Kiwi I943

The Magazine of the

Auckland University College

Editor:

B E T T Y J . B E L S I I A W , M.A.

Business Manager:

A . P . POSTLEWAITE, A.P.A.N.Z.

Circulation Manager:

MARGARET HOODLESS.

Editorial Committee:

K A T H L E E N OLDS, J U N E SAVAGE, E L S I E M . T H O M A S , B.SC.,

TRAVIS C . W I L S O N , I . PATERSON.

Volume XXXVII

CONTENTS Page

Editorial 3 Tzigane-—Travis C. Wilson 4 Fragment—D. McC 4 A Sea Change?—E. A. Horsman 5 To Aldous Huxley—E. A. Horsman 10 The Scarlet Tuning-fork—Caliban 11 Garden Party— W.E.A 12 Love on the Poll—Heathcliffe 13 Sarsaparilla Saga—B.A 14 the perfect professor—Kitwop 15 Only a Kettle—Travis C. Wilson 16 Conventional Viewpoint—R.M 17 There Was Darkness—J.C.R 18 Persian Lyric—R.I.F.P 23 While She is Dressing—Travis C. Wilson 24 Mona Lisa (A Triolet)—Travis C. Wilson 24 The Soldier Boy—A. Demain 25 Youth Passes—R.I.F.P 27 Transfusion—W.E.A 27 theophilia—Caliban 28 Common-room Conversations 30 From the Past—R.I.F.P 31 Group Discussion—Neil G. Smith 31 Roll of Honour 33 New Year—1941—D.J.S 34 Graduates—1942 35 Graduates—1943 40 Competition Results 45

ILLUSTRATIONS From Albert Park—J. G. Prendergast facing page 12 Reflets sur I'eau—W. R. Haresnape ,, 13 Graduates—1943 40' Executive—1942-43 41

The following- persons wish to state that, contrary to the announcement on page three of K I W I , 1 9 4 1 , they were not responsible for the final selection of material for K I W I , 1 9 4 1 : —

E. A. Horsman R. Y. L. Seymour

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EDITORIAL

I T is spring again in Albert Park—the oak trees are green and fresh and the tulips bright. But the unsightly air-raid trenches are still there; we are still a country at war.

In time of war the present and immediate future are vital; we cannot live in the past. W e can regret the passing of the green grass, we can leisurely deplore the mud heaps around the trenches, but the remembrance of things past, tranquil reflection on what has been, are things we will not know again until the days of peace. That is why, in the fifth year of the war, the Diamond Jubilee of the College passes uncelebrated. When the victory is won, then we will look back and survey the achievements of sixty years. But there are some who will not look back—we pay tribute to them in our Roll of Honour.

This pre-occupation with things immediate and things material may account for the small quantity and indifferent quality of prose, verse and art work submitted to KIWI. If poetry is the result of "emotion recollected in tranquility" we may expect a great outflowing of poetry in the years fol low-ing the war. But it is disappointing to find so little good prose being written. The upheavals of war should set men's minds to thinking on values. Yet the apathy to be expected from University students is pitifully evident in con-tributions to KIWI. There is a lack of concern with public affairs and an equal lack of concern with academic affairs.

Men of this College are fighting overseas to destroy a way of life that they know to be wrong. Surely we, who are making so little sacrifice, could devote some energy to keeping alive our right to free expression, a right which Nazi-ism has repudiated, and a right for which free men over the world are sacrificing their lives. W e cannot imagine a Russian University Magazine losing the opportunity for exposition of the Russian way of life to-day and for discussion of the new society after the war. It may be propaganda, but it shows a real concern with real living—a concern almost entirely lacking in this College.

Even if creative work is at a standstill we might expect vigorous criticism from students of a university college. New Zealand writers have not been inactive during the past two years, yet there is no evaluation of New Zealand literature, or of any other literature for that matter. Art and music are still flourishing, and a new art form, the dance drama, has grown up in Auckland in the last few years. Yet on these things K I W I has no opinions to offer.

The greater part of the verse submitted was escapist, pure fairy-tale stuff, romancings on the beauty of nature, or adolescent reflections on life. T o o many of the poems were written from the point of view of a person of more mature years and therefore lacked sincerity. The withdrawal into ivory towers may be typical of university students, but is an unhealthy sign. When the literature of a people is divorced from reality and ceases to be a social expression it descends to artificiality—the old cry of art for art's sake.

If the University is going to take its real place in the life of the com-munity it must cast aside abstractions and unrealities, its literary contribution to the community must be vigorous and full-blooded—it must be the work of men and women who not only think but do.

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Tzigane I loved the daffodils aglow beneath A sun which warmed where spring winds chilled: and gorse Whose yellow blaze ran rioting o'er hills And in a fragrant cloud the valleys dressed: When these were gone, night's shadows only lit By the leaping brushwood fire, whose acrid smoke Would wreathe the ghostly trees with soft festoons Of clinging blue: and rain I loved—soft rain Like a misty haze on the moors; and mist itself Grey and unending: the gentle wind-songs That by their melody would sway the pines to song, So that they sighed their memories: and the great Boisterous gales, that laughing flung the wet branch In my face: the song of a bird just waking To the rapture of the world: these I loved, All these, dear heart, till you came, with your elfin face, And your haunting violin. And now I see Black hair with a scarlet kerchief bound—red lips And laughing brown eyes—and the only song Is the throbbing strain from your bow.

— T R A V I S C. WILSON.

Fragment We never mentioned the rapture we shared

That sunlit moment the gods had dared Lend paradise. Your darkened eyes Were strangely calm, as stillest night. We reached the peak of all delight While petals drifted, Dipped and lifted, Gliding from the clouded cherry tree, Each as light as moonbeams, and as free, Save only one, Which, passing, clung To the shadowed gold of your silken hair, Delayed, a breath of spring, and lingered there.

—D. McC.

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. . . . A SEA CHANGE ? Aspects of Aldous Huxley's spiritual biography.

" F T -L 1\ E words sum up every biography," says Beavis in Aldous Huxley's

"Eyeless in Gaza," "Video meliora proboque; dc terror a sequor." Yet though it is easy, from the evidence furnished by his novels, to believe that Huxley was applying these words to himself, they form—even when expanded in terms of that evidence—an inaccurate summary of his own spiritual development. For the very notion of a course or a quality of conduct which he would call "better" than any other is of comparatively late appearance in his work, while the positive approval of any such meliora is a still later development. And without such a notion and the approval of it, deteriora seems just without meaning.

"Without meaning . . ." There is the essence of the view of life elaborated in Huxley's early novels—in "Crome Yellow," in "Antic Hay," or in "Mortal Coils." It is, to us, a strange world, unsatisfying, depressing, devoid of actuality because everything is called in doubt—an upper middle-class world where life has an emptiness which breeds cynicism. Its inhabitants seem to find themselves in a favourable environment which makes possible their privileges and yet, by the very fact that it opposes little or no resistance to their desires, makes life for them devoid of the zest of conflict. "One gets so stale and wilted, so unutterably bored," says Lucy Tantamount, speaking for them all. Dinners, theatres, winters in Italy or the south of France, and, as a pleasant indoor sport, " love,"

These with a thousand small deliberations Protract the profit of their chill delerium, Excite the membrane, when the sense has cooled, W ith pungent sauces, multiply variety In endless mirrors. . . .

No sound or fury about this life, but it signifies, Huxley makes you feel, absolutely nothing. "Nil, omnipresent nil, world-soul, spirited informer of all matter," thinks Mrs. Viveash as she and Gumbril make their way round a door crowded with dancers in fancy dress. "Nil in the shape of a black-breeched. moon-basined toreador. Nil, the man with the greyhound's nose. . . . Nil, the faces one ought to know by sight, reflected in the mirrors of the hall. Nil this Gumbril whose arm is round one's waist, whose feet step in and out among one's own. Nothing at all."

It is a society of the early nineteen twenties — "I came out of the chrysalis," says Lucy Tantamount, "during the war, when the bottom had been knocked out of everything" ; standards of value have been forcibly dis-integrated, the "moral assurances" in conduct destroyed. But it is significant that the inhabitants of this world without values shape their feelings into questions rather than negations—in "Mortal Coils," the " W h y ? W h y ? W h y ? " of Lucrezzia in the early sunshine after a night with Antonio ; or the more sophisticated query of Mr. Hutton, the self-styled "gay -dog " : "But is there seriously a difference between the noble and the ignoble?" Willy-nilly, they seem to feel the lack of these moral assurances. Unable to disregard them, equally unable to throw them overboard, these strange hedonists have neither Cherubin's gaiety nor the gusto of Panurge or Falstaff. More, those upon

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whom the author focuses attention seem incapable of giving themselves completely, even in sexual love. Vivamus mea Lesbia, they would like to say, but, in the very act, the words which come are Noli me tangere and, in the shrinking, cynical ego, they remain untouched. So there is only a sort of aim-less, almost impersonal, experimenting in sensation, a vague searching for . . . . what? Pleasure? "But , " thinks Air. Hutton, "taking all things together he had probably been more bored than amused. Once upon a time he had believed himself to be a hedonist. But to be a hedonist implies a certain pro-cess of reasoning, a deliberate choice of known pleasures, a rejection of known pains. This had been done without reason, against it. For he knew before-hand that there was no interest or pleasure to be derived from these wretched affairs. And yet each time the itch came upon him he succumbed, involving himself once more in the old stupidity. . . ."

"The old stupidity"; surely this is no End. Well , what is? Iiuxley does not know, but he searches, and it is in this search that we find the thread of continuity between the early and the later novels, between, for instance, "Brave New Wor ld " and "Grey Eminence." For what is "Brave New Wor ld " but an attempt to see what happens if we ask no questions about ultimate ends and concentrate upon the production of immediate pleasures? Here is a world where, with psychological conditioning from the foetus on. you can never be troubled with ambition ; if you become bored there is "soma," the drug which will weave you pleasant dreams for as long as you like—and with no aftereffects ; no poverty, no crime; and love, at last completely divorced from procreation, dancing to the accompaniment of Malthusian drill from flower to flower. For the savage, the reader of Shakespeare, whom the author introduces into this fantastic place, there is nothing left but to die. For the reader there is only Mr. Norman Long's question, "Lumme, I arsks yer, what for?" And Huxley doesn't know, but he still persists in asking, even though it hurts; perhaps even because it hurts.

His acute mind sees many alternative answers. In art, we find him sug-gesting, value may become known to men. A Beethoven slow movement or a Bach suite seem, like la petite phrase de Verdurin in "Du cote de chez Swann," to come charged with " line rcalitc siiperieure aux chases concretes,'' so that goodness, beauty seem possible, worth striving for. But Huxley faces us with the cheapness of so many art-worshippers' lives—Airs. Aldwinkle in "Those Barren Leaves," a flirt of some fifty summers, gushing over "Joy in the work for its own sake. . . . Flaubert spent days over a single sentence. . . . Wonderful. . . ." And anyway, the spiritual effect of art is merely temporary. The great artists, says Mark Staithes, "give you just a taste of the next world, then let you fall back, flop, into the m u d " ; and his is the final word: "I feel rather like Nurse Cavell about it. . . . Painting, music, literature . . . ., they're not enough." Well , what of the "disinterested play of the intellect" which Matthew Arnold valued so much? That is attainable in this privileged milieu, perhaps it can furnish ends intrinsically valuable. Philip Ouarles in "Point Counterpoint" guides his life by some such principle, only to conclude: "In the last year or so I have begun to see that this famous Search for Truth is just an amusement, a distraction like any other, a rather refined atid elaborate substitute for genuine living; and that Truth-Searchers become just as silly, infantile and corrupt in their way as the boozers, the pure aesthetes, the busi-ness men. the Good-Timers in theirs." Religion, too, is tried in the balance and found wanting. W e may have the pious good-sense of Mrs. Ouarles, but

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then there is also the inanity of Priscilla Wimbush in "Crome Y e l l o w " : "You 've no idea how amusing and exciting life becomes when you do believe. All that happens means something; nothing you do is ever insignificant. It makes life so jolly, you know. . . . 1 have the Infinite to keep in tune with, and then there's the next world, and all the spirits, and one's Aura, and Mrs. Eddy and saying you're not ill, and the Christian mysteries and Mrs. Besant. It's all splendid. One's never dull for a moment. . . ."

And so Huxley's mind, brilliant in its perception and exposition of alternatives, is unable to break the circle formed by the musings of Mr. Hutton : " . . . . is there really a difference between the noble and ignoble? Milton, the stars, death, and himself—himself. The soul, the body ; the higher and the lower nature. Perhaps there was something in it after all. Milton had a god on his side and righteousness. What had he? Nothing, nothing whatever. There were only Doris' little breasts. What was the point of it all? Milton, the stars, death, and Emily in her grave. Doris and himself— always himself."

"Himself—always himself." Here is the core of Huxley's problem. The novels up to "Point Counterpoint" seem to show a man who can believe only in his private experience, and yet feels keenly the lack of something external which will give that private experience validity. The problem, of course, is common to many modern writers. Eliot elaborates some of its emotional implications in the early pieces—"Rhapsody on a Windy Night," for instance —-and in "The Waste Land." Joyce, preoccupied in " l lvsses" with the inner world of Bloom and company and in "Finnegan's Wake" with (for aught 1 can discover) the inner world of James Joyce, appears similarly self-bound. And Proust, too, expatiating upon Swann's first taste of a madelin cake dipped in tea or his enchantment by la petite phrase de Verdurin. The "autonomous" individual, which the Renaissance championed against feudal conservation and the religious dogmatism which supported it, has borne fruit in liberal democracy with its anarchy of competing interests. Society gives predomin-ant support to the anarchic values of bourgeois individualism, and these insinuate themselves under various guises into the so-called absolute values of both traditional and sectarian religion. Where can the honest man turn? He seems thrust back upon himself—unless he can belong to those who have faith in the human values of a "classless" non-competitive society. And Huxley is clearly not one of these. Revolution, asks Mark Staithes in "Point Counterpoint, "delightful in the preliminary stages, . . . but afterwards, if the thing's a success—what then? More wireless sets, more chocolates, more beauty parlours, more girls with better contraceptives. . . . The moment you give people the chance to be piggish, they take it—thankfully. . . . In Russia they haven't yet had the chance to be pigs. Circumstances have forced them to be ascetics. But suppose their economic experiment succeeds; suppose a time comes when they're all prosperous—what's to prevent them turning into Babbitts? Millions and millions of soft piggish Babbitts, ruled by a small minoritv of ambitious Staithses." The (perhaps inevitable) stress of Com-munists and Socialists upon political tactics rather than upon ultimate human goals both misleads and repells him.

Of course it is possible—in a debased form the Nazis have tried it—to find some kind of solidarity with one's fellows in the realm of what 1). H. Lawrence calls "intuitive experience"—the spontaneous life of our instincts

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and sympathies. Tn the character of Mark Rampion in "Point Counterpoint" Huxley experiments with this alternative, too. Rampion, flat character though he is, is the first of Huxley's men to be drawn with any sympathy, the first in whom the author takes an interest other than as protagonist in a cynical debate. After the Gumbrils and Lypiatts, the Scogans and Calamys, Rampion's vigorous assertion of the intrinsic value of the flesh and the life of the body stands out in strong relief. In the people around him — Mary Amberley with her spurious gaiety, Spandrell seducing women he doesn't love merely for the degradation of it, Quarles cultivating the "intellectual life"—he sees "always the same hatred of life . . . different kinds of death—the only alternative." Mechanical "civilisation," through its devitalisation of men and women is running straight to destruction—"And," shouts Rampion, "the only thing the reformers can find to talk about is the shape, colour, and steering arrangements of the vehicle. Can't the imbeciles see that it's the direction that matters, that we're entirely on the wrong road—we've got to go back, preferably on foot, without the stinking machine." But Huxley cannot rest on Lawrence's assumptions either, and Anthony Beavis, the diarist of "Eyeless in Gaza," voices his protest: " . . . . life, life as such, . . . it was not enough. How could one be content with the valuelessness of a power, that for all its mysterious divineness, was yet unconscious, beneath good and evil . . . raw material and a stream of energy. Impressive for their quantity, their duration. But qualitatively they were only potentially valu-able: would become valuable only when made up into something else."

So what is to be done? Huxley finds both the individual's private experi-ence, and the life of men in society, without value. Society for him means middle-class society. He has no conception of the world of the common people with—along with their quota of selfishness, cruelty, and inertia—their stubborn vitality and self-respect, their generosity and human sympathy. He can have no faith in a society rebuilt by such men. So he sees the dilemma of the modern world as one for which men are directly responsible as individual moral (that is to say, immoral) beings, rather than indirectly responsible through the creation of dehumanised economic machinery which enslaves (in different ways) both leisured and working classes. The only way out seems, then, to be by some religious path. For if men are so essentially depraved as the middle-class examples Huxley takes to be typical, then they must be saved from themselves, not from the inevitable anarchy of a particular type of social organisation.

Once again he's in difficulties. If he denies value to everything on earth, including human individuality, Christianity can afford him no solution. For the Christian's God—the source and foundation of the Christian's values-4— though he transcends the world is yet the creator of the world, so that good is latent in it and its history is a part of the revelation of his purposes. And at the human end of the scale, individuality is valuable as the very condition of freedom and of redemption. Neither of these cardinal principles is accept-able to Huxley ; it seems clear that he will need a mystical, not an apocalyptic religion. (If we accept the definition which John Oman gives in "The Natural and the Supernatural" of the difference between mystical and apocalyptic religions: "In the former case the eternal is sought as the unchanging In escape from the evanescent; in the latter it is looked for in the evanescent as a revelation of the increasing purpose in its changes.")

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In other words, life—as Sybille Bedford put it, bluntly, in "Hor izon" last May—life has become too bad to be true. Therefore it isn't true. Ultimate reality is on another plane entirely, and we reach it only by a complete abro-gation of the human plane, only by what Huxley calls "non-attachment." "The mystics," he writes in "Grey Eminence," "are channels through which a little knowledge of reality filters down into our human universe of ignorance and illusion."

After the cynicism of the earlier novels this seems a sea-change into something more strange, if not more rich, than Ariel dreamt of. All this elaboration of the technique of mystical contemplation in "Eyeless in Gaza," "Ends and Means," and "Grey Eminence" seems to involve a higher opinion of humanity in that man is now regarded as having the potentiality of attain-ing to knowledge of God. Indeed God is actually identified with some area of the human self-consciousness as developed by contemplation. But eventually that individuality is negated. For men are valued, in the end, not for their individuality but for the extent to which they transcend it and gain entrance to the undifferentiated unity of eternity. The originally heightened sense of the value of individual self-consciousness means nothing, because the individual is eventually swallowed up in the divine. Beavis, "constantly aware of being unique and separate," regards evil as "the accentuation of that separateness: good whatever makes for unity with other lives and other beings" ; and the final word is the individual's "annihilation in God."

Then, is there any great difference between throwing merciless mud at the Scogans and Spandrells, and warning us (as in "Grey Eminence") against the consequences of "merely behaving like human beings, of existing unre-generately as natural men"? It looks as if the author's human sympathies are still undeveloped, l ie has got no nearer than in the early novels to accepting men (including himself) and loving them as such.

Even our old friend Nil from "Antic Hay" — "world-soul, spiritual informer of all matter"—has a suspicious resemblance to the undifferentiated unitv known in mystical experience, as Huxley sees it—"Minds like ours can only perceive undifferentiated unity as nothing. Unescapable paradox that we should desire that n should be equal to one, but that, in fact, we should alwavs find that one is equal to nought." If we are to be presented with a purely negative definition of the eternal world of value (for if it is perceived "as nothing," then all we can say about it is that it is "not anything which the finite world is") , and if the final good for man is absorption into that negation, it looks as if, on earth here, we're back where we started.

And certainly this seems to be proved by the example Huxley chooses in " Grey Eminence." Father Joseph, / 'Eminence Grise, seems to be able to " practise the presence of God," with the most rigorous asceticism, while at the same time, as Richelieu's right-hand man, working for the prolongation of the Thirty Years' War—"a policy whose immediate results in death, in misery, in moral degradation, were plainly to be seen in every part of seventeenth century Europe, and from whose remoter consequences the world is still suffering to-day." Any twinges which this work gave Father Joseph, he was able to "annihilate in God." Of course, the author hastens to explain that the trouble was Father Joseph followed Berulle or somebody in substituting Christ and the Virgin—that is, persons—for the

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undifferentiated Godhead. That may be, but one can't help feeling, with Sybille Bedford, that the French people were right when they said in their suffering that "if these be the fruits of mental prayer and the unitive life, they saw no reason why they shouldn't stick to wine and women."

No, like it or not, we're men, with earthly bodies, faults, and social rela-tionships, and we're conditioned to a great extent by earthly circumstances. W e will come to terms neither with the world nor with ourselves by running away from both. But even if we believe Huxley's solution to be an escape from the necessity of accepting men "for better or for worse," we cannot help admiring the honesty and ingenuity which got him to it. And as we follow him through from "Crome Ye l low" to "Grey Eminence" — through all the dogged bitterness, the almost criminal self-laceration, the shrug which wants to be devil-may-care and only succeeds in being hang-dog, to the earnestness of a conviction difficult to avoid on his premises — as we follow these, we know, if not the characters Huxley puts before us, at least the quality of the spiritual experience of a man who is very much alive in this twentieth century.

— E . A. H O R S M A N .

To Aldous Huxley I come from dissolution in the End,

Where the infinite illumines and devours. Where I am one, am none, am all, transcend

The body with its tale of days and hours. The world, undifferentiated one.

Nor good nor bad, in pleasure nor in pain. Returns now—now self's egotism shun

And unified with all life live again.

But is this knowledge you have gained in death To that which makes you with us bound in blood

And. bone and sinew, fostered in the earth To fight your way to spirit through strife with mud?

What is this would speak you "Peace be still," When men in Stalingrad must die and kill?

— E . A. HORSMAN.

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The Scarlet Tuning-fork (A Surrealist Poet Hymns His Love)

No doubt, My love, that three small billiard-balls Balanced on a typewriter Surmounted by an ostrich feather Painted deep violet, And wrapped (Rather meticulously) In an old oil-shin bearing the mystic words, "Mein Kampf" Has scarcely so much symmetry As has your aura-shaking form. Your nose ("And in her hand the thing became A trumpet!") Straight as a Bacchus-stricken Reveller's homeward path, Persuades itself upon your seismographic face. And then your eyes! Limpid as two naked oysters Floating in a rosebowl. Two ears, limp clocks, In which I pour, as from a flagon, The frothing liquor of my malted words, Like fragile d u mplings Peep mischievously from 'ncath Your green-tipped, hay-stacked hair. What words, Poor empty dead-marines of words. Futile echoes from the oil-drum Of my brain, What words (Save those, perhaps, of the caretaker Who slew the seven warlocks With a knitting-needle And his sister's discarded bustle) Can paint your gait? Ligh t as the tread of some small Elephant with elephantiasis, Picking his miasmic way Through fields of shattered bottles,— Ethereal as a broken bust Of Gladstone Crowned with a diver's helmet, And having a red scarf Knotted just seven times around the neck, And like in all To the pathetic flapping Of a broken telephone-wire

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In sum, my fur-lined tea-cup You intoxicate my senses, Such as they be, oh dew-machine,, As' do the mingled images Of a dachshund On a dissecting table Baying a crescent moon adorned Rakishly With the skulls of fifteen ant-eaters, A steaming bowl of spinach A Lapp, Three pieces of purple cellophane And, the haze from a rather large And strikingly beautiful pile Of palpitating ensilage. A woman of women, In very truth!

CALIBAN.

Garden Party (IIow the Twist Got in the Beanstalk)

Caught Where the crossed lights met Between sunrise and moonset The startled garden spun. Reeled the giddy trees with wavering arms Outstretched for balance, and the flower beds Whorl and wheel of concentric plantings Swung round the axis Of the vanishing darkness. The lion's tail lashed in pardonable confusion. " Where shall we turn f Which way

Is the day?" No dark; all light; No mark between day and night

So the moon subsided in grey and failing yellows Probing sunbeams pinned down the flower beds Held the trees to a staked standstill. But caught

short Between moonset and sunrise Immobile in surprise The convolvulus in the grey mimosa, And the utilitarian fardenlosa, One turning towards moonrise and the other to sunset Haven't untwisted yet,.

— W . E . A .

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F R O M ALBERT PARK J. C. Prendergast

REFLETS SUR L'EAU I W . R. Haresnape

LOVE ON THE POLL

O N C E upon a time there was an elector who did not believe in Party Politics (or Drinking). One year there were six candidates in his electorate. He voted for an Independent man, but the majority voted for the two party candidates. At the next election there were sixteen candidates in his elector-ate. He voted for an Independent man, but the majority voted for the two party candidates. The following election there were twenty-six candidates in his electorate. Again he voted for an Independent man, but the majority voted for the two party candidates.

As the elector, who did not believe in Party Politics (or Drinking), was approaching his seventieth year he decided he was old enough to stand as a candidate at the next election. Being a man who did not believe in Party Politics (or Drinking), he stood as an Independent. He became such a fluent and abusive speaker that all the electors in his electorate came to hear him. He spoke so fervently that lie convinced the electors that they should have the utmost possible contact with their representative in Parliament. He also convinced them of the humanity of Prohibition. So all the electors went home and praised his policy of 110 Party Politics (or Drinking), over their glasses of milk.

All the electors then realised that they could only have the utmost possible contact with their representative by standing for Parliament and being elected themselves.

So all the electors in the electorate of the man who did not believe in Party Politics (or Drinking) stood as Independent candidates. Then the man foresaw that all the electors, who were now the candidates, were so sincere that each would vote for himself, and thus each candidate would get only one vote. T o avoid this he decided to stand down so that he could elect a candi-date bv giving him one more vote than the other candidates (i.e., two votes).

On election day lie duly cast his vote for the candidate he considered most worthy. However, the Hand of Fate stretched out and the chosen candidate died as the polling booths closed.

As the country was now Truly Democratic, the other candidates, who had one vote each, were jointly recognised as the member of the electorate of the elector who did not believe in Party Politics (or Drinking).

And the elector who did not believe in Party Politics (or Drinking) was so completely happy at such a Truly Democratic election, that he took to Drinking immediately.

And to satisfy his growing thirst for Drink, he had to move to another electorate.

— H E A T H C L I F F .

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Sarsaparilla Saga In the days when every hero

spoke the Anglo-Saxon tongue. And concern re drink restrictions

was a saga still unsung, MVhen Beowulf had drained his cup

and praised its plated gold, And distributed his treasure

(as they did in days of old), Tie would sally forth alone, then, To perform some wondrous deed, —As is easy for a hero

While he's still replete with mead.

When he swam the seas with Breca, and the whales received him ill,

Gently he despatched them with his worthy battle-bill;

But he was a gallant atheling with a gallant atheling's creed—

When he'd killed his kinsmen's foemen he would have a drink of mead;

Or he'd murder some poor dragon who'd partaken of his men,

And when he'd, wiped the blood off— he'd drink some mead again.

So even for a Beowulf who transcended mortal skill

In manoeuvres with his "linden" and his "byrny" and his "bill,"

Refreshment was essential, for he'd travelled from afar—

But if Beowulf had his mead-bench why can't WE have a bar>

Now Beowulf was a gentleman, he'd scorn to speak at length,

lie was strong, and manly silence is commensurate with strength.

He paused, in his disc our sings, at at least the thousandth line—

(Such restraint is worth possessing so I'll strive to make it mine).

But the point I wish to emphasise, the burden of my song.

Is that in this worthy college something's manifestly wrong

When caf's leave but non-intoxicants (and in vessels unadorned)

It's a puritan restriction that's requiring to be mourned

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For that young men can't be heroes, is each young maiden's fear—

But how can men be heroes if they haven't got the beer?

For it's hard to be a hero if your speech is still unslurred,

If a "bill" for tea, (or coffee) is all that you've incurred,

If still with " bord" and "byrny" you stand perpe ndicular,

So—if Beowulf had his mead-bench, Why can't we have a barf —B.A.

the perfect professor

f he perfect professor

would never be late. his donnish watch would inevitably reflect the appointed hour, on the other hand he would nev er be early. he would never snoop palely in cloisters observing with professional relish and fiendish glee inipenitent scholars fleeing fast before the academic step, his reception of all late-blossoming efforts would

genial kindly mellow unreproachful benign Resigned. — K I T W O P .

15

ONLY A KETTLE

j B u T T E R , bread, and cream, she said, as she approached the dairy; 1 think that's all. She pulled the fly-screen door and let it bang after her. Mrs. Kemble was already in the shop, serving someone—someone bent and scrawny, head sunk grotesquely between her shoulders, eyes protuberant and blood-shot behind the glasses which had slipped down on her nose. Her skirt reached the floor, and the hem was down. Her clothes were black, rusty black, so was her battered straw hat, from which the whisps of grev-white hair straggled and crawled over her scurf-covered collar. Her swollen mis-shapen hands were covered but not concealed by thread-bare black cotton gloves. She was gossiping with Mrs. Kemble.

The girl tapped her foot impatiently. Straight and slim and tall she stood there, brown hair hanging to her shoulders in a long sleek wave, conscious of her young body beneath the taut sweater and the sheer stockings, conscious of her glowing skin and bright eyes, conscious of her youth, and impatient. Again, her slender brogue beat a tattoo upon the floor.

I am youth, it said, and I cannot wait for age — cannot wait while age gossips at counters, cannot wait, cannot wait. . . .

And age looked round with apology and shuffled out slowly from the shop. "One loaf," said the girl, "and a pound of butter. That was a queer old customer."

"Yes , " said Mrs. Kemble. "She's queer all right. Poor lonely old soul. All by herself, you know, and she won't rally. It'd be all right if only she'd rally. She's terribly sad."

"Sad?" said the girl. "Yes, ever since her husband died three years ago. She's never done any-

thing since, and she often says to me, 'One more day nearer my time.' " "Horrible," said the girl. "She's all by herself, you know, in a room along the road. No fireplace

in the room either. And 1 heard indirectly that the old woman who owns the house won't let her boil anything in her room except a kettle."

"But what does she eat?" " I don't know. Nothing but a kettle, though; that's what I heard. As a

matter of fact, it was told me by the daughter of the woman who owns the house, so she should know."

The girl began to pick up her parcels. "She comes from a good family, too, you know," said Mrs. Kemble. "Her uncle's a bishop in England, I've heard. But she married a sailor, and ran away, and her father swore he'd never speak to her again. Just like a book, it was, the way she told me. Her old man repented, though, as he was dying, and left her £20,000. So her hus-band came out of the service, though he was a captain by then, and they started in business, and lost it all."

"What a shame. Still, she should be in the infirmary," said the girl; "she'd get looked after properly there."

"Yes , she should, for I don't know what she does all day. She doesn't read and she doesn't knit, and she never goes out. She must just sit in that

16

bleak room and think. They say she's got a big photo of her husband there, and her own furniture."

W h y doesn't she stop, thought the girl. W h y does she go on telling me these things. 1 don't want to hear. I don't want to know. I can't do anything.

"Yes , she ought to be in the infirmary," she said, "where there are others like her. It's awful." She took determined steps towards the door.

"Awful , " she said, as she stepped into the sunshine. 1 won't think about it. 1 can't do anything. W hy should 1 make myself miserable. There must be others just as badly off or even worse, and what can I do about them? But because she was not a bad sort of girl at heart, she imagined impossible scenes in which she visited the old woman in her horrible cold room and gave her a new interest in life. She saw herself as a Little Lady Bountiful, and she pic-tured people saying, "What a kind girl she is." But the picture soon faded, and she knew she would never do these things. She went on more quickly, holding the bread against her so the paper wouldn't come undone. The sun glinted on her hair as she turned the corner. Only a kettle, she thought for a little while, but forgot to think about it any more when some Yanks waved at her gaily from a passing jeep.

—TRAVIS C. W I L S O N .

Conventional Viewpoint The moderns do to poetry Just wl\(tt they do to art: Look, stranger, at this canvas here: A supine telephone; some purple lips— A shade too sensual for the moderate, and Judging by the scarlet pendant ear a yard Or two away, the non-existent face is Better non-existent; an upright carrot Growing from a mournful violet skull; a dozen Yellow squares; the lot entitled: "Boll's Eyes," "Inspiration," or a "Nymph by Moonlight." Poetry (or verse) is much the same—no such thing as metre rime sense or fullstops just on and on and on and on. why not write such trash (as this) in prose? why not? well, why write such trash (as this) at allf

—R.M.

17

"THERE WAS DARKNESS"

T H E rabbi paused on the crest of the hill and pushed the damp, screw-like locks from his forehead Age was slowly hardening his limbs. The climb to-day had tired him more than usual.

Yet is was good to get out of the valley even for this short space. Leaning slightly forward like a resting bird, he breathed heavily, while his small, deep-sunken eyes brooded on the rocky slopes. A chill wind stirred his robes and his long black beard, but he was oblivious to it.

It was Saturday. The school was closed and the Jewish shops in the village were locked and shuttered. The exhausting formal rituals of the day had ended, but this, his private hour of meditation, was a ritual almost as important in his life as the ceremonies of the synagogue, a drink of cold, pure water.

His eyes passed over the marshy meadows, the stony hillsides and the rye-fields to the village at his feet, but he saw little of them. His mind was moving down the past as through a dimly-lit tunnel.

Nearly all his manhood had been spent in this valley, nearly fifty years since he had come from the cakal in Warsaw. They had been for the most part, years of pain, of sullen opposition, of misunderstanding and of a hatred which at times glowed like an ember and at others sprang into a terrible, devouring flame. His people bore everywhere, despite themselves, the seeds of antagonism and distrust. And he had laboured, sick often at heart, to bring about a peace and understanding which seemed almost beyond human power.

Then there was the black shadow of the memory of the last war, the ravaged countryside, the slaughter, the open wounds of human agony. And afterwards, with the birth of the new nation, something of hope, a glimmering of acceptance, the barest promise of justice, llis chin sank to his breast. Would there ever be that simple acceptance of his people as men and women like other men and women? The new laws were easier, but heavy layers of centuries of distrust lay hard on the hearts of men. The separate schools, the holy day, and all those things which were part of their new freedom, marked his people off, made them different. And there are few things the peasant hates as much as difference.

Thus and thus. And now, in Germany, there was this new and more terrible persecution. When relief seems closest at hand, the heel crushes again. He had heard much of the black-shirted bullies, of the cruel youths, and of the brutal degradations; all the tightening of the eternal screw. And to crown the stories, during these last weeks, the talk was of war again.

He looked at the cottages and villas. Few of the people below knew much of it. They knew of Germany and the blusterings of her leaders, and had some idea of the cruelties of the new tyranny, but they were far from Warsaw, and too much occupied with the business of living to pay much attention to other worlds. Memories are short for unpleasant things. The past was the past. In the melancholy stoicism that the race had developed, the agonies of yester-day were muted. But the whole soul of the land would be torn with pain beyond all awakened memory should war come and his people fall into the hands of men who hated the Jews as few had ever hated them before.

18

For a long time he stood thus. Then at once his shoulders quivered. There was not the savour in the air to-day. He was suddenly conscious of the chill and saw that the edge of the hills was dark. He should go. He turned slightly back to regain the road and saw outlined like a strange tree against the dim sky, the Christian shrine which stood a little way off the path. The life-sized figure hanging on the cross in the unsensed presence of which he had so often mused for an instant blended with his mood. This man had been of the Jewish race and had suffered, too. The rabbi rubbed his beard and set off down the hill. . . .

The priest on his way home from a visit to a farm beyond the marsh, saw the thin, black figure descending the slope, stopped and watched. He could almost set his clock on Saturdays by the old man's climb. Fie could never quite understand why the rabbi did it. Indeed, he could never quite under-stand anything about the rabbi. At first, because he was honest with himself, he had thought it was because of the tremendous gulf of belief and custom between them and of the ingrained prejudices of race, but later he had come to realise that it was something inaccessible in the old man himself. As he watched the rabbi approaching he remembered the years of bitterness, the village hatred of the Jews, the lack of charity in which he, too, had shared. He had feared Jewish skill and cleverness, had been disgusted at the dirt of some of them, had distrusted their silence as much as their speech.

But, slowly, as those terrible post-war years of common suffering, of disease and famine had shown Jew and Pole as one in misfortune, the distrust softened. In the presence of an acceptance of privation he could not quite comprehend, despite his own knowledge of pain as man and as priest, he had come to acknowledge, and even to admire, the old Jew. So, almost as a sign of the new nation, the two men of God had become, not friends, but men, who though separated by so much, saw deeper into each other, than friends blinded by intimacy, often do. Frequently the two would walk together in silence right through the village, at first a source of shocked and disapproving com-ment to the old farmers in the inns and the Jews in the houses round the market-place, later an accepted part of the village life.

To-night the priest felt the need for talking. Clutching his cape to his chest, he waited at the end of the street, and as the Jew drew near, greeted him, as always, with a slight lifting of his hand as if in an arrested blessing.

"Good evening," said the rabbi, stepping over a muddy little trickle. "Good evening," said the priest. "The air is chill to-night." "On the heights it is, indeed." There was a brief silence as they walked together down the street. "The news is bad to-day. The Germans are becoming more and more

threatening," said the priest. "Yes. I do not like it. Will they fight, do you think?" "I don't believe so. Thev have been successful with lies until now.

Perhaps they will succeed again." "But, one day soon, someone must stand against them. Such wickedness

cannot la.st. They have tortured those of your belief as well as mine." "Yes , " whispered the priest, "but men cling hard to peace." "Are there not," replied the rabbi, his eyes on the half-veiled hills, "things

19

worse than war — cruelty, brutality, the abuse of holy things, the loss of everything but life?"

The priest was silent. He did not notice the nods and greetings of the peasants who passed them on the street or who leaned from the windows.

"The souls of men are wicked to-day," the rabbi continued. "There is much to do. I had thought that all that was behind. My people have suffered so much. If war comes, we will all suffer, and it will be more terrible than anything our country has ever seen."

"Our country knows the meaning of suffering." " T o o much. Has it not earned its rest?" The}- had come to the end of the road and lingered before parting. The

rabbi placed a lean, trembling hand on the priest's arm. "I feel that this time it might be more than man can bear. I see nothing but darkness ahead. To-night, 1 am afraid."

The priest glanced quickly at him. "It is in the mind of us all. May God grant that peace continues so that

we may build well." "Yes , " said the rabbi. "Good-night." "Good-night," said the priest, and stood for a moment watching the black

throat of a narrow street swallow the lean figure. A sharp wind chilled his ears. The sky was black and very low as if it hid a formless terror ready at a signal to be vomited on the village. The petulant cry of a baby in a near-by house broke the silence. The priest remained in thought, possessed by a dull sense of helplessness. When would they come?

It was just six weeks afterwards that they came—in all their force. By that time, most of the young men had gone, summoned to distant Warsaw. The dreaded war had launched its inconceivable fury, its monstrous weight of machines and bombs on Poland, and in corners and kitchens, old women wailed and moaned, old men sat in grim, remembering silence. The news had at first paralysed them with its unexpectedness ; then, as the details of German might and ruthlessness had reached the village, this paralysis had been replaced by the disturbance of uncertainty and naked fear.

On the Wednesday, the men in the fields could hear the distant roar of guns, and overhead huge aeroplanes flew backward and forward. A few of the villagers seized their belongings and fled east. I>ut most remained, con-fident that the actual battlefields would be far away. Besides, in the east lav-Russia, and the news had come that, as but a few short years ago, she, too, was advancing with shells and bombs. What could they do but wait like help-less infants between two approaching monsters? Their sons were fighting bravely. Perhaps it would be over soon.

But on Friday, about noon, when the distant noise of fighting had grown less and it seemed as if the waves of conflict were to wash past the valley, a long line of trucks and armoured cars came suddenly down the chief road close to the village. Most of them passed on, but some turned off and drove into the village square.

With a cold, silent precision more terrifying than savage fanaticism, the Germans took possession. There were about twenty young men who had not been called into the army. They were shot just outside the village at one

20

o'clock. The priest went to the German commander to plead for mercy, and was thrown into the street. He staggered home with a broken wrist.

The soldiers occupied the best houses and flung the occupants into the road. Half of the invaders were sent to load the trucks with wheat, rye and potatoes from the stores. They stripped the shops of food, the beds of rugs, the cellars of oil and fuel, and hurled silently aside anyone who dared to pro-test or raise a hand against them. That same evening the officers gathered in the inn to drink, ordering the terrified inkeeper about like a dog. Quite late, those who had taken possession of cottages staggered home past bolted doors and shuttered windows, where dwelt a sullen, watchful silence.

The next morning, the trucks made ready to go. The priest watched them helplessly, thinking with agony in his heart of the dead men, whom he had not been permitted to see, and praying that the Germans would leave without taking any more life. The tall lieutenant in command, a morose, heavy-eyed man, was supervising the loading, when suddenly an old mangy mongrel ran across the street pursued by an excited little Jewish boy of about seven.

With a wry jest to his men, the officer drew his revolver, and taking quick but careful aim shot the animal just as it was about to enter a doorway. The dog uttered one short yelp, twisted sharply in the air and crashed motionless in the mud. The child stopped in horror like a halted film, then swung around and launched himself at the lieutenant's chest, crying, screaming, and flailing with clenched fists. The officer staggered back a pace, then cursing, deliberately brought the butt of his revolver down 011 the boy's head and, as he fell senseless, lifted his heavy boot and kicked him viciously against the side of a house.

He smiled in brutal triumph. But the smile changed almost at once to a grotesque grimace. A shot sounded, he wheeled and fell 011 his face. The Germans rushed to him, and yelled with rage as one pointed to the upper storey of the inn. J11 the window was the boy's father, his hands still clutching a smoking rifle.

"Jews! Jews!" shouted the soldiers. "Jews! Kill the swine!" the cry rang down the groups. They sprang into

activity. Three ran up the stairs and flung the man from the window to the ground, where his broken body was kicked by the officers until it was hardly to be distinguished from the refuse of the streets.

T w o officers issued curt orders and the soldiers split up into small groups which scattered through the village. The Jewish houses, most of which bunched round the market-place, were searched, the Jews dragged into the street and shot or trampled to death—old women, old men, girls and children. For over an hour the reprisals continued. Men were hunted round the corners of streets like animals, dragged from cellars and cupboards like rats, destroyed with a deliberate brutality in which the lust to kill seemed secondary to a mechanical obeying of orders and a response to an inculcated doctrine. Then, a young private, a lad of twenty or so, in a flash of inspiration, slammed the door of a cottage on an old Jewish couple, flutig a can of petrol against the house and set light to it. The flames spread rapidly. In a short time, a large section of the village was blazing, the alien light flickering over streets lined with dead and broken bodies.

The lieutenant who had assumed command smiled grimly. A few orders, the soldiers were assembled, and the trucks moved on as rapidly and as silently as they had come.

21

There was little wind, and the flames soon died. The priest, who had taken refuge in a cottage on the outskirts of the village, watched the departure of the trucks, and his face wet with tears, hastened to collect the living. Soon, most of the survivors were gathered together and they set about, amid the agonised shrieks of the wounded and the wailing of the women, to collect the dead and tend the injured.

The priest was bending over an old man, both of whose legs had been broken, and hampered by his own injured wrist, was striving to attend him, when a hand touched his shoulder. He looked around. It was the black, still figure of the rabbi. The priest, even in all this horror, felt a sweep of joy that the old man was still alive.

" I will," said the rabbi, and bending, he lifted the old man in his arms as easily as if he had been a baby, and bore him into the school-room. The priest followed, amazed at the rabbi's strength. Gently placing him down, the Jew straightened and bandaged the broken limbs. Then he quickly brought order into the sad labours by giving instructions to the men and women who were working in the improvised hospital.

The priest followed, wondering, helping as best he could. The rabbi went from street to street, solacing the wounded and comforting the bereaved. At his gentle voice and beneath his tender hands, the sharp cries of the injured calmed and the pain itself seemed to lessen. Strongly and carefully, he carried them to the school-room. All the afternoon lie worked, washing wounds, straightening limbs, healing, soothing. The priest obeyed all his orders, and did what he could with his scanty medical knowledge. The village doctor, who was a Jew, was one of the first bodies they found.

All through his labours the rabbi said little to the priest that did not arise from their immediate tasks. The priest several times was struck by the extreme whiteness of the Jew's face. It was strained and tired, the skin showing waxen against the black beard and the cheek-bones outlined sharply. But he did not cease in his work. He drove his body as a Spaniard his mule. The stench of bodies in the small room was overpowering. There were few bandages, little medicine, but the rabbi seemed to perform miracles with what was available. Soon the school-room was full. The priest's cottage took some of the bodies, but there were still others. And through it all, with the handful of villagers, the rabbi toiled unceasingly.

Several times, the priest, himself weary to the point of exhaustion, stopped the rabbi.

" Y o u are an old man," he said. " Y o u will kill yourself. Rest. The others can continue."

" I must. The people suffer," said the rabbi. The night came, and there were still wounded to be tended. The priest

marvelled at the rabbi's energy. Above all, lie wondered how the old man had escaped the slaughter, and the thought crossed his mind that it may have been a divine act that had protected him. Once he saw the Jew carry into his rooms a little girl of eight whose arm hung broken and useless, l i e glanced at the rabbi's face. The eyes were glazed with tears, and in them was an expression of agony such as the priest had never seen before on any human countenance.

22

And so it was throughout the night, until, as the dawn was gently flooding the sky, most of the victims had been cared for. Some houses still smouldered, there were cries of pain from many of the injured, and there were patches of dark congealed blood mingled with the mud of the streets. The priest flung himself in a chair, and before he fell asleep, he saw the rabbi by the form of an old woman on the floor, his head bowed, silent.

Late the next morning, one of the old women woke him. Some of the boys who had been sent to the next village for help and medicine had returned. The priest looked around for the rabbi, but he was gone. He sent to his house, but that was empty, and no one in the village had seen him. Perhaps he had gone to some of the outer farms, thought the priest, and then forgot him for a while, for there were the dead to bury, the services to con-duct and a meeting of the older men to attend.

In the late afternoon of Saturday, when the last broken body had been buried, the last prayer said, and some comfort brought to the shattered families, the priest thought again of the old Jew, this time with apprehension. Perhaps he was very ill with the exhaustion of the previous day, perhaps even dead, in some hidden corner. So he questioned all the villagers, but none had seen the old man. Many had been searching the forest for bodies, and had found several who had been pursued there to be slaughtered, but the rabbi was not among them.

As the night descended, the priest, his body weary and his spirit in black despair, set out up the hill. An impulse, born of his aching concern for the old Jew, drew him to the summit, and tired though his limbs were, he pushed them up the familiar path.

At last he came to the top, where he had half expected to find the tall, black figure in meditation. There was nobody there. He looked down at the scarred and mangled village, his soul sick within him ; then, in the fading light, turned to lighten his heart before the crucifix. He drew near, then started back in horror. The sun was very low, but in the dying rays he could see lying on the ground the shattered wooden figure of the Christ, the legs torn from the body and the broken head some distance away.

But there was still a figure on the cross. He was sure of it. He came closer, and then, in a flood of understanding, fell on his knees.

Fastened to the cross with cords was the rabbi, his head on his breast, his beard and chest matted with blood, and his torn robe hanging about his hips. His legs were rigid from his last agonies, and he had been dead for a very long time. —J.C.R.

Persian Lyric Shan-am-bul, heart of the wild rose,

Shan-am-bul, my lovely one, In this calm night the river flows—

Hasten before the rising sun. Come where rustling leaves are playing,

Away from dark wine-heated air, Leave the tawdy dancers swaying.

And bring, bring the blossom in your hair. —R.I .F.P.

23

While she is dressing / would have you say to-night, "Let's walk in the rain, and see the lights From the hill-top." And let your hair Flow free, nor care If the wind and 1 wish to play there. But I know You will curl it round your finger—so— Till the long roll hangs sleek—untouchable. And you will smile emptily, as you pin The spotted orchid carefully in Your coat lapel. I would drink at your soul's well In one long kiss, but you'd only say, "You're spoiling my lipstick—Go away!" I would tell you strange thoughts I have known— No value perhaps—but my own. But you know only the words Which skim emotion's surface, as birds Winging over the ruffled lake. You are ready. One last look you take. Out with the light. " The film should be quite amusing to-night."

— T R A V I S C. WILSON.

Mona Lisa (a triolet) Sphinx thou art, With quiet eyes And hidden heart. Sphinx thou art, And dwell apart, So very wise. Sphinx thou, art, With quiet eyes.

— T R A V I S C. WILSON.

24

THE SOLDIER BOY

E v E R Y weather brought its troubles. Each breeze carried the stink of the mud flats, the stench from the tanning works, or the smell of the sulphur heaps. Each ray of sun brought another bead of sweat to toiling parties. Each drop of rain gave birth to another little "flu germ. Either winds swept through the ablution corridors, drying the cold shaving soap on your face, or else the rain washed it off.

The soldier boy didn't like it. He hated dampness, he hated the torture of early-morning risings with frozen toes and shoulders, he hated the mud and slush around the tent-lines, he hated the stink of the air and the greasy water in which he washed his mess gear. He was a bit fed up and complained to the orderly officer. The orderly officer nodded but did nothing, and 011 his next duty day the boys cautiously threw their messy crusts at his back. With jam on his dry-cleaned uniform the favoured of the gods wheeled on this boy straight from school, who grinned at the joke through denims black with the week's earth.

He got off with an award of C.B. for undisciplinary conduct, marked on his history sheet. But the injustice hurt his pride. He'd been a prefect at school, clever in his class and sport. Now he was another toy to satiate an officer's whim. He was headstrong, cunning and bold. If the Army put it across him, he could put it across the Army too, lie thought.

They put him one day on a fire-stoking fatigue. By some strange means, a steel splinter pained its path into his eye. The R.A.P. sent him off to hospital. He waited in the queue for three hours, fuming with bitter hate before the doctor snapped the splinter and pulled half of it out. His bandaged eye pained like a molten blade from hell and his other was blind with tears.

They sent him back to cam]) and made him serve in the officers' mess. The colonel, arising at eight, called for his cup of tea while he eased his paunch with a shower. The half-blind soldier banged his hip against the centre-pole of the tent and apologetically upset the cup into the sheets. The colonel's breakfast was too good to be true—bacon, two eggs, with fried bread, stewed apple and cream scraped from the top of the milk cans. The officers eat the same as the men, according to journalists, but this soldier's tummy had only welcomed a tiny square of blackened charcoal, a frizzled patch of yellowy-white, apple burnt to the taste of brown, and the leavings of yester-day's curds. The sun was bright that morning. He saw a wooded step, wel-coming warm. He sat down and slowly ate the colonel's meal with artistic relish.

The colonel stormed and held an orderly room. The adjutant grinned as he read the charge, "Undisciplinary conduct, in that he did eat the colonel's breakfast." C.B. parade, with back-breaking drill could not be awarded to a man 011 the sick list. He was given three days' detention. He pointed to the remaining splinter in his eye and argued for hospital treatment. The R.A.P. was fed up and refused. So he acted a fever that night and the R.A.P. attended him in greatcoat and pyjamas.

The three days passed and he asked for hospital treatment once more. When the refusal was repeated, he climbed a stone wall, borrowed a motor cycle in the ranks outside and persuaded the doctor to finish his job. He then went home to recover.

25

A piccjuet found him in the main street and brought him back to the guard tent. Three times he escaped. The third time the colonel became annoyed. A provost reported his motor bike in a suburban street. The colonel ordered his car and his corporal.

The motor cycle is a useful weapon. It can pass between trams when a car must line up behind. It 'can short-cut down alleys and forget the traffic cops. It can run through gates on to the school playground and camouflage itself in a shelter shed.

The colonel drew up his car in front of the gate and he and his corporal sneaked through. A chubby little girl sitting on the fence piped up ingenu-ously, " W h a t are you, the Germans?" The colonel spluttered, the motor bike roared and cut like a knife between the hunters.

His home was the next step, and they waited in the gorse bushes in the vacant lot next door. He came home bright as you please with a cheeky grin on his face. The colonel sneaked to a phone box and called out the guard. As the guard walked up the front steps, their prey disappeared through the back door.

A man can be a deserter after 21 days' absence. Until then he is merely absent without leave. The soldier boy returned over the wall after twenty and a half days. He was given fourteen days' detention.

Fourteen days in a little black hole, clinging to the bars with two hands, gazing at the glorious winter sun, the fresh green fields away over the wall. Even the stenchy mud flats looked attractive with whirling paper gulls and trickling streamy drains. The convoys up and down the road, with singing soldiers or petrol or supplies. The canteen girls trooping past the sentries with a delicate wave of skirt and stocking. The boys shaving in the cold morning calling up to him in good humour.

He missed the freedom of these things. But he welcomed the friendly eyes of the other ranks, the letters which soon wondered at his silence and ceased to come, the chocolate and papers mysteriously poked through the bars. He enjoyed the exercise parade, marching at the head of the prisoners, swaggering with hands in pockets, proud to gather glances and to be the centre of attraction. It was right up his line.

Then came the blow. Other defaulters were rounded up. His offence was mischief. Their offences were crime. One was a sickly rotting venereal, tragically proud of his adventures.

The soldier boy was afraid. The cell was crowded. He protested, fumed, raged. He began fighting the other prisoners. They took him out and put him in a refrigerating van.

Even the winter sun is hot. The doors were backed against the stone wall, for he must not escape this time. His throat was dry and he hammered for water. The sentry could not hear him. Flis head swam, he felt sick and dizzy. Beads of perspiration broke out. He tore off his tunic. Sweat ran from his head and soaked his bandage, running into his eye. He pulled it off. Choking, gasping, he scratched at the door. His twitching body convulsed in torment.

In two hours' time the sentry brought his tea. An unconscious, twitching form was gently carried to the waiting ambulance. The boys looked on and cursed the colonel. —A. DEMAIN.

26

Youth Passes 1 shall remember life as an early morning cup of tea, Brought to my door when I was sleepily undecided; And a maid knocked and left it, growing colder, for me. I had, not known she would leave it uncovered, outside, A steaming warmth growing, as I said, colder: A refreshing and vitally new gift, soon To be accepted, not sheltered by a pale saucer But carelessly open, savouring of recklessness. The morning was, I think, in early summer, A day when the vagueness outside my window Might have been tight lasting rain or merely The shading mist, fading from sight beyond Upon many damp rooftops and shivering gardens, And curtains opening with the familiar touch of fingers. That was life in wait for me, while came the dawn, And I, returning to limbs and dim eyes Front nocturnal freedom, waited and wanted Not to be hasty, not to be tossed onto the merry-go-round Of day, unprepared, without thought or wish. . . . . For I was partly dying and passing From my youth. And no longer could I be A part of everything I had known, But became a ship, anchoring unsteadily and slowly In a haven of middle age; or a fragment On parchment, written by a cold hand Of reason, with a pencil of mingling colours. . . . So I crossed the bridge and left the cloak Of shrouded dreams, and awoke sensationally To slippers and society and the life that changed And lost a little novelty and warmth If J delayed too long.

All this now Is a symbol in a timeless thought on time-bound things And comes to me in a cool valley, somewhere In the waste of eternity. —R.I .F .P .

Transfusion "A little Digital

exercise, please!"

Thus the doctor, and, obediently Forcing along the slackening flow We drive the blood as it runs slow By compulsion of clenched fist,

thus alternately diving health to a sick old society And sketching a salute to the new. — W . E . A .

27

theophilia

how strange to think that men must find a god thats suited, to their mind for having elbowed god away they seek for substitutes and pray while still denying god exists to ersatz deities of mists in twenty volumes they'll unmask all gods ivho've ever been a task which seemed in no way to amaze a soul like sir fertility frazer while freud shows inhibitions rise from mumbo-jumbo in the skies that if you have a secret lust for great-aunt anne you simply must objectify it then at most it just becomes the holy ghost these simple facts console us so that now we let our egos go and manufacture gods ad lib without the aid of adams rib for instance bernard show has shown his god is very much his own a god of carrots .force and mind like his creator almost blind while mr wells a b sc finds god in the laboratory a deity who isnt meek but turns out every second week new blue-prints for the world to be whose main points always disagree the joke of course is that his pais and sycophants find god in wells friend lawrence in his language smelly proclaimed jehovah in his belly assuming his creator mumbled whene'er his stomach-juices rumbled joyce found him in a dublin slum a god of itching sex and rum who such a lucid gospel

28

spake at finnegan's miasmic wake some whom no onslaught can abash find things divine in hoards of cash and sacrifice to gods of pay the bodies of their sweated prey some find him in a streamlined state sustained by props of force and hate an abstract octopus that hugs with arms of coloured-shir ted thugs while men who wish to substitute jehovah planned for god the brute find such a lord who cuts his capers on piles of bureaucratic papers a god with body all machine with beveridge as heavens queen the mob find gods they hail as good in new olympus holly wood the cretins of the silver screen a robert taylor gable gree?ie a garbo spare us Crawford leigh the charm of boyer curves of mae while goldwyn any time is liable to write the picture-morons bible a few poor saps adore the press decaying culture's last excess whose mystic oracle to readers speaks nonsense riddles through the leaders and fewer still the lowest rung hear god on sinai in the tongue of politicians who incite em praising the very mouths that bite em gods large gods small gods seen and heard gods of the said or written word all reigning where one god has been and as he looks upon the scene where all these flourish like a tumour by god god needs a sense of h umour — C A L I B A N

29

COMMON-ROOM CONVERSATIONS

0 F course, the whole trouble is that we need a leader in New Zealand. Yes, that's what Fve always said. After all, there is something to be said

for dictators, don't you think? I mean, one does get efficiency, doesn't one? Oh, absolutely. None of this frantic rushing hither and yon by everybody

doing nothing. And they make use of all they've got, too. Not only material, you know,

but people, too. Quite. T o look at some of the people round this 'varsity you'd never

know there was a war on. Have you heard we 've all got to g o out to Westfield for the vac? Westf ield ! M e in West f ie ld ! W h y , it'll absolutely ruin my hol idays! Yes , and they're not giving us any time to do anything about it. 1 mean

1 could easily have wangled a doctor 's certificate . But, my dear, there isn't time. W e ' v e got to see the manpower chappie

to -morrow ! T o - m o r r o w ! Oh, my G o d ! Gosh, this is a bit too much. ()f course, 1 don't mind doing my bit,

but . Yes, anyone would think we were Nazis or something, pushing us around

like this.

But, my dear, haven't you heard? Heard? Heard what? About election night. They 're boarding up all the windows in Queen

Street. Are they really? Darling, how perfectly thrilling! Yes. And, of course, you mustn't tell anyone, but A , you know, the

one in the — — , well she said they were going to have machine guns on top of some of the roo fs !

Oh, isn't it all wonderful ?

* =» =x= =» * *

Not that I'm condemning all the Americans, mind you. I'm not that intolerant. I hope. I mean, 1 realise there must be some perfectly nice ones among them.

Quite. But what 1 maintain is that the Auckland girls are making fools of them-

selves. They 're paying for it. though. The Yanks have no respect for them. H o w do you k n o w ? Wel l , I was out with one the other day—not at all like most of them, you

know ; in fact, a very superior type, and he said . . . .

30

From the Past They who speak are old .1 silver curtain is closing on their life The hoped-for future is now A success or failure The visions are real or faded The heights are gained or lost And paths high and low are steady To follow their course Till the dark descends Till the journey ends.

It was better when they could build Themselves by new actions, thoughts, dreams Now They must obey a dead spirit What they have been Must decide What can become of these aged souls

The past claims them. This is the price of youthful bliss and strife, Yet worthwhile: Other hands may hold the present and coming life But nothing can snatch these memories Nothing can change this most intimate power.

R.I.F.P.

Group Discussion As thumb-greased cards flick to the table,

Each meant to take the trick, But lie forlorn, topped by the ace, Our well mouthed platitudes skim out;

But whether ace or rag They take no trick—they die unmounted, Lost as each succeeding card

Is played and likewise hid. Buried in a rising mountain mass Till the game finds its endless end.

And the players, self content. Sort their own cards back from the pile.

— N E I L G. SMITH.

31

On behalf of the Students, the Editor and Staff of K I W I wish to express to the relatives of Mr. Skyrme their sympathy and common feeling of loss.

We wish too to record our sorrow at the death of the Rt. Hon. Gordon Coates, and convey to his family our sympathy.

ROLL OF HONOUR

KILLED

Major R. W. Adams Lieutenant R. II. Anderson Pilot-Officer A. Asmuss Captain II. D. Ball Lieutenant G. M. Brandon Pilot-Officer G. T. Coldham Sergeant-Pilot L. L. A. Craig Pilot-Officer W . H. F. Dean Sgt.-Pilot E. A. V. M. Drummond Gunner W . J. Dunlevy Major W . II. Evans Sub-Lieutenant D. W. Eastgate Brigadier j . R. Gray T. L. Gray, R.N.Z.A.F. Pilot-Officer J. A. Grierson Gunner J. B. Hardcastle Pilot-Officer G. L. Hesketh Pilot-Officer D. R. Hrrocks Pilot-Officer G. R. Jackson Sergeant-Pilot C. G. Jones Sub-Lieutenant H. T. Mace Flying Officer M. G. McNeil Lieutenant P. T. Medhurst

Sergeant G. J. D. Mellsop Corporal J. D. Melville Major T. Milliken Lieutenant G. Mills Pilot-Officer J. E. Moodie Sergeant-Pilot W . A. Moodie Lieutenant L. B. Morrison Flying-Officer J. S. Newcomb Sergeant-Pilot D. L. Nola Sergeant-Navigator P. S. O'Connell Lieut.-Colonel J. N. Peart, D.S.O. Sergeant-Pilot I. L. Reid Gunner E. S. Reynolds Lieutenant D. L. Robinson Lance-Sergeant M. T. Roseveare Pilot-Officer O. M. Shroff Sergeant G. B. Steele Private A. C. Stuart Pilot-Officer J. B. Taylor Trooper A. G. M. Tudhope Flying-Officer N. W . W . Warner Lieutenant T. B. Wright Sergeant A. M. Ziman

Major G. L. Agar Captain H. K Brainsby Lieutenant G. E. Cairns Captain N. Gibson

W O U N D E D

Lieutenant J. D. Lewis Lieutenant D. H. Nancarrow Lieutenant R. A. Pickmere Major F. C. Rawle

MISSING

E. B. Allison Pilot-Officer W. N. Asmuss Lieutenant D. G. Brash Pilot-Officer A. S. Bronn

Lieutenant J. B. Callan Captain J. L. G. Carnachan Sergeant G. W . Cook Pilot-Officer E. A. D ' t h - W e s t o n

33

Sergeant-Observer H. M. Downard Captain C. A. Ferguson Captain C. Follick Flight-Sergeant W. H. Gould Lance-Sergeant A. G. Gray Major E. S. Harrowell Pilot-Officer W . H. Hickson Major E. G. Kedgeley

PRISONERS

Lieutenant D. C. Bailey J. M. Bertram Private K. A. Blakey Captain E. PL Blow Lieutenant R. G. Bush Lieutenant J. D. Carnachan Lieutenant M. E. Daniel Lance-Corporal P. W. Day Private Trevor Dunne

Flying-Officer J. E. Makgill Rev. W. G. Parker

(presumed dead) Flving-Officer J. Pybus Flight-Lieutenant C. G. Rudd Lieutenant W . J. Southworth Pilot-Officer P. C. Spittal

OF W A R

Lieutenant H. M. Foreman T. Johnstone Private C. J. Leach T. McKoy Lieutenant S. Melling Pilot-Officer I. J. Shaw Flight-Lieut. G. R. Simich, D.F.C. Lieutenant P. Woolley

New Year—19 41 Yesterday I saw the grace of young Maturing corn, that formerly had bent Too easily before the wind, but now Had pith and substance. Rich to the earth that substance Was to fall, for these were men whose death Should be in war, and if that death were not For life to men they should be food for death. Yet death, the nullity, embodied with their substance. Would press on us and make us yearn for life Which she that seeks must find, bashing persistently At doors where people sleep.

—D.J.S.

34

GRADUATES - 1942 If the rc*t be brained like us the Stole totters. —Shakespeare

M A S T E R S O F A R T S Scon,iiiy the base degrees. —Shakespeare

Brenda Margaret Blackburn / sliidl cheerfully bear the reproach of ha ring descended below the dignity of It is tor//. —Ma ca id ay

George Law Cawkwell (! reat ness kn o ivs itself.—Sli a Ires pea re lie has been known to try His hand at classic and idyllic verse Much in the style of Vergil-—only

worse. •—Belloc

Shirley Joan Crump Friend - making, every where friend -

finding soul Fit for the sunshine. —Browning

Bernard William Hare Soup and education ore not as sudden as o massacre, hut they are more deadly in the long run.—Marl: Twain

Ernest Alan Horsman .1 little, brisk and busy chap.—Hood Three-fifths of him genius and two-fifths sheer fudge. •—Lowell

Mary Louise Kemp But iny thoughts ran o wool-gathering.

—Cervantes (1 rand talkers ore onh/ found in Paris.

— Villon

Joyce Rosana Harriet Edith Key-Jones

<) breathe not her name. —Moore

Sydney Herbert Lee Le jour de gloire est arrive.

John James Lewis His life was gentle. —Shakespeare

Jean Glover Miller She could play the game of hoquet well. What would life be without arithmetic, but a scene of horrors. —Smollett

Elizabeth Roberton Then farewell Horace; whom I hated so. —Bynjn

Yolande Rosemary Levinge Seymour The gayest flirt that coached it round the town. —Pitt

Mollie Alison Smith Beware of her fair hair. —Goethe The remembrance of my former love Is by a newer object, quite forgotten.

—Shu kespeare.

Quona Margaret Turner Sweet Auburn. -Goldsmith

Barbara Linley W o o d Am / not mid-1 ie tori an ? Inge

B A C H E L O R S OF A R T S lliese little things ore great to little man. —doldsmith

Leona Mary Allison The mildest manners and the gentlest heart. —Homer

Agnes Marjorie Anderson She sat like Patience on a monument.

•—Shakespeare

John Alexander Asher When he walks N.Z. trembles.

Carol Mabel Ayres How poor a thing is man!—Schiller

Phyllis Evelyn Beck Xone but an author knows <1:1 author's cores. —Cnwjier

Kathleen Merle Bilkey With her cheeks aglow and her teeth

of pearl She's a typical English sporting girl. She tips the scale at eleven stone two And she's five feet four in her dancing

shoe. —Gilbert

35

Celestine Patricia Carroll The joy of youth and health her eyes displayed. —Crabbe

Patricia St. John Clarke Possessed an air and grace by no means common. —Byron Let George do it. •—Anon.

Irirangi Pamela Coates Like a well-dressed waitress.—Anon. Earth hath not anything to show more fair. — IFVwf'.s' worth

William Richard Cunliffe Cunliffe with me and be my lore.

—Marlowe

Eileen Elsie Dubois _ I little noiseless noise among the leaves. -—Keats

William Peter Blagdon Gamlen Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots? —Bible

Jack Thomson Gill Conceit -in weakest bodies strongest works. —Sli ak-es pea-re

Helen Ivy Gordon Regal as Juno. •—Calverty Are the ladies of your land so tallf

—Tennyson

Bruce Fairgray Harris But tell me the name of Whisky in Greek —Burn*

Winifred Jess Hoskins Oomph is a feminine desirability to be observed with pleasure, but not to be discussed with respectability.

—Earl of II'ur trie I:

Ralph Francis Jenkin Oh for a nude interlude.

Esma Ivy Faith Johnson Earth's noblest thing, a Woman per-fected. •—Lowell

Bernard William Keam He is the sweetest of all singers.

•—-Longfellow

Verna Jean Livingstone . . . . 1 presumef —Stan l ey And where she went the flowers took thickest root. —J orison

Audrey Concordia Luckens She was plump and she was chubby.

—Gilbert . . . . and she laughed and laughed.

Gloria Emily Mulvihill / bear the marks of Vergil and the scar Where Julius Caesar wrote his Gallic

tear. •—Leacock

Marie Evelyn Sutherland Prentice She had till the royal makings of a queen-do wager.

Dorothy Jean Seaman If <i woman have long hair it is u glory to her. —Corinthians

Dorothy Marguerite Gilbert-Smith The Smiths never had any arms, and have invariably sealed their letters with their thumbs. •—Smith

Bryan Temple Smith His soul was conscious of something

missing, Wltieh neither clothes could give, nor

kissing. •—Byron

Harley Wesley Spragg What can ail thee, Knight at Arms, Alone and palely loiteringf — Keats

Betty Joy Sweetman Ain't the discussion bizarre. Golhf how Russian we are.

—J. 1\ Herbert Bounce me brother with it solid four.

Garth Graham Turbott A moral, sensible, and well-bred man.

John Vaughan White Black is black, and White is White For no good reason that 1 know.

—Popular song

M A S T E R S O F S C I E N C E There are very few persons who pursue science with true dignity.

Herbert Sydney Ayling / counted two and seventy stenches All well defined, and several stinks!

—Coleridge

Eric John Godley .1 nice fellow if one may judge from appearances which mail be wrong.

—Gibbs

36

Cedric Herbert Hassall I can call spirits from the cast// deep. . . . . But will the// come when you do call for them! —Shakespeare A teacher should l>e sparing of his smile.

Gordon Alick Hookings It is easier to square the circle thou to /jet round a mathematician.

—de Morgan

Vivienne Joan Howie .1/ an;/ rate she has a plan To marry and reform the man.

•—Punch Sport went hand in hand with science.

•—Tenny son

Richard Ellis Ford Matthews .IN man// pangs in lore as shells on on shore. •—Ovid

William Ernest Russell We grant that tho' he had much wit, He was very shy of using it.—Butler

Olive Marjorie Hills All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

—Lamb

Douglas Alexander T'ait So man will be a sailor who has con-trivance enough to get himself in jail. .! man in jail has more room, better food, and commonly better company.

—J oh nson Jean Mary Wilson

Clearly a superior woman. •—Carlyle Let such leach others who themselves excel. —Pope

Thomas Emmanuel Woodward .1 look that's fastened to the ground, A tongue chained up without a sound.

—Fletcher

B A C H E L O R S OF S C I E N C E Science is the to/toyrupliy of ignorance.

George McKinney Allcock Please do not shoot the pianist. He is doi)ig his best.

— Wood row Wilson

Philip Jason Armstrong But Jason was the noblest of them all.

—K ingsle/i

Tom Bassett It's one to a million That any civilian My figure and form will sitr/uiss.

—Gilbert

Graeme Maunsell Beere I do now remember the poor creature, Small Beere. —Shakespeare

Islay Barbara Blake Who else had hair Bay-red as //ours'! —Hardy

Edward George Bollard I have loved the musty reek that lingers About dead leaves and last year's ferns.

•—Brooke

Frederick Vincent Brittain Discords are the sweetest airs.—Butler

Rona Winsome Denne Curse in// fatal beauty. 1 must be strong. —Old ' Varsity play

Gordon John Fergusson .1 telegraph boy with his nose turned a/t. —Popular ballad

William Kemp 1 adhope Fowler The People's Voice the voice of God we call. —Howell

John Elliott Hayward He knew the taverns well in every town. —Chaucer

Hugh Ambrose Jenkins / cotcli the rheumatism A-campin' in the sno w. —Randolph

Wreford Neil Johnson Our heart is in Heaven, our home is not here. —Bishop llebcr

Griffith Jones A kind of boy, a little scrubbed boy.

•—Shakespeare Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones. —Banner

37

David Armitage MacGill The story is told that MacGill At computing was using his skill. When asked his conclusion lie replied in confusion, Here's three answers—choose which

you will.

George Page And history with all her volumes vast hath but one Page. —Baron

B A C H E L O R S OF L A W S 'If the law supposes that, the law is an ass, an idiot," sai<l Mr. Bumble. -Dickens

John Frederick Northey Odi profanum valgus et arceo.

—IIorace

Joseph Thomas Sheffield Ambition and love are the wings of great actions. —Goethe

Allenby McMaster Stanton She must be feeling rather low When this very shop-soiled Borneo Can set her paling cheeks aglow.

—Alfred Gutter man

B A C H E L O R S OF C O M M E R C E Much have I travelled in the realms of gold. -Keats

John Gerald Allen Curse on the man who business first

designed And by 't enthralled a freeborn lover's

mind. —Oldham

Walter Gouinlock Anderson Much may be made of a Scotchman if he he caught young. —Johnson

William George Birnie Wal, I like Fly in' well enough.

— Trowbridge

Owen Frank Ferguson Hamilton It's love, it's love that makes the world go round. —Popular sottg

Myrtle Jean Hughes Her Dewy gladness dull work took To write dead figures in a book.

•—.1 dams

Samuel Leathern Yon Cassias hath a lean and hungry

I o o k. —Shu kesp ea re Stitch, stitch, stitch.

Edward Lloyd Morrison Now t/e see through a tjlass darkh/.

—Bible

Thomas Neil Pemberton It is always in season for old men to I ea rn. —. 1 esch ylus

Norman Arthur Reynolds What's all the noisy jargon of the schools. —Pom fret

Graham Tomlinson In matters of commerce, the fault of

the Dutch Is offering too little, and asking too

much. —Canning

William John Wallace Scots wa'hae.

D I P L O M A S IN J O U R N A L I S M Can a person of education learn anything from, a newspaper? —Salisbury

Gwenyth Mary Gilbert Margaret Stewart Graham It is pleasing to be school'd in a But alas, alas for the woman's fate

strange tongue Who has from the mob to choose her By female lijts and eyes. —Bt/ri>n mate. —Hood

38

D I P L O M A O F M U S I C

Music do 1 hear! 11a! Ha! keep time; how sour sweet music is, When time is broke and no pro} tort ion kept! —Shakespeare

Allan Ramsay Howie The voice that once in little rooms O'er tint/ groups did hold its swag Now through the ether weaves its spells And moves on its dynamic way.

— Wyndham Lewis

D I P L O M A IN A R C H I T E C T U R E A man who could build a church, as one may say, by squinting at a sheet of paper.

-—Dickens

Kenneth Rosewarne Stemson I am a soldier and unapt to weep Or to exclaim on fortune's fickleness.

•—Shakespeare

D I P L O M A S IN U R B A N V A L U A T I O N

Walter Annan Dickson Towered cities please us then And the bust/ hum of men. —Milton

Denham George Kelly Every Irishman has a potato in his head. —Hare

Garnet Will iam Rowse I am thankful that my name is obnoxious to no pun. —Shenstone

Horace Arthur Witty .I man who could make so vile a pun

would not scruple To {tick a pocket. —Dennis

39

GRADUATES x943 Thank God! that's done. -Rupert Brooke

M A S T E R S O F A R T S 'Aren't then wonderful?" said the gods in 01 gin pus to each other. -Milne

Leona Mary Allison I speak with the tongues of men and of angels. —St. Paul

Agnes Marjorie Anderson A woman's faee with nature's own hand painted. -—Shakespeare

John Alexander Asher But Oh! ge lords of ladies intellectual Inform us truly—have they not hen-

peck'd you allf

Carol Mabel Ayers Since why to lov-cause. Noli me tang ere.

I can allege no —Shakespeare

Betty Joy Belshaw Methinks the lady doth protest too m uch. —Shakespeare Shoo fly! don't bodder me! I belong to company G, 1 feel like a morning star. •—Bishop

Jean Isobel Mary Campbell IIir smylyny was fid symple and coy.

—Chaucer Marie Gabrielle Carroll

I speak with all 'istory vivid to my reckerleetion. --Dickens

Irirangi Pamela Coates -I happa woman lias no history. Well reely.

Helen Ivy Gordon 1 chase the rolling circle's speed Jh<7 urge the flying ball. —Gray What, are the ladies of your laud so tallf —Tennyson

Beryl Kitty Hobbis / mean to make it understood That though I'm little, I am good.

—Inscription on an old bell

Gloria Emily Mulvihiil J here's wisdom in women.

•—Rupert Brooke Marie Evlyn Sutherland Prentice

That great dust heap called History.

Dorothy Jean Seaman 'The Blues, that tender tribe who sigh

o'er sonnets And with the pages of the last review Line the interior of their heads or

bonnets, Advanced in all their azure's highest

hue. —Byron Winifred Sheila Mary Sharpley

Watch this, my friends, and will you dare to say

The study of classics does not pay! —Stephen Leacock

Charles Leslie Shepherd Not to know what happened before we were born, is to be a child forever. And less Greek.

Harley Wes ley Spragg Deal not in history, often have I said, 'Twill prove a most unprofitable

trade. —Peter Pindar Heat me daddy, eight to a bar.

Edward Norman W e b b Histories make men wise. •—Bacon

Laurette Robison Todd I.'histoire n'est que le tableau des crimes et des mall/curs. —Voltaire

Betty Noyce Archbold -I maiden may be arch, but never bold.

— II'. S. Gilbert Thou'rt a feather brain, but Ihou'rt a good lass. •—7i\ S. Gilbert

B A C H E L O R S O F A R T S e're low, we're low. ire're very, very low.

Monica Asher Now, small boys, get out of the way.

-Holme.

40

A U C K L A N D UNIVERS ITY COLLEGE GRADUATES , 1943

E X E C U T I V E , STUDENTS ' A S S O C I A T I O N , 1942-1943

F R O N T R O W : (Left to Right): Miss W . M . Stanton, Mr. A . P. Postlewaite (Business Manager), Mrs. B. J . Belshaw,

M.A. (Women's Vice-President), Miss D. J. Morrell, M.A. (President), Mr. A . de Lisle

(Men's Vice-President), Miss M. C. Kissling, B.A. (Secretary), Mr. A . Lowe, B.A.

S E C O N D R O W : Mr. E. A . Horsman, M.A. , Miss C. M. Ayres, M.A. , Mr. M. Segedin, Miss M. C. Hay, Mr. J . E.

Blennerhassett, Miss E. M. Thomas, B.Sc.

Leo Richard Bedggood But Juan teas a bachelor—of arts And parts, and hearts. —Byron

Cyril Shirley Belshaw Mont on of hym had doute, Hi that his resouns were redde.

—Gawain Young men hare a passion for regard-ing their elders as senile •—Adams

Elon Winnifred Mary Burton Gentlemen prefer blondes. —. 1. Loos

Margaret Helen Copeland Angels not Angles. —Gregory

Frederick Charles Day How long, O Lord, how long?

Jean Day I'm no sauci/ minx and giddy.

— W. S. Gilbert

Joy Henrietta Astley Glover-Clark / chatter, chatter, as I go.

—Tennyson In the roont the women come and go t alking of Michelangelo. •—T. S. Eliot

Kathleen Marion Grant J woman's work is never done.

•—Proverb Margaret Hargreaves

The sex is ever to a soldier kind. Write me as one that loves Iter fellow-men. —Leigh Hunt

Leslie Elizabeth Hewson how sweetly flows

The liquefaction of her clothes. —ILerrick

Leslie Gray Housby All higher Knowledge in her presence

falls Degraded; Wisdom in discourse with

iter Loses, discountenanced, and like Folly

shows. —Milton Ati harmless flaming meteor shone for hair. —Cowley

George William Jackson What the devil I can say about you,

sir, 1 don't know. Margaret Catherine Kissling

.1 quick brunette, well-moulded, falcon-eyed. —'Lenny son -If every word a reputation dies.

•—Pope

Marjorie Milne Lee And she loved art in a seemly way, With an earnest soul and a capital A.

Owen William Gladstone Lewis / am not a politician and my other habits are good. -—Artemus Ward

Arthur Lowe The tiger in the tiger pit Is not more irritable than /.

—T. S. Eliot 'E's a terror for 'is size. —Kipling

Joan Dicea Lloydd And a very nice lady, too —Gilbert

Arthur Edward Manning Sorry, I'm another one of these con-founded bachelors. —Botide

Frances Hilda Mason .1 horse! a horse! my kingdom for a It orse! —Shakespeare / even think that, sentimentally, I am disposed to harmony. —Lamb

Marion Jean Mawson Xow, what could artless Jeannie do?

—Burns Patricia Rose Moore

When you can'! think of the English for a thing, say it iti French.

•—Lewis Carroll Maile Russell Morris

7hank heaven I have a heart That quails not at the thought of meet-

ing men —Gilbert

Betty Florence Odell / ain't the flighty sort, I ain't.

Ruth Freda Phillips There was a soft and pensive grace,

, I cast of thought upon het face. — -Burns

Rona Mary Spurdle I would by no means wish a daughter of mine to be a progeny of learning.

—Sheridan Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all.

—Proverb Jessie Tui Stallworthy

She is a lady fair and wise. —Xewbolt

41

Gwenneth Joan Sweetman Lovely female shapes are terrible complieators of the difficulties and dangers of this earthly life, especially for their owner. -—du Maurier

William Tanzer That un-to logik hadde longe g-go And he was nat right fat, 1 undertake, But loked holwe and ther-to soberly.

•—Chaucer

Jeannette Lidie Wells But then all women are more or less (ccentric. —E. A. Poe

Ofa Wernham What's in a name? -—Shakespeare

Maharaia Winiata A teacher affects eternity, he can never tell where his influence stops.

—Adams

Hazel Jessie Winstone A soldier came and sought her 'To be his bonny bride.

Beverley Mary Whyte Silence is a fine jewel for a woman, but it's little worn. Cood as a play.

M A S T E R S O F S C I E N C E The gratifying feeling that our duty has been done. —Gilbert

Alan Darley Gifkins Alan Odell And so he went from year to year, I to myself am dearer than a friend. Going to pubs and guzzling beer.

—Song

B A C H E L O R S O F S C I E N C E 1low we laughed as we laboured together. —Prowse

Winifred Joan Beaumont As I take my shoes from the shoe-

maker and my coat from the tailor, So i lake my religion from the priest.

•—Goldsmith

Phyllis Branson Oh golden yellow is her hair. —Song

Pauline Hamilton Buddie .1 'wonder of this earth Like one of Shakespeare's women.

—Shelleg

Dorothy Cannell I am just going to pray for you at St. Paul's but 'with no very lively hope of success. —Sydney Smith

Ruth de Berg 1 see no objection to stoutness in moderation. —Gilbert

Jack Dacre Tho' modest, on his unembarrassed

broiv Nature had written "Gentleman."

—Byron

John Enwright What I admire in the order to which

you belong is that . . . . they excel in athletic sports. —Disraeli

Edward Thomas Giles Yet everybody says I'm such a dis-agreeable man! And I can't think why.

—Gilbert

Hilary James Harrington -1 nd when you stick on conversation's

burs Don't strew your pathway with those

dreadful "urs." —Holmes . I face full of autobiography.

—Martha Johnson

Selwyn Howard Hope Still waters run deep.

John Kelsey To the nuptial bower I led her, blushing like the morn.

—Milton

42

Ivan Charles Robert Luketina And when I die Don't bury me at all Just pickle nil) bones in alcohol.

—Song

John Graham Millar Mathematics (make men) subtle.

—Bacon 1 never apologise. —Shaw

Fred Orange We run because we like it Through the broad, bright laud.

—C. II. S or I eg

George Harry Palmer Thou art a tall fellow of thy hands.

—Shakespeare

William Sprott He must have a sixth sense—there's no sign of the other jive. —Beine Jag Jr.

Donald Louis Stacey I'm <i second eleven sort of a chap.

•—Barrie

Elsie Muriel Thomas A liberal mouth with happy corners.

—Elizabeth

Henry Arthur Whale The victim o' connubiality.

—Dickens 'I he little student here should note The name Karl Marx, and try to quote Some jtorliou of the boohs in which He proves that poor men should be

rich. - -E. I'. Knox

M A S T E R O F L A W S Doing good, disinterested good, is not our trade. -Cow per

John Frederick Northey Litigious terms, fat conventions and flowing fees. —Milton I am not in the roll of common men.

—S ha kespeu re

B A C H E L O R S O F L A W S Courts are but only superficial schools to dandle fools. Bacon

Betty Webster The female of the species is more deadly than the male. —Kipling

Lawrence Henry Southwick Who lores law dies either mad or poor.

—Middleton

B A C H E L O R S OF C O M M E R C E So needful it is to have money, heigli-ho!

So needful it is to have money, -A. II. Clough

Kathleen Alison The average woman is, even for business, too crooked.

—Stephen Leaecok A child of our grandmother Eve, a female; or, for thy more sweet under-standing, a woman. •—Shakespeare

Ashley Hugh Fawcett I don't believe in principle But oh. I do i)i interest. —Lowell

John Wilfred Gunn It's all very well to be clever and witty. But if you arc poor, why it's only a

pity. —A. II. Clough

Harold Louis Seifert Ah, take the cash in hand and waive I he rest. — O m a r Khayyam

43

D I P L O M A S IN E D U C A T I O N Education! Who I crimes are committed in thy name!

Leo Richard Bedggood Arthur Edward Manning / will teach the children. ft,mindful of their doom

—Shakespeare Thr Utt)(> r;(.,;rns })la;h —Gray Edna Mary Davis

It is a luxury to learn, but the luxury of learning is not to be compared to the luxury of teaching. •—Hitchcock

S C H O L A R S H I P S No doubt but ye are the people and wisdom shall die with ye. --Job

Tinline Scholar Betty Noyce Archbold

Wearing all that weight of learning lightly, like a flower. —Tennyson

Senior Scholar in Latin Leslie Gray Housby

Away with her, away with her, she speaks Latin.

Senior Scholar in Law Betty Webster

1 charge you by the law, Whereof you are a most deserving

pillar, Proceed to judgement. -—Shakespeare

Sir George Grey Scholar William Sprott

They intend to send a wire To the moon, to the moon, And they'll set the Thames on Jire I erg soon, vera soon. —Gilbert

Fowlds Memorial Medal Agnes Marjorie Anderson

O'er classic volumes she would pore with joy.

The knowledge of ancient classics is merely a luxury. —Bright

Senior Scholar in Economics Cyril Shirley Belshaw

Following his father with uneven steps. •—Virgil

44

COMPETITION RESULTS

The Editor thanks Mr. J. C. Reid, who has judged the literary contribu-tions this year.

The quantity and quality of prose and art received did not merit awards.

W e publish Mr. Reid's comments on the verse:—

My impression of the verse in this year's K I W I is that in general the standard is lower than usual. Perhaps the war has had something to do with restricting the number of entries, but it can hardly be blamed for the quality of the poems published.

There seem to be two chief types of poem — the first reproducing "romantic" cliches, apparently in the belief that these are a necessary part of poetry, and the other simulating the metaphysical malaise of the twenties. The most disappointing feature, however, is the absence of any kind of form in most of the verse, and the consequent vagueness and spinelessness. The new subtleties of the more important poets are absent, and the discipline of form is sacrificed without anv compensation, intellectual or emotional.

Typical, it seems to me, of this vagueness is the piece entitled "Youth Passes." Its "disillusionment" and its mannered conceits stamp it as a period piece, while the unmistakable echoes of "Sweenev Agonistes" and "Prufrock" show the assumption of attitudes drawn from literature and not from life. It actually gains in significance if read as a parody of Eliot.

"Tzigane" is pleasing, but suffers from an excess of banal adjectives. The ingenuity of the conceit in "Group Discussion" attracts attention. "Whi le She is Dressing" moves not without success between flippancy and "disillu-sion." although it is puzzling to know how to take lines 12 and 13. "Frag-ment," despite its triviality, has a touch of music.

The most interesting feature is the presence of a larger quantitv than usual of light verse, which requires for success an urbanity not often found in University publications. 1 found considerable enjoyment in the pieces this year, especially in "Sarsaparilla Saga."

1 have little hesitation in awarding the prize to E. A. Horsman's " T o Aldous Huxley," which says well, something worth saving. Its tautness within the sonnet form gives it an intellectual and emotional toughness lack-ing in the other poems. It has, as most of the others have not. the stamp of maturity on it.

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