Four
QUEENS BLUES
November 20, 1931
Freshman’s Diary
Friday, November 13: Some
day, Friday the thirteenth. Seems
to he the favorite day for tests
Had one on French verbs, and
was it a stinger? I murdered
“vouloir” up so bad, Fll never be
aide to look it in the face again
Saturday, November 14: Sweet
Saturday, the day when every
body goes home but me ! Nobody
wants to see me bad enough to
come for me. Think I’ll have to
charter an airplane, and surprise
all the folks at home. But, if
they charged a dollar a pound. I’m
afraid I couldn’t afford the trip
just now.
Sunday, November 15: Took
the second of my vast number of
church cuts, to study Bible,
really studied ! Such a pretty day
I’d really rather have stayed out
side—I didn’t.
Monday, November 16: Been
walking around in a fog all daV'
But, thrilled to death, when my
last test came to an end. Talk
about good feelings. I just natur
ally felt good all over !
Tuesday, November 17: Went
uptown this afternoon and got a
ride in both ways. Lucky! I’m
just fourteen cents to the good
Weighed in front of a store, but
I don’t believe it was a very good
store. Anyway, the scales weren’t
reliable. Those things weighed
me seven more pounds than I
know I weigh. Something fishy
somewhere.
Wednesday, November 17
Slept through breakfast this
morning. Felt like Mrs. Rocke
feller. Didn’t feel so good though,
when I found out what I made
on that test I had the other day.
Oh, it just wouldn’t do to tell.
Thursday, November 18: The
day started off right well, cause
I heard from somebody I just had
to hear from. Y’know how it is
But lemme tell you something. I
turned over my plate in my lap
at table this morning. I don’t
know how it happened. All I
know is that it just did. Did I
feel foolish. It’s the “freshman-
est” feeling I’ve had since Rat
Week.
Friday, November 19: I’m get
ting along fine in diving. I can go
off head first with the instructor
pushing me, now. Everybody
ought to take diving. It’s the
easiest thing. Take it from the
woman who knows.
Gamma Sigma Meets
On Thursday evening, Novem
ber_ 12, Gamma Sigma Literary
Society held its first regular meet
ing of the year. Those girls who
had not been pledged before the
Literary Society reception re
ceived the pledge at this time. A
brief Armistice program follow
ed the pledging. This program
consisted of a vocal solo: “Keep
the Home Fires Burning,” by
Frances Hoover, and a poem, “The
White Ships and the Red,” by
Joyce Kelmer, read by Mary
Bowen. Helen Fishburn, our
competent music chairman of last
year was elected to fill that office
again.
IDEALISM PREFERRED
If one prefers realism in her
fiction, she'll like many of the
new, fall books. It’s there in
such degree that those who
admire that style of writing are
voluble as to how well done Hat
ter’s Castel (A. J. Cronin) is.
I find myself thinking that
Hawthorne could have drawn for
us equally well without realism
—by means of the contrast in
what he imagined himself to be
and what he actually was — this
cruel, domineering, egoistic hat
ter. The world revolved for this
Scotchman about his pompous
self. A tyrant in his home, his
ill-nourished, worn-out wife and
their two daughters move here
and there according to the whims
of their oppressor. One of the
daughters came to shame through
pure ignorance and the other
committed suicide after she had
studied herself into nervous in
sanity in order to reflect credit
on the name of this despicable
father. He’s all of Spenser’s
Seven Deadly Sins rolled into one
—a beast-man.
Of course, in the end his down
fall is complete and, the ill-used
wife having died of cancer (he
was only afraid he’d be contam
inated!), he is left alone with his
old mother who kept all the soft
toast for herself. Mary, the
daughter whom he had driven
from home in her dreadful plight,
has a warm heart and we find
ourselves glad that she is beloved
of her physician.
The whole thing is unpleasant,
especially in detail work. The
author, who was formerly a
physician in West London, wrote
this, his first book, at a furious
speed, and now that it has met
with favor from a great portion
of the reading public, he has given
up the profession of medicine.
George Davis’ “The Opening of
a Door,” it occurs to me on the
spur of the moment, is based on
the same pattern of dominance,
only the main character is a
woman. An old bed - ridden
vvoman, who does not comprehend
the funeral of her husband, nor
any of the subsequent happenings
in a household where the Times’
reviewer would have us believe
she formerly ruled, without con
sideration of, or suggestion from,
inyone. Yet it is only at the close
of the book, when she arises from
her bed and opens the door for
a messenger boy that we see her
determination in action. The
various scenes and situations
which make up the body of the
story occur in the lives of her
children whom she has deprived
of the privilege of self-develop
ment.
Mr. Davis, a quite young man,
has a facile pen. His gift of
words in unusual combination is
astonishing, particularly in the
opening chapter. Happily one
misses the frequent, sordid men
tion of the greasy spoon and the
dirty apron that makes Hatter’s
Castle so typically realistic. (The
Librarian doesn’t demand anti
septic reading. . . . Art and
Beauty win the heart. Perhaps
it’s an antipathy for soiled
smocks). At all events the author
gives us good reason for hoping
that he will produce better and
more-worthwhile novels in the
future. Being a careful writer,
there’s a quality of finish about
his creative work, even though,
as a whole, it does not fulfill the
promise held out by that most
enthusiastic reviewer late in
August.
Maud Diver’s “Ships of Youth,”
the third in a trilogy giving the
life-story of Eve and her husband,
Lance Desmond, is merely a pot
boiler, though it gives us insight
into the recent machinations of
the Russian Bolshevik propaganda
directed against British rule in
India. The book leaves one emo
tionally exhausted and rather
weary, for all her admiration of
the yoiu'g hero, Lance. “Wild
Bird” ws.s a stronger book and
“The Lonely Furrow,” the first
of the group, rises to the height
of accenting “That enduring
power within us, not ourselves,
which makes for righteousness.”
If it’s mystery with an unsolved
murder at its base that one likes,
“The Cape Cod Mystery” should
please any such. It has good sus
pense and keeps one guessing who
dared the deed, but there’s noth
ing particularly new about the
book. It might have been writ
ten, with conversational changes,
in 1900.
^ The novel that we are enthu
siastic about is Marie Conway
Oemler’s “Flower of Thorn.” Yes,
it’s a love-story with the delight
ful atmosphere of lower South
Carolina as a background, but the
restraint and gentlemanly quali
ties of the hero, Sam, are enough
to win the heart of his Sally—
and all the Sallys in the world,
for that matter. The old negro
Moses is a charming character,
who brings us to the conclusion
that his devotion to his old Massa,
as was that of all his kind, was a
compensation that counterbalanc
ed any deprivation of so-called
freedom. The book is pleasing
and refreshing, and one that is
well worth the price from the
viewpoint of a gift, or as a per
sonal possession.
As to - current serial fiction in
Home Ecs. Entertain
A. B. Students
Last Friday the thirteenth
wasn’t such an unlucky day for
the A. B. Students who are in the
Home Planning Class; for they
were royally entertained by the
Junior Llome Economic Students.
The scene of action was out at
Jane Renfrow’s, that ideal place
for peppy picnics. The class was
very glad to have the Renfrows
with them; and, although Jane
had been sick, she managed to
help with the menu. Who
wouldn’t? It consisted of Oyster
Stew, cheese straws, potato chips,
pickles, coffee, and cakes. Now,
who wants to join the Home
Planning Class ?
DAVIDSON & WOLFE
WHOLESALE GROCERS
319 South Colleg'e Street
CHARLOTTE, N. C.
4*
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4*
Carolina Cigar & Candy Corp.
WHOLESALE CIGARS and CANDIES
I 303 East 5th St. CHARLOTTE, N. C. Phone 3-5536 |
recent magazines, we scarcely
know what to say other than that
most of it is daring, nay shock
ing, in that all that runs through
the conscious mind of the charac
ters comes out forthwith in con
versation without any reserve.
Lois Montrose’s “Wind Before
Dawn” (McCall’s) was unusual.
The story of conflict between the
preferences and ideals of a col
lege professor and his wife. The
solution was disappointing be
cause the prompting of the man’s
inclination, without regard to
duty, was the decisive factor: he
marries the young daughter of
another professor. Poetic justice ?
Well, maybe. Averill left him and
when she, tired of independence,
would return, he goes to Mary.
“Out of Bounds” (Ladies’ Home
Journal) is a golf story which
appeals, on the one hand, to de
votees of the green, and, on the
other, to those who like a murder-
mystery. The girl in the narra
tive is a likable modern, with both
nerve and brains. Strange to say,
the author was, until recently, a
woman-hater and most loud in
voicing his disapproval (selfish
ness, of course) of allowing
women on the fairway^s.
Sometimes he’s good; some
times he’s bad; but this time
(December Journal) Dagvar has
written a pleasing story about the
coming of Santa (“Tonggak
Santa”) to Esquimo Land. The
illustrations are ghastly, but dur
ing this winter when we are so
desperately serious by reason of
our economic needs and the more
imperative needs of power, it is
good to think about Santa as The
Spirit of Laughter. Dogvar is a
Russian of royal birth who was
on a Czarist commission to the
United States at the time of the
Russian Revolution. Naturally,
his holding became worthless and
he almost starved before he turn
ed to writing and gained a foot
hold as a popular short-story
writer. Often he drags a story
out to interminable length, but
even so, that is preferable to the
greasy spoon and the dirty apron.
In style he suggests a man far
superior in technique and creative)
ability, H. M. K. Smith. The
rhythm of both these men is al
most identical. How far Dagvar’s
is conscious imitation is a puzzl
ing question.
—Rena Harrell.
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