Salient. An Organ of Student Opinion at Victoria College Wellington, N.Z. Vol. 5, No. 8. October 6, 1942
[Response to B. Live]
Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, hip hurrah!
The girls carry cakes on the cable car.
Shamed by "B. Live's" letter, I un-conditionally apologise for all the unkind things I said in "Passers By." Our girls are undeniably seeing that the cultural standard of V.U.C. is not allowed to slip during, the war. How silly I was ever to wonder what extra effort they were putting into keeping the Phoenix Club alive while the men are away. They are behind the counter in the cafeteria. And what foolishness on my part to doubt that they were preserving drama in the college. Why, even as I doubted, they were preparing supper for a Dramatic Club evening. What did it matter if there weren't enough active members of the Dramatic Club to make the evening worthwhile? And the way they rally round the woman editor of "Salient." Almost one whole column of the 16 in the last issue was written by women. Gee! Fancy me suggesting that the girls weren't doing their bit. How could a girl possibly find time to write for "Salient" when she has to go to gymnasium classes and hold a glass of wine up against the light?
Hampered as I am, though, by an innately Tory outlook, I can't quite understand how our home front front Amazons are going to guard that intangible but very real thing called a University spirit by applying themselves with added diligence to their tea pouring and dish washing. For the way in which they do cater for our stomachs, and always have done, they earn my sincere gratitude. But with my stodgy ideas on University values I dolefully wish they could think of minds as well as stomachs. Perhaps they think that students stomachs are nicer than their minds. Or perhaps "B. Live" is basing her argument on Bacon, who said, "Eating maketh a full man." Or did he?
Anyway, Victoria is growing culturally dark because no one is taking up the torch her servicemen have left. The girls are in the majority now. It is for them to lift the torch high, instead of pouring dish-water and tea leaves on it.
Back to the subject of stomachs, I assure "B. Live" that if ever I chance to meet a clucking butterfly I shall be most [unclear: pitiably] disillusioned. Bunyips, I can stand. Purple [unclear: crocodiles] reciting the Gettysburg address, snakes bowling along like a hoop, three-legged elephants with a face like Joe Stalin's, and big greeh bugs with bottle tops for eyes. But clucking butterflies. The pledge, quick, pass me the pledge.