Montclair State College - La Campana Yearbook (Upper Montclair, NJ)

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Moreover, too much use of slang limits the vocabulary. If we form the habit of using slang phrases we necessarily exclude from our vocabulary those v rords which would beautify and give refinement to our speech. When we indulge in extravagances of language to im- part some trifling idea, we have no words adequate to express a more serious thought. Not only, then, is slang inadequate, but it denotes a lack of breeding, culture, and re- finement. In using slang we are really defeating the purpose of our education. Of what good is hour after hour spent in studying English grammar and the choicest literature, if outside of the class-room w e utterly disregard the things we have learned? There are times in everyone ' s life when he wishes to make a good impression. How is this to be done if one ' s vocabulary is limited to a mediocre knowledge of good English and an exten- sive and varied knowledge of slang? We are judged fully as much by our conversation as by a prepossessing personal appearance. Abraham Lincoln was not a handsome man yet he held people spell bound by his simple, fluent English. While we cannot all be Abra- ham Lincoln ' s we can at least try to do ourselves justice by speaking our mother tongue in a way in which we would not blush to be heard by those who know and appreciate good English. ELIZABETH L. LINSON. APPRECIATION Did you ever stop to sniff the air about you? Such a very curious question did you say? Why you ' re missing half the joy of things about you: Just the homely common things of every day. In the morning there ' s the smell of toast and coffee. That makes rising not so hard as it might seem. There ' s the cool and balmy breath of morning fragrance. And the not so pleasant odor — gasoline. Then there comes the smell of library or ■workroom. As the busy toil of each day is begun; Then the pleasant, sweeter breath of evening coming. And the knowledge that a good day ' s work is done. O, the characteristic perfumes of the seasons That have long been sung in poetry and prose. Make us humans have a number of good reasons To thank the good Creator for a nose. OLIVE MYERS. AtKenian NigKt Tis night: o ' erhead the midnight blue of the sky is strewn with stars. Here in the nar- row sordid ways — streets of this ancient city of the Attic state — a moonbeam lingers, glory- ing them. It strays among the chiseled d eties, born of the art of Phidias, quickening them to life. Gods do they seem, and goddesses, as when in ancient days they dv relt above the Olympian mount, worshipped by manly sport, by music rare, by sacrifice meet to their godly pow er. Now they but live in marble, shattered and scarred ; worn by the flight of time and circumstance. The moonbeam passes by — they are no more. ETHEL H. DAVIS.

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En Route On any peaceful morning, when the sun is risen to just its happiest point in the sky, and the shopkeeper and office-holders are bustling forth to the scenes of their daily occu- pation, — the high church tower with its great town clock, chimes forth the hour of eight, and the City of Orange awakens to the responsibilities of a new day. Then from the near by station, with its high white pillars, issue forth a few early mor- tals whom the 8:03 train has just deposited at the depot. That these mortals have come from South Orange, and that they are bound Valley Roadward and not to the haunts of pleasure and joy, is easily detected by the strange manner of bundles they carry. For who other than a student at our dear M. S. N. would ever appear in public fondly clutching a huge butterfly net or dandling an Xmas box filled with projects? Up the hustling Main Street, noisy in the pride of its own cosmopolitan appearance, comes the Orange car. With its usual rapid efficiency, it tarries at each corner, and politely waits w hile a tattered old ash waggon and a tottering old horse make up their minds to cross the street. Main and Day! Crosstown, Valley Road! Let ' em off, please!! Let ' em off!! shouts the noisy conductor, and he lets ' em off. It is all over, that pleasant ride in the Orange car, where all the windows are closed, and where we dangle hopelessly from the leather straps, unable to extricate our slender left foot from beneath the gentle tread of a man with a great bottle of muddy coffee, and our right from under a boy with a package of sardine sandwiches and a decided tendency toward onions, — it is all over. For those from East Orange have now arrived at the corner of Main and Day and are boisterously greeting their South Orange friends. From the vestibule of the corner Drug Store, appear a few sleepy heads, and a few dreamy mouths droop down, as the verdict is announced, Here comes the car!! Oh! Please make him wait. 1 haven ' t any Life Savers! and Peggy Morrison dashes into the drug store. And there with a grandeur unrivaled, with haughty jerks, and proud leaps forward and back, the Valley Road trolley skips up its muddy one-tracked way. Experience, it is said, is the diploma of life, and the Valley Road is now passing into premature middle age. It is able, perfectly, to understand the babble of conversation, and the shrieks which rend the air. ' Has anyone a Fountain pen? — Done your Pedagogy? Now really but you ought to see him, — 1 simply can ' t keep the curl in, — He ' s the dearest thing, — Oh! girls! Look at the New Arrow Collar! And then ' mid the uproar of noise and confusion, the little Norm. Sch. card is placed in the window , and the bewildered wheels, w hich had really given up all hope of ever arriving anyw here, groan a profound sigh of relief. Ten minutes later, aft r the roll has been duly taken, and the evil-intentioned from East Orange have tried to skin thru an extra transfer (and have been properly squelched by the eagle-eyed conductor) and time has been allowed for Marion Dudley to finish her shine and Fran. Halley to buy her paper; then, the anchor, as it were, is hauled in, the prayers sent up, and, amid a number of creaks, groans, and jumps, the car moves northward toward the green hilled country of our No Man ' s Land. With a sigh of relief, the great town clock in the high church tower, tolls eight-fif- teen. Once more the corner of Main and Day streets reposes in sequestered sleep. Tne City of Orange has again become a drow sy, dreamy retreat. ELEANOR FORGIE 18