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About Oregon daily emerald. (Eugene, Or.) 1920-2012 | View Entire Issue (Oct. 19, 1948)
Porchlight Parade By ED CAUDURO The big city is sporting a brand new red paint job since the Duck migration . . . what with lunches and brunches, before the game . . . open houses and parties after, the old homestead was really rock ing .. . It was our day and most of us feel as if we've had it ... To mention the many many gather ings that kept “Betty” and “Joe” off the streets would take a spe cial edition . . . the administra tion can rest at ease over the conduct of the students. I would suggest that maybe next year instead of cautioning the students, the mayor of Port land should ask his subjects to take note of their own conduct. As an example of true patience: Mary Vranizan, DG, waited four and a half hours for her date Shelton Session, Fiji Friday night. Seems the boy was detained by the gendarme for lack of driver’s license . . . Staircases proved to be menaces to Tri Delt Joan Ha wi'tt, who tumbled down one at a cocktail party and proceeded to greet guests from her prone po sition, and Chi O June Fitzgib bons who is hobbling about on a fractured ankle cuz of a fall. The Cupboard held some fas cinating attraction for Hen Hall’s Helen Snow who could be found relaxing there from AM to PM Saturday . . . Auto accidents cast t heir unwelcomed shadows across the weekend what with Fiji Paul Smith wrecking his wheels, and Phi Psi John Crook plus his date Chi O Ann Muir were thrown from their buggy which was finally stopped by a retain ing wall . . . “Bobby” Link's jul lop caught fire . . . wonder what caused that. . . . Speaking of fire and flames aren’t the Thetas celebrating Homecoming a little prematurely. The gals decided to have their own private bonfire with the trees that used to shelter the rest of the campus from their Green Monster. . . . The rally squad has finally emerged from its doldrums thanks to the hustling of the new yell dukes . . . Now it’s up to us to give them the vocal support that will help revive that old spirit which is so lacking. . . . Sat. Eve in Portland saw the Betas and Sig Nus at the Ran cho Village, the Sig Chis at Jack and Jill's, the Lambda Chis filled the Log Cabin and the Phi Psis packed them in at Columbia Meadows. Theta Chi Marv Butterfield prised everyone at Dode Bing ham’s open house with his im promptu “leap" into the swing ing pool . . . Dan Cupid left his mighty imprint on the weekend also with Tri Delt Lucille Bellin ger flashing a roelc from K Sig Chuck Stamford . . . Kappa Georgia Balaam now wears Nick Port wood’s A TO cross . . . Alpha Chi Sally Schilling is all sewed up with Sig Nil Jim Bartelt and af ter a whirlwind spree Gamma Phi pledge Gen Thompson copped Phi Delt Jim Boyd’s shield .... Before I forget . . . congrats to Hostess “Cupcake” Hull . . . see you in writing next Tuesday. Democracy enables the people to keep good-humored by the sim ple device of electing to office poli ticians whose pob is to get angry for them. Give 'Em Day in Court We haven't decided yet for whom we’re going to vote when we go to the polls on November 2. Last spring we heard the Republican’s choice for president, Tom Dewey, when he spoke in McArthur court as a candidate in the Oregon protnaries. We also heard last year another Republican, Harold Stassen ; Norman Thomas, the socialist presidential candidate; His time “too limited" cl 11 v l LUC 1 lU^lCMiVC M nielli, Henry Wallace, when they spoke on the campus. Then last Friday night we stayed in Eugene to hear Re publican vice-presidential can didate Earl Warren speak for his party. But we're still undecided. We want to hear all sides. And we still haven't heard from the Democrats. We’re told that the Uni versity ruled earlier this term that only candidates for pres ident or vice president could be accorded the privilege of addressing us from the speak er's rostrum in Mac court. 1 lie reason: if the facilities were extended to other political speakers,, it would lead to more talks than could lie incorpor ated in the regular assembly program. A letter from President Newburn was sent early this term to the heads of the various political organizations in the state, extending to them imitations to send to the campus their national parties' one and two men. ■ Only the Republicans responded—with Earl Warren. The Democratic candidate for president, Harry Truman, was offered an opportunity to speak on the campus when he passed through Eugene last June. He turned down the offer, on the grounds that his time was “too limited.” The University, we are certain, lias made an honest effort to bring the Democratic side to us—if either President Tru man or Allien I bark ley could be secured. However, in view of the fact that all parties have been able to avail themselves of the opportunity of speaking on the campus, except the Democrats, we feel that it would be wise if the University reversed its earlier dcision and allowed the Democrats to bring in one person authorized to speak in behalf of the party. We Beg To Ditter That sophisticated step-child of journalism, The New Yorker, came forth last week with some cynical words on the allotment of football tickets over the nation. The magazine compares the systems of allotment used by Yale, which has thirteen categories listed in the order of pref erence, and Cornell, whose caste system names only two main divisions—preferred and general. The New Yorker tells us that the Yale system starts with the president of the university and goes down through the members of the Yale Corporation, the head coach, old foot ball "Y" men, team doctors, seniors, freshmen, Ph.D.s and so on. The New Yorker's judgment on these systems seems to be contained in this line: "The systems differ, but each in its w ay is a splendid autumnal reaffirmation of the idea of special privilege—-long may it live!" Here's where we beg to differ. Although still containing the vestiges of special privilege, the system used at the Uni versity seems a great deal less complex and much more equitable. The University athletic department divides fans into two general classes—season ticket. holders and individual game ticket holders. Kach of these is broken into onlv three di visions. as compared to Yale's thirteen. They are donors to the grant-in-aid fund of the athletic department, paid alumni, and the general public, given preference in the order named, which seems reasonable. More important, within each of these divisions, it's first come, first serve. As each application comes in it is stamped with the date of receipt and seats are allotted accordinglv. Although special privilege still survives in the Ivv league, it appears to be on the wane in the West. The New Yorker to the contrary, we're happy to see it go.—11. 15. The Orfuox Dati.v Emkrai.d. published daily during the college year except- Sundays, Moruiavs, holidays, and final examination periods by the Associated Students, University of Dregon. Subscription rates: $ ' 00 per term and $4.00 per year. Entered as second-class matter it the postortiee, Eugene, Oregon. —-Out of Focus Carpenter Finds It Doesn't Pay To Use One's Head In This World By KIKK BRAUN The professor leaned on the podium. It shuddered and the sound of a nail parting company with wood interrupted his lec ture. He took his weight off the patched and worn podium and continued. A moment or two lat er, he leaned again. The podium collapsed in a heap. “Humnph,” observed the pro fessor. “They certainly could build those things a bit stronger. “Humnph,” muttered the car penter, as he surveyed the wreck age, “wish these professors would eat a little more breakfast so they wouldn’t have to lean on these things so damned hard.” ~ “Hey, Joe,” he called to his partner. “What are we gonna do with this thing. I’ve built it and rebuilt it a dozen times and these heavyweight professors break it up in about three lectures.” “Might try reinforcing it with a couple of two-by-fours.” “Won’t work. I’ve tried it.” “How about some heavy iron bands ? It might hold awhile longer with a couple of bands around it.” “That’s a good idea. I’ll take it over to the metal working shop.” The metal worker sighed. “Don’t tell me—I know what you want. You got one of those pulpit jobs you want reinforced. The carpenter grinned. “Yeh, some professor went through this one this morning.” ‘‘Huh—the last one I fixed with some strong brass rods is lying in the corner. Take a look.” The carpenter glanced in the corner. A twisted mass of metal and splinters lay on the floor. The metal worker went on. ‘‘That one lasted exactly three days. They gotta be fixed strong er than that.” “Say, how about let’s getting one made out of concrete?” the carpenter suggested. “It's worth a try. We’ll cover it with plywood and they’ll never know the difference. Bet that one will last awhile.” A few days later two work ers lifted the new podium to the desk. “Whew—that’s the heaviest hunk of plywood I ever lifted.” “Yeh—feels like it’s willed with concrete.” The next morning the profes sor leaned on his new podium in the middle of his lecture. For a few minutes everything-held up. Then the desk collapsed. “Humnph,” muttered the car penter, as he surveyed the werckage. “Guess it just doesn’t pay to use your head in this world.” -Carnival The Music Professor And The j 'gf Ballad Of The Golden Rose By BARBARA HEYWOOD In lieu of a short short story— I can’t think of one today—I’m going to tell you about one of my violin teachers; my favorite one. Music teachers are always worth one more story, but this story I have never told around. Maybe because there isn’t much to tell. What happened was just a little strange, that’s all. It was my fifteenth birthday, in the middle of the fall. It was raining hard, and the day was dark, so dark that the stores were turning on their neons by 4:30 when I got downtown. In the building on Third ave nue in Portland where my teach er had his studio I walked down the hall lighted by bulbs of the weakness you find in dirty lava tories. I knocked at his door. No one answered, but I could hear him fingering the piano, so I walked in. The room was dim, and I could see only his silhouette against the rain-washed window. He didn’t speak to me, but con tinued playing, so I quietly opened my violin case and took out my bow to rosin it. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He was neither young nor middle aged, and had a slightly pock marked face and a shock of black hair—but he was rather good looking when you were used to him, for he looked kind. And he was kind, in a way that made you understand that he had seen the worst in you and many other people, but still he hoped for the best. He was playing the theme of a ballad I had heard him sing once, and he experimentally filled in chords. He collected ballads, and this was one that I had never heard before, nor heard since. It had a monotonous, melan choly tune, and the words, the few that I can remember, went like this; My love gave to me a golden rose; gave to me a gold en rose. I loved my love with fire and dew; loved by love with fire and dew; loved my love with fire heart; (repeat.) I washed the rose in her blood; (repeat.) The golden rose, it faded and died; the golden rose, it faded—and—died. I had sung the ballad lustily around home until my mother put a stop to it, saying that the words were indecent and that she woke up nights hearing the melody. After I had tuned my violin I knelt at the other window, and looked down through the iron slats of the fire escape at the dis torted reflections of red neons playing on the wet sidewalk. It was almost dark. I waited for - him to speak. Suddenly he said, as if contin uing a conversation, “You know, Barbara, I like this theme. I’m going to expand it into some thing.” “My mother says the words are indecent,” I said rather irrele vantly. “But I don’t agree,” he said after a pause. “The words are neither decent nor indecent; I think they say a lot of things. Maybe you weren’t singing it right, Barbara. Have you ever felt really sad?” “I guess—I think so,” I an swered after some thought. “I don’t know how sad you can get, though. How sad is really sad?” “You’re—fourteen, is it? “Fifteen.” “Probably you’ve never been in love, then, bitterly in love. And that makes another kind of sadness, the kind in the ballad of the golden rose.” He got up from the piano and looked out the window, then walked to the music stand and switched on the small light at tached to it. It made a small (Please turn to page seven)