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)