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