THE CYGNET GkiiiituAALF;
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COMMITTEE.
Editor:
JEAN 0. STOVIN.
Treasurer: J. YEAXLEE. Third Year Representative: C. YOUNG. Second Year Representative: S. BANNING.
THE CYGNET DECEMBER, 1935
Editorial
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T is all probably due to the cement-machine. Patiently and cheerfully it has chuffed and pounded out its theme of hope throughout the past seven weeks, and only the naturally dull have been unresponsive. We have been awakened by it, worked with it, and watched behind it the steady piling of brick upon brick, and now, ecstatic moment, tile upon tile. It was about the time that the first tile was lifted that the cygnet flapped its wings. Hardly had its bill opened before a profusion of crumbs were thrown eagerly, delicately, shyly towards it. Daily it grew fatter and more complacent — and if it had been proportionately richer would have changed its coat and had a new photograph taken. I affirm that the present buxom state of the Cygnet is at any rate partially due to the influence of the cement-machine, i.e. (for the benefit of those who hate figures, tropes, colours, etc., I will put all this in the form of a plain question) What else can account for the unprecedented burst of creative activity in the college ? Former sceptics and scorners have so much softened as to proffer contributions without a feather-weight of pressure : lyrics have fluttered along from every corner of St. Margaret's Road. The clouds of Pass Mods. and Schools which have before seemed to obscure the poet in the day-to-day full-time worker have blown away. All this illustrates Mr. T. S. Eliot's emphatic avowals at the English Club, that it is best for a would-be-writer to have just not enough time, and to be employed in work as far removed as possible from anything connected with poetry (a Pass Mods. candidate is a good substitution for his example of a Bank clerk) . Two things, however, struck the Committee rather forcibly, as we read through the contributions. The first is a blow which we reel under every term, and yet remain optimists : the scorn with which any ever-more timid suggestion that prose is worth considering as an alternative mode of expression to verse. Our two staunch and faithful short-story writers still stand in splendid isolation, and receive their due reward. The second is a more or less new and disturbing feature which has caused much worried reflection on the possible psychological states of many of the contributors— the majority seem ' Blasted with sighs and surrounded with tears.' Only the bicycle-shed, ' lovely to look at ' under its new management, brought forth any tinkling of cymbals. But surely Oxford women have stupendous causes for mirth and revelry even though the world is tottering ? The chaperonage rules are abolished. The collapse and, we hope, per-
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manent annihilation is imminent, of that puny but pernicious advocate of Woman's equality with Man — the Women's Debating Society (existing only so long through the carrots which its officers have dangled before its members when occasion demanded it, in the form of masculine speakers). Perhaps Oxford is now realising the truth of that too-long neglected truism— Woman was man's superior, now she is only his equal.' So much material was received for the Cygnet that, owing to lack of space, much has had to be rejected ; but we hope that this will not discourage writers who do not find themselves represented in this number. The prize-money has been divided among the following :—Lucille Parks, three shillings and sixpence ; Ruth Taylor, two and sixpence ; the same amount also to the author of Midas, to S., to the sceptical illustrator of the joys of academic life, and to Ruth Wilson.
Midas Clarity, brief as daylight, fades, Spent in the bitter light encircling Centaur on larkspurred hill, Hoof printing the petals, the land's Violet crown. Why this unfinished, strange Metamorphosis into brute, Brand of new being? Why not fauned, Satyred or centaured? Night's plumes unfurl . . . Now feel the velvet senses of the beast unfolding, as I listen, Hear their wide-nostrilled, earthy lowing, Their purr and murmur. All sound blurs . . . . Fall from the curved lips of an Ethiopian girl Petulant, onyx-coloured words. Shrills like the deathless king across his wheel Pale-browed wind in the tuneless grass. Withers bright jeopardy, to end My old dominion, and mock Cybele's, My mother's whisperings, of shadowy pearl, Dim-lilied pastures in the wine-dark sea. Unplucked by me, Before I had come in dream upon that mood where all Colour is surfeit, banquet hungering. Still under the evening's tortured foliage The foul-breathed, toneless voices call, And the voices of men, Midas, too late, Imperious, proud, unfortunate.' Call while I nodding sit, with quiet, with folded hands, seeing The still-lipped, Hermian-guided ghosts who walk, below the world, The avenues of Time, sweet-leaved, dark-boug-hed.
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Horace: Ode I., XXIII Like a young fawn, my Chloe Seeking her timorous deer, The trackless mountains scouring ' By breeze or dim wood louring Cast into nameless fear, —Fear of each wind-blown leaf To trembling moves thee, And of the small green snake Who stirs the rustling brake— Thus, thus thou fieest me. No tiger fierce am I Nor lion to rend thee, But meet to be a bride, Leave now thy mother's side. I prithee, come unto me.
The Dream Out of a brazen sky the sun beat down, and struck sparks of light from a corrugated iron roof. Beneath this a neat little shop that had once been painted a bright green looked shyly forth. Before it stood a wizened little Chinaman in white shirt and trousers, his bare feet thrust comfortably into wooden slippers insecurely held on by leather thongs. He leant lazily against a packing-case, his body drinking in the sunlight, his eyes on the scene of everyday life in a tropical village in the mountains as it displayed itself before him. In the dust of the road a little black child, clothed only in a bracelet and an old black beaver, attempted to mount the back of a recalcitrant and very dirty mongrel. A yellow duckling dabbled untidily in the gutter. A peasant woman, picturesque in gaily-coloured bandeau, crimson beads, and swinging skirts, plodded past with' her donkey. In the shop behind him ' Madam,' his fat Chi nese wife, moved amiably and silently to and fro, bearing a large and stupid-looking baby on one hand and arm, and tidying the already meticulously tidy shelves with the other. The little Chinaman was staring at a window of the large house opposite. Little shops are invariably built up opposite most imposing residences in the West Indies. Ah Sing had gazed at that window for three years, ever since he came to the settlement. One morning, as he stood idly on the pavement, he had caught sight of a head of bright golden hair. The little Chinaman, born in China, brought to the Tropics, had seldom seen fair hair before, and never gold such as this. It struck wonder into his soul, and brought out all the unsuspected poetry of his being. He was rather short-sighted ; he could not see the face of his goddess, but he could dream on it. He spent long sunshiny days, cool moonlight nights, in thinking of her voice, her walk, her soft movements. It took him a year before he plucked up courage enough to ask who she was. She sewed at the window day after day. She was sister to the retired Colonel who lived there with his wife, and she did not seem to care for walks, or perhaps she had too much to do. She never seemed to go out with men. Ah Sing attributed this to her nun-like chastity. It did not occur to him that there were only five white men in the village, four of those married, and the fifth over eighty. Day after day, he continued to dream. She became an obsession with him.
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He was conscious of no infidelity to his wife ; his longing for the golden woman was of so airy and spiritual a quality. He was as devoted, or as apathetic, to ' Madam ' as before. No change was obvious in his movements. He took as much joy in his fat baby as before, gazed as calmly on the village, moved as mechanically, was as neat as always. But in his mind he lived another life. Suddenly he took to writing poetry for his belbved. At first timidly, then more boldly, he would climb• up to her window during the night, and let a slender sonnet fall into her chair. Her heart beat with excitement when she read the first. Then her conscience leapt to life. She considered the men in the village. For two years she had been tortured with doubts. The attitude of all the men remained apparently the same towards her. Yet three times a week she receivd passionate love-letters, burning sonnets, similes that brought a flush to her cheeks. Over the bridge table she watched the men narrowly. Every time she was left alone with one she pulsated with expectation. She could hardly remain still. She looked at the men's wives, apparently so placidly content, so bovinely confident in their husbands. She thrilled to think how wrong one of them was. One day, just at dusk, visitors arrived suddenly. The Colonel's wife was in bed with a headache ; they were short of something—biscuits, aerated drinks. The Colonel besought his sister to run over to the shop while he held the fort. She flung on a light coat, and hurried across the road. The little Chinaman saw her coming. She ran towards him, her hair gleaming through the dusk, and his heart beat almost unbearably. He found he could not swallow, and his finger-nails were biting into his palm. He almost ran into the shop, thrust ' Madam ' out of the room, and stood trembling behind the counter. Miss Pinkerton entered the shop, blinking in the glare of the four oil lamps. She went up to the counter, called for biscuits, and one or two other things, was served, and went. And Ah Sing, quite suddenly, burst into tears. For Miss Pinkerton was no goddess. She was a spinster and over fifty. She was rather crabbed, bespectacled, and very ugly. And her hair was dyed. LUCILLE PARKS.
Unlust You cannot paint the autumn in these woods— You catch the solid but you lose the soul ; You lose the sunlight as it moves along And brushes with a still more fiery gold The autumn colouring. You will find failure for you aim so far That you have hitched your wagon to a star. And though some artist, nurtured in the way Of finding beauty, somehow could reveal In sordid slum a gleam of loveliness (As if some God were sad at all this slow And bitter suffocation of Man's soul), And if that artist had depicted some Vague beam of light that pierced all earthly things,
THE CYGNET He would have, even so, achieved no more Than one who tried to paint the autumn woods And failed completely, though he poured his soul— A living wine—to give his vision life. For Autumn is so far above all things No artist's colours and no burning power In man's insensate brain could ever reach One petal's thickness near the Infinite. This Autumn glory is no mortal thing, And who on Earth could wander in a wood Of fallen beach leaves in October sun Nor feel that he had wandered in some grove Of the Immortal Gods? Artist, you are no worse than other men Who seek with mortal tools to carve what God Created once. No worse than those musicians who still seek To niake a symphony of wind in trees, Or poets who, by tinkering with words, Attempt to capture most elusive thoughts. We aim too far —we are no more than fools Who pull a child's toy bow against the moon. And when you've finished painting and have wrung Your every power, yet still you then will feel The harmony elusive. When you have poured your heart and all your strength Into creation, you will lift your head And see the branches circling in the wind, Will lift one fallen beech leaf in your hand And feel your utter failure ; slash and rave And curse our maker, God, because He gave This burning love in Man, relentless force Of this great inner longing to express In human work Immortal loveliness. M. R. WILSON.
Viva Voce My tongue to the roof of my mouth has stuck, My trembling joints are numb ; I haven't a single atom of pluck, I'm absolutely dumb; My knees continue to quiver and quake, My face is ghastly white; From terror and fright I shiver and shake, My life's an utter blight. My tongue is so heavy, my heart is so sick, My mouth is dry of saliva ; In not dropping dead I'm an absolute brick, My friends, I'm having a Viva !
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The Face of an Idol I watch it, Still, unmoving, tulip cold, Young as a wakening dream Yet distant, old. Calm eyes that gaze Intently through a haze That parts my spirit from it, Idol, born, far where cirrus clouds And lark's songs are. (We have built for us graven images, Dead gods, that dwell in space.) I loved it — Still, immutable Cold marble of a face. M. R. WILSON.
A Schullandheim It is no unusual thing to have been to Germany, but how many have experienced, as two members of College did this summer, a week-end in a Schullandheim? The most usual type of German school is a large day school in a town. Most of them, at any rate in Saxony, now possess a Landheim, which is a house in the country where each form spends a fortnight in the year. Here the children sleep and eat together and generally experience the community life which they otherwise miss in a day school. A teacher goes with them and teaches his or her subject for a few days, and is then succeeded by another. Lessons do not take up as much of the day as in school, and as much time as possible is spent out of doors. The Landheim which we visited was a transformed peasant's house in a village outside Dresden. There were twenty-four German girls aged about sixteen and a mistress in charge. We were a party of five English girls, and the idea was that we were to share the life of the Germans in every detail.
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Much as we appreciated the kindness shown to us, our sense of humour sometimes got the better of us. I must ask the reader to cast aside all previously conceived ideas about dormitories, school meals, and even crocodile walks, before I attempt to give some idea of the life we led that week-end. The nearest railway station was an hour's walk from the village. We were met there on Friday morning and immediately began to make friends. I talked to one girl all the way, and by the time we arrived we had dropped the formal Sie ' for the more familiar Du,' and she installed me in the bed next to hers in one of the two large dormitories. Summoned by the dinner-bell, we all trooped into the kitchen and queued up with soup plates to receive first a ladleful of soup and then some meat and vegetables in the middle of it. This we carried into the dining-room, where it rapidly got cold. When, at last, everyone had arrived, the mistress said grace and then we all held hands and said Geseg-nete Mahlzeit,' after which the meal began. The choice of spoon or knife and fork was decided by a glance at one's portion to see whether it most resembled soup with additions or meat with too much gravy. On some days there was a small portion of stewed fruit or other sweet to follow ; on others there wasn't. We began to go to bed about 9 p.m., though no one thought of going to sleep till eleven. Both the members of St. Hugh's slept in the upstairs dormitory, which contained nothing but beds and a few hooks to hang things on at one end. In the next room we were each allowed half a cupboard (i.e. one shelf) in which to keep all our belongings. But what amused us most was the wash-room downstairs. It had about a dozen basins in a row with cold water laid on. Hot water was entirely unknown in the Landheim. We were allotted half a basin each. That is to say, one kept one's soap and flannel on one side of the tap, and someone else's lived on the other side. Towels were kept at one end of the room, tooth-cleaning apparatus at the other end, and hairbrushes on a window-sill half-way down. My basin was near the middle, immediately in front of the only mirror in the house, so there was always someone in the way. There were usually at least six or eight washing at the same time, and as modesty appeared to be the fashion we didn't take off many clothes. Upstairs again the real business of going to bed began. First the other dormitory came up to say ' Goodnight' and shook hands all round, then our own dormitory repeated the process, and finally my neighbours shook hands with me after we were all in bed — and they did it again the moment I opened my eyes in the morning. The first morning we energetically got up with the rest to do gym. at 6.3o a.m. Gym. clothes consisted of a shirt and knickers, but we wore bathing costumes instead. The first down were in time for a run round the village before the exercises began. Afterwards we went back to dress, make beds and clean shoes before breakfast. Breakfast, at 7 a.m., consisted of very unpleasant cocoa, rolls and butter. The coffee was equally bad and sugar, like hot water, was nonexistent. At io a.m. we had milk and bread and jam. Dinner was usually at 12.3o. For tea at 3 p.m. we had coffee, bread and jam, and, on lucky, days, cake. Supper was at 6.3o and consisted of cocoa or peppermint tea, bread and cheese and cold sausage. We had come up from Dresden to a higher district and, in spite of the frequency of meals, were always hungry. There is not space to describe the events of Saturday and Sunday. A walk had been arranged for Monday, and since we had risen at 6 a.m. we were ready to start at the unearthly hour of 7.45. It was a memorable walk which we shall not easily forget. To our astonishment, we were lined
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up in threes and began to march along a dusty road singing songs. Our friends were anxious to know what songs English schoolgirls marched to on their walks. Having failed to satisfy them with the answer that we did things quite differently in England, we taught them ' Clementine.' It was a bad choice because, after much explanation of the meaning (which incidentally revealed difference of opinion among the English), they thought it a very sad song. It was, however, the only one which we all five knew and of which we could between us recall the words. After a bit the singing stopped, for it was very hot and we were getting tired, but the effort of explaining the apparently amazing habits of the English in German, or the still greater effort of understanding our friends' attempted English was just as exhausting. It was a relief when we broke line •and left the road, but after only one and a half hours' walking we reached our objective completely tired out. There was no chance of resting, for we spent the next two hours being shown round the ruins of a really very interesting castle in the blazing sun. When we had heard its entire history and seen every stone the mistress announced that it was already time to start home. At this point, though I regret to record it, the English visitors rebelled. We announced firmly that we were going to have a drink and dived into the first establishment that looked like supplying lemonade. We were not alone, for the mistress and most of the girls followed us ! Thus refreshed, we were able to face the return walk, but it was a weary crowd, hot and dusty, that met in the wash-room just before one o'clock dinner. That night, back in Dresden, we greatly appreciated our hot baths. Had we enjoyed the week-end ? Well, we wouldn't have missed it for worlds !
August All things that die, never maturing, Are dying now, And seeds still sour. The garden only bears, with aching, Green fruit And dying flower. Your hair in the morning wind Waves dark with crests of gold, Burning, yet blown wind-cold. It brims your temples tanned As ripples brim smooth sand, When sunrise winds blow cold On dark waves crested gold, Like hair in the morning wind. S.
Iffley at Night Under old trees On tangled grass Of older graves Are moonlight snowdrops Shivering.
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Bethlehem Their invincible march But taught the skies The starriest Heaven For His calm eyes. Unappeasable years Could but complete A carpet of moon snow For His white feet. Long centuries of man Brought Him to rest In Mary's quiet womb, On Mary's breast. M. SHEEHAN.
Impression Fume of incense wreathing the dim paralysed air, Mutter of pious voices, Candle stars, sluggish yellow in the rich gloom And the purple and the gold and the scarlet And the uncomprehending Mother. White. Still. Untainted by the adoration, By the clear voice tingling among the greyness of the vaporous arches By the shell's whole throbbing with the pulse of music Like the sobbing of the white sea In some vaulted dim-lit cavern Under the moon.
Home from Home Page ANGLICA.' —
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS. Don't be alarmed about your fainting. It is quite the usual
thing. Sorry to hear your coffee-party was not a success. Try grinding the coffee next time before you boil it. CLASSICA. — Smooth away your wrinkles, dear. Don't lose your sense of proportion, but keep Moderation always in sight. EcoNomicA.' —Yes, in theory the supply does always exceed the demand. HIsToRicA.' — Sorry to hear about your work. Perhaps your tutor was right, after all. PHILOSOPHICA. — Thank you for your letter. But do any of your problems really exist? BICYCLICA.' —We are sorry about your cycle, but remember that the demand often exceeds the supply. IURISPRUDICA. '—Congratulations ! Keep on smiling at motor-cars ! BOTANICA.' — Try keeping your spirogyra in salter water. STUDICA.' —We quite agree ; it is difficult to keep one's fire warm. FRESHICA.' —
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Fragment from a Poetic Drama — A dreadful Waste, somewhere in Oxfordshire, in November. Enter four Spirits of the Years. Survey each other with distaste.
SCENE
FIRST SPIRIT:
It's topping being up here, an Enormous change from school ! I'm joining every club I can (But, oh, I feel a fool).
SECOND SPIRIT : I pride myself on being gay And — left alone — begin Selecting witty things to say, And clothes to say them in.
THIRD SPIRIT :
II
I mope around with spotty face, Complaining to the Powers That life should be composed of days So ill-equipped with hours.
FOURTH SPIRIT (or fifth or sixth or seventh for that matter) : I am not reading P.P.E.— Oh, no. I do Research. I trace the Influence of Tea Upon the Polish Church. DIM VOICE from — on high? In donnish rut I persevere. I hope to throw some light . . (No, I'm not illustrated here ; It would not be polite.)
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Maria Lorenzini's Baby Maria Lorenzini's baby was dying. The jalousies were shut against the hard Italian sun, but as she crouched over her baby in the gloom she could see that the movements of its arms were growing feebler, that a sharp ridge ran along its tiny nose, giving it a curiously aged look, and that its pinched nostrils and mouth were bluish. If only it would close those restless, staring eyes, and sleep ! Instinctively she looked towards the niche beside the high, deepcurtained bed, where the Madonna stood, tranquil, dustily blue and white and gold. ' Holy Virgin . . . I have not had time to get candles . . . your shrine is all dusty . . . only since my baby has been ill, Holy Virgin.' She moved over to the niche, and buried her head in the draped folds of printed cotton that hung down to the floor. She vowed two fine wax candles to Our Lady if only Giulio would recover. Then she came back to look at those flickering eyes. A sudden panic seized her. Perhaps the Madonna could not hear her, in this stuffy room where Giulio had been conceived and born . . . perhaps she would hear more readily in the church, where he had been baptized. Yes, the church was holy. God's mother, she who had held her own little bambino in her arms, would listen to her in the church. For there, she held him gently ; while here, she only stood with clasped hands. Quietly, Maria moved back to the cradle, and stood for a moment watching Giulio's eyes flicker, ever so little. Her lips moved slightly : I won't be long, baby . . . keep there till I come back.' Then she slipped her shawl over her head, peeped again into the cradle, and hurried out. The narrow street was completely overshadowed by the high blind houses, and the shadow was black, even cold. Maria clutched her shawl around her, and ran, deftly avoiding stray bottles and vegetables that lay casually about. She did not notice the stench around her, though when she left the older part of the town and groped her way through the blinding, burning sunlight, she felt the air had a purer quality, like the air of heaven on cool days. She hurried down the steps of the street. Below her lay the sparkling sapphire sea, and the gold-bronze rocks, but she did not see them. Soon she was in the cool scented darkness of the church. Humbly she knelt at the back. New fishing-nets hung around, for the blessing of God's mother, who glimmered afar off in the serene light of the candles. The coolness, the smell of the incense, lapped round her like fresh water. She sighed deeply, and bent her head in her arms, letting the beads of her rosary slip through her fingers as she murmured ' Ave Maria . . Presently she was silent. Then she got up and moved forward to the altar, to look at the beautiful Virgin and her Child. God's mother was looking neither at the bambino nor at her suppliant : her eyes stared out, over Maria's head, in a set, stony gaze. Maria began to tremble. She breathed in the heavy perfume of the flowers, and fixed her eyes, dazzled by the jewels and the candles, on the Virgin's face. ' Holy Mother of God, save my baby, save my baby.' What could she be looking at, so calmly, up there? ' Holy Mother of God, you know how one feels for one's baby . . . how it hurts when he suffers . . .' Painfully she stared, tense. I must not blink. If I don't blink, the Madonna will
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save him. The air was going black all round, then hotly white. ' Holy Mother of God, save my baby. I love him so much . Then the Madonna's face emerged again froth the blackness, transfigured. Looking calmly, aloofly, into the distance she seemed to smile, ever so slightly. She did not move her eyes : only her lips smiled, a very little. And Maria closed her own burning eyes with her cold hands, while sparkles of fire burnt through them. ' Oh ! thank you, Holy Virgin . . In her heart ineffable radiance welled up. It seemed as if all the angels of Heaven were singing, full, rich notes. Timidly she glanced up at the bambino, chubby and seraphic. Outside the sun shone with golden fire. She looked down to the translucent sea, with its patches of clear emerald, and the toy fishing-boats in the harbour below. She breathed deeply, twice, for all was well. Had not God's mother smiled for her ? Then she climbed up the dusty, crooked steps. Perspiration ran down her face as she toiled up them in the heat, but she laughed up into the concentrated quivering blue, the murderous blue, of the sky. She must hurry home to get him some warm milk,- for now he would drink it. She plunged into the cold darkness of the narrow twisting street, with the tall blind houses on each side, and stinking side-alleys covered against the sky. Before she reached her own door, she bought two fine wax candles from Bianca Tiani. Then, breathless with happiness, she slipped into the deeper darkness of the doorway, and went up the stairs. On her own landing, she caught her breath, and tiptoed in, for Giulio would be asleep. The tiny whimpering moans had stopped. Her heart beating thickly, she crept to the cradle. He was still. He must be asleep. And then she saw that his eyes were wide open, dreadfully still, and staring fixedly, as though attempting to see something he had never seen before. R. E. TAYLOR.
Fl
rartir, c est toujours mourn un peu '
The train winds hoarsely panting through the chequered plain striped like a chess-board with thin lines of green : while I in melancholy silence wonder why it should be hard to part from things that mean essentially not much to us i.e. not much contrasted with infinity. What is a tear, a clasping of the hand, a smile, a sigh, compared with endless ages when we lie silent and cannot hear, sightless and to eternity are dumb ? Yea, what are lovers to us when we come— counting oblivion our only friend— inanimate unto the patient earth that gave us birth, past, present, future caged in one small plot, to rot world-without-end? —
'
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Yet we the while, precariously poised on conscious being, value a smile above eternities of celestial seeing : and since mortality can never be cognisant of remote futurity, reckon the sorrows of a fabled hell little beside this anguish of farewell. W.M.F.
Gramophone Stop, stop ; all threads are loose, And the core within bared, Touched to the quick, is filled With rhythm not its own, So perfect in its pattern That with subtle murder, Insinuation brief, It takes possession ; sets An idol in the place Of living flesh ; And dalliance flowers From the disintegrated husk Made in-nperceptible. Laughter, breath of barbarians, Scores splintering strokes Like diamonds on glass. * * Let me not to the toiling of true minds Admit impediments. Work is not work Which falters when it Anglo-Saxon finds, Or conjoins with the slacker ones to shirk ; 0, no ! it is an everlasting grind That looks on crises and is never shaken. It is the cause of every wandering mind Whose worth's unknown, though his collection taken. Work's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his sickle's compass come, poor fools ! Work alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But sees it through, even to the verge of Schools. If this be error, and upon me found, I never worked, nor no man ever ground.
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To B.S. A young lady who studied Theology Cried ' What is this thing Eschatology? Somehow I feel sure It is not very pure ; I think I shall take up Biology.' A LECTURE WILL BE. GIVEN IN BALLIOL on Friday, 29th November, on ' THE PROBLEMS OF SEX.' An illustrious Canon called Streeter, Though filled with the zeal of St. Peter, When he lectured on Sex A conditioned reflex Made him flee to a subject far sweeter.
St. Hugh's Day This year St. Hugh's Day went off as well as usual. In the afternoon we had the St. Margaret's House Sale in the J.C.R. Willing buyers thronged the room, even re-purchasing their own gifts. The result was that everything was sold, even carrots, parsley and onions, and the proceeds came to "14 12s. 9d. In the evening, at dinner, the Principal gave us a speech as charming and witty as usual, pointing out the celebrities about her, and offering our congratulations to Miss Seaton and Miss Wardale on their new books, and waiting eagerly to do the same to Miss Rogers. She also congratula ted Miss Ellis Herne on her B.C.L., and Miss Grutter and Miss Loveday on their Firsts in Schools. After dinner the Second Year gave us a play, Cambyses,' by Thomas Preston, a delicious Early English melodrama. Much time and patience had clearly been spent on the costumes, and Miss Manton delighted us with her manly beard as the Evil Counsellor. Before the play, the Musical Society gave a concert, Miss Audrey Wilson and Miss Dennet Wise being the soloists. L. P.
The Debating Society The Debating Society has enjoyed, oratorically, socially and financially, a very successful term. The number of ' going to debate' members has on the whole decreased ; but, as this number tends to move in inverse ratio to the number of speaking members,' its decrease is scarcely to be regretted in a society which exists primarily for purposes of discussion and argument. Members of the First Year proved themselves excellent debaters at the informal discussion meeting held in the first week of term, and they have since maintained their reputation at debates with. St. Catherine's, Y.M.C.A.,
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Oriel, Ruskin and the Round Table Debating Society. Subjects have ranged from Mussolini to Sainthood, from Science and Religion to Thought and Life and the Intentions of Men. Despite pronouncedly serious opinions and strong feeling, the general atmosphere at these various debates has been one of friendly and informal discussion and sociability. Three members of the Society were privileged to drink sherry with the newly-restored Lincoln Debating Society, and as various other debating clubs were represented at this gathering, the President took the opportunity t!of arranging fixtures for next term with Lincoln, St. Hilary's and Balliol. DOROTHY W. M. KRAST.
Dramatic Society The Dramatic Society may congratulate itself upon an influx of enthusiastic members and a no less welcome increase in funds ! The most notable activity of the term was a production of Cambyses, King of Persia,' for St. Hugh's Night. In addition, readings of Clemence Dane's ` Will Shakespeare' and Webster's ' White Devil' were held with the John Oldham and Exeter Societies respectively, in which Miss Gaminara as Mary Felton revealed qualities far removed from her Cambyses vein, and Miss Yeaxlee brought air and fire to her interpretation of the notorious Corombona. A reading of ' Twelfth Night' in the second week of term proved the existence of much valuable material among First Year members which should bode well for more ambitious enterprises in the future.
Hockey Club The Hockey team has had quite a successful term, despite the fact that the Eleven has had few practices together and has rarely been composed of the same people. Out of fifteen matches, five have been won, five scratched, three lost and two drawn. N. Shaw is to be congratulated on playing for the County. Of the Freshers, M. Gay and M. Rose have been the most regular players. In the latter part of the term the team suffered an irreparable loss in the withdrawal owing to illness of their Captain, M. Stinton.
Netball Club The Netball Club has not achieved match results which it cares to publish. This is not surprising considering that on the occasions when practices were at all possible, the teams either splashed through pools of water, ploughed in mud, or skated over an icy surface. None of these things were good for our style. Next term we hope either that the weather will keep dry or that some philanthropist will have the court re-laid ! We may then regain our reputation in Cuppers. In spite of the misadventures of the College game, we have been fairly well represented in United. D. Sherwood is United Captain ; M. Acaster, B. Gibbons, M. James, M. Long and D. Spikes have played for Second United.
16
THE. CYGNET
Lacrosse This term has been a fortunate one, not only from the point of view of winning matches, but also due to the acquisition of several promising Freshers. D. Yeats-Brown has been selected to play for the 1st United XII, where M. E. Barrett and B. Gibbons, last year's Blues, still represent us. Severarmatches have had to be scratched owing to the weather, but out of four matches we have had three victories—one against Magdalen's redoubtable Leatherjackets. In spite of a scarcity of numbers, the prospects for next term's matches are quite hopeful. C.A.G. (Sec.) for M. E. BARRETT (Capt.).
HOLYWELL PRESS, ALFRED STREET, OXFORD
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