Curious Cove Rhapsody

The meal gong lolls the knell of deathlike sleep. The yawning herd winds slowly to their food. Heads ring with last might's songs and talk. They creep with converse slow to where are queued students of all kinds and shapes from all Colleges and all parts of both Islands and a few Australians who have dropped in while travelling and exchanging. As well there are the guest speakers, wives, and their children.

Note how well the special guests mix with the crowd. (There may be intellectual discussions going on over the breakfast tables but the scene couldn't be more gay.) Besides the invited speakers there are several lecturers and their wives who have come in the ordinary way. See that young fellow you patronised in the netball game yesterday afternoon? He's Professor of Modern languages down South somewhere. See that angelic girl in the glasses? She's married to the bearded Psychologist. Brilliant student. I believe. Don't let that arty bloke gel loo close, my dear! He's got a wife and three kids at home. You wouldn't think that comedian over there was an Anglican Minister, would you? That's the famous Peter Cape, in charge of religious broadcasts he is now. Wait until they put on his Curious Cove [unclear: pody] of Under Milk Wood Why are all the Aucklanders dashing off? Must have a Haka practice before morning lectures. College patriotism is all right if it doesn't impede higher things, don't you think? I think I'II make my bed and sweep out this morning. Or get my hut mate to sweep the place out. You wouldn't believe it but there were twenty-five beds in our little box last night.

The sun is higher in the sky. People with pillows are ambling by. One has a sleeping bag. I wonder why? The morning address is drawing nigh.

Who is if this morning? Anthropologist or Psychologist. Artist or Economist. Architect or Historian, we can be sure of one thing: it won't be dully academic. There will be Problems of Modern Society to get our teeth into. And some expert in the audience will lead counter attacks through the controversial regions of the talk. It's funny as the week wears on I find it harder and harder to stay awake during the day. It amazes me how some can spend the afternoon on water-skis in the Cove. swim, or climb the highest mountain. I can only just stand a little archery, netball, or quoits before tea, do me. What's the fishing been like Table tennis and indoor bowls will lately? The Rangatira looked beautiful in the sunset, did you see? I havn't written home yet. It reminded me.

The main thing is, the meals are good. We don't all play, we don't all think, but we all eat, voraciously. We don't all dunce after the evening lecture. we most of us sing like sardines in the dark after the power goes off. Some read poetry to each other by torchlight. Some argue. Some are nowhere to be seen. Stay up and see the dawn, see it from the hilltop. Break the glass of the warm night sea.

The University of New Zealand lives in these men and women. Ah, the wonder of it. Observe their reverence for tradition and ceremony. They climb the Captain-Cook-stopped-here-Memorial at Ship's Cove on the picnic day launch excursion. They slaughter the ceremony of Capping—mock degrees and University Pinks; and of Olympic Games—mock-oaths and torch-bearers, several in number.

In these men and women lives the University of New Zealand. Knowledge in this empty cove, in these plain buildings, away from laboratory and library, is sought for its own sake. A little can be done; minds opened to new worlds, fields sown with a few seeds. Friendships in six days are founded. Sun shines, stars and moon shine, sea slumbers, men and women sing, talk, think, and live.

—N.Z.U.S.P.C.