Did you hear about Sir Lindo's hat. You see, Sir L. and Lady Fergusson billeted some students, and somebody fell on sir Lindo's hat on the station. Never has he seen such a badly-organised Tournament! Otago's President and band did what they could for the hat, but too late, too late. The organisation was lost!

We Must Have a Band.

Talking of the band, weren't their costumes cute and cold? Enough to make any animal, let alone student, grow a winter coat. But could they play?—at the station, in the street at the boxing, rowing, tennis; loudly, softly, not at all.

Those Penny Sections.

Otago's tram rides—a penny a section! It's a snare and a delusion. I went everywhere by tram, for the joy of paying a penny—and lived on credit for the last six days of Tournament. No wounder Otago's tramways pay—the biggest bluff of all is giving the public what it wants—it becomes self-indulgent at once.

Tennis Saving Grace.

It was great to hear appreciation, male, female and senile, of the Victoria girls' tennis costumes. In comparison with the ankle-flapping nightgowns worn by the majority of the women players, it was refreshing to see such neat, attractive and sensible costumes. It was remarked on upon all sides, the girls being complimented on their initiative no less than their good sense.

"Wild Whopee"—N.Z. Truth.

Tournament Ball was tame and tired until the parties afterward made us forget lack of sleep and of voice and the pending departure. Then a little or on sleep, hectic packing, fevered farewells, and we were away, and, except for the deadness and heaviness, Tournament might never have been. It was so perfectly rounded, with its welcome and farewell, that it seemed to belong to another existence—a completeness in itself exciting. satisfying and active.