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THE MAROON TIGER
Page 6
j ^Varieties I
HERE AND THERE
By L. Raymond Bailey, ’34
“What! chapel time, already? Gosh! I’d better hurry
and ring the first bell for breakfast!” And so our
belfryman struggles out of bed, slowly knocks the frost
off his eyebrows, lazily reaches for the rope, and sounds
the old bell at 8:40 A. I/I., which is an unheard of hour
for breakfast, too la' 3 for class, and too early for
chapel. On another occasion our time-keeper, in order
to save time, figures that it is just as well to ring the
bell once and twice as long as it is to ring it twice for
half as long. Thus we hear the first and the last bell
for chapel in one prolonged ringing at 8:52"■/•> A. M.—
There’s no question about it. That boy knows his math
ematics. But better still at another time this chap evi
dently set his clock to remind him to ring the first bell
for supper, and then with a book in his hands dropped
asleep. Hours later he awoke with a start and pulled
frantically at the rope only to discover that it was the
unearthly hour of 4:00 A. M.
“Oh well,” I can hear him muse, “they can't say
that I’m not on the job around here. Furthermore, I’m
just two hours too e&rly. I’ll let that go for the rising
bell and sleep until breakfast.” At 7:45 he jumps up
again and rings the first bell for breakfast. Who says
that our belfreyman doesn’t know his stuff.
Speaking about the time reminds me of the unique
timing system in Sale Hall. Over there the old-fash
ioned way of having a bell sound when it is time to
change classes has long been thrown on the scrap-heap
of antediluvian antiquities. Nowadays, the professors
have student alarm clocks in all of their classes, and I
mean they never fail. Whenever a teacher desires to
know the hour he simply starts bombarding questions
at his students. To let you see how it works, I’ll cite
an example. The other day a professor shot a very
embarrassing question at a very prominent student,
who responded quite promptly:
“Er-ah-er, professor, I think we’re running a bit over
time.” Thereupon class was dismissed without further
deliberation.
Lest I forget I must pause to tell the world about
our new system of dining room etiquette. There was
a time when the students came into the dining hall,
gathered around their places, heard a member of the
faculty asking the blessing, and fell to destroying food
with gusto. . . . Those days are gone forever. When
one visits the dining hall these days he notices a de
cided change of atmosphere. As the last bell sounds,
the hostess comes forward with raised and outstretched
hand. At once a death-like silence falls, the air be
comes soft with the sweetening influence of the Holy
Spirit, and all stand at attention as the hostess—as if
talking to a group of five-year-olds, calls forth the
battle-cry: “All right, bow your heads now. Let every
one bow his head, please.” And then what a beautiful
sight it is to see a young army of husky men drop
their heads in respectful silence before that Force from
Whom all blessings llow. The student making the most
noise is the one called to pray. The prayers are most
profound and are better than the most blessings be
cause they embrace more. Everything is included down
to the salt and pepper, from the head-waiter to the gar
bage can. Even the garbage collector comes in for a
blessing or two. This was quite evident when the great
“Bungleton” Green prayed that the Heaveidy Father “er-
er-er-er-shower down thy blessings upon us.” I am told
that the Lord was so much impressed that He decided
to carry out the prayer to the letter, by not only bless
ing the food but causing it to rain immediately after
the prayer. Statistics are being compiled to show that
indigestion has been substantially reduced as a result of
more profound and sincere devotion before meals.
At the late things are going it won’t be long before
it will be necessary to get the consent of the matron
to smoke on Sunday. We will reach the point of hav
ing to assemble at a certain place and at a definite time,
and then someone will come forward with outstretched
hand and say: “Now let us have it perfectly quiet
until 1 count three, and on the last count everyone
will please take off his shoes and change socks. ’ (Of
course, that would be a bad idea in these times.)
1 do not mean to say that things are rotten. On
the contrary' I do think that we have reached a high
point of development that is enviable. But in certain
small matters we seem to be going from the sublime
to the ridiculous.
Before 1 close this column of nonsense permit me
to recite a real masterpiece of modern literature. One
of our “co-eds” across the street leaned over the fence
the other day and whispered this one in my ear. She
called it the 999th Psalm, and he: e it is:
English History is my Waterloo, no more do I want.
It leads me into the library on cold evenings. It cramps
my style. It interferes with my sleeping. Yea! though
I meet class three times a week I feel no enlighten
ment for the instructor is with me. She prepareth me
for another semester in the Senior class. My brains
are leaking out. Surely this course will not follow me
all the days of my life. If so, I will dwell in the Senior
class forever.
PROJECTIONS
By R. C. Reynolds
The man who said, “I*t’s Go Atlanta,” leaves us in
doubt as to what direction to take.
The “timid soul” is the type who inspired those three
words, “What price peace!”
“I am losing it slower than I ever did,” mused the
farmer hopefully when the mortgage companies agreed
to delay foreclosures on all farms.
The “sugar daddy” is a form of crystallized sap.
The man who “he-haws” should take a peep at his
family tree.
The proverbial “self-made man” generally styles him
self as a “son of the farm.” Bla-bla.
(Please turn to Page Fifteen)