Bluets - May 1937

[Cover of "Bluets," May 1937], University Archives, D. H. Ramsey Library, UNCA

BLUETS

Thus do Bluets grow.

Frank Glenn.

Jo jones                     virginia bryan
Editor                 Adviser

EDITORIAL COMMENT:                   Page

Western North Carolina ___________________________________________________________    5
Success  ________________________________________________________________________
Inconsistency ( Poem ) ______________________________________________________________   Wilma   Dykeman    7 King Cotton's Slaves ___________________________________________________  Norman Sultan   8 Old Solomon________________________________________________________    Ruggles Baker     9 On Saving Money _______________________________________________________________________   Jo Jones    10 Successful Failure _________________________________________________      Clarence McCall    11 Is Life Worth Living? _______________________________________________      Hazel Carson    12 It's Called Dancing __________________________________________________   Robert Steele    13 This Modern Age ____________________________________________________     Harry Belk    14 Getting Up ______________________________________________________   James Stanberry    15 The Girl Behind the Counter _____________________________________________   Frank Glenn    16 In the Spring ______________________________________________________________________     George Smith    17 Dead Man's Holiday _________________________________________________     George Smith    18 The Epileptic Fit __________________________________________    Frank Glenn and Harry Belk    19 In Defense of Pacifism _____________________________________________    Christine  Ponder    20
A BROWSE AMONG BOOKS:                 21
        How to Win Friends and Influence People ___________________________________  Robert Steele         Live Alone and Like It ________________________________________________ Wilma Dykeman         Beam Ends ____________________________________________________________ Miles Fall                  T he Hundred Years _____________________________________________________________   Pinkney Groves, Jr.         We Are Not Alone _______________________________________________________   Mary Jett
Weary People ________________________________________________________ Jack Crawford    24 About Birds and People (Poem) _________________________________________ Wilma Dykeman    24 Impressions on Valley Street ____________________________________________ Deborah Rubin    25 Mountain Dew (Poem) __________________________________________________ George Smith    26 POETRY SECTION:            27

        Sunset   __________________________________________________________    Deborah Rubin
       The Bubble of Life ______________________________________________________    Harry  Belk
       Even as You and I ___________________________________________________ Wilma Dykeman 
       Desert   _______________________________________________________________ Miles Falls
       Comparison   ____________________________________________________________ Mary Jett
       Stamp Collector ___________________________________________________ Pinkney Groves, Jr.
       Loafer's Lament _____________________________________________________________________ George Smith
          Autopsy   _______________________________________________________________________ Wilma Dykeman
         "It Can't Happen Here" ________________________________________________ Wilma Dykeman
       Sea Lace ______________________________________________________________ Miles Falls
Stories Behind Stamps ____________________________________________________________    Pinkney Groves, Jr.    30
Trust in Youth (Poem) ___________________________________________________  Frank Glenn    31
Six Months to the Day ___________________________________________________ Frank Glenn    32
Sky Gazers (Poem) ____________________________________________________________________       Miles Falls    33
Meditations ______________________________________________________________________ Blanche Roberts    3 4
Defeat (Poem) _____________________________________________________________________Wilma Dykeman    34
Man's Hell in Life _______________________________________________________ Frank Glenn    35
Stars (Poem) ____________________________________________________________   Jo  Jones    36

Editorial Comments

We live in one of the most beautiful sections in the world, yet few of us realize the fact. We have been satiated with its loveliness until we take it for granted. It is only when we are away from it that we realize its true worth, We are seized with a wild nostalgia which is alleviated only when we again catch sight of our green mountains.

Our mountain range, according to geologists, is among the oldest in the world. Passing through the changes of thousands of years it has attained the perfection of today. Mountain after mountain rolls onward toward the hori­zon. Forests, filled with pine, spruce, balsam, oak, maple, and other majestic species of timber, climb their bosoms, seeking to touch the sky with their out­stretched branches. Flowers, in a pro­fusion of color, grow among the roots of the trees—violets, arbutus, bluets, May flowers, rhododendron, and rare flowers glimpsed only by the astute eye. The forest, as well as being a botanical garden, is a veritable zoo. Lumbering bears, nimble squirrels, soft-eyed deer, fright­ened rabbits, quarrelsome jays, quick foxes pass silently by, seeing but often unseen. Fish fill the crystal-clear, cool streams which tumble down the steep slopes. Pictures painted by an Infinite hand, furnish inspiration for painter, poet, and musician.

No less picturesque than the physical features of Western North Carolina are the people. Of primarily Anglo-Saxon origin, they penetrated the fastness of the mountains over a century ago bring­ing with them the customs and beliefs of their English ancestors—customs and beliefs which have remained practically unchanged. Music and dancing play a great part in their lives. Their old ballads, quaint and plaintive in tone, date back to the ages of Chaucer and Shakes­peare. Their dances, equally quaint and expressive, fill many a happy evening after chores are completed.

About three-quarters of a century after the coming of the Anglo-Saxon element, a more materialistic group invaded the mountains. Cities sprang up, power dams were built, timber was cut, agriculture became a primary asset, mineral facilities were developed, and rare gems were sought. Railroads and concrete highways were built and here and there an airport was constructed. The climate was recognized as a healthful and healing one. Health and tourist resorts were developed, where thousands

come to cure their ills and enjoy themselves. Wise employers realized that a climate helpful to invalids would also benefit employees. Corporations built factories utilizing the unlimited water power as well as the climate. The government, recognizing the beauties of our section, added the Great Smoky Moun­tain Park to its national reserves.

Today, as never before, the true worth of Western North Carolina is being noted. We have everything—climate, roads, schools, natural resources, recreational facilities, and above all, scenery. But unlike the thousands who visit us each year for a short time, we who live here are unconsciously blessed with its beauties the year round.

SUCCESS

When an individual has reached college age, he has arrived at a time in his life when he should consider the more serious problems of existence, if he has not already done so. This is an age of opportunity, but an age which disproves the old adage that "opportunity knocks, but once.'' It does not knock at all. It has to be sought out and captured. All ambitious young people want success. That is the natural course of things. But what is success? The dictionary defines it: A favorable or prosperous course or termination of anything attempted; a successful person or affair. But the dictionary is always cold and imper­sonal. It does not consider the work, the discouragement, the happiness that success entails.

Each individual has his own defini­tion of success. Some know what they want, and they are going out after it, no matter whom they hurt in the process. They are selfish creatures who buy their success dearly. They reach the top, but they find that they stand there alone, without friends, without respect, with­out honor. They see about their feet the lives of the people they have used in their nefarious climb. It is well to re­member what a contemporary wit, Robert W. Quillian, once wrote: "Be kind to the people you meet going up; you meet the same ones coming down."

There are some persons who are so conceited and self-sufficient as to imagine that true talent can never be suppressed. They see themselves walk confidently up to take the laurel wreath and bow graciously to an admiring and envious public. They forget that there was but one Archimedes, and one Michel­angelo, and one Shakespeare. They for­get that few have ever equaled or even approached them. They forget, too, that great men do not become great over­night, but that years of sacrifice and work gain their fame. Geniuses are made, not born. Even then, some of them die, failures in the eyes of the world, only to have their work acclaimed centuries later. What a surprise it must be to self-important persons when they leave the security of home, where they have always been applauded and praised, to find that the World does not think so much of their talents.

There are others to whom success means notoriety. To see their names spread over the papers, to have the whole world turn and stare when they walk down the street, to have a crowd of autograph seekers blocking their every step—that is success, They do not realize that it is a success built of the gaudy tinsel of public fancy. Fancy is fickle. Like a swirling river it gathers its vic­tim on its crest, carries it along at top

INCONSISTENCY

Yesterday I wanted to have a little cottage

snug,

With curtains blue,
A fireplace too,
And a soft, luxurious rug.
With a window where the morning sun
Could shed its light
To make things bright
Oh, I thought it would be such fun.

Today I want to travel, to search and find

and see
Novel places
And different faces
That strange lands can show to me,
And I want to feel the sunshine of another

people's land,
To live with them,
And give with them
And make my wanderings grand.

Tomorrow I shall want — well, I cannot
          say,
For with the midnight comes another day.

— Wilma Dykeman

King Cotton's Slaves

Norman Sultan

Before the Civil War cotton was pro­duced by chattel slaves. With the end of statutory slavery a different system had to be found, and it is significant that within a few years thereafter the share-crop system had been generally adopted. The system is the offspring of slavery, born during the evil days of reconstruc­tion. It seems to have inherited the evils of both its parent system and its natal period. The spirit of slavery and ex­ploitation dominates the system.

If the cropper’s living quarters were more attractive, they would still lack the essentials of home; the cropper's wife and children must enter the cotton fields as soon as the plant is large enough to hoe, and they are regular field hands un­til the cotton is picked. Mothers often carry their young children to the fields and lay them in the shade while they hoe and pick. Under such conditions, there is no home life for the cotton-cropper's, family. Home, with its sacred tradi­tions, is a lost word to thousands of these people.

Their houses are merely temporary eating and sleeping quarters—nothing more. The share-cropper is furnished with an unsightly shack, with two or three rooms. These shacks are usually unpainted boxhouses, built of boards, nailed vertically to the frame, with strips covering the joints. Privacy and decency are almost impossible. As a rule there are no shade trees or shrubbery, no flowers, and no touch of beauty to relieve the dreary existence.

The cropper must obey, not only the landlord, but his riding boss. These bosses are an integral part of the system. They usually go armed, and assume the airs of guards of a chain-gang who mustbe obeyed without question or delay. The croppers must meekly submit and obey their orders. They must plow, plant, cultivate, pick, and gin, when, where, and as directed, but permit the landlord to sell the crop when and where he pleases, and take what he offers. In none of these things are the croppers permitted to act on their own judgement or initiative. When the cotton is sold, they must submit to his accounting.

The effect of these things may be written in one word: "submission". The will of the cropper is broken and his in­dependence is destroyed. We hear that the cotton-cropper is shiftless and worthless, but how could he be other­wise? By the conditions under which he lives his character is daily attacked and destroyed. The greatest indictment against the tenant and share-cropper system is that it not only destroys what character there is, but it also makes the development of character impossible.

For the last fifteen years the economic condition of the cotton tenant has grad­ually been growing worse. The land­lords have the lands, houses, food, feed, and the money. They also have officers. When direct action fails, the officers may be depended on to shield armed gangs as they spread terror and violence among the defenseless share-croppers.

It can readily be seen that the share­cropper system is one which challenges the people of the nation. Its proper so­lution would be the greatest economic achievement of the time. It is a human and economic problem. A solution should be sought which will make of these tenants good and prosperous citizens and create healthy and prosper­ous rural life.

Old Solomon

Ruggles Baker

In the quiet stillness of the Great Smoky Mountains there lies a pool of clear, cool water. This pool has been shaped by Mother Nature to form a perfect fork. A stream flowing from the north joins another stream flowing from the west and at their point of contact a deep recess took form. This pool has its outlet in a stream that flows toward the south. The pool is girded by various types of shrubs and magnificent hem­locks whose tops reach toward the sky as if the sun was their objective. Spread over the ground of the forest is a bright green carpet of grass. Mingled in with the grass are yellow buttercups, blue­bells, and many other wild flowers which tend to give the green carpet an appear­ance of an oriental rug of many beautiful colors. During the early summer months this pool is robed in its prettiest color, because at that time the rhododendron and mountain laurel are in full bloom. These shrubs on the bank of the pool cast a faint purple hue on the water flowing beneath their red and blue blossoms. In the trees are birds whose happy songs fill the air, while butterflies flit among the flowers whose heads are tossed about by a warm breeze.

As one clears the surrounding hills in his attempt to reach this spot of rest and beauty, he believes what he first sees to be an optical illusion, but as he enters this garden of paradise he knows it to be real. It is here that he has come to fish for '' Old Solomon"—called thus because

he has been too wise as yet for the fisher­man.

After camp is set up and supper is over the adventurer goes to the bank of the nearby pool and sits down on the soft green carpet. His gaze soon wanders to the waters of the pool and there, down among the shadows of the overhanging bank, he sees "Old Sol". At once his pulse beats at a faster rate because the sight of this beautiful rainbow trout is something to long for.

Early the next morning just after the sun has risen one sees this man on the bank of the pool with a fly rod in his hand and his tackle box and net on the ground near his feet.

The movements of the fisherman are very graceful as he casts the fly out over the surface of the pool. After many casts his vision detects the trout as it nears the fly. His muscles become a little more tense and shivers run over the course of his body. Finally the trout strikes and the fight between man and fish begins. Slowly he plays the fish to wear him out, but the strength of the trout is something to marvel at. As minutes fly by the trout begins to lose the fight and the fisherman begins to reel him in. As the trout is just about within reach of the net, he gives one final effort to free himself and this at­tempt is successful. "Old Sol" returns to the depths of the pool where once again he is lord and master.

 On Saving Money

OR
The Girl Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo

This treatise, gentle readers, is scrib­ed, not for those of you who, like me, are unable to save money, but for those who, like the Ancient Mariner, or maybe it was his brother, Silas, have never heard the old adage, "You are young only once, so gather no moss'', and hoard all their money for a rainy day—which I am sure most of my readers do. You must not be misled by my heading. I have never been to Monte Carlo, but I see no reason why a man should have a monop­oly on breaking the bank, and anyway, that's all I can think of for a title.

Says my mother to me, "My daughter, my little poppy, pride of my life, it's time you saved some money. You want to go to a certain university to a drama­tic festival; you want to return for the dances; you want to go to school there next year; you want a new suit; you want a new evening dress; and you want some more incense for your Buddah. As much as I care for you, my little sun­flower, I am not the U.S. Mint."

"Mother, dear,'' I reply, "your great­est fears are justified. Forthwith and tomorrow, I shall buy a piggy bank, and therein deposit every cent on which I lay my fingers."

My mother faints, but in spite of these odds against me, I, the next day, ex­change the sum of ten cents plus one cent sales tax with a girl at the ten-cent counter for a cute, little piggy bank with a ducky, blue ribbon around his neck. I name him Clarence, because he reminds me of my boy friend who has big ears, too, and looks dumb. I put a penny in Clarence, shake him to be sure he rattles, and feel very proud of myself that I am saving money.

I walk down the drag with Clarence under my arm; and suddenly, to my great surprise, I spy a huge sign which says: Robert Taylor, with some insignicant female—I forget her name—in "Camille". It strikes me that I have been wanting to see this colossal pro­duction for some time, but since I have already seen six movies this week, and since I am saving my money, I do not think I had better.

"But, ah me," I sigh, "all my friends will see it. They will discuss it, and I will feel out of place, because I will not know what it is about. I am sure my mother will not wish my savings account to come between me and my happiness, and make me feel uninformed and out-of-date, because I have not seen Robert Taylor. And besides, it might cause me to get introversion, which is a disease our sociology professor told us about."

I count my money. But lack-a-day and alas, I have only twenty-four cents. The other penny is in Clarence. And then the funniest thing happens. Clarence slips right out of my arms, and falls, and breaks, and there is my penny on the sidewalk.

The moral: Robert Taylor is simply divine as Camille.

Successful Failure

CLARENCE McCALL

As I passed from the doctor's office, my very frame was quivering with ex­citement; a breathless exultation swept over me. The kind old doctor had in­formed me that I would be well on the road to recovery before another week had passed if I avoided any undue ex­ertion.

Outside the rain was falling in tor­rents; flashes of lightning illuminated the heavens at intervals. I hailed a cruising taxi and gave the driver my ad­dress. He drove me across the city at such a speed that before I knew it I had reached my destination—a rambling, old, three-story house on a lonely road in the suburbs. The house from the out­side was rather dreary and dismal, but the inside was comfortable enough. As it was Saturday evening, my housekeep­er had gone to call on a friend, leaving the house deserted. I ran up the walk, opened the door, and went upstairs to the attic which I had converted into a laboratory in which I might continue my experiments.

Before I had moved to my present abode, I had lived in a little town in the South, where I had spent much time try­ing to perfect a serum to cure dwarfs. I had long been interested in the subnor-malities of these little people and, with them in mind, had made a deep study of glands in college. "While I was in the South, I had made my experiments on a dwarf who had left a vaudeville and set­tled near my home. But since my health had forced me to come to the North to be near a specialist, I had continued my ex­periments on monkeys. I now felt that my task was near its completion. I knew I had the right ingredients in my serum, and if I could just find the cor­rect proportions and combinations, suc­cess would be assured.

In spite of the fact that the doctor had told me it would be better if I gave up my work for a few days, I felt that I must not waste any time. I would not work late, I decided. Surely just an hour would not hurt me. I took up the test tube which contained my serum. I be­came so interested in my work that I forgot my resolve to work for only an hour. The clock struck twelve, one, two. Still I worked on. Finally I was ready to inject the serum into a monkey lying before me on the table. I could hardly keep myself from trembling. Somehow I felt that tonight I would be successful. I stuck a hypodermic needle into the serum, withdrew it, and injected it in the monkey's neck. Nervously my fingers pressed the valve which sent the fluid into its veins. Soon it was over, and I sank breathlessly into a chair to await results. Presently I leaned again over the monkey and examined it care­fully. Suddenly I raised up.

"Praise the Lord!" I cried.    "I've done it!"

Another few minutes of feverish work and the experiment was completed. All I would have to do now would be to check up on my records and materials. But suddenly I realized that I was dead tired. Tomorrow would do as well as tonight for compiling data.

I groped my way to my room and without removing my clothes fell ex­hausted on the bed. As I lay there, a sudden pain caught me in my heart. Icy fear and apprehension gripped me. I knew what it was—the fatal heart attack

against which the doctor had warned me if I became excited.

But my experiment—I must record that data. I knew if I did not work swiftly, it would be too late. Desperate­ly, I tried to reach the laboratory. A beady sweat broke out on my brow. I reached the door of the room where I had worked for the past three years. I hesitated; I could go no further. Slowly I sank to the floor. Hazy mists rose be­fore me. Life was so sweet, so pleasant to live, but I must leave it. The world would never know of my discovery! Warped men would continue in misery ... no records ... no data. . . .

Is Life Worth Living?

HAZEL  CARSON

Is life worth living? I dare say every­one has asked himself that question. A few have decided that it isn't, but most of us go on trying to find something to make it worth living.

What is living? I feel that most of us just exist. To live we have to be happy and to be happy we must have some defi­nite object to strive for, or maybe it has to be attained before happiness can be found.

Many of us go on living after we think it is useless to try to find this indefin­able something that makes life worth while. It can not be found in the same way by everybody. Some find it in re­ligion, some in work, some in another person, but the most ideal is the person who can find it in himself.

There are so many of us who never seem to find that indefinable something. Is it that we give up too easily, or is it written in the stars that we aren't to find it? People commit suicide either because they have not found it or because they have found it and lost it. I think people who commit suicide are misjudged. They are not weaklings, but are rather courageous, because they do not know what comes after death. How many of us wish we were dead, but still haven't the courage to die ? In life we can drift along; that takes no courage. We are cowards.

Perhaps we work too hard at trying to find happiness, and when we get what we think is happiness we are disillusi­oned. I often wonder if it can be found in material things.

How can we of the younger generation find happiness? We can not be happy unless we feel that we are doing some­thing worth while for the world, no mat­ter how small. We are condemned by the generation of our parents for what appears to them to be a hard cynical attitude. This is a covering we have tried to acquire to hide our hurts and keep out new hurts. Our sophisticated "cov­ering" is to help us keep up our courage, to try to make a place for ourselves in this hard world. We try to appear wise and shrewd but really deep down inside we are literally "scared to death".

Have we the courage to face facts, to make strong our wills, to make life worth living?

It's Called Dancing

                            ROBERT STEELE

Having looked at deformed and worn-out feet all of my life, I'm sure that dancing has been a craze for a miserably long time. Dancing is a universal sport and is indulged in by all varieties of people and in the case of the black bot­tom, the horse. Some people think that America's dancing is atrocious, but I'd like for them to see the hopping and twirling that these mountain folks do.

The struggles of some dancers (especially high school big-shots) re­semble wrestling or a clinch marathon, except that of course it doesn't re­quire a uniform. The ladies usually strip down to what they call an evening gown, contesting with each other to see who can have the least at the top and the most at the bottom. (This never fails to ruin the escort's evening for fear he'll happen to be standing on it—the bottom I mean—when she de­cides to move.) As for the gentlemen, they usually put on the other suit and a clean shirt.

Admission tickets to dances range in price from one to ten dollars. If it is an especially big shindig (in the five dollar range of admission), favors are offered to gyp you; and if you don't buy your date one of them, usually a useless dance program cover, a non-working cigarette lighter, or a cumbersome com­pact with loose powder, you'll never live down your reputation of being cruel. The later the hours, the smarter the dance is—and by all means don't come too early. If you are unfortunate enough to get there on time, lounge in the lobby and do your best to hold your head up and act cheerful. It has been found to be quite smart to blow in when the dance is more than half over; it is also quite smart to get lit-up and not arrive at all. Then, there is the matter of flowers. Never give vent to your feeling by send­ing a wreath, but send a corsage.

The dance is divided into many differ­ent steps which are dependent upon age, music, and self-control. The most popu­lar steps are those that go with swing-time music. (This is a distinct advantage in case you trip over your feet trying to see who that blond is holding up; it can always be excused as a new step.) The gay old folks still enjoy the fox-trot (called so not because it is clever like a fox, but it's the same old trot). Because it requires the least effort and you can do it with your eyes closed with safety, the waltz is the most popular step in the hot summer months, except in those ultra-hot countries where a non-tangoer is taken for granted to be a bit balmy, perhaps due to the heat. Anyway, it takes lots of practice to keep tangoing from tangling. The villainous man and the slinky girl are a cinch as a tango team. The only difference between the tango and the Apache dance is that the tangoers aim to keep their feet on the ground, while the Apaches aim to keep all on the floor but the feet. The harder he bangs her on the floor and the meaner he pulls her hair the greater his skill as this specie of a dancer. And the rhumba: the free expression for those victims of St. Vitus with rheumatism from the waist up. The double-jointed rhumbaer invariably brings down the house.

But far be it from me to criticize the dance. As our dancing masters preach: "The dance develops free expression, grace, and beauty of body."

This Modern Age

HARRY BELK

It is often said that when people grow older they become more conservative, but our modern age is tending to tear down this phenomena at a very rapid rate of speed. Would it not be interest­ing to make a round of the various places of so called amusement in our fair city? Let me take you to one of our most up to-date night clubs. Upon entering, we are greeted by a pretty young girl of probably eighteen who wishes to know if she can help us. After showing us to a table she takes our order and seems very much surprised when we order a sandwich and coffee. We wonder why. Maybe they don't serve coffee. The or­chestra starts playing a hit tune and couples start dancing. Look! one fellow can't make it. He staggers from one table to the next finally ending up in a nearby corner. Knowing him, we walk over to lend a hand. After placing him in a chair we ask him where are his morals. With a little grin and two bulg­ing eyes looking over a red nose he says they have gone to his head.

As the evening proceeds the place be­comes very dense with tobacco smoke mingled with the scent of alcohol, and by this time every one is fairly well in­toxicated. Taxi cabs are waiting outside for customers who are usually carried out.

At the height of this gay affair two men get into an argument. The lights go out, and a free-for-all takes place. Crawling on our hands and knees in or­der to keep away from flying beer bot­tles we feel our way to the front door, and hurry away in our waiting car. The next morning we read an account of it in the newspaper. A small item of course because such happenings are too com­mon to be very important.

This one incident fairly sums up our night life in a so-called modern way. Of course night clubs are not the only places of gay activity. Private parties in homes with cocktails and hi-balls to no set limit are also very popular. In my own opin­ion I sum up this life as an age of "Sotism".

To be modern a person must also be a good dancer. Or is it dancing? I heard one fellow say that it looked more like a struggle for existence than it did a dance. We spend hours learning some new dance step, but few of us take time to read the daily paper, or keep up with current events to a very great extent. So with the words of one of our latest songs, "Ok, say can you swing, till the sun rises bright, if you can then you are doing all right", I leave you with this modern age.

Getting Up

JAMES STANBERRY

Getting up is, to me, the most onerous task of my whole existence. On school mornings, of which there are only six a week, it is expedient to my well-being to be at a nine o'clock class. In order to do this, I am compelled to interrupt, at its apex of delightfulness, that heav­enly period of somnolence, known generally as sleep.

Each night, before retiring, I ascertain that my clock is thirty minutes fast, and that the alarm is set for eight-thirty.

After an interlude of fully six or seven hours, when, suddenly snatched from the tender embrace of Morpheus by so violent a clamor as might have awaken­ed Priam and his household on that fate­ful night in Illium, there slowly dawns upon me the idea that it must be time to get up. Still clinging to the remnants of my disturbed slumber, at length, muster enough courage to attempt to locate the accursed noise.

"What's this? Only that d— clock," I mutter semi-conciously [sic] to myself.

Then as my subconscious awakens, this comes charging into my brain: "What! Here it is eight-thirty with you still in bed."

Finally, in order to escape the up­braiding of my conscience, I throw back the covers, grab for my dressing robe, feel for my slippers, and make a blind dash for the bath room.

With only a minimum of door-ram­ming and toe-stubbing, I arrive, intact, for the process of completely rousing myself. With one hand, I grope for the shower faucet, and with the other, I manage to remove my robe and my pajamas. As the cataclysm of icy water strikes my body, the weight upon my brain and the fog before my eyes seem to dispell. For the first time, I am really and truly awake, aware of the cruel world which forces hapless beings, like myself for instance, to arise at the un­godly hour of eight-thirty. I find myself standing in a freezing shower, my teeth chattering, realizing, at last, the brevity of the space of time, at the end of which I must be in school.

Having finished my shower, I hastily brush my teeth, comb my hair, and dress.

When, again, I brace myself for a glance at the clock, I note that it is nine-fifteen. My heart sinks. I am already late. Then, remembering that my clock is thirty minutes fast, I realize, with glee, that if I hurry, I will even have time to drink a glass of grapefruit juice before starting that loathsome walk to school—a walk during which I silently but violently condemn to an extremely torrid locality, the "guy" who origi­nated the idea of nine o 'clock classes.

The Girl Behind The Counter

FRANK GLENN

The nasal tunes of the Rowder Broth­er's screeches above the noise of the Saturday afternoon loafers in Kress basement. The "Depot Blues" rings the hearts of the Bearwallow Citizens, who stand around with gaping mouths drip­ping snuff. The good brown earth clings doggedly to the hobnailed boots of the bearded male gender who have cornered the loud-dressed lass with octagon washed cheeks. A cleared space opens as a "burr-head" shuffles his way up to the candy counter and shyly asks:

"Miss lady, is you all got any scrap broken crackers, 'er mashed gum drops?"

The girl smiles wearily and shakes her head in the negative and sighs dis­gustedly as a drunk staggers up against the counter and wants to know if any­body has seen Elmer. The record counter is lined up with men slouching either drunkenly or lazily. Here a farmer's wife raises a falsetto voice in protest as a sales girl says, "Twenty-five cents please,'' as she picks up a selected piece of Kressoleum.

Suddenly the crowd is silenced as the mournful screeching of the electric victrola drones out the tune of "Maple on the Hill No. 2". A young fellow droops with eager ear catching every chord, his flaming face looks like an old turkey gobbler's wattle, and a faint odor of '' Quick-action Bay Rum" is wafted to the nostrils as he loudly blows his nose on a large bandanna handkerchief.

The door opens importantly wide and in troop three loud-mouthed old men (two supported by canes) who have just been over next door at the Crystal Palace Theatre seeing Buck Mix in "The Valley of Dead Injuns". A conversation ensues.

"Cy Corntassle says he don' think that thar is no chanct uv us gittin' home afore time tuh milk ther cows onless the darn' ol truck will start offhand", wise­ly avers one of the bearded clod-hoppers.

"Wal", replies the second important­ly, "seeing how's on account uv I got thirty-six cent a pound fer my terbaccy, I reckin even if thet contrary old critter waren't tuh start, we all uv us cud hire one uv these sassiety rooms down thar at the Lexington Hotel, and we cud hav uh honist tuh goodniss bath in one of thim thar noo fangled bath tubs 'stead uv havin' tuh freeze in the crick".

So the day drags by and at closing time the place is so muddy and smelly that a fresh breath of air would cause the girl behind the counter to faint, if applied too fast. Speaking of story-book heroines, none of them could half-way stand the insults, the language, noise and nerve-racking screeching of that "infernal contraption" as well as this martyr does.

The nine-o'clock bell clangs and as the door is slammed behind the last over-ailed customer, she turns to see a new shipment of hillbilly tunes.

In The Spring

GEORGE SMITH

Last fall when I entered Biltmore as a freshman, I met many new people. Among those people were several nice girls, or should I perhaps say young ladies? Any­how among those was a certain girl. At the time I happened to be free of all en­cumbrances affecting the region of the heart. But alas! I am not like the "Biltmore Romeos," gifted with a high resistance and the accompanying ability to lightly play with ladies hearts and get off scot-free. No, I get burned without even playing with fire. If my resistance could be measured, it would hardly show over thirty ohms, while this certain young lady carries at least one thousand volts. Now any physician like Dr. Mann can tell you it takes only one volt to overcome an ohm, so you can imagine the shock I got when we came in contact. Yousah! Cupid dealt a lethal blow to my measly thirty ohms with a direct hit. And just when I was hoping I was im­mune to his romantic arrows. He is a persistent little devil, isn't he? I some­times wonder whether anyone else suc­cumbs to his sporadic attacks as often as I do.

   As autumn passed and as winter join-eel it in the land of memories, I managed to retain a fair bit of common sense and did fairly well in my studies, but all that is past. Now when I sit down to study, my mind deserts me to wander away and follow my heart. I can't concentrate. My marks are staggering and teetering on the edge of a cliff. In class I try to keep my mind away from her, but the effort is futile, and I give up.

Love is a curious thing. It deranges a fellow in a horrible manner. At first it makes him feel swell; then it lets him down, then up, and down again. Love and common sense don't mix. My writ­ing this proves it. Next to anger love is the most expressive emotion. I wish I could stop writing this, but my thoughts must out. Don't be surprised if I burst out with a research essay on "Anatomy of Love" someday soon. Love makes one brave too; I just wish a lion would try to hurt my gal; grrrr, I'd show him his place!

I think somewhere back in my common sense days I heard and old adage that went like this .... In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. ....

Well, it's spring now. I'm all mussed up inside. Yes ... You Ve guessed it long ago. .... I'm in love.

P.S. This essay on the state of affairs of my heart was merely fabricated to get extra credit on my creative English grade. It is purely a fantasy and is not to be mistaken for the truth by anyone. Each and all of my associates and friends can vouch for the truth of this contradiction. As they all know, even though I am addle-headed, I am not likely to fall for any of these Biltmore girls seriously.

P. P. S. The preceding postscript is thereby null and void. My sole and only motive for writing it was to keep the boys from ostracizing me as a fallen man. Gee Whiz! I hope my heart throb doesn't see it.

Dead Man's Holiday

GEORGE SMITH

"Zarahoff Dead of Heart Attack."

"Armament King Dies in France."

Huge black headlines stretched across every newspaper from Canada to Argen­tine, from New York to Bombay, the World knew. People read it every­where, all with avid interest, many with gladness, some few with worry or regret. One, a hunch-backed, twisted, dirty, lit­tle Italian named Giuseppe Luciano fumed while he read and reread it in his squalid Parisian garret room. As he stared at the sheet, suspicion, hatred, and finally the black cloud of rage raced in rapid succession over his sharp swarthy face. Mustache bristling, he dashed the paper to the floor, jerked on his coat and hat, and locking his door, strode three flights down and into the street, there he turned left and after a few steps entered a wine shop. A surly dark-haired man grunted a greeting as he slid into the opposite seat. After or­dering, Luciano related what he had read to his brother anarchist, Petrovitch Nijinski*

"I theenk eet ees jus' a treek. I don' theenk he ees dead," he concluded with a snarl.

"You are right", returned his fellow conspirator." But we can do nothing till after the funeral, tomorrow, then Giuseppe, wlio knows? We may keel liim yet. ......."

Yes, the world knows Sir Basil Zara-hoff died and that there was a splendid funeral. But there are some things this wise world does not know. For instance it is ignorant that at the moment of his funeral Sir Basil, ingeniously disguised, was well on his way to a cottage in the Swiss Alps.

Months before the funeral had actual­ly, taken place, everything, even the smallest details, were planned by the Zarahoff genius—how his money was to be transferred, the time of his death, his disguise, and of course, his destina­tion—every possible means was used to avoid detection by enemies or friends. If he was discovered in this escape, collapse of the financial fabric of eastern Europe might result. It was a great risk, but to Sir Basil it was worth while. This was to be his great holiday.

When he first began to be a power in the armament ring, Zarahoff had been free, that is, his only obligations had been to himself, and the fate of no coun­try depended on his continued success. But as his business grew, stretching tentacles into many other important in­dustries, his responsibility grew heavy and his vast industry began to rule him —like a Frankensteinian monster. And soon his name became a hated synonym for war and death. Who lives by the sword shall die by the sword. Many men he had never seen or wronged wait­ed only for a chance to murder him. Gradually he was forced to become a hermit surrounded by high, spiked walls and an armed guard. Although he con­trolled billions of dollars, he1 could neither buy nor beg the thing he wanted most—freedom. At last, longing to es­cape and to have a justly earned freedom in his old age he had been driven to this extremity. Ah, well, he was free now! Old Sir Basil relaxed for the first time in fifty years.

But was he really free ? In a Parisian graveyard at mid-night three days later, two dark outlines could be seen against the white marble vault containing Zarahoff's carefully weight­ed casket. One of the shadows was busy at the lock of the magnificent vault; the

other kept watch—for the gendarmes. The gendarmes had a way of suddenly appearing in the wrong places surpris­ingly often.

"Ah! E' bene!" exclaimed Giuseppe as the lock clicked and the portals swung open. "Now for the bone-box! We must be certain it is empty.''

The pair rushed in the dim vault, and Petrovitch flicked on his electric torch. It was five minutes hard work to remove the screws from the coffin; then they swung the lid wide and gazed in amazement for the body of the munitions maker was in the casket.

"No, no, no, no! It canna be so," in­sisted Giuseppe. "I don' believe it!"

"Well you see it, dont you?" gulped matter-of-fact Petrovitch. "I don't like dead bodies. I am going." With this he fled completely unnerved.

"Wait, Petrovitch, wait. I am coming weeth you," Giuseppe shouted as he ran, but he got no answer; the explanation was, however, immediately forthcoming, for as Giuseppe sped from the entrance of the passage, he ran squarely into the fond embrace of a mountainous gen­darme.

As the curiosity of the gendarmes is sometimes very irksome, Petrovitch and Giuseppe spent some very unpleasant hours before they finally heard sentence pronounced on them as grave robbers. The casket and vault meantime had been repaired without delay.

"Tres bien," thought M. Zarahoff as he read an account of the incident over his morning coffee. "Signor Novell! is an expert wax modeler.''

THE EPILEPTIC FIT

A tentacled, hand reaches up from the
     unknown
And seizes a victim from whom reason has
     flown,
Whose face has changed from its normal
     form
To one of the fearfulness of the devil
     reborn.
A glassy blank stare begins to glaze
The eyes of the vagrant who feels in
     amaze
The tightening of claws which clutch his
     throat,
While flabby, fat jowls begin to bloat.
An unearthly groan escapes from the lip
While a trembling body to the earth does
     slip
With frothing mouth showing "fangs for
     teeth
And a gnarled thick tongue showing
     beneath.
The carcass rigidly does convulse
While palsied actions grotesquely repulse.
The vaulty expression, borrowed from the
     dead
Like the risen vampire from his tomb has
     sped.
The bucolic effects of the continual drunk
Eat the vitals which are knotted and shrunk
Causing the demon to writhe in the rut,
While gleaming white teeth his tongue
     does cut.
The mouth gapes open where the flies
     have lit;
And the dead has died in an epileptic fit.

—Frank Glenn

In Defense Of Pacifism

CHRISTINE PONDER

During the intermission of a recent concert being broadcast by the Philhar­monic Symphony Society of New York over the Columbia stations, Deems Tay-lor, commentator of the program and musical consultant of the Columbia net­work, gave a touching plea for peace.

This season three modern composers— Igar Stravinsky, George Enesco, and Carbos Chavez—have appeared as guest conductors of this famous orchestra and have presented some of their own compo­sitions. This fact, added to the fact that it is always popular to discuss the merits of the living generation as compared to those of former or preceeding times, brought forth a discussion of modern music in which Taylor asked that it at least be listened to without any precon­ceived prejudices. But where, the letters of impatient listeners asked, were the Schuberts, the Beethovens, the "Wagners, the Tschaikowskys of today! Taylor admitted that there were none, and pro­ceeded to explain why.

A composer would be at the height of his creative power by the time he was forty years old. Yet of a list of sixty distinguished living European com­posers, including Richard Strauss, Mas-cagni, Sibelius, Ravel, Rachmaninoff, and Stravinsky, only ten were forty or younger. The significance of this was to show that the burden of music was being carried by men, many of whom were over seventy years of age. And, in turn, what did that show? A man who today was forty would have been about eighteen in 1914, and, if he were plan­ning a musical career, would have been in a conservatory. But boys of eighteen were not in conservatories in 1914; they were in battlefields, and not many of them lived through those four years. Thus Taylor concluded that the reason this generation had no supreme musical geniuses was that it had murdered them.

A Browse Among Books

HOW TO WIN FRIENDS AND INFLUENCE PEOPLE

BY DALE CARNEGIE

If you can read only a chapter now and then of Dale Carnegie's How to Win Friends and Influence People, you have far more will power than I ever hope to have. Lessons, church, and even the movie were all defeated once I started reading one of the most interesting non-fiction books that I have ever read.

Since twenty-five thousand copy-own­ers cannot be wrong, neither can I in ex­pressing my appreciation for this much-needed work of Mr. Carnegie. Prisons, insane asylums, and wall-flowers would be no more if only every one would take Mr. Carnegie's advice; in fact, we could get along without our churches. Cheerfulness, interest, respect, friendliness, and sympathy are Mr. Carnegie's recipe for an A-l personality. He does not stop with this, but continues to tell you how to win people to your point of view and means to change them for their bet­terment. Mr. Carnegie says that you cannot win a person by an argument, so avoid it! Show respect for his opinions and admit you 're wrong sometimes, even if you are positive that the other person does not know half as much about the subject as you do.

I was astounded at the similarity of Carnegie's advice to that given in the book of Proverbs. More power to him if he has discovered a way to enlighten the people, even if it is not original.

Mr. Carnegie has collaborated with such famous people as Dorothy Dix, John D. Rockefeller, Charles M. Schawb,

and the late Theodore Roosevelt to make his treatise on How to Win Friends and Influence People one, of the most out­standing books of this type that has ever been written.

Robert Steele.

LIVE ALONE AND LIKE IT

BY MARJORIE HILLIS

I would like to meet the author of Live Alone and Like It, she must be a woman of interest and sophistication. Her book is one of the most witty, amusing, and applicable dissertations that I have ever read. Her manner of writing is different and effectual, and she brings forth her ideas with a subtlety that is hardly discernible. I liked her book because it was of people, about people, and for people. She was writing to help the readers, and in her character sketches, or cases as she calls them, she often draws a picture of the reader. Her main thought is how women can be unmarried without becoming spinsters or "old maids". The whole theme of the book is found in the title, and if a person fol­lowed her recipe for living alone and liking it, I am sure she (or he) would like it. Although this book was written mainly for women, I think that men could read it to a good advantage. Marjorie Hillis has taken up some of the most prominent difficulties facing the unmarried woman, mostly social, and has dealt with these problems in a sane and sensible manner. She is modern without radicalism, witty without sarcasm, and sensible without theories. I believe that Miss Hillis lives alone, and if she prac-

tices what she preaches I have an idea she'll prefer to remain doing so.

For a book to be read and remembered and applied in everyday matters, I would recommend Live Alone and Like It.

Wilma Dykeman.

                         BEAM ENDS

BY
ERROL FLYNN

Several months ago I read in a movie magazine where the popular movie actor, one of my favorites, Errol Flynn, was publishing a book about some of his adventures in the South Seas before he came to the film capitol. When the book was announced by the New York Times Book Review two months ago, I was eager to get a copy. I finally bought one and read into the morning its colorful and remarkable pages.

The book is a fresh interpretation of the South Seas with a salty tang of the voyage of the Sirocco. Clear in my memory are the bitter odors of bilge in the scuppers of a sea-going tub, the ex-hiliarating