| Summary: | Page 2 THE CONCORDIAN January 19, 1951 Editorially. RECONSIDER Wednesday evening the Student Association Senate re-jected a proposal whereby the Student Association would have sponsored a half-hour Sunday afternoon program over a local station. The action of the Senate is regretable. We, as Christian college students, should welcome and employ every opportunity which is presented to us either individually or as a student body to proclaim the Word of God. The radio program offered just such an opportunity. Lack of funds was the reason expressed on the Senate floor for the rejection, but, perhaps the real reason lies in our attitude of considering our opportunities to spread God's Word not as duties, but as privileges, which may either be ac-cepted or rejected. However, we have our Lord's command: "Go ye into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature." (Mark 16:15) Can we, as a student body professing to be Chris-tian, fail to make use of such opportunity as this when we have Christ's command ringing in our ears? The entire student body should back this proposal, the Senate should reconsider their action and after weighing the question in the light of Christ's command, vote to sponsor the Sunday afternoon radio program. END OF THE LINOTYPE Jotting our last "30" at the end of a Concordian editorial leaves the editors with a myriad of feelings. In journalistic jargon, "30" indicates the end of an article. To us, this "30" also means the end of a semester as editors. Drying our tears it is a note of regret that we hand over our pencil and ruler to our worthy successors. In qur estimation, the Concordian is a great paper and students can look for greater editions under the editorship of Sally and Don. A college newspaper is the mouth-piece for the school, a place where students can realize the medium of true stu-dent expression. Editing such a paper has been our chal-lenge, opportunity, but foremost a privilege. Bewildered Brain Finds Reason For Pre-Exam Fuss And Jitters By Ralph Have you noticed how the gen-erally smiling faces of many stu-dents lately have changed to looks of despair? If you have, do you know the reason for it? I didn't know but I took some pains to find out. The other day I was walking on the campus. The sun was shin-ing, I had just received a check for five bucks from my dad and in general I was feeling fine. But it seemed that I was alone in feeling this way for all about me there were little knots of people conversing with sick looks on their faces. And the library—why, I'm telling you it was packed. Now just what could be the sudden change in everyone's ha-bits? I didn't want to appear overly curious as to this pheno-menon but I finally did summon up enough courage to ask a very confidential friend just what was up. His face turned several shades whiter as he explained the cause for this change. "You see," he said, "at the end of every semes-ter the teachers test us to find how much we have learned." I had remembered an instruc-tor mentioning the fact but I had Thrane just passed it off as a rumor. Upon my further questioning my friend told me that sometimes these tests are hard and require the full use of one's knowledge. In order to prepare for it I should go 6ver all my notes and review the material covered. He added that good students have no trou-ble in these tests. That meant that I should encounter trouble. Taking my friend's advice to heart I dashed to the dorm, sat down at my desk and grabbed my notebooks. But what should I find in my notebooks but a large collection of doodlings. I doubted as to whether they would be of much use so I threw them away and frantically began to search for some textbooks. After a frenzied search the nearest thing I came to a text-book was a copy of True comics. It then dawned on me that I had forgotten to buy any last fall. I was faced with the fact that I had very little material with which to study. If I only had listened in class instead of being human and going to sleep. There is only one hope I have left. That is that the curve will save me. THE CONCORDIAN Pnblfibcd weekly during the vcbool ye*r except during vocation, holiday and examina-tion periods by the students of Concord in College, Moorhesd. Batered as second class matter at the post office of Hoorhead, Minn. Dec. 9, 19Z0. under the Act of March 8, 1870. TEN TIMES ALL-AMERICAN Member ASSOCIATED COLLEGIATE PRESS Office: Third floor of Classroom buildin* Phone 8-1988 Subscription Rate, $2.60 a year. Doris Benson Joan Thue Ann Warner Anderson Wllma Perlla Robert Narveson Hans Dahl Jean Meier Roy Nielsen Ralph H~ auffw George Calhoun and Elden Mohr Marlene Hauarer, DeJphine HedJond, Stanley Robert Amefirard, Warren Smerad, Paul Sol em, Altoe Mae Vounfr, Norm* Grant, Marlyce Jacobson, Orville Sanderson. Hazel LovdokJwn and Raymond Ramsey. STAFF ASSISTANTS Stanley Morse, Allan H. Bjertneu and Rover Corneliassen RBPORTERS Joyce Brenden, Georgia HeUreson, Dale Huse, Nancy Moller, Joyce Spoonland, Audrey Helbfnff, Ruth Rudser, Janet Stenson, Evelyn Dahl, Ralph Thrane, Eileen Vaurhan, Maria Jean Peterson, Pat Gelder, Marjorie Podall, IMa Mae Stevenson, Arlys Sommer, Sister Phyllis Lnrsen, Zora Houkom and Nonna Wlckstmm SPORTS WRITERS Richard Lund, Donald Sponheim, John Groven and Sijrurd Randa CARTOONIST Joyce Elmqulat MUSIC CRITIC : Gerald Trett COPY READERS . Marlys Benson, Anita Gisvold and Connie Void CIRCULATION STAFF - Wtbna Ringen, Rand! Lang-feldt, Norma .Tvelt, Carole Berg and Charlanne Ward LIBRARIAN Lola Erickson STAFF PHOTOGRAPHERS - Phil Frame, Carl Carlson and Norman Klein TYPISTS Dorothy Dees, Dorothy Hotele. Erlys Tweeton, Betty Lou Brecto, Margaret Paulson, Elsie noverstein and Dona Nustad ADVISER Prof. J. L. Ren dahl Yeend Performance Proves Outstanding In Artist Lyceum By Gerald Trett Frances Yeend's concert, the second of the Concordia Artist Course, was one of the season's most successful. Her excellent stage presence and her superb singing made an unbeatable com-bination. Her program was uncommonly well chosen. A judicial selection of opera arias, lieder, concert songs and folksongs contained something for every taste. The opening number, the von Weber aria, was unique in several ways. For one thing, it was sung in tune —and remarkably so, for the ope-ning number of even the greatest artists is all too often out of tune. But most important is the fact that Miss Yeend chose to sing the aria in English. We are the only major nation in the world which does not de-mand that opera be sung in the native tongue; the libretto is an integral part of opera. "Softly, softly," is a good example of the increased enjoyment one experi-ences if he can understand the words. Technically, one can hardly ask for more than Miss Yeend posesses. Her sense of intona-tion is excellent. She is able to carry one tone color through her entire voice-range without changing its quality — a rare thing. She proved herself virtu-al master of the singer's bag of tricks. If a song demands "straight" tone, or, on the other hand, vi-brato, she can supply it—or any-thing else—in seemingly endless varieties. For example, "Du bist die Run" was exquisite in its quietness, while the beautiful *'O Thou Billowy Harvest-Field" was big and rich. The highpoint of the evening was reached in the Puccini arias. She projected the fervent Italian spirit of this music per-fectly. However, It can be said that at times her singing was rather cold. Schumann's "De-dication" was completely unaf-fecting. Unfortunately, Mr. Lehman was deadly as an accompanist. His solo number was the epitome of the unimaginative. That he played many false notes is unimportant in itself; he was a failure because his playing was strictly from the head, not from within. Dreaded Disease Defies Discretion By Al Anderson It is plainly evident from my observations of the bright-red glint of eye cappilaries about the campus (exposed to light by the weight of bags below them), that we have again become the object of a terrible plageristic plague, commonly called "termpaperitus." The amazing things about this disease is that it only strikes the young and healthy—faculty are always excluded — and seems to affect not only the eyes, but the fingernails, beard and hairline as well. However, various "TP" X-Ray centers have been set up to check the progress of the plague and, from all reports, says Regis-trar Nervouson, there is nothing to worry about—just be calm! One theory as to the origin of this plague has been set forth by Prof. Footz of the shoe depart-ment. He maintains that "TP" claimed its first victim in the per-son of Father Magnum Opus, a monk during the Dark Ages, who, because it was so hard to see (Dark Ages—get it?)( lost the sight of both eyes attempting to translate the works of Pope Ran-dus I (in,Sanscrit) onto his tuff. This theory is obviously a fallacy —and futurmore, I don't believe it! It is commonly known to all (you liar) that it was first found by the author, of this article, in a great big wooden box, a'floating in the new gym basement! (Note to the Editor: Not the author, you dope, but the "thing"' was in the box!) t Beo Gloria By William Vaawlg All of us are guilty of worrying. I think probably there are two different kinds of worries which plague us. There are those of the past and those of the future. Let us take a brief look at them. When we consider the worries of the past the thought of past sins come to mind. While it is true that the sins of the past leave scars, it is not true that they should leave infections. Surely we can profit from past mistakes but let us not let them become hindrances to a blessed fellowship with our Savior now. Take Christ at His Word. We also worry about the future. When yesterday was today we spent no little time worrying about the threat of Nazism or Fascism. Today we are almost frantic thinking of the threat of Communism, our draft status, finances, our life work and many "other things" shoved into the "things to worry about" corner of our minds. Stop—and ask yourselves these questions. Why do I worry? What causes worry? Isn't uncertainty one of the great causes? Isn't the fact that we don't know what is going to happen in each of these instances the cause for anxiety about them? While it is true that absolute certainty in these things prob-ably won't be realized until they take place, release from worry can be had now. Christ is the answer. No matter how small a part of our lives these worries may have, He wants complete control. Christ died not only to be Savior, but Lord of our lives. Do we realize that this seemingly innocent sin can cause a gap between us and Him ? Christ is not satisfied with only part of us. He wants all or nothing. Remember—Christ is the only one who can calm our troubled souls. Won't you bring your worries to Him? Let Him replace that uncertainty with a trust which not even Satan himself can shake. Featuring The Thing By Alice Mae Young Picking my way gingerly among the paired obstructions setting along the banks of Prexy's Pond one tender eve last equinox, I was trying to fix my attention on the murky waters of the puddle. I was scavenging the beach for any articles of value. The junk pile behind the giym had long since been exhausted and I had nothing new to cen-terpiece my desk. Now the mud becomes thicker between my toes; I am approaching the culvert. Lo! there lies a small oval, tin object half buried in the terra infirma of the pool. I race like a heron, hoping under my breath that I have struck the jackpot. With several operatic shrieks I remove the object from the mud «dth a homely sucking sound. Much elated, I scramble home to good old Fjelstad hall, scarcely stopping to wipe my feet on the grass ere I enter the terrace. By this time, the nocturnal Illuminations have been with finality curtailed, for which I am glad. I want no one to view my discovery yet. I remove my bottle of flies from the vault under one of the tiles in the floor and by their faint glow I polish my treasure. Suddenly, I hear a scarcely audible sound from within "the thing." Swish, gurgle! I drop it on the floor, then I kneel beside it with my ear pressing against its cold, metallic surface. No sound. As soon as I pick it up again, it emits further mysterious sounds. Then the click in me shudders and comes to a frankenstinish life. It's a flying saucer, without a ray of doubt. I borrow the dean's pliers and go to work on it. I'm going to save the planet from destruction, even if I have to ruin all Oscar's tools. But now I wrench the cover of the wicked thing with a mighty yank. I don't eat tootsie rolls every day for naught. No, I can't look. I faint. It can't be true! Five days later when the officials of the public menace commis-sion investigate, they find me scarcely sensible on the floor, gurg-ling, "Get out of here, get out of here!" But the door closes abruptly, the thing still lies here, and they keep flipping their ghastly pink tails in the vile Norwegian mustard within the oval thing. Nobody loves me any more, either; my cellmates just poke in their wary heads once a day and scream, "Get out of here with that (ugh) thing, and don't come back no more!" The flat-flooted Irishman
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