Oregon daily emerald. (Eugene, Or.) 1920-2012, February 25, 1943, Page 7, Image 7

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I Marjorie Major, editor
| Betty Ann Stevens,
Mary Ann Campbell
assistant editors
Staff: |
Arliss Boone
Betty Lu Siegman
| Marty Beard
Betsy Wootton
•AtyJS Noted,
This meek, bleak, and shall we
say sleek ( ?) freshman is in a
lew pair of shoes (discarded by
one B. A. Stevens, a member of
"hat alumnae of AWS reporters)
and although they’re kind of
tight, they'll be broken in soon.
In plain English, you did a good
job of it, B.A., kid, and it's
hoped that your "standards” can
be continued during '43-44,
Now that we all know each
other, you avid worshippers of
that organization of all organi
zations, AWS, let’s get down to
A "super-duper” bowling party
for members of Phi Theta Upsi
lon and Kwama will hold the
spotlight Saturday p.m. when
coeds from the two women’s hon
oraries meet at the Eugene Rec
reation center from 2 to 4.
“Please be there” is the dou
ble cry of Co-chairmen Connie
Fullmer and Barbara Lamb, who
promise a "luscious” time. Part
ef this undue insistence is be
cause they have guaranteed to
have at least 20 members there.
P.S. Don’t forget—it’s Dutch
Congrats to the new AWS,
YWCA, and WAA officers who
have a new year ahead of them
to show their stuff, on this good
old wartime campus. Also a pat
on the back for those pretty swell
gals who ran against them.
Micki Campbell, new AWS
prexy, promises a full year with
no dull moments, what with all
the work that’s just waiting to
be done that can help the war
Now that we’re all in the same
boat starting with a newly
cleaned slate—see you next week.
—By Betty Lou Siegman
■ Dartmouth college is opening
~ separate department of geog
raphy, in recognition of the glo
bal character of the war.
Penciilf Baakt,
<]&x£bo®kl QafUuSie
(lemcUrtitUf, l/UeehewH
Now is the time for all good textbooks to come to the aid of
their owners, to put it flatly and tritely. Now is the time that
date rationing doesn’t need to be enforced . . . when closed
weekends are sure enough closed . • . when the bitter reality
of an uninspiring “C” kicks you in the teeth.
J\leinzfi Attain!
ScufA Malty B
Having observed at innumer
able basketball games and gone
the way of all basketball observ
ers, we are developing a training
period for all spectators—espe
cially after the two games last
weekend. . . .
Friday night we went to the
game at Oregon State. We sat
down on a milking stool and
waited for the game to begin
even though we couldn't see the
court. Pretty soon everyone
started to leave.
Good Game?
“What's the matter, an air
raid alarm ?”
“Nope. Game’s over.”
“Oh,” we said blankly and
swallowed our gum.
Good game—someone told us.
Oregon won—someone told us.
We clapped vigorously, gave
three cheers, and whistled
through our teeth.
The Next Night
So the next night we went to
the game at McArthur court,
flashed our orange athletic card
to the president, the vice-presi
dent, the dean of women, thQ
draft board, and all the BMOCs,
and showed our registration card,
our library card, our driver’s li
cense, our draft card, our
Co-op receipts, and our laundry
bill—then entered.
All the freshmen were there
playing bridge and knitting. One
had been there for hours and was
embroidering a sampler with
“Home, Sweet Home” to tack
on the seat.
We marveled at the freshman
who was sprawled over four rows.
“Saved,” she said determinedly
and pointed a gun at us. Hastily
at the
We have just the. bra and girdle for you.
Also some tine seam-proof slips . . . .
panties .... and gowns.
Phone 1710
110 East Broadway’
me social activity of Ore
gon has truly died and been put
away in the closet awaiting
spring term. The four-pointers,
who are all caught up on assign
ments and sleep, are objects of
The rest of us go into hiberna
tion in our closets with a box
of do-doze and the latest copy of
“A Handy Guide for Unscram
bling Notes.” For the time being
we studiously ignore letters,
phone calls, and coke dates. This
is total war.
We walk up to the man in the
reference department. ‘‘Hello,
Joe,” we say. We remember his
name is Joe because wc met him
at this time last term. We notice
that the Side instead of the li
brary has deep, silent echoes. The
only sound to be heard is the
crunch-crunch of aforementioned
no-doze tablets.
Quiet Reigns
The sidewalks in front of the
library are minus skating Pi
Phis. Up sorority row there is
a noticeable absence of baseball
playing Kappas. Above the deep
breathing heard on sleeping
had a wink of sleep for three
nights,” and ‘‘When does your
train leave?”
So, opening up another handy
little booklet, "How to Get
Through Exam Week Without a
Nervous Breakdown” we read the
directions carefully. 1. Get plen
ty of sleep. 2. Eat right. 3. Have
an optimistic attitude. Get-plen
ty-of-sleep . . . get-plenty-of-sleep
. . . Etu Brute and no-doze tab
—By B. A. Stevens
signals to locate our freshmen.
We found them, and crushed ten
coeds in an attempt to reach the
top row.
Once the game began we. re
solved to do-or-die for dear old
Oregon and screamed our heads
off, picked them up, screamed
some more, took a cough drop,
and kept on screaming.
We were stared at. We were
pointed at. We were whispered
about. And we decided that it
was because people around here
just weren’t accustomed to school
spirit. But we were proud of our
selves—readjusted our halos, and
screamed some more.
After the game came the prob
lem of getting out of the gym.
We tried battling our way
through the crowd with coke bot
tles. We were knocked down. We
tried squeezing our way through.
We were knocked down. We tried
military strategics. We were
knocked down. Hastily, we made
a lightning decision and formed
a football eleven to reach the
door—three of us made it and
left the other eight for victims of
the first aid classes.
Oh There You Are!
We had arranged to meet our
date by the Ford with the tires,
but we were carried by the out
going tide of the crowd three
blocks away. Then we rushed
back to wait for our date who
was somewhere in the mass, prob
ably now down by the Side. Even
tually he staggered up—a bloody
and unreasonable facsimile of his
former self.
. . . All of which are the rea
sons why we arc tuning in on
station KORE for the next game.
—By Marty Beard
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