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THE HILLTOP, MARS HILL COLLEGE, MARS HILL, NORTH CAROLINA.
December 16, 1944.^^*^
Hilltop
Plain Living and High Thinking
Published by the Students of Mars Hill College, Mars Hill, North
Carolina.
Entered as second-class matter February 20, 1926, at the Post
Office at Mars Hill, North Carolina, under the Act of March 3, 1879.
Issued semi-monthly during the college year.
Subscription Rate Year $1.00
MEMBER OF ASSOCIATED COLLEGIATE PRESS
STAFF
Editor-in-Chief Bob Chapman
Associate Editor Lillian Miller
Managing Editor Ted Hethcock
Sports Editor Sigsbee Miller
Faculty Advisers Louise Vaughan . J. A. McLeod
CONTRIBUTORS
Howie Bingham . Eunice Smith . Mary Sue Middleton . Marian
Ballard . Phyllis Ann Gentry . Dixie Hawkins . Wilhelmina Rish
Jane Wright . Mary Evelyn Crook
BUSINESS STAFF
Business Manager Nathan LeGrand
Advertising Manager Jerry Dayton
Circulation Manager R. L. Wyatt
Typist Jane Wright
Volume XIX.
December 16, 1944.
Number 6.
Christmas Eternal
I was sitting on the auditorium steps the other night,
dreaming as I often do, and watching the flurries of snow
flakes which were falling without a sound to dress the
earth in a garment of sparkling white. The spirit of
Christmas seemed at once to dwell on the campus. A
group of students were standing under the street-light
singing the familiar Christmas carols and as the first
Strain of “Silent Night” reached my ear, I began to recall
the history of that beautiful song.
It was the 24th of December, 1818, in an old village in
the Austrian Alps that Father Joseph Mohr sat alone in
his study reading the Bible. The valley below was filled
with excitement; it was the Holy Eve, and the children
could stay up for Midnight Mass.
The young priest had no eyes for the festive valley. He
was sitting with open Bible at his oaken study table pre
paring his sermon for the midnight service. He read again
the story of the shepherds in the fields to whom the angel
came and said: “Unto you is born this day in the City of
David a Saviour ...”
Just as Father Mohr read this passage, someone knocked
on the door. It was a peasant woman who told him that a
child had been born to-a charcoal-maker’s wife who was
living on one of the highest Alps in the parish. The parents
had sent her to ask the priest to come and bless the infant,
that it might live and prosper.
Father Mohr was strangely moved during his visit to
the poorly lighted ramshackle hut. The scene certainly did
not resemble the manger in the City of David, yet the last
words he had read in his Bible suddenly seemed to be ad
dressed to him.
To Father Mohr a true Christmas miracle had come to
pass. Sitting in his study after the midnight service, he
tried to put down on paper what had happened to him.
The words kept turning into verse and when dawn broke.
Father Mohr had written a poem. And on Christmas day
his friend, Franz Gruber, the music teacher in the village
school, composed music to fit the verses.
The church organ was out of order and the song was
played on the guitar as the two men sang it.
Karl Mauracher, famed organ builder, came to repair
the organ. When his work was done, he asked the organist
to try it out. The organist was young Gruber, and some
how he slipped into playing the Christmas melody he had
composed for Father Mohr. The organ builder was awed,
and asked permission to take the song with him.
The song quickly became popular in the valley and was
called “Song from Heaven.” On the Holy Eve of the year
1832, in the Royal Saxon Court Chapel in Pleissenburg
Castle, four children sang this beautiful melody at the
end of the Christmas services. And on that Christmas Eve
the song bade the children farewell and spread quietly
around the world. Today, the “Song from Heaven,” like
the Christmas message itself, still rings for all men of
good will.
The singers must have left before I finished my dream.
The snow was falling faster, and I pulled my coat collar
up around my neck and started to my room. As I walked
down the hill I thought of Christmas this year and how it
will bring an entirely different spirit to that little village
in the Austrian Alps; not only to that little village, but
villages all over the world. The night that brought joy and
gladness to that poor peasant family living high in the
Alps will bring sorrow to some home this year. The
Christmas spirit will prevail; yes, but it will be darkened
by the shadows of war.
But in sadness and sorrow, one can always find comfort
in the words of that beautiful Christmas hymn which bnng
to mind the verse from the second chapter of Luke: For
Gan You Keep
Christmas?
“Are you willing to believe that
love is the strongest thing in the
world . . .? Then you can keep
Christmas . . .”
Once again the Christmas sea
son comes and the hearts of peo
ple around the world are united
in a common spirit; and the true
spirit of Christmas is promoted
by those people who realize the
strength of love—the love of par
ents and friends, the love of a
boy for a girl. Somewhere on a
distant battlefront a young sol
dier is awaiting the signal to ad
vance. Amid the din of battle his
thoughts wing homeward to his
family and friends, and to that
special girl—the girl whom he
hopes will someday be his wife;
and his lips form the words he
cannot send across the miles;
“I send my thoughts afar.
And let them paint your Christ
mas Day at home.”
The true spirit of Christmas is a
spirit of good-will, a spirit of
giving with joy. Christmas is not
real unless it is shared with oth
ers. Whether or not you are with
your loved ones, be together in
thought. Keep the true spirit of
love on this Christmas Day;
“And if you keep it for a day,
why not always?
But you can never keep it
alone.”
The love which we have comes
gan on a night centuries ago witli
the advent of the Son of God.
That Saviour who is due our
deepest reverence and love reigns
supreme in this His natal season.
The love which is that spirit be-
from Him, for He is the very
Heart of Love. —H. B.
Letter To The
Editor
LIGHTS ON THE LEADERS®
Dear Editor:
When school opened this year,
I sat in chapel and heard “Daddy”
Blackwell welcome me, along with
hundreds of other students, into
the Mars Hill college family. It
was then that I first heard men
tioned the spirit of Mars Hill,
and I knew that I wanted it. The
first days of getting settled,
catching on to the idiosyncracies
of my roommate, and roaming
about the campus, were perfect.
But after a few days of meeting
classes, I became aware of some
thing that has made me lose, in
a way, that first spirit I had.
I first noticed it when I came
back from vesper services one
evening. I love the amphitheater,
and the service had been inspir
ing. The boy who brought the
message really meant what he
had said—I thought. But as 1
walked on toward Moore hall, I
heard this same fellow ask one
of the students for his English
sentences.
On a campus where so much
emphasis is placed on higl) stand
ards of living, a place where
there are two watch services daily
besides the noonday chapel serv
ice, and on a campus where one
can be delinquent in Sunday
Phyllis Rowe
Phyllis Rowe, C-I president of
Clio, chairman of B.S.U. Fellow
ship Hour Committee, social chair
man of Y.W.A. and all smiles—
no wonder everybody loves her!
Her pet likes—pepole, music,
and—fried chicken! The fact that
last summer she worked in Wash
ington, D. C., and hopes to live
there some day proves that she
delights in being with people. The
more the merrier!
“Pill” (and she definitely is not
one) loves to be in the midst of
anything exciting that is in the
air. Life fascinates her, and the
further she goes into its flow, the
better she likes it. High school
days found her participating in
sports and dramatics — always
dramatics, even now.
Phyllis wanted to become a
nurse and came to Mars Hill with
that as her goal. During a revival,
however, she changed her plans,
and decided to study music—with
the emphasis on its use in re
ligious education. As in every
thing else, Phyllis is working
eagerly toward her new aim. If
her plans mature, she will enter
Westminster Choir school of
Princeton University and study
voice, piano, and choir directing.
Also she would love to know how
to play the marimba.
A “little gray home in the
West?” Well, it may not be gray,
and it may be in Washington, but
it is definitely a part of her
plans. “But not for three years
yet,” she insists.
stand why it’s considered neigh
borly to sit up all night doing
themes that other people are
going to copy, to have someone
always calling on you at the op
portune time of your just having
finished two weeks’ parallel read
ing, or to “give away” your
French translation as fast as it
can be translated.
The work that is being done
by the Y.T.C. is well and good,
but I quote one of our professors
in saying that he “had rather
see his son drunk than see him
cheat, because while drink de
stroys the body, cheating destroys
the character and soul.”
Everyone here is encouraged
to attend morning watch at 7:15,
but there’s no one standing at
the church door to help out the
fellow who, as he leaves, is called
upon to put his reading cards at
such and such a place, so that
such and such a guy may avail
himself of the time and oppor
tunity of copying them word for
word. (That doesn’t matter, you
know, since they have different
English teachers.)
It’s quite an honor to be
personal service chairman in
^c^o^attendance, I can’t under- \ Y.W.A., but some people seem to
unto you is born this day in the City of David, a S^our
which is Christ the Lord.”
Christmas is the birthday of our Lord, and “it brings a
joy that war cannot kill, for it is a joy of the soul, and the
soul cannot die. Time can never wither Christmas, for it
belongs to eternity.” g q
Clyde McLeod
A
Well, to give you this straight,jjjj^jj,
I’ll tell you that I had to inter-jj^^jj^
view this redheaded gal’s Dad to,oQj^
get the real facts about the versa-jjtgj.p
tile person we “effect-ionately",f ^
call “Pinky.” Because space ipojan
limited—but, wait a minute, ^^olum
take that back: I won’t be respon^jtijgj
sible for anything that follows, y acc
Every since she can first re-Jncle
member, Clyde Marguerite Mcibout
Leod, the second daughter oi farr
Prof, and Mrs. J. A. McLeod, oiis yc
the English faculty of Mars HiH>ook
college, has definitely not knowtteart
what she intends to make he»y Le
life’s career. She has consideredfter ;
almost everything, from thlis mi
trapeze to matrimony, but shf’earl
regretfully admits that she ha^ragoi
not heen considered for either-Jving
that is, as yet, of course. ear-o]
“But why talk about my ca^™ i
reer,” she remonstrates; “let’i p,
talk about, about—” YanI
“My day,” I suggested, mean«ry I
ing her day, and with all nece^win
sary amends to Eleanor, we disut-sle(
cussed the regular twenty-fouiluat
hours belonging specifically t.—
Miss McLeod daily. Her day i
(pardon me, while I mop off th '
perspiration) quite a day. T
begin with, every morning she r
ports promptly to her boss. Mis
Lunsford, at the Estella Nissef
Montague library, where for ttf
hours she stands behind the chart M:
mg desk and checks in books ** 'C' 1
checks out books.
Incidentally, the girls think o
her as the C-I Nonpareil pretf ^ ®
dent, wearing her black dress (h«^-—
only accessory being that smiP"
and standing behind the desk >
the Non-Eu hall and giving thrt
taps with the gavel; while tl*
boys think of her . . . *^**0
“We were talking of my dafi
she reminded me, and having bes
reminded, I am minded that fro'
the library, “Pinky” goes to tt
music building where she make*
melodye with J. Bach, S. RoH ^
berg, and X. Cugart. Her aftd Man
noons are spent in the home eC
nomics lab in the Charles M. W«“*“
building, and all those in-betwe*
hours are divided among Freu'
class, dramatics, journalism '
where she excels at “Talk'
Turkey,” and English 23. The*
additional hours that belong ^
her day are spent working I
Nonpareil, Glee club, Scriblef'
club, “Hilltop,” and B. S. U.
(Continued on Page 4)
figure that being the gO*
Samaritan with your math prt
lems and history reports is a P*
of that job also.
So you see, Mr. Editor, tl*
finding so much of this “borr’'
ing” on the campus has some"'!!
tarnished the meaning of ^
spirit of Mars Hill for me. I do'
mean to say that the majority'
the students are addicted to t*
illegality, but there is certai''
enough of it that even I h*
noticed it.
Regretfully submitted,
A Conscientious Objetoh”"