THE HILLTOP. MARS HILL COLLEGE, MARS HILL.N. C.
PAGETHREE
he Beginning
I the Soupline
By Gregory Dykes.
^ell , all that I know about the soup-
is what I see, hear, and think. Yet,
g^ras the other day while I was look-
under beds, behind pictures, and in
Jmirror for my mustache pencil (not
arow) that the editor asked me to
^e an article about the soupline.
>low, barring such mishaps as arise
j^le getting at it, etc. this article will
(n your hands sometime in February
j^;n the soupline will be on and on
on—or gone without a chaperone,
dad it not been for Bill Line there
lid be no soupline today; for he
■oduced the girl and figured out the
railed soupline.
•low when Bill Line left home seve-
1 years ago and came to Mars Hill
’ n his girl. Miss Sarah Sue, little did
tnow that he would go down in his-
• (so far down in fact that 1 had a
ible time digging him up for you)
^*^he originator of the “Sue-Line” or
.‘It is termed today “soupline”.
'*^ill settled down in Mars Hill and
l-’n to think. For years he thought
I ARS POETAE I
The Way of the
Adventurer
ghts that were of no use whatso-
(except for excuses when he did
I
' jfill a date), and then one day he had
Tiought that barely managed to pre-
the soupline from being a hundred-
1-cent amateur affair. His idea was to
ire out the first and original Sunday
l^rnoon stroll and called it the “Sue-
^e”. He told Sarah all about his the-
but she was stone deaf and only
. imured, ’’What say?” (which is hog
**|in for “swat”), although that has
*ning to do with the story,
t took Bill four months to work out
theory and when he had finished he
nd himself desperately in love to
extent of holding hands. “Oh, how
derful it will be to hold her hand,”
said under his breath. This did not
ct Bill’s plan, however, and he went
ork again on a theory on the best
to hold hands. His hand-holding
bry worked. Bill had the thing that
? had so long wished and hoped for—
ah’s hand; but what was he to do
h it now that he had it? This put
•Jl into a very embarrassing situation
^n the Dean of Women appeared,
ne of Sarah’s hands in mine,” Bill
shingly said, “is worth two by her
L ”
loth parties played a skillful part,
the whole affair w'as quite collegiate.
, chaperones are used today to keep
beginners out of these embarrasing
itions.
od Foolish Questions
ie It a Southern railway station it is the
1 om of darkies to sell chicken patties
other delicacies to travelers. A trav-
who was enjoying a pattie leaned
the window and asked the dusky
t^man;
_ Where do you get your chicken?”
lophe darkey rolled his eyes. “You all
inn de No’th, ain’t yo’, sah?” he que-
le
J
■‘But why do
mi Yes,” was the reply
ici ask that?”
W’Cause, sah! No gen’lman f‘om de
lUif eber asks a niggah whar he gits his
y iken.”
;y! e
eMverybody makes mistakes, but the
or is the only one who has to pub-
his mistakes.
SENIORS!
-^jhere is a book (as you know from
i^k Dale’s announcements) in the
top office in which I urge every
or, especially, to register. This
applies to those who for various
ons are not coming back next
■. To feel that you are a member
- hat organization, that you are a
ter member, that you are one of
e who will help keep Mars Hill
:ing high, will mean something
3u. There is no student here who
lot received some benefit for hav-
Icome here to school. Why not
5 your names in the book which
^ he here always as a record of
institution? The minimum a-
it of five dollars is very small as
imbership fee or due. There is
J(Li student here who cannot afford
^ ,ay at least that after finishing
koing into the world alone. This
f t the case, those who know the
ks—those who join and those
’’*|do not—^will brand those who do
' Js persons who are not loyel to
school or as ones who just don’t
—F. P. J.
By Elizabeth 'Wilburn.
* • *
There’s a road leading into the sunset.
And it’s leaving the world behind;
There’s a road that is bound by tall fir-
trees
That are swayed by the breath of the
wind.
There’s a bare little house at the turn
ing.
And the smoke from its hearth floats
away,
While a fowl in the yard flaps his
feathers.
As he joins in a neighboring lay.
But my eyes wander back to the sunset
With its colorful banners outspread
To the sunset and call of adventure
Just beyond the horizon ahead.
Then away, to make much of the sun
light
Before night with its shadows des
cends
To draw o’er the round sun a dark cur
tain.
As the way of the adventurer ends!
Yet the night may be fair as the noon
time.
And the dark may be clear as the day.
Just in using its own way of blessing
As the wanderer goes on his way.
And the sun with its colors may vanish.
Or the moon and its gems fade from
sight;
Still the road of adventure will draw
me
To its end—where the day meets the
night.
The Alumni Association
Frank Dale
A few days ago the faeulty of
Mars Hill College turned over to the
student body a large alumni book in
which there is room for over 20,000
names. This is a recent as well as an
unusual effort for a Junior College
to attempt. The purpose of the or
ganization is to strengthen the en-
dowement fund of the institution.
Each student signing in the book
promises to pay a definite amount
into the Alumni Association treasury
each year. In this way the college
hoj)es to be an inspiration to others
who come in contact with the ideals
and the inspirations of the work and
the value invested in the careers of
the men who are going out from its
walls. We all know that this organ
ization cannot be a perpetual source
of the most noble and useful benefits
unless the student body assumes the
responsibility with the spirit of
crusaders.
There are many useful things in
life which one should endeavor to
multiply. One should on all occasions
have recourse to something that he
has done worth while in the world,
rather than suffer the unappreciative
mind, or develop that ungentlemanly
spirit that would drift with any pas
sion that chances to rise within him.
One should fully realize that the use
fulness of knowledge teaches one
loyalty for the pleasure and perfec
tion it gives the mind. Realizing this
precious gem of our interest in the
future of this college, it is a worthy
and noble step in trying to uphold
the ideals and services of the men
who have given their whole lives in
trying to uphold the principles of
this institution.
A teacher was giving his class a lec
ture on charity.
“VVillie,” he said, “if I saw a boy
beating a donkey, and stopped him from
doing so, what virtue should I be show-
?»
mgr
Wille (promptly)—“Brotherlylove.”
It
It’s a wonderful thing for women.
The popular permanent wave;
Now it’s up to some struggling inventor
To get out a permanent shave.
Proposal Etiquette
Dear Ophelia Pulse:
When proposing to a girl is it the
proper thing to kneel in front of her?
Is it good etiquette to bite her if she
refuses the propo*al?
Lockjaw.
ThelnevitahUThing
By F. Pearle Justice
She .was desperate. Her heart was
bleeding. Her first impulse on receiv
ing the news was to flee—^to flee from
everyone where she could wring her
hands and scream, scream until she
could scream no more. But instead,
she remained composed, for her bet
ter sense told her to be on guard for
every word and act. When the news
was broken to her, none too gently,
she managed to smile, though that
smile required every ounce of
strength she possessed.
It so happened that she was leaning
against a column of the new Admin
istration building of Longview when
Ada Lane came rushing forward and
caught Laurel’s hand, pressing it
tighter as she finished the story. With
the other hand and her feet she
braced herself against the column,
praying as she’d never prayed before,
that Ada would go—go—GO. She
could not stand it longer.
Laurel was a girl of nineteen, inno
cent, tall, with dark hair, brilliant
eyes, eyes that said a thousand things
at once. Yet, no one said she was
pretty. Her figure was willowy, every
move being full of grace and charm.
But physically speaking, she was not
strong. At school or at home tennis
and hiking were her sports. The
more strenuous ones were forbidden
by her doctor. Many students wanted
to be her friend; but she could count
on the fingers of one hand those who
were real friends—all but one. He
had drowned the preceding summer
in an attempt to rescue a child. Now
he was gone.
Laurel never knew how she got to
her room. Somehow she managed to
cross the campus and climb to her
room, without attracting any more
notice than usual. She came out of
the so-called trance, saying, “Why did
he do it? Oh, why do I have to suffer
this? Ted is gone? Ted is—” she
whispered as she suppressed a sob,
“Ted has .” She locked her door,
and in the absolute quiet that pre
vailed she drew a stool to the win
dow, sat down with her elbows prop
ped on her knees, face in hands,
thinking. It seemed she could al
ways think best when she sat facing
the west, the place where day ended,
the beautiful, far away, far off place
from whence radiated the beauty in
the evening.
“Ted has gone—gone to Waverly
Hills — aviation.” Those words of
Ada’s rang in her ears. As she thought
over the past the memories of a few
months’ intimate acquaintanceship,
although she had known him for eigh
teen months, she searched every nook
and every crevice of her brain to
see if he had ever intimated doing
such a thing. She thought of the Sun
days, picnics, and long hikes that they
had had together. He had always
spoken of things deep, things only a
few love and appreciate—life, nature,
ethereal realms, and even the fairies.
They had an indispensable part in
his world. Ted had spoken of love;
yet he never told her he loved her.
He had never thought of that. He
thought of her as a companion, a
companion not only to play with him,
but to think with him, to rejoice and
sympathize with him.
“Let’s see,” she mused to herself,
“didn’t he tell me one time that he
often grew so despondent and tired
of things that he often thought of go
ing away, going off, away from every
one?” Yes, he told her that. But since
he was of a very unusual type she had
not thought of his doing anything so
rash.
“ gone—and—didn’t tell me—
goodbye,” she sobbed. Ted had grown
to be her ideal. Laurel worshiped
him. H is soul, his very thoughts,
were sacred to her. She had grown to
love him with a passionate love, a
love she had never known. Laurel
had never cared for the opposite sex,
except as friends, until she met Ted.
He was different. He had won his
way into the innermost part of her
heart. His words of love, of beauty,
of things often too difficult for her to
grasp, his ability to do things, had
won for him a place in her life, her
heart.
“forever gone—away. Prob
ably never to return.” Her head
dropped to the windowsill where the
setting sun shone on her dark hair,
making it radiantly beautiful. As she
sat with bowed head she thought of
the many, many times she had passed
under his window, unobserved by
him, just to hear him practice. There
are many ways of expressing things,
but his language of the soul was spo
ken by means of the violin. Some
times he would play for her in the
evening as the darkening shades hov
ered about. He would play for her
early in the morning many times.
Suddenly she sat up. Didn’t she hear
the sound of the violin, the beautiful,
pure tones as they came to her? She
listened. All was silent. She had
just been dreaming.
“I love Ted,” she declared as she
straightened herself up. “He didn’t
tell me he was going. But Ted had a
reason. Probably,” she mused, as her
eyes half closed looked at the rim of
the mountains beyond which she and
Ted had often imagined was a differ
ent world—an ideal world with ideal
people — a paradise—“probably he
had gone in search of something that
was calling him; probably he thought
I couldn’t go; probably,” she stifled
a sob, “probably he loved—someone
—another—and did it to forget me.”
Months passed. Laurel’s closest
friends never realized the battle that
was being waged in her heart and
soul. She seemed even happier and
more carefree than before. She
seemed to have caught a new vision
of life—reality. She had lived all
these years as an idealist in an ideal
and a dream world for the most part,
She had never learned the wiles and
ways of the world, nor had she suffer
ed any very great heartaches. She
never heard from Ted. At first she
wept when she looked at his pictures,
but now she seemed not to be affect
ed by the mentioning of his name.
At times she completely forgot. But
there was always a reminder. Each
day as the sun set she thought of Ted,
his love, and those strains of music
that spoke the deepest and most del
icate expressions of his soul and his
life.
Even though he did not write, she
knew, deep down in her heart, that
sometime Ted would come back
That much of her idealism remained,
She realized that she had found her
ideal and he had vanished. There was
no need to look for another. He had
betrayed her confidence which he had
gained by his eloquent words, his
seeming devotion. By these things
he had gained entrance to her heart.
However, the going changed Laurel’s
whole live. But as she often said to
herself quite unconsciously, “He’s
coming back—^and t611 me what he
has discovered out there—up there.”
Eliminated.
“Are you the groom?” asked the be
wildered old gentleman at a very elabor
ate wedding.
“No, sir,” was the reply of the young
man. “I was eliminated in the preli
minary try-outs.”
Answer: I can not find any adequate
treatment of your problem in Emily
Post. However, I would advise against
marriage. Evidently you are not earning
enough to feed both yourself and a
wife.
Ophelia Pulse.
—Boston Herald.
Time is what life is made of —
don’t waste one precious moment.
BUS SCHEDULE
BUSSES LEAVE ASHEVILLE
FOR—
Atlanta—8 A. M., 3 P. M. Leave
Atlanta 7 A. M., 1 P. M., C. T.
Murphy—7 A. M., 2 P. M. Leave
Murphy 7:30 A. M., 1:30 P. M.,
C. T.
Bryson City—7 A. M., 2, 4 P. M.
Leave Bryson City, 8:30, 10:30
A. M., 4:30 P. M.
Sylva—7, 8 A. M., 2, 3, 4 P. M.
Leave Sylva 9:16, 11:15 A. M.,
2:15, 6:15, 8:15 P. M.
Waynesville 7, 8, 10, 12 A. M.
2, 3, 4, 6 P. M. Leave Waynes
ville 8, 10, 12 A. M., 2, 3, 4, 6,
9 P. M.
Franklin—8 A. M., 3 P. M. Leave
Franklin 1:30, 7:30 P. M.
Charlotte via Chimney Rock, Shel
by, Gastonia (direct and short
est route), effective May 1st,
1929—8 A. M., 12 M., 2 P. M.,
7 P. M. Leave Charlotte same
hours. All through coaches.
Hendersonville—Every hour from
8 A. M. to 7 P. M.
Hendersonville for Asheville every
hour from 8 A. M. to 7 P. M.
Vsheville, Brevard—8, 11 A. M., 2,
5 P. M. Leave Brevard same
hours..
Leave Hendersonville for Brevard
9, 12 A. M., 3, 6 P. M.
Greenville for Asheville 8, 10, 12
A. M., 2, 4, 6 P. M.
Spartanburg—8, 10, 12 A. M., 2,
4 P. M. Leave Spartanburg for
Asheville, 8, 10, 12 A. M., 2, 4
P. M.
Bus only goes to Hendersonville.
Charlotte via Black Mountain, Ma
rion, Hickory and Newton (ef
fective May 1st, 1929)—through
hu.sses 7, 10 A. M., 1, 4:30 P.M.
7 P.M. Marion only. Through
busses leave Charlotte 7, 10 A.
M., 1 P. M., 4 P. M., 7 P. M.
Hickory only.
Oteen—6:16, 7:46, 9, 10, 11, 12
A. M., 1, 2, 2:30, 3, 4, 6, 6, 7, 8,
9, 10, 11 P. M. Leave Oteen at
7:16, 8:30, 9:30, 10:30, 11:30
A.M., 12:30, 1:30, 2:30, 3, 3:30,
4:30, 5:30, 6:30, 7:30, 8:30,
9:30, 10:30, 11:30 P.M.
Black Mountain—7, 9, 10, 12 A.
M., 1, 3, 4:30, 5, 7 P. M. Leave
Black Mountain for Asheville
7:50, 10, 11:25 A. M., 1, 2:26,
4, 5:26, 6, 8:25 P. M.
Bristol, Tenn.—7, 10:30 A. M., 1,
3:30 P. M. Leave Bristol for
Asheville 6:45, 9:30 A. M., 1, 2,
2:30 P. M.
Knoxville—6, 9:30 A. M., 1:30, 3
P. M. Leave Knoxville for Ashe
ville 7, 10:30 A. M., 3:30, 7 P.M.
Central Time.
All Passengers Insured
BUSSES LEAVE
UNION BUS
TERMINAL
111-2 Biltmore Ave. Phone 177
MARS HILL BUS LINE
MARS HILL, N. C.
Leaves Mars Hill 7:0 Oand 9:00 A.M.; 1:00 and 4:00 P.M.
Leaves Asheville 8:00 A.M. and 12M.; 3:00 and 6:00 P.M.
lixxr::- Htc
STUDENTS ATTENTION
SPRING IS COMING! Picnic Parties and Class Parties.
We can take care of you for your needs.
Paper Plates and Cups. “*At the Market”
HUFF & WELLS
IjDtK.
^ttc
BUS SCHEDULE, EFFECTIVE FEBRUARY 6, 1930.
MARSHALL-MARS HILL Bus Service
L
LEAVES MARSHALL
8:00 A. M. 12:00 Noon,
4:00 P. M.
!K=XX==>M=X
LEAVES MARS HILL
8:45 A. M. 12:45 P. M.
5:00 P. M.
-XteJ
IX k:
Everything has its season. While the pigskin
sleeps, hail Baseball and Tennis! Drop in
and see our new line of
ATHLETIC SUPPLIES, BATS, BALLS,
GLOVES, MITTS, TENNIS RACKETS
and BALLS
J. F. AMMONS