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About Oregon daily emerald. (Eugene, Or.) 1920-2012 | View Entire Issue (Oct. 8, 1948)
Yc shall know the truth and the truth shall wake you free.—J oiin » A Dying Art? There was a time when college students whipped up nearly as much enthusiasm for an inter-collegiate debate as they now do for an important athletic contest. That was before the day of tremendous football stadiums, huge indoor pavilions, cheer leaders, and all the other colorful trappings of big-time sports events. The debate has been pushed farther and farther into the background. Most college students today spend their four years in school without ever attending or participating in a debate. In the light of the sorry state of the world today this does not seem right or wise. Debating affords a free discussion of • and inquiry into the outstanding problems of the day. It tests the mental agility of both the audience and the contestants. This can hardly be said of college athletics. On October 25, two young British students, Reginald Galer, Birmingham university, and Anthony J. Cox, Bristol uni versity, will debate on this campus with two University stu dents, yet to be selected. The topic of the debate: Resolved that the British Empire is decadent. The Englishmen, of course, will debate the nega ; live. All the ingredients for a lively evening seem present. Any GIs on the campus who spent time in England during the war ' will certainly agree that to tell an Englishman that his country is decadent, is inviting some pretty warm counter-arguments. This unusual debate and others like it, this page, believes, could aid immensely in helping regain for the art of debating much of its lost glory. Turn Up That Radio! There are many facets of the American mind which confuse us, but one is particularly noticeable at this time of year. Thrones tumble,'kings are assassinated, Communists stage coups, foreign ministers hold conferences, and momentous speeches are given, but not a person do you see, trotting about with a portable clutched in his hand, gobbling up every word. But comes the World Series and the football season, and portables are found everywhere, radios blast from every store and home, students and professors, alike, think of excuses to cut classes, ev eryone talks about the latest game, and everyone has a team to root for. Post mortcms are held on cvcrv plav, fumble, and error. One would think the Scries and the football games were of world-shaking importance. We can’t understand this attitude of the American mind . . . but, anyway, hand us our rooters lid and turn up the radio.—B. B. --Carnival Several Short Short Short Stories By BARBARA HEYWOOD There are short stories, and there are short short stories, but the sideshows in today’s “Carni val” are two short short short stories: A girl whose name I can't re member walked down the dark office-lined hall of the psych de partment and stopped at a door that screened, according to the blotter tacked on it, G. H. I. Blog get, professor of psychology. She knocked. “Eecom,” called a'voice. The girl walked in—and walked into a new era of her life. Dr. Blogget was bent over a heap of papers that littered his desk. The room was rank with pipe smoke. “Ot an I oofer oo.” he said talking with his pipe firmly wedged between his teeth. Translating the last remark as a signal for her to speak,” the girl recited the speech she had prepared up the stairs: “Dr. Blog get, I hate to bother you, but I’m in your elementary psych class, and I feel after seeing my first test that I’m not doing very well. I was going to major in psych, but I think now that I will change my major. What do you think after seeing my first test?” “Urn (puff, puff)” said Dr. Blogget. “Ei og ah, I ahn’t aye, isou ooging ah ee esd. Ut oo oo eel oo ohn’t unerand? (puff.)” Translation: Right offhand. I can’t say without looking at the test, but what do you feel you don’t understand?) “Please?” “Ut oo oo eel oo ahnt uner and?” “Er, I—I don’t know,” an swered the girl thinking that this was a safe reply to almost any thing. “Um (puff, puff.) Ee ad! Ich o ood! as ee ermans aye. Eras oor onused aght is oo oo ill els. Ave oo ad medival advei attee?” Translation: Ea Gad! Nicht Fan Mail Proves Puzzling to Jake I5y JAl'OH The editoi thrust four letters into my paw. Fan mail! I could n’t believe it! Me just a fresh man pup reporter. People were ..writing me letters. Putting them in my mouth. I ran to find Erie, the Great Dane, who had adopted me as his “lit tle brother.” Ijwas so eager I al most swallowed them on the way. Eric and a spaniel named Andy were gossiping in front of the Side when I panted up. “Look, Eric!” I cried proudly. “Fan mail!” He grinned, “Silly pup, don’t just stand there let’s open them and see what people have to say.” “I feel just like Lassie,” I con fided, ripping open the first let ter. It began, “Dear Newshound, you can’t fool me. I know who you are you’re that blonde gos sip columnist." “What does he mean?" barked the spaniel. “Must be somebody trying to play a joke on you,” said Erie. “Let’s open the next one." “What are those people talk ing about?” I queried. “I don’t understand either.” said Eric, passing on to the next letter. “Dirty dog,” it began nastily. “The editor has gone too far and you’re it. Every year the paper has gone to the dogs with all those activity hounds working on it. But no editor before has ever hired an old cur-mudgeon like you for a columnist.” Eric was furious. "Hovv-r-r,” he snarled. “That guy needs cur recting! I'll put the bite on that character if I ever catch up with him.” “Oh, take it easy, Eric,” soothed Andy. “He's just got a dog-in-the-manger attitude. One of those humans with no sense of common cur-tesy.” The last letter was perfumed. Eric sniffed several times before opening it. “Smells like the Kap pa house,” he observed thought fully. “It began, “My dearest Jakie. I'm a sorority girl and you know how hard it is to put something over on us. I just know you’re that cute new professor—that darling witty Mr. Soybean!” Eric laid down the letter. The spaniel and I looked at each oth er and shook our heads. “Looks like I got the mail for the Mr. Hush contest,” I grinned. Suddenly Eric let out a long, low growl. “Well, I’ll be . . “What’s wrong, Eric?” I was alarmed. “I've got it, Jake!" he barked. “Those silly humans don't be lieve it’s you writing the column. They think it’s one or those jour nalism greats named in their let ters.” “Now isn’t that just like those smug humans,” said Andy. “They say solemnly, ‘You’ve got to give the devil his due.’ But will they give a poor little freshman dash hound credit ? They will not. The conceited schlooks! They insist it’s a human. They probably thing Lassie is Groucho Marx in a bear rug!” Emerald The Or Kit on Dait.y Emfrat.d, published daily during the college year except Sundays, Mondaxs. holidays, and final examination periods by the Associated Students, University of Oregon. Subscription rates: $.'.00 per term and $4.00 per year. Entered as second-class matter at the post office, Eugene. Oregon. BILL YATES. Editor VIRGIL TUCKER. Business Manager 1) m Managing Editor Tom McLaughlin. Adv. Manager Associate Editors: lme Goet/e. Bo bo lee Brophv, Diana Dye, Barbara Heywood, Dick Reveuaugh. Assistant to the Editor UPPER BUSINESS STAFF Peth Miller, Circulation Mgr. Yigrinia Mahon, Assistant Adv. Mtrr so gut, as the Germans say. Per haps your confused state is due to ill health. Have you had medical advice recently?) An enlightened and relieved look appeared on the girl’s face when she heard the word “medi val.” “Medieval history?’ she ex claimed. “You know, I was think ing, too, that I might do better in history than in psychology.” “Thank you ever so much,” she called over her shoulder to the astonished Dr. Blogget, and hur ried to the history department. Three years later the girl graduated maxima cum laude m history. “When one considers the mat ter scientifically,” she said to one of her professors, “recognizing basic factors, I should attribute part of my success in my chosen field to Dr. Blogget of the psy chology department.” A man whose name I never learned stood at the edge of a cliff; he felt very small and pow erless. He felt that it did not matter what his name was, for across the valley from him, bluegreen, are mountains that are nameless yet dignified, ancient and unified; if he labored over one, another is there, then another until the sea. And under the sea are more mountains. He looked at the hills and lis tened to the sigh of silence around him, a sigh that comes from the vast sea of air, the firs on the mountains, the stream in the valley. The sigh has sighed for centuries. The ravens gave triumphant cries as they curved around him and swooped over the edge of the cliff down into the valley. The man felt something in him pulling after them, and he stretched his whole body, then sagged, “And I can’t even fly ...” Suddenly he stood erect again and took a deep breath, entrap ping in his lungs a few cubic cen timeters of a million cubic miles of air. He threw out his arms to embrace the sky and leaped far, far out over the cliff edge. The ravens followed him, sailing down on their ragged, jagged black wings. How many million times today? More than 305 million times today and every day, Bell telephone users reach out to make or answer calls; Day and night, you count ©n your telephone to work. And it does. That’s because Bell telephone people are old hands at giving good service—and because Western Electric people have always made good telephones; switchboards and enable. Ever since 1882, Western Electric has been the manufacturing unit of the Bell System —helping to make your telephone service the best on earth; Western Electric A UNIT OF THE BELL SYSTEM SINCE 1882