In his talk last week the eminent botanist from Chicago, Mr. Cowles, spoke of the distinction of North Carolina in being the only place in the world growing the plant known as the “Venus flytrap.” I am not so much interested int is since I had my windows screened. What I want is a plant that will serve as a mousetrap. I wish W.C. Coker would discover one; if it has to have a name taken from mythology I suggest it be called the Diana mousetrap, in honor of the celebrated huntress.
-=-
I admired Mr. Coker’s judgment and enterprise in bringing Mr. Cowles here, but I am frank to say that I was not enthusiastic about our own botanist’s choice of decorations for the lecture room. A human skeleton occupied a prominent place a few feet from the speaker, with a pose loose-jointed and floppy, like James Kyser doing a clog dance. On the table near the ??? of a man lying on his back with a number of his inner sections visible. But Mr. Coker brought Mr. Cowles here on very short notice and of course did not have time to adorn the room with appropriate plants and flowers.
-=-
There’s nothing quite like the sensation that an author has when he first sees his production in print. I had the pleasure of being present the other day when Roulhac Hamilton opened the April issue of the “American Boy” containing his prize-winning letter in the magazine’s competition among parents. The letters tell about the “American Boy” as a joy in the home. Mr. Hamilton took a $10 prize. I notice that he refers to himself in this letter as a “middle-aged college professor.” This is the only thing in his piece that I find to criticize. He is premature.
-=-
A few months ago I put up some partitions in the printshop and provided, in them, doors that I thought would be adequate to every need. But I felt ashamed of myself as a designer when our health officer, Dr. Nathan, came in to see me last week. It was only with great difficulty, and after much drawing-in of important parts of him, that he could squeeze through into the office.
-=-
One of the tragedies of the village these last few weeks has been the separating of the trio composed of Sara Curtis Kyser, Katrina Nash and Nell Booker. Nell has had whooping cough and has been isolated both by parental and municipal order. Katrina and Sarah play in the Nash yard, while Nell, 50 yards or so away on her own premises, looks longingly toward them and now and then calls or waves a greeting.
-=-
I like to see people good to animals, especially dogs. Jack Sronce, the student who helps run the presses in the printshop, was sharing his ice-cream cone with a beautiful brown setter a day or two ago. He would lean over and let the setter have two or three licks at the ice-ream, then he would take a bite or two himself. This kept up until the cone was gone. This incident made me like Jack Sronce more than ever. It seemed to me to be the proper spirit to display toward a dog whom you claimed as your friend. I think I will tell Mr. Pollard, the Waverly man, about this. The Victor phonograph people have made a great deal of their pictures of a dog listening to a phonograph, and maybe Mr. Pollard will use this idea for his ice-cream.
From the front page of the Chapel Hill Weekly, March 27, 1924
No comments:
Post a Comment