In consequence of the timidity of possible contributors most of the stuff we would have liked to print under this heading has gone into the body of the Journal instead. We refuse to accord that leniency to such a scene of violence as "D.O." depicts, how-ever original the treatment:

Der Tag.

It was a winter's afternoon,
Our morning's work was done;
And we upon Karori Park
Were playing in the sun.
And with us sported on the green
Old Ramblers B, opposing team.

When all at once we saw our half
Roll something small and round,
Which, she with doughty skill and grit,
In playing there had found.
We saw at once what she had found,
That was so small and hard and round.

Our captain took it to the goal,
Which stood expectant by;
And then we all did rave and romp
And with a natural sign—
"Tis the first goal we've gained," said we,
"Mayhap we'll win a victory."

They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won,
For many vanquished ramblers
Lay puffing in the sun.
But things like that, you know, must be,
When games are won by 'Varsity.

Nor do we think it proper to encourage the wild propensities of students by printing "E.B's" gasconade in full. He heads it "Dare Devil," and commences with a terrible boast:

I went into the Library yesterday. I suppose I must have something in common with that gentleman of the sawdust-ring, who visited Welling-ton many years ago. His name, I think, was Dare Devil Desperado; and his way of winning his daily crust was to haul himself up to the top of the circus tent, where the management had kindly placed a diminutive platform, from which the Dare Devil would hurt himself down to the floor via a truly complicated and wonderful arrangement of ropes, roman rings and chutes-to the accompaniment of excited feminine squeaks.

Dare Devil was my hero, and I was proud of him.

Ten or eleven sheets of lurid, if ill-fated, exploits follow, and our hero continues:

But though I stopped trying to emulate Dare Devil Desperado, he still had a place in my imagination, and he must have become an integral part of my character—or else how is it possible otherwise to explain the fact that nowadays I can enter the Library without turning a hair, blinking an eyelid, or having that—no, not Kruschen—but sinking feeling in, well, you know where? Yes, I honestly assure you that the above remarkable statement, is absolutely true, and I am prepared to swear to it with one hand on the College calendar and the other raised in the regulation fashion. I go into the Library with a devil-may-care smile on my countenance, one page 52 hand in my pocket, to show how much at ease I am, and give the Rev. H—e W—d back look for look.

Well, once I have successfully braved the perils of the entrance, take a swift glance around the room-taking special care, however, not to smile or even recognise anyone or anything—not even my dearest or best friend-for however much it may surprise you, I would thus run the risk of having to answer the charge of "communication" with personages within the Library precincts. And it's a case nowadays, what with jazz and flappers, of everyone looking out for his own safety.

My next job is to secure a seat. Simple—I hear you exclaim. Well, that's as may be. But in my case it's like this. A good seat in the Library requires the expenditure of a large amount of brain energy; it also requires experience and calculation. For (1) my chair must be near a so-called heater—very necessary in cold weather; (2) my chair must be out of the direct line of the many miniature cyclones—or anti-cyclones—which appear to make certain portions of the Library their battle-ground. I know now what the poet was referring to when he wrote—

"And the stormy winds do blow."

(3) my chair must be such that I can observe the whole room, including all the other students, both doors, the galleries, and, lastly, I must be able to keep a friendly eye on the Librarian. You see, I take a kindly interest in the doings of my fellow-mortals.

When I have chosen my position, according to the afore-mentioned principles, I strew a few exercise-books and scraps of papers about the place and then go to find a book. Here again, I can hear you say that nothing is more simple than taking a book from the shelves. This is what happened to me last evening. I want a book on—well, on Plus Fours, or, say, Inorganic Cytomaneia. First of all, I proceed to see if any new publications have arrived. If I am in luck, they have not. I then interview the Index and struggle with it for, say, fifteen minutes—this tells me nothing. Suddenly I remember there is a quotation I wanted to verify in a book in the Philosophy section . . .

Well, you know how it all ends. One thing leads on to another. When the clock kindly strikes the hour, thus informing me that I must once more grace the lecture-room with my presence, I find that I have looked at books in the Economic, History, English and various other sections of the Library, and am now immersed in an article on—say, the question, "Is music a psychic phenomenon?" Inorganic Cytomaneia must away another hour. I gather my belongings together, wait until the Librarian is in some of his outlying dominions, then make a rush for the door and take him unawares. I have come through safe once more. . . .

Another aspirant forwards what appears to be his matriculation essay, "A Solitary Ramble." A couple of sentences might interest the Tramping Club.

Alone, surrounded on all sides by the magnificence of Nature, I wandered, idly dreaming. On the one hand sand, tussocks and hillocks of sand formed into a vast jumble without definite configuration. Surely, is this not wonderful when one stops to think?

It is indeed. So is this; to which, in the name of Wellington, we give a stern contradiction:

The sky, so vast, so immense, so mysterious and wonderful, yet day after day 'tis never noticed and never given one moment of thought.

"Ambition," by D.J.D., merits the fate of Icarus:

Lift me up and let me gaze
On the splendid world around me!
Lift me up from the earthy maze,
With fetters long that bound me!
Give me fame and give me power,
And the organ-voice of thunder;
Power for a space and fame for an hour,
Rending heaven asunder !

page 53

Let the world swim round my feet,
And round my head the glory—
Riches of lust yet doubly sweet,
To fling to the clouds my story!
Let me thresh with monstrous wings,
Circles vast and vaster,
Till the cringing pack of slaves and kings
Bow down and own their master!

Then when sunset splendours die,
Place not a sentence o'er me.
Let me in state and solitude lie,
Where mad Ambition bore me.
Be this the theme my mourners take:
Let never a man unbraid him.
Heaven herself he sought to shake;
God alone forbade him!

E. L. Palmer's "Spinning Song" goes in spinning:

Spinning Song.

Sunshine of summer land
Lieth along the lea;
Bird in the leaf lies hushed;
To the quick each life is touched
With such excellence of glee.

Droning, whirling, rolling, flying,
Ever on in hot haste hieing.
Work while laughter speeds thee on,
E'er cold night the day hath won!

Hither the dusk rolls on,
From the thunder of the sea;
The wine of the golden light
Is hemmed with the lees of night,
And its glimmer fades to thee.

Droning, whirling, rolling, flying,
Ever on in hot haste hieing.
Work while laughter speeds thee on,
Ere cold night the day hath won!