrates the birth
of Christ. I want to go home on Friday. I
want to realize how lucky I am to see my
family, and have a warm open fire with stock
ings hung on the mantle. I don’t want to give
Christmas presents just because- it’s an old
custom. I want to give Mrs. Young, who’s in
our church, a Christmas basket. I want to
give her four little girls a doll, because they
have never known that a Santa Claus existed.
I want to decorate the door with the shining
star and holly, always remembering that it
could be a gold star in the window. I want
to take a good look at the lights and tinsel
on our Christmas tree to make up for the
boys who have Christmas trees only in their
memories. I Want to hear what Truman aq^
the United Nations have to say, and keep this
in mind as I pop popcorn and listen to “0
Holy Night”. When I go to parties I want
to remember boys who are using canteens for
punch cups and water for egg nog. Most of
all, when I go to Midnight Mass, I want to
follow the service and offer it for all the
people who are not having the happy Christ
mas that I’m having. When I leave church, I
want to stop and look at the manger scene.
As I look at the little babe surrounded by the
shepherds, kings, and His mother, Mary, I
want to remember that the spirit back of this
child in the crib is the only spirit which can
end the fighting and bloodshed.
Yes, it’s December 8, almost Christmas 1950,
and I’lh a Junior in college. I’m lucky.
Salemite
OFFICES Lower floor Main Hall
Downtown Office 304-306 South. Main Street
Printed by the Sun Printing Company
Subscription Price—^$3.50 a year
Published every Friday of the College year by the
Student Body of Salem College
EdItor-in-Chief .. Alison Britt
Associate Editor Connie Murray
Managing Editor - Sally Reiland
Feature Editor Betsy Liles
Copy Editor Bebe Boyd
Make-rip Editor Donald Caldwell
Headline Editor Boots Hudson
Pictorial Editor Lu Long Ogburn
Music Editor Edith Flagler
Sports, Editor Lou Fike
Editcmal Staff: Laurie Mitchell, Jean Edwards, Barbara
Allen* Sue Harrison, Louise Barron, Jackie Nielson. Eleanor
Smith, Martha Thornburg, Francine Pitts, Betty Tyler, Jane
Brown, Betty Lynn Wilson, Mary Anne Raines, Freda Siler,
Carolyn Kneeburg, Anne Edwards, Sandra Whitlock, Phoebe
Hall, Nancy Gilchrist, Patsy Hill, Nancy Cockfield, Ruthie
Lott, Molly Quinn, Emily Heard, Sudie Mae Spain, Kay
Williams.
Business Manager . Joan S'^ope
Circulation Manager Claire Chestnut
Business Staff: Peggie Horton, Carolyn Watlington, Betty
Saunders, Diantha Carter, Ann Butler, Thelma Lancaster,
Mary MeNeely Rogers, Betty Morrison, Bebe Brown.
Typists Joyce Billings, Ann Butler, Eleanor Smith
Faculty Advisor Mias Jess Byrd
the s a L E MIt e
Whitlock On Bridge
North: South vulnerable
East dealer
NORTH
S—void
H—K 5 4 3 2
D—K 9 8 6 5
C-8 5
WEST
S-Q 4 2
H-Q 7 6
D—Q J 2
C-J 7 6 4
5 3
EAST
S-A K J 8
H-10
D—void
C_K Q 10 9 3 2
SOUTH
S—10 9 7 6
H-A J 9 8
D—A 10 7 3
C-A
The bidding:
EAST SOUTH
1 Spade Double
4 Clubs 4 Diamonds
pass 6 Diamonds
pass pass
By Sandy Whitlock
Opening led by EAST: Ace of
Spades
The opening lead was taken in
North’s hand by a small trump.
North then led a small club to the
ace on the board. Now the board
is void of clubs, and North is void
of spades.—a cross-ruff successfully
set up. North took a small spade
trick with a trump from his hand
and then took a club trick with a
trump on the board.
Next North led a small heart to
the king in his hand and took a
small heart trick with the ace on
the board. This was his downfall,
for he lost two heart tricks to
West—the queen and a small one
trumped in.
North, already down one, went
down another bylosin g a trump
trick to West, who held both the
WEST
2 Spades
5 Clubs
Double
NORTH
3 Diamonds
5 Diamonds
pass
Lines
By Sally Reiland
Composed some six feet above the stage, on remounting a
ladder in Old Chapel while designing lighting for “Dark of
the Moon”, a dramatic production.
November 16, 1953
Seven months have past; three school months, with the length
Of one short summer! and again I mount
This ladder, rocking from its years of use
With a loud squeaky rattle.-—Once 'again
Do I behold these steep and crooked steps,
That in the wild rush of six weeks tests impress
Thoughts of more intricate lighting effects; and connect
The Pierrettes with the quietude of other organizations.
The day has come when I again retire
Here, under this teaser batton, and view
These spotlights of 400 watts, these countless cables.
Which at this season, with their unlabled plugs.
Are in anticipation of being attached, and lose themselves
’Mid curtains and ceiling plaster. Once again I see
These border-lights, hardly border-lights, little strands
Of 60 watt bulbs burned out; this old stage.
Tradition to the very boards; and wreaths of work
Sent up, not in silence, from among the crew members—
With certain professors’ notice, as might seem
Of unwritten papers in the academic curriculum.
Or of some impassed test; while before the teachers of such courses,
The Thespian kneels alone.
queen and jack of trumps covered
by two smaller ones. Consequently,
North went down two, doubled and
vulnerable.
How would you have played this
hand? Do you think a little slam
could have been made?
The bidding was admirable, and
North could have made his six dia
monds bid. The two key plays
would have been to fenesse through
West for both the queen of hearts
and either the queen or jack of
diamonds, losing only one trump
trick.
Remember that a fenesse is m-
dispensible in a game of bridge
especially when you re practically
sure who is holding the missing
cards. In this case. West doubled,
telling North that he held the dia
monds and probably the queen of
hearts.
These theatrical forms.
Through a long absence, have not been to me
As is a production to a director’s eye: the apple;
But rather,. I have oft owed to them
Hours of physical weariness, undeniable experience—
Felt in the back, and felt along ladder-bruised shins;
And passing even into my feeling feet,
With aching restoration'.—feelings too
Of unremembered productions; such, perhaps.
As have no slight or trivial influence
On that supposedly best portion of a good Salemite’s life— —
The little, nameless, unremembered facts
That constitute her grades. Nor less, I trust.
To them I may have owed another bruise
Of aspect less sublime; that terrible tiredness
That brings out the fight and grouchiness in one;
In -which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible equipment
Is made heavier yet:—that state of dramatic confusion—
(So called ecstasy by the lovers of the stuff)—
In which the footlights glaringly lead us on,—
Until, the breath of these aching bodies involved.
And even the motion of our sleepy minds
Almost suspended, we hold a technical rehearsal.
While with an eye made blind by the strength
Of stage lights, the intoxication of theatre work.
And a lost boy friend who tired of waiting for practices to cease,
We go on with the production . . . And after it is over,
Wilt I soon forget that on the steps of this decrepid ladder
I stood; and that I, so long
A worshipper of the theatre, hither came
Blessedly unlearned in that art; rather say
With stronger back—Oh! with far less grades
Of deficiency. Oh, may I never forget—
And may this infernal ladder become
More sturdy, both for myself and for the next play.
Dedicated to William Wordsworth
By Betsy Liles
We are doomed to categories, don’t you
agree! What I mean is, when you pore oy«
the Vogue or Mademoiselle, you notice that
the editors distinctly classify us into types-,
like the ^ J don t care siren, the hot-watsf
bottle girl, the bouncy babe, and the intellect
paying no attention to the varying shades of
the feminine personality.
For we are mysterious and bewitching, sc
the poets declare. Somedays a girl may fed
like Cleopatra when four letters come from
Carolina but other days, she may feel as
though the world were tramping upon her
soul when four grades come frdm the Dean’s
office.
But the editors insist we shackle ourselves
to one type, and I do hope that you have dis
covered the one you are.
If you haven’t, then read on and ask yont-
self “Est-ce moi?” after each question.
No. 1. The “I don’t Care” Siren
Do you wear perfume to class?
Are you convinced that the new jungle girl
undies are for you?
Do you pluck your eyebrows during tk
week ?
The siren is found in the fraternity how,
draped in stoles and fraternity pins. Bojs
surround her, kneeling in their flannels anl
Brooks brothers shirts and begging her for
dates. She mambas, sambas, flutters her eyt-
lashes, lounges in black velvet pajamas, kisses
with her eyes closed, says clever things ail
manages somehow to write term papers two
days before Reading Day.
Or, are you
Type No. 2. The hot-water bottle girl.
Do you like noxema?
Do you sleep in wooly nighties!
Do Italian haircuts scare you?
If the above is true, then you aye the hot
water bottle girl. This type is the confident
she loves to hear about woes and fusses will
boy friends, and even manages to squeeze oit
a few sympathetic tears.
She smears on noxema each night, screa*
that she is going to elope if she flunks a test,
feels that some men are not all evil, reals
all the “Tell me Doctor” articles in the Laditi
Home Journal and moons about ivy eoverel
cottages and babies that gurgle.
However, you may be the Bouncy Babe type
No. 3.
Do you enjoy galloping over the athWt
field?
Do you kiss with your eyes open so P
won’t miss anything?
Are you ravishingly lovely in tweeds t
If so, then you are undoubtedly the
babe. This babe flits across the campus
ing even before breakfast, plays on the
basketball, tennis, ping-pong teams, is
as the pal tjqve of girl by boys and still sut^
scribes to the local high school newspap*'-
She is practical and wise, declaring
men are black dogs.
Dear Reader, I hope you have found J®"'
self because there is only one large categ®!
left into which yon may fall.
No. 4. The Intellect. , ^
She collects poems, wears glasses on
doesn’t kiss with eyes open or eyes close ^
she just doesn’t kiss, wears baggy sweaters®
weekends, seriously thinks about a W
major, and declares men'are not
the trouble to be condemned to the ud ,
m
world, and is found in the library on
weekends.
But, do not worry if you do not fit
those types. The editors are terribly "1,
• . . for we women are so complex,
mg, so changing that we cannot be fatk®
and coldly dissected. Right, girl's?