November 17, 2000
Volume CXXXII, Number 10

    Clinkity-clink. The unmistakable jingle of copper and silver created a slight, yet undeniable drone on our fair campus last Friday. Across the quad, through hallways, in the classroom, the clinking came from every khaki-pants pocket on its way to Smith Union. In the Union, the slight clinking became a roaring waterfall of change at the Up ‘til Dawn table, the epicenter of the Penny Wars competition. Add to this flow of coins the sweet aroma of a good, old-fashioned bakesale, and you’ve got yourself one heck of a fundraiser.

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Letter from London: European transportation
By James Fisher, STAFF WRITER

    LONDON-Readers with a good memory and nothing better to fill it with will recall that several weeks ago I spent a week and a half not in London but in Italy. Well, I’m back, with a tan (barely) and a newfound appreciation for really small motorized vehicles.
    Scooters of any shape or form are cause for public humiliation in America. (I’m not talking about the Sharper Image, retro-style scooter here-which should be embarrassing to use-but “scooter” in the sense of an underfunded motorcycle.) Lincoln Navigators have no patience for mosquito-like scooters zipping in and out of lanes.
    In London, scooters are a little more accepted, but bonafide motorcycles are more popular, and the climate is a strong argument for a vehicle with a roof.

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Howard heads to Gettysburg
By Kid Wongsrichanalai, STAFF WRITER

   It was a time of gloom for both the United States and the Confederate States. June 1863 saw the desperation of the Confederacy and the frustration of the Union. On the western front, Ulysses S. Grant clung on to the river town of Vicksburg, Mississippi, and all through the South, the death of Stonewall Jackson, a month earlier, was still being mourned.
    In the North, recent disasters on the eastern front were not greeted well. Anxiously, the Lincoln Administration pushed for something to be done about the seemingly invincible rebel Army of Northern Virginia under Robert E. Lee.

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Two Years Beneath the Pines: Post-electoral blues