It never rains but . . .

Easter of 1943 lived up to Its ill-famed reputation; in fact, moat tramp-ers at any rate must be decidedly more annoyed than ever before. And in a part of the world where it's always raining, anyhow, the 'Varsity party was not exempted from this show of displeasure. No indeed. Instead of a salubrious contemplation of nature's charms, the sun scintillating on the bubbling waters in front of the bivvy and the xylophonlc note of the tui floating down from the tops, there was an alt-pervading atmosphere of wetness about the place—wet shirts, wet boots wet pants, wet everything. And the quiet, peaceful, babbling brook where we could have dipped our perspiring bodies was a dirty, muddy, floody torrent.

There were times, however, when the rain clouds above were resting before the next deluge, and the more energetic of the party wandered a mile or two up the river. I think they had ideas of shooting deer or something, but the closest anyone came to shooting anything was when Tony Chorlton let loose a couple of rounds in the bivvy.

Congestion is a word usually associated with Manners Street and such places, but the description could certainly apply to Waitewaewae at Easter. Sardines in a tin had nothing on the occupants of the bivvy—others overflowed into tents and temporary shelters. With conditions as they were, mud and slush inside as welt as out, but never mind. It all comes off in the wash.

Easter is over, and the excitingly tough or the decadent trips all came to naught. It was a pity, but we cannot grumble.