Brecon WEmerald
ALL-AMERICAN 1946-47
The Oregon Daily Emerald, official publication of the University of Oregon, published
daily during the college year except Sundays, Mondays, and final examination periods.
Entered as second-class matter at the postoffice, Eugene, Ore.
Member of the Associated Collegiate Press__
BOB FRAZIER, Editor BOB CHAPMAN, Business Manager
BILL YATES
Managing Editor
JUNE GOETZE, BOBOLEE BROPHY
Co-News Editors
DON FAIR FRED TAYLOR
Co-Sports Editor __
walt McKinney, jeanne simmonds, maryann thielen
Associates to Editor __
HELEN SHERMAN
PHYLLIS KOHLMEIER
Asst. Managing Editors
W1NNY CARL
Advrtising Manager
DIANA DYE JIM WALLACE
Assistant News Editors _
National Advertising Manager .»Yi':^ar^i?
Circulation Manager ..Billijean Riethmiller
Editorial Board: Larry Lau, Johnny Kahananui, Bert Moore, Ted Goodwin, Bill Stratton,
Jack Billings. ___
Welcome Dad $$$!
Once again proud fathers are swarming over the campus
and seeing for themselves just what makes up this place that
sons and daughters have been writing home about. Last night
they watched the Oregon-Idaho game and found themselves
joining in the lively cheers and groans of the spirited rooting
sections and today their offspring will escort them to the “My
Heart Belongs to Daddy” luncheon. Tonight they will have
to choose between attending the play or seeing the basketball
game, and tomorrow there will be sightseeing trips and din
ners at living organizations. No doubt Dad will be a little
tired when it’s all over and will understand better why Willy's
grades weren’t quite up to snuff last term.
We wonder what dad will think of the change in his
child—for he still thinks of Willy as a kid, the veneer of col
lege sophistication doesn’t fool him a bit, although it might
startle him a little. If dad was a college man himself, he'll
probably get an inward chuckle realizing that things ac
tually haven’t changed much—the same horseplay with a few
new twists; the same blase attitude about education and
classes; the same gripes about food and expenses. And if
dad isn’t a college man, we warrant he’ll be more than happy
that he was able to give his child the chance he never had.
But whoever dad is, whether he be tall or short, heavy or
slender, bald or still with hair, we’ll bet on one thing for sure
—dad won't get away without getting out his checkbook.
Willy still isn’t too sophisticated for that! M.E.T.
Shades of Old Heliotrope
Valentine's day has always been surrounded by an aura
of romance, old lace, and a faint scent of heliotrope. Sentimen
tal cards bedecked with hearts and lace shyly asked the recip
ient to be the sender’s valentine. Girls blushed and men scuffed
their toes in pleasant embarrasment.
But that era has disappeared with the shorter hemline, it
seems. The modern fast-paced life has hit even valentines. No
longer are the verses timid and sentimental. The proposition
has blatantly replaced the proposal. Cupid and his arrow has
given way to a cow and her attachments. There aren’t even
any single sheet “funny” valentines any more.
Shucks, maybe we’re old-fashioned but we still think
“Roses are red, violets are bine, etc.” sounds better than
“Baby my phone number is -.” M.E.T.
Regarding the distillers’ place in the campaign, the Hinton
(\Y. \ a.) Daily News headlined: “W hiskey Head Air Griev
ance at Meeting.”
The liar’s punishment is not in the least that he is not be
lieved, but that he cannot believe anyone else.—George Ber
nard Shaw.
The lirst thing needed to make a dream come true is to
wake up.
Insanity in individuals is something rare—but in groups,
parties, nations, and epochs it is the rule.—Nietzclie.
BACHELOR—a man who thinks that the only thoroughly
justified marriage was the one that produced him.
It!!'.' (1 * I I III
The Professor Was a Nice Guy
But Herman Was Grader
By SALLIE TIMMENS
The other night as I was concentrating
on my thesis for home economics (“How to
Cook a Wolf and Like It”), there was a fur
tive knock at my chamber
door. My brain and type
writer ceased simultaneous
ly, and I hid my reference
material in the closet.
“Scratch under,” said I,
for I recognized the leaden
footsteps in the hall to be
those of my friend Izabelle
Illbedamned. Her mother
had remarried so her last
name was really I wice, but I dislike formal
ity so I call her Gismo.
Gismo looked very sad, kind of like a
cocker spaniel six months dead but then she
always looked that way. It couldn’t happen
even to a dog. But Gismo had one very at
tractive feature, which w'e all loved her for.
Money. Her father had been a lawyer who
handled Tommy Manville’s matrimonial cases
on a commission basis, and since he had never
been to college, he thought there should be
at least one pedigree in the family besides
the airdale. z
“Come on in and lie down,” I said. “May
be I’ll get to love you better.” Gismo removed
her shoes, an old family custom, and slumped
down in an overstuffed chair which fit her
personality. “What seems to be the dif
ficulty?” I asked.
Gismo began to sob. It wfas a nasty habit
she had picked up as a small child. “I’m
ruined, socially that is. I might even go to
prison.”
"Not again!” I gasped. She nodded.
“You remember that course I was dying
to take? Well, it took me. It was that lower
division Advanced Writing course in Hiero
glyphics, 625. Stanislaw Sandwichbisky,
from Ireland, you know, teaches it. He’s sup
posed to be an expert on the shotgun theory
of marriage. He’s okay, but it’s his reader
that gripes me. His name is Herman, but
he’s more her than man.
The first day of class the prof asks us to
write our autobiography and hand it in at the
end of the hour. I wrrote all hour, but I only
got to when I was 6 which is most discon
certing, for it was in grade school that I
really began living, but so anyway, I get the
paper back. The grade is C-. This Herman
character says on it that I have a creative
imagination and should go far in the field
of fiction. This is discouraging, of course,
for had Herman known what I did in high
school, I’m sure he would ask me out.
"Stick to the point.” I said morosely, ex
haling a gray lather from my cigar. This was
going to prove a tedious session. Gismo had
a habit of jumping from subject to subject,
especially if the subjects were men.
“Well. I got kind of mad, I guess. I de
cided to be slv. I pilferred a love story from
the Saturday Evening Post, making the
necessary corrections in spelling and punctu
ation, This Herman, whom I am beginning to
think is a sadist, writes on it. ‘Story improb
able. No respectable magazine would print
such tripe.’ Right then I decided that Herman
and I were going to war.
“I came across a brilliant dissertation by
a doctor of lit., law, philosophy, and theology
in Harpers 'which I decided would be more
classy so I handed it in. It was a very inter
esting article,and I almost wish I had written
it myself. A bit stuffy, though. Herman, how
ever, was still playing games. His comment
was terse, mine was worse. The grade? He
flunked me. I was awful mad.
"Mv next paper was somewhat of a satis
faction. Herman wrote: ‘Have gone home to
mother. Alcohol is a man’s best friend.’ I was
really sort of sorry then that I had given
poor Herman such a rough time. I decided
I should go apologize to him. But on second
thought, I decided to try something new,
something dynamic, something darn right
loathsome.
"I dug- out my dictionary which I have
not needed since the third grade, and wrote
down consecutively the first 1,500 words. But
Herman did not put a comment on this one.
Instead I noticed the handwriting of the prof
himself. He had written. ‘Excellent! Wonder
ful! Terrific! superb character delineation.
You have developed the subtle touch of
James Joyce and Larry Lau. Come see me.
You can have Herman’s job and an A for
the course.”
“I bet that went over like a lead balloon
with Herman,” 1 said, always siding with the
underling. Gismo began to wail again, and I
snarled.
"No, poor, dear Herman,” Gismo mut
tured, wiping several tears from her cheeks
with sandpaper, “poor, dear Herman had
committed suicide! And it was all my fault.”
Gismo’s tears and snorts.were becoming un
controlable.- I patted- her on the' back and
gave her a slug of mouthwash.
‘‘It wasn’t your fault,” I said casually.
"Just a sign of weak character on Herman’s
part.”
"But just think,” Gismo cried, “I might
end up dead too! And Herman wasn’t such a
bad guy.”
New Book Seen Helpful to Music Lovers
Disgruntled clams could take a lesson in
silence from the average American musician.
Though he may drift into raptures when ex
plaining ins compositions, he
seems to be as chummy as an
iceberg when it conies to
putting his life history down
in unmelodic ink.
Considering this, w e
would like to add our own
little hallelujah to the latest
a n d most useful musical
book to cross our desk.
Titled “The ASCAP Bio
graphical Dictionary of Composers, Authors,
and Publishers,” this little volume is the ans
wer to the prayers of a discreporter suffering
from librarvitis.
More than 2.000 authors, composers, and
publishers have brief, but complete sketches
of their lives and outstanding works included
in this dictionary. Names like David Rose,
Harold Adamson, and Frank Loesser are to
lie found in the alphabetical listings together
* »•*'*» tii
By MICHAEL CALLAHAN
with George Gershwin, Sigmund Romberg,
and Leopold Stokowski. In short, this is the
first index to America’s living and recent
composers.
Lvery feature, of The ASCAP Biographi
cal Dictionary is slanted for quick, middle
of-the-record reference. Besides the alphabeti
cal listings, names are further cross-examined
by birthplace (Oregon can boast three listed
composers, one from Ashland and two from
I ortland), birthdays, and residence. Readers
might at first object that the names listed in
this offering are only those of members of
ASCAP (American Society of Composers,
Authors, and Publishers) but few great
names in the American musical scene are not
included in that society's rolls.
L d i t e d by Daniel J. McNamara of
ASCAP's executive staff, the dictionary will
be published this spring by Crowell of New
^ ork. The list price of the first edition is
steap enough ($5) to put it out of most stu
(Please turn to page seven)