V. U. C. Catches it in the Neck

I have perused with interest, and I must say critically, the four issues of "Smad" that have far Appeared this year. As an ex-student of Canterbury University College, I have, of course, compared "Smad" with "Canta." and in spite of all the boosting done by those who sought subscriptions, I still think "Canta" is better, though "Smad," I will admit, could be lots worse. There, I've said it. Time will show whether, in the long run. "Smad" will excel.

I don't know if my remark-are welcome, but I feel you might like to fill a few odd spaces in "Smad" with my ideas on V.U.C., as compared with C.U.C. I read, somewhere recently—I think it must have been in the hand book—that some people are mean enough to call our 'Varsity here a night school. The idea! But, let me breathe a secret—if the under-grads of V.U.C. were more active to under-grad tradition, they would all wear gowns and so run less risk of having their 'Varsity dubbed night school. You will laugh. I expect, but it quite definitely infra-dig to appear at Cant'y without a gown, and no one Ever calls that 'Varsity a night school.

I have been quite horrified to see what an awful Stud. Ass, you have, and how, more or less as a result, I presume, the main entrance to the College is a seething mass of humanity just after the clock strikes the hour. I see in "Smad" a new Stud. Ass is in the air—I hope it comes soon. I could write pages about Stud. Ass, at Cant'y, hut I'll desist. I shall be pleased to answer the questions of anyone who really wants to know.

As for the College building itself—well, it is certainly picturesque, but has not the old-world grandeur of the ivied grey stone, with its cloisters that one finds in Christchurch. In size, Victoria is decidedly inferior, and—but perhaps I had better be discreet.

The elaborate system in force here with regard to marking the roll during lectures would be regarded as something of a curiosity if introduced in Cant'y—and as for having to sit in definite places and to keep to those places each time—!! Words fail me!

I'm glad you call the V.U.C. eating house a cafeteria. It would be too much of an insult to the C.U.C. tea room to call it anything else. Nuf Sed!

Now, my dear Editor, you've probably said "bunk" to all this. All I can say now, is: "If you don't believe me, you should, and Easter was a good time to find out for yourself.

Audrey!

It is to be hoped that the views expressed by your correspondent "Laugh It Off" were not intended to be taken seriously. His assertion that the Capital City has a decided grievance against the Haeremai Club must surely have been made in a state of abject mental depression, because the people of Wellington always seem as eager to see the procession as the Club is to provide it.

Unfortunately your correspondent does not let matters end there. He then proceeds to expose a lamentable omission on the part of the public of this fair city: that of failing to protest on the appearance in one of our dailies of a certain advertisement, accorded so much publicity in your last issue. Well, we certainly have not heard any criticism of that paragraph, but then they did not set the guns going to let us know that the proprietors at a large concern had unearthed a brilliant example of wit. No, Wellington seems to have accepted the advertisement in the most commendable manner: by simply ignoring it.

Perhaps it would have been better if "Laugh It Off" had accepted it in the same spirit.—Yours truly,

Argus.

Beer and Forbeer.

I wish to register a protest against the regularly blatant way in which the social activities of Victoria representatives at the Easter Tournament were treated off in your last issue.

Why the long-drawn-out belabouring of the beer theme One would think that your contributor had never drunk beer in his life before and was taking a painfully childish satisfaction in telling the world what men he and his friends had been, going to precipitately down the primrose path.

After all, everybody realises that a great many university students do a considerable amount of drinking, but at the same time I think it is scarcely necessary to go to such lengths to emphasise so obvious a fact. For there is also a certain percentage of your readers who do not indulge in such debauches as you describe and who consider this loud-mouthed joculation to be in rather bad taste.

Consider for a moment what the circulation of your paper would be if you devoted entire columns to the evangelical populations of the S.C.M.; and then transfer your thoughts to the case in point.

I do not wish to discuss the ethical points for or against drinking as I have my own views in the matter, but I do hope that a little consideration will be exercised in the future in describing such events, and that your contributor will realise that it is not through vulgar boasting that he will attain to the enviable status of a man of the world.

Behind the Scenes.

"Smad" at the Russian Ballet.

I suppose few of us that visited the Russian Ballet ever thought of the terrific amount of hard work and exactment that is demanded of the dancers. This morning I managed to induce the door keeper to allow me on to the scene of action—the ballet was rehearsing. The first impressive thing was the happy friendliness and camaraderie that seems such a bond among the various members. Even to me, an outsider, they were friendly and talkative, although some were limited by lack of English vocabulary. Blinova. the Prima Ballerina, is an intriguing personality.

The stage, denuded of scenery, made a grim background for the hard work. Leon Wozikowski, master of the Ballet, sat on a chair near the footlights shouting vigorously in French and Russian, gesticulating and stamping. This one was a few inches out of line; up more with that hand! A desperate "Nor! Nor!" pulled up one man doing a half-hearted turn—Wozikowski leapt from his chair—"Sor, Sor," and repeated the movement perfectly. Someone bantered him, and off went the pianist again. Off came the men with flying leaps, and flopping on to the piles of canvas lying round, rested themselves.

On the wings some girls were pirouetting on toes, holding the other leg above the head; others doing amazing back kicks; some men practised scissors and others were spinning, about three or four times in each spring, too!

Beside me, some anxious mothers were waiting for rehearsals to finish in order that their offspring might do Cossack dances before Woisikowski. (One lad was quite good.)

There was no uniform practise dress—some wore conventional tights, others just slacks and shirt. Most of the men wore bandeans to keep their hair in place.

These Russians like Wellington and the weather, but bewail the fact that there is no night life. New Zealand ham and coffee is "no good." Tea is better than coffee.

On the Continent two performances are given on Sunday. Yes, and when a new ballet is being learnt, there are three rehearsals a day, besides performances.

They enjoyed Rotorua immensely but they got so tired on the long: journey from Rotorua to Auckland—at one stage the car broke down, and it was four hours before another passed—they stayed on the road nil night. At one o'clock (p.m.) the practising finished and I was fortunate to go out to lunch with Jean Hoyer—the stage manager—and a charming person, too.

Smad's Monthly Contest.

Wake Up and Think.

Whatever may be said or written about "Smad's" being an organ of Student Opinion, we are almost convinced that it is a Body—and a body that lacks a brain! That is. a challenge. We have thrown down the gauntlet. Sound the trumpets, send forth your heralds and gird on your armour, for the stakes are high.

Through the Lists are our knights riding—aimless and idle. Fair damsel have lost their glamour and the dragons have all been slain.

To Horse, then, o knights, for the tourney is on! We have a new contest: the Battle of Brains and Brawn! Groom your steeds and train your squires; trim your beards and rouse your ires. Gallop into the Lists and brazen your way to Victory. Set high on sapling pole is a shimmering wreath to tantalize you into a frenzy of Desire to Possess. If you can attain that exalted wreath you have attained Originality and the Tournament is won.

To horse, boot, saddle and away —the trumpets sound and eager knights swarm the field!

Gather around. Hold your horses while fair words of explanation spill in illumination from the lips of the Lady Rowena.

This is the contest: You are to supply, in rhymed couplets of any metre, a list of the six platitudes you hate most intensely.

Spill your Wit.
Vent your Wrath,
Write it in Hate
Or in bubbling Froth.
Tell us your hates
And we shall admire,
Here is a chance
To exploit your Ire.

Wellington by Night

After months of absence.

Who would forsake you, Wellington,
Wellington by night ?
Wellington from Kelburn Hill—
What a heavenly sight!

O come you up to Kelburn Hill,
All you who would be free!
O come you up by night and feel
The grip of Poesy!

—M.L.

With the Current

Setting sails towards the sunset.
Steered by the canvas of a dream,
Life presses: and this planet
Moves slowly down Time's stream.

This is the end of Hope and Laughter . . .
No haven for the night:
Westward they press, they move forever
Out of my heart and sight.

—M.L.