Oregon ^Emerald
ALL-AMERICAN 1946-47 *
The Oregon Daily Emerald, official publication of the University of Oregon, pubHshed
daily during the college year except Sundays, Monday., and final exammation per.ods.
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
TUNE GOETZE, BOBOLEE BROPHY
Co-News Editors
DON FAIR
Co-Sports Editor
FRED TAYLOR
TEANNE SIMMONDS, MARYANN THIELEN, BARBARA HEYW OOD
Associates to Editor
HELEN SHERMAN
PHYLLIS KOHLMEIER
Asst. Managing Editors
WINNY CARL
Advrtising Manager "
DIANA DYE
I Assistant News Editors
National Advertising Manager -..'SbiSSSw
Circulation Manager .... J
Editorial Board: Larry Lau, Johnny Kahananui, Bert Moore, Ted GoOdwin, Bill Stratton,
Jack Billings.
Haifa League Onward
(Editor’s Note: The following article, written by George Price of
the UCLA Daily Bruin staff, is reprinted here not for the views ex
pressed, but for the clever punning.)
Last “Brotherhood Week,” 57 persons were blown to cosmic dust
one day in Jerusalem; in Los Angeles a dog was killed. Hundreds of
humanists in fur coats rose up exaltingly and cried: “Poor Little
Fellow!”
Projected on an international scale, this is US foreign policy, on
Palestine Policy is, of course, foreign to this doctrine—cloaked as it is
in that turncoat of many colors—Grand Mufti.
"Arab League, Haifa League, Arab league onward into the valley
of indecision,” we cry. Driven forth as we are by the jawbone of an
ass, the situation in the much Promised Land is Saud to say the least.
With red fezes we say, “What UN has put asunder let nomad join
together.” Let’s look at the problem from A to Z—Arab to Zionist:
We have put up a partition without walls and roof. The tenants are
shooting each other over the size of their apartments when they don’t
have a house. We won’t call the police ’cause we don’t know them well
enough.
In a Hearstian cartoon the needed bolstering walls would be la
beled “International Peace Force,” the roof, “Economic Union, ’ the
nails, “Law,” the cops yelling for cops US. The partition strangely
enough would be labeled PARTITION.
Doesn’t Fez Us
As the colossus of the West and the king Midas of Freedom we
stand bewhiskered and bewildered,a self-righteous smirk curling our
fastidious lip—one hand in the Jewish Vote and the other hand in
standard oil, up to the shoulder. Both feet firmly planted in mid-air.
What with our back to the wall, our ear to the ground and our nose to
the grindstone we're really in a helluva shape.
We suffer from that run-down condition, in the aches and pains
that accompany the cold war, and we are worried about the treatment
and not the cure—we’re worried about our supply of Dr. Standard Old
Oil, though the price is exorbitant, we dose ourselves with Atom Balm
the cure’s worse than the ill. The next step in this line is a Cold Tablet.
But winter is here and baseball is not far behind and we’ve chosen
to play ball with the Arab League. We're batting .000 and haven’t got
ten to first base. We're still in there pitching but batting a sticky
wicket; we’re playing a terrific game but it isn’t baseball. *
Wrong Direction
“Our errors are Legion—we’re dropping the ball right and Right.
With the Arab Sultan of Swat swinging a big stick, and our bases
loaded we choose not to play with Joltin’ Joe in Left Field.
The Assembly in the stands may be voicing sentiments like “Kill
the Empire,” and we may have started the game, but now we don’t
care to play. And after all it IS our ball.
We have two choices of action. The enforcement of Law by in
ternational peace force and reenforcement of UN (remembering that*
if Rusmia in Palestine is close to us we in Palestine are as close to
Russia) achieving Peace, Justice, Morality and a step toward world
law enforcement and world government. And present state depart
ment policy of “Do nothing but do it quickly.”
The policy of take-evcry-thing-give-nothing compromise is achiev
ing naught but an equality of dissatisfaction. If Marshall had run the
army as he's running the Helluva-State Department, the war would
have ended two years sooner. The Reich would have won.
We've cast our bread on oil-covered waters and are stuck—with
a bag of soggy bread. We've made our bedouin may have to sleep
with him—Kinsey report be damned. As the sun slowly sets behind
the blood-red Mount of Olives we fold our hands, like the Arabs, and
silently steal away—Judea's birthright.
And beyond where the firs in black clots on lofty Mt. Ararat the
Song of Solomon is faintly wafted above the cacaphonous overtures
on a theme—The Shriek of Araby—That might well be tire plaintive
strains of the UN swan song.
Sorina Has Definitely Come
' Spring is really here. We’ve seen its es
sence.
There has been some legitimate doubt,
despite* the calendar and the longer days.
Students trodding the sodden paths have had
reason to reflect that this is not the “Spring
term at the U.” they were told about Rush
week.
But rain or no, spring is really here. The
sweet harbinger of the verdant months is
again on the shelves of grocery stores and
■bistros.
Bock beer has returned.
The fragrant “dunkelbrau” is not plenti
ful—it never is. But if you scratch around
downtown you can find a few stubbies from
time to time.
Appropriately enough it is the “Old Goats”
to whom the horned label means the most.
The younger set was too young to drink beer
in 1943 when the last bock was available.
Something about the war made it unobtain
able for three years. Last year, then, there
was a smidgin here and there—if you knew
the man behind the counter. But only this
year has it been at all obtainable for the or
dinary person who knows no influential
grocer.
But it is with regret that we note that
sqme of the folklore about the bock process
has been forgotten in the years since the
dark brown beverage was last with us. The
classic (and unprintable) formula seems un
known these days. But if the essence of
spring will only continue to be an annual
treat, we shall gladly dispense with the
folklore.
Mud race or Not We Still Love It
We browsed through the Co-op the first
day of spring term looking for a bit of local
color with which to cheer an editorial page.
We happened upon a small green-backed
“Songs of Our Oregon,” which, judging from
the steady downward trend in price, has
seen better days. The booklet was first pub
lished in 1918 and later in '29, so we’ll grant
it legitimate depreciation.
The book looked promising, so we glanced
through the “vallied dells,” “restless Pacific,”
“hillfed fountains,” and archaic references to
1916’s “Bezdek’s men” and equally obsolete
O.A.C. Ludicrous to report, we found no less
than four significant references to an Ore
gon institution which is no longer even a
memory for most of the students. The mill
race figured largely in songs of Oregon’s gay
yesteryears, and we'd like to refresh the mem
ories of the old days, and present to the
youngsters the fabulous versions of life at the
U.
Still a popular song, “As I Sit and Dream
at Evening” features the recollection,
And yet in fancy I return
To those good times for which I yearn
I like a shady place
By the old mill race
At dear old Or-e-gon.
“In a Harbor of the Mountains,” a senti
mental ditty by the Webfoots Howe and
McCosh, waxes poetic about those happy
times
While soft the ripples run
While canoes are softly gliding
Through the shadows stealing, hiding,
Float the songs from the old mill race,
Songs of our Or-e-gon.
McCosh contributed another to Oregon’s
collection when he wrote “Dreams of My
Oregon.’’ The millrace was prominent for,
after a quickie reference to the sparkling
Willamette, he recalls
Sweet remembrances abiding
Of the same (battles) and canoes gliding
and entreats,
Let me dream by the old mill race
Dreams of my Or-e-gon.
“Come Back to Oregon,” a Homecoming
song by an unknown, pleads with the old
grads to come once more “home,” to the
campus and
To the old mill race and its over
hanging bow’rs,
Oh come back again to Or-e-gon.
And yet, as the millrace lives in a handful
of U of O songs, the memory of it is almost
gone. The class of ’48, graduating in less than
three months, will carry with it the last re
collections of the race. Sorry recollections
they may be, also, for it was spring term of
’45 when the race rippled its last for the
Webfoots. There were no Chi Psis to perform
their traditional submergings of canoes, no
colorful fetes, and not many men to enjoy
the .pleasures of a 50 cents-an-hour rental
of canoes behind the Ank.
But Oregon will sing about it until dafr
fodils grow in the race, and soccer games are
played in the dried-up channel. The millrace
is still an Oregon tradition.—J.B.S.
Not All College Students Are That Nervous
From random comments heard around the
campus it seems apparent that the majority
of University students viewed with consid
erable disgust the recent street demonstra
tion by a group of Portland college students
against President Truman’s request for a
renewal of the draft and Universal military
training. As a matter for the record it should
be here noted that no such public protesta
tions were staged on this campus following
the president's speech.
Student outbursts like the one in Portland
achieve little. Instead, they may be exceed
ingly detrimental to the best interests of
higher education by sweeping away in a
single stroke much of the respect the country
mignt nave ior tne college student and ms
power to reason calmly and wisely.
The leading statesmen of the nation hesi
tated to voice immediate approval or dis
approval of Mr. Truman’s program for
strengthening America’s military position.
With few exceptions, they requested time to
study the proposals. Not so a handful of col
lege students in Portland. Scarcely had the
president’s voice died out when they'hurried
into downtown Portland to let the country
know that they were “agin it.”
The advisability of a renewal of the draft
or the institution of Universal military train
ing is not here debated. But—the method
used by one group of college students to
present its views is heartily condemned. B.Y.
Items From Roundabout
Progress—And now we have a little tank
which fits over the motor car battery and
automatically adds distilled water when nec
essary. The filling station man will no longer
fill the battery, instead he fills the little tank.
•—This is a great advance.
* * *
Atomic bombs may fall into the hands of
other nations, Cousin Dillingwater concedes,
but he still thinks ours will be better. After
all,” he says, “they’re bound to pick up some
strength in the aging.”
By BOB REED
1 he name of an English gentleman is Le
Dernier De-Lees Le-Clemeneau Le-Ger
trude De Sellingcourt French, which we as
sume is not meant to be pronounced but tap
danced.
* * *
If words really mean what they say, then
try to figure this one. Here’s a gentleman
whom they call a cautious conservative. And
yet, he shaves on a Pullman with a straight
edge razor.