The Epidemic

Bugs May Come and Bugs May Go!

Although some consider that the seclusion of students from the world one of the weak spots of college life, I have always regarded this (in so far as it is true) as one of the chief charms of student life. That it is not entirely true was proved last November when the student life was thrust aside, and the world, fearful for the state of its vital statistics, claimed every individual. To every student November immediately suggests The Great Swat, when the year's work is revised—or done for the first time—lists of dates, etc., are held in the hand ready for the spare moment, the library is frequented, books are borrowed, the mid-night oil is consumed. Is it to be wondered that the news of the outside world was slow to penetrate our learned halls? Peace news was forced upon us, but the more insidious and more drastic arrival of the influenza germ was learned of slowly. But it soon enough became apparent. Cases of sickness among students, a death, too, and the endless line of funerals on the road—then scenes in the examination room—pale and ghastly students sniffing formalin, or wrapt in innumerable overcoats, or making Incessant demands upon the supervisor for water, into which they dropped little tablets!—and still funerals, and more funerals. By this time many had dropped out of the degree running, preferred a present bed to a future capping, and those who were left were working under an intense nervous strain. Then came the thrilling moments when an impressive voice announced that all examinations were to stop! And the students filed out. to proclaim to their dying day, upon the absolute ease with which they could have done that "phych," paper. And then—heigh, presto! All the students had vanished. College knew them no more. In this death-stricken city, nothing was to be seen but funerals, motor ambulances, queues at the chemists', inhalation chambers, Boy Scouts, basket laden; those who were left behind were next seen in a new capacity. Some took up hospital work and rushed round with drinks, etc., until they were ready to drop. Others were at the depots handling jellies as if they had never done anything else, or going round from house to house, making lists like any grocer man. Others went and worked in private houses, where they washed endless piles of dishes, managed fractious babies, and distracted mothers and fathers. Some drove the motor ambulances, dug graves, and became orderlies. Their tales of adventure are endless, and would well fill a book of reminiscences. A special word should be said for the Kelburn Depot, where there were sights that would gladden any student's heart. A worthy doctor producing bottles of mutton broth, a learned mathematician discoursing on temperatures, a philosopher calming females per telephone, a man of science regulating the amount of food applicants required. And then, when the Miramar Golf House and Training College opened their doors to the orphans! And students, under the direction of teachers and lecturers, washed, fed, and amused the kids, and saw the transformation of a college into a hostel, one could only say: "O tempora, o mores" (if classical), or "Great Scott!" (if normal).

Lest this should seem in praise of those who appeared in the public eye only, we must realise that the great majority of students worked at home, or helped their friends, either in Wellington or elsewhere. But although we hear in part of their work, we cannot tell it all. However, we may feel sure they did their page 40 full share wherever they were. I think, too, that students may be congratulated on their disease-resisting power, brought about by the breezes of our Alma Mater, or endurance-testing lectures, or the suppression of our Library—I know not what—but resulting in a small percentage of cases among the students themselves.