October 17, 1941
Meember North Carolina Collegiate Press Association
Founded by the Class of 1922
QUIBBLE Entitled “Soup's On
Published Weekly by the Students of Queens College.
Subscription Rate: $2.50 the Collegiate Year
Alice Payne E ditor-in-Chief
Gail GniEnTii Business Manager
Helen Hendi.ey ..Advertising Manager
Helen Voole Circulation Manager
Miss Laura Tillett Faculty Adviser
Idrienne Levy Managing Editor
Ruth Civil Associate Editor
Elizaretii Nash Associate Editor
Lucy Hassell Feature Editor
Ruth Kiloo Music Editor
Mary Jane Hart News Editor
Rettie Payne Exchange Editor
Pat Stoyle, Charlotte Williams, Mary Sue Barnett, Mary Martha
Nixon, Elsie Moseley, Helen Vogle, Betty Lou Spears, Patsy
Scoggin, Louise Leitzsey, Marjorie Rodgers.
Eleanor Lazenby, Norma Anderson, Thelma Martin, Marjorie Imbody,
Evelyn Powell, Mary Esther Civil, Ruth Wilkes, Polly
Foglesong, Frances Bryant.
The U. S. O. Needs You
Recently onr country has been subjected to a great wave of
patriotism, and everyone has been asking just what can he do as his
share. And there has been great controversy over how strong is the
morale of our newly drafted army. There is one thing that Queens
girls can do to help the situation.
Last Saturday five dances were held in town and despite the great
numbers of girls in Charlotte, there were not enough girls at the
dances. Now the boys in the Army do not lack food or clothing or
shelter. But they do lack friendship, companionship and wholesome
amusements. The United Service Organizations are providing the
entertainments, but there must be girls there to carry the projects
A number of girls probably just have not considered just how much
these entertainments mean. And it is almost beyond our comprehension
to understand how these boys feel about having been yanked from
their homes and interests to serve in the Army. The very least we
Queens girls can do is to try to help make their lives more pleasant.
The dances and parties are properly conducted and chaperoned,
so there can be no question of whether Queens girls can go. Are
you willing to dance for your patriotism.^ All you have to do is go
down to the Y.W.C.A. and register as a volunteer hostess.
Just ask the girl who has been, and see what fun you have been
missing. And if you are bashful, just pretend it’s Leap Year and
Sadie Hawkins day will soon be here.
Paging A Guardian Angel
On the first day of school this year, a freshman, who shall remain
nameless, asked, after being shown around the campus, to see the
gymnasium. No one seemed to hear her, and the party of gprls con
tinued its way across the back campus. Again the freshman asked
to see the gym. This time there was a rather embarrassing silence
after which one of the older students suggested looking at the sorority
houses. Once more the perseverant freshman asked to be shown the
gym. This time the silence was really embarrassing.
You see, we have no gym. That is, none to speak of. The building
that we fondly call our “gymnasium” is nothing more than a medium
sized barn poorly lighted, poorly ventilated, and never heated. This
old relic of the past has long been out of date.
That wasn’t so bad—lots of people have to use old things. But
when it gets to the point of being dangerous—well, that's a little
different. In the first place it’s a fire-trap. In the second place it’s
cold in the wintertime. In the third place it’s dark even in the broad
daylight. And in the fourth place it’s only about one-third as large
as a gym should be. It’s only big enough for one kind of sport at one
time, if that particular sport doesn’t require too much room.
Wel^ you probably ask, why doesn’t the college do something about
it.^ The answer is that the college doesn’t have the money to build
a new gym. What we need is a very rich guardian angel who wouldn’t
mind giving to a really worthy cause. Then we could have some place
to wear off our excess energy on those cold rainy winter days ahead.
There would be a large swimming pool, indoor tennis and bad
minton courts, room for volley and basketball courts, indoor archery,
and space to practice for the May Day dances. It would be well
lighted, comfortably ventilated and heated, and roofed to keep out
the rain. In short, it would be the answer to many a maiden’s prayer.
It would also be the answer to many a parent’s anxious thought about
her daughter’s healthful recreation.
Why, oh why, don’t we have a guardian angel to build us a gym.?
Anyone who come out to the cam
pus last Tuesday must have thought
that he needed glasses when he got
a glimpse of those horrid-looking
“rats.” Frankly, this annual Soph-
Frosh occasion is always a lot of
fun, and even those being initiated
must admit that they enjoy letting
themselves go (and how) for a day.
Some of those luscious love letters
from those reluctant but fascinating
flappers were truly rare, and we
wonder what the poor guys who
get them think when they read those
oozy messages of love and adoration.
Things we like around Queens:
Margaret Rowland’s coloring . . .
Eleanor Lazenby’s hair . . . Dora Ly-
brand’s cute clothes . . . Betsy Hodges’
eyes . . . Betty Claywell’s wit . . .
Kathleen and Irene Hardee’s steady
sweetness . . . Polly Foglesong’s com
plexion . . . Butch Hardin’s “suthun”
accent . . . Ann Golden’s efliciency
. . . Lucy Hassell’s nimble pen . . .
Jane Campbell’s smile . . . Hilda Har
mon’s wonderful clothes-sense . . .
Marion Miller’s charming dignity . . .
Eleanor Anne Ratclilfe’s hair . . . Lib
Isaacs’ poetry . . . Ann Wiley’s
dimples . . . Mary Heilig McDow’s
horn rims . . . Nancy Gaston’s spon
taneity . . . Winnie Shealey’s vitality
. . . Inez Fulbright’s capability . . .
Esther Love Hillhouse’s sincerity . . .
Franny Moseley’s distinctiveness . . .
Tut Biggie’s style . . . Mary Mar
shall Jones’ winsomeness . . . Mary
Eleanor Robinson’s fascinating new
ring . . . Anne Pattishall’s neatness
. . . Mabel Beach’s cooperative spirit
. . . Sarah Prevatte’s sincerity . . .
Margaret Porter’s poise . . . Olive
The smile of the week belongs to
the flying cadet who perches on Franz
“Just Call Me Sis” Rummel’s dresser.
(Not really, Hilda, it’s just a photo.)
The tale behind the presence of the
picture makes it even better. Seems
that “Frosty” (the cadet) saw Sis’s
picture in the paper when she was
initiated last spring and wrote to
her care of Queens College. Letters
have flown back and forth ever since,
and latest developments hint that
Sis will soon be sporting wings. My!
my! Some people certainly do rate.
And speaking of rating, isn’t it
wonderful about Lucy Hassell’s lei?
She sho was strutting around last
week-end. Best each of us should get
us a man in Hawaii so that we too
could get such nice birthday remem
brances. Give us a hint on technic,
ODE TO A LAB
There really should be no monotony
In studying hard on your botany.
It helps to rain
And spur your brain—
Unless, of course, you ain’t gotany.
DOTS AND DASHES
Did you hear the one about the
night watchman that Mr. Stevens
tells? Seems that a new night watch
man was being shown around after
dark one night this summer. Across
the campus moved a huge shadow—
it was “Baby,” the “little” Great
Dane who makes himself so at home
on the campus. The watchman’s eyes
opened wide as he stepped back.:
“Say,” he stuttered to Mr. Stevens,
“who’s gonna watch the night
If movies had been taken of the
Freshmen on their way through the
House of Those Who Pass Beyond,
many a gal wouldn’t show up the
next day. Some of the girls looked
very funny crawling through the
tunnel. One girl almost jumped two
feet off the floor when Charley, the
campus glamour boy, who was wear
ing the latest model in bones, snap
ped at her fingers.
Don’t get scared, girls, but one
teacher handed in the names of all
his students as failing—by mistake.
The mistake was corrected, but not
before Dean Godard had a mild case
of heart failure.
What Happens in Morrison"
Five score foot-sore Freshmen, six
dozen sardonic Sophomores, some
eighty jubilant Juniors, and seventy
superior Seniors, slink—^slank—slunk,
or shuffled, or maybe even stomped
—into the dining hall. This dining
hall into which they (shall we just
say strolled? All right, then) strolled,
was really a most attractive place.
The walls, standing nearby protec
tively, to hold up the ceiling, were
painted a soft ivory; the floor, spread
ing across the room and holding up
some things on its own, was polished
and shiny. Also slippery. Upon the
aforesaid walls were hung scenes in
sepia from many of the cradles of
learning, from Davidson and Oxford,
all the way to Duke and Carolina.
It was only natural that no one could
recognize most of them, but they were
all quite lovely and gave a sort of
classical tone to the place. One
could fairly sense in the air the musti
ness of monks copying old illuminat
ed manuscripts. (No, freshmen, they
didn’t have electric lights). But, as
I said, they did lend that certain
atmosphere to the place.
But to get back, the students (I
mean, girls) entered the dining hall,
and there followed a conglomerate
scramble closely resembling jitter-
bugging except for tbe lack of the
appropriate “Oh, Daddy,” as the girls
gracefitlly took their places. We
heard one girl’s dismayed “Gosh!”
and “Look at my table. It’s all filled
up! But then, I’m only hostess.”
At last the aisles were somewhat
cleared of people, and the tables
filled. In the distance of the faculty
tables, a bell was tapped. With forks
upraised, the girls hovered about the
tables, while someone gave an eighty-
seven-year-old blessing. Then came
the scuffling of chairs, and the meal
was ready to proceed.
The conversation was really charm
ing! Above the clatter of William
Rogers 1847 on china, there floated
the gay chatter of young ladies, light
hearted, gay. Their repartee was
sparkling, witty. “Shoot me the
sugar,” we heard one vibrant voice,
as the owner and bearer of the voice
buttered her muflSn, poured her tea,
and simultaneously attempted to pass
the cauliflower and tomatoes. “Oh,.
Betsy!” burst musically from the lips
of another girl, “I’ve gotta tell Ellen
something about Saturday night,”
and away she dashed across the room,
her pigtails flying. The girl wearing
the kerchief around her head greatly
desired a sixth muffin but, being
unable to speak because of the fifth,
leaned one elbow further on the table
and pointed. The muffins were hustled
in her direction.
Then silence ensued at the table
beneath Cambridge, for somehow there
was no time for idle chatter. There
were more important things being
done. Every now and then, however,
there was a shrill whistle, and a plate
was thrust toward a waiter. But that
Then one of the girls looked at
her watch. “Goodness!” she exclaimed.
We ve been in here seven minutes
already. I can eat the rest of my
Boston cream pie on the way out.
Hope it doesn’t drool. Bye y’all.”
Ihen the two girls with matching
hair bows shuffled off toward the
Rec Room. Gradually, the table was
left vacant. That is, all except for
one little freshman who had found
three desserts left over at the table
next to hers and couldn’t bear to let
them go to waste!
And so, after such a pleasant, re
laxing repast, we tip-toed out, leaving
the freshman alone in the dining
room, her fork busy with cream pie,
and her clothes getting more and more
becoming—to her little sister.
Rat Day Viewed
From Two Angles
At last the day has come! We have
revenged ourselves, and the “flappers”
have had to kneel to the “old maids.”
You thought that day would never
come, but history is made at Queens.
We burned midnight oil and wrecked
our weary brains in order to think
of a way to bring the “rats” to their
knees. For one long year we suffered,
(not too silently) and now we mighty
sophomores have shown our strength
and power. For one day we reigned
as lords of the campus, and even
the dignified Seniors and brilliant
Juniors were forced into the back
ground. We were ladies of leisure
with over a hundred subjects to do
our bidding and make our every wish
become a reality. Years may pass,
but that one day will live in our
memory forever. We may never be
famous; we may never be rich;
we may never have the world at
our feet; but we have been the envy of
every “flapper,” and what other “old
maid” could gloat over that accom
plishment. It was a red letter day
in our Sophomore year for it gave us
the chance to show our real import
We made them write love letters,
obey our every whim, and feed us
candy by the bagsful. Then we sent
them through the house of those Who
Had Passed Beyond to test their
fitness. Rat Court included the
trials and tribulation.
The Rats squeek — and who
wouldn’t! We didn’t mind wearing our ,
Freshman caps, but when it came to
being hussies, which none of us arc
well, that’s just too much!
We knew the Sophomore class was
very fond of bubbles, so we tried
to please them, even though we’re
still not able to move our poor
jaws from those two wads of blow-
gum we had to chew all day. We
wonder why so many gals had ad
hesive on their noses and bandages on
their knees next day. Could it be
the “air-raid” yelled by the Sopho
mores? Every time they said those
two words, we were required to fall
down wherever we were and repeat
this horrible saying; Fifty funny,
flirting, flappery, foolish Freshmen
fell foozily, forsakenly, forbiddenly
on the floor. Our ears feel so long
and droopy from wearing those hor
rible ear-rings, that they seem to
hang way below our hair. Woe is Ve!
About that string of pictures of
our men that we had to wear around
our necks, we have nothing to say,
but this: We can’t help it if we’re not
When we walked in that night after
it was all over, our fathers gasped
and staggered when they saw our
short, slit skirts, bright long-waisted
blouses, and fiery red lips and finger
nails. And I don’t imagine the beauty
spots, spiked heels, and orange rouge
helped their impressions much.