COMMITTEE. Editor : B. J. SPEDDING.
Treasurer : H. M. FORTH.
Third Year Representative—G. A. JOEL. Second Year Representative—E. N. BROWN. First Year Representative—B. HENDERSON.
THE IMP JUNE, 1930.
Editorial
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HIS is a depressing season—one-third of College scarcely emerging from the shadow of Schools, and the other two-thirds cast down at the thought of losing them. Will it ever be the same again? The Editor herself takes a gloomy view. So morbid did she become, indeed, that she privately suggested to a member of the Committee that the Imp should appear in ' all black' just to show that it was not really as callous as some of its victims have supposed. However, her suggestion met with so little response that she had hastily to pretend that she did not really mean it ; and console herself with the reflection that perhaps, after all, there was quite enough sub fusc about, and anyhow it would be a little premature. In the meantime, casting about for another means of achieving the same end, she hit upon the idea of a competition for an epitaph on one of the departing. The response this time was wonderful, and as a result we have been able to produce an Imp which is most gratifyingly reminiscent of a cemetery--a nice tidy cemetery, well cared for by kind but not uncritical relatives of the departed. In the competition mentioned, Miss Forth and Miss Betts tie for the first prize. Technically, Miss Forth's epitaph is of course the best ; but the Committee liked Miss Betts's effort. As there were no entries for the other competitions, we have decided to award them 5/- each. Talking of epitaphs, we are reminded of a story which is both funny and true. A week or two ago, we are informed, a member of this College took a suit to be dyed sub fusc. Can you get this dyed quickly?.' she asked. ' What colour, Miss?' said the man dubiously. Dark blue. I want it in time for Schools.' Oh, that'll be all right, Miss,' he replied cheerfully. We'll get it put through with the mourning orders.'
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However, we must not over-stress the note of gloom. Even the Imp has a cheerful side, and we will conclude by drawing your attention to the lively optimism of some of our contributors. What, for example, could be more inspiring than the suggestion put forward by Miss Harman for livening up our garden and giving exercise to our less appreciated instincts by the adoption of a few discreetly selected pigeons and orphans?
Prizewinning Epitaphs I. Death to the drama, Death to the pun, Death to the needle, Death to each one. Death to the arts, and Sciences plastic ; Dead their adorner, Genius elastic. Dead is that voice, that Mellifldous drawl, Endlessly various, Quick to enthral. Dead is that hair Responsive to each Metamorphosis Scarce within reach. Dead is that eyebrow, Dead are those lips, Dead are the gestures Caught from the flicks, Caught from the demon, The soul of that art Of impersonation, So dear to her heart. Death to the drama, Death to the pun, Death to the needle, their Heyday is done ! H.M.F.
THE IMP II. Pray for the soul of Evans (Van), She was a wild playmate of Pan. Though mild enough in outward guise, One could detect within her eyes That she possessed an impish bent— Propensity to devilment, And from the bright hue of her skirt That with Puck she was wont to flirt. With him through goblin woods she ranAh ! pray for the soul of Evans—(Van). B. BETTS.
Ten Years Hence: or, Interviews of the Future INTERVIEW I. With what trepidation did I penetrate the luxurious home of that popular idol The Joel. The Joel ! Magic name, suggesting what aura of mystery and aloofness ! I found her on the giant stride in her private gymnasium, making uncouth gestures with her legs to the insistent music of a victrola. It was some time before I could make her stop to listen to me. Tell me,' I began, whether your aloofness, your inaccessibility, is a part of your real nature, or just a publicity stunt.' With the famous quizzical lift of her eyebrow, she replied : Neither. I just can't find anyone to go with.' Seeing my amazement, she continued with a confidential lowering of the voice : I have a secret vice. They warned me in the dear old college days ' —(here she wiped away a tear)—' but I would not believe them. And now it is too late.' There was a pause. Would it be indelicate to enquire—' I hazarded. Yes,' she snapped. In spite of my curiosity, I was obliged to forsake the subject. What are your hobbies? ' I asked. Her face lighted up. Dressmaking,' she replied. I clothe sixteen orphanages entirely by my own hand. All the orphans have half-a-dozen of everything. I can run up a three-piece suit in half-an-hour. You see,' she continued coyly, I am such a home bird.' That brings me to my next question,' said I, What is your ideal type of man ? ' She gazed dreamily into space and began to stick straws in her corruscated locks. "E must 'ave viskers,' she murmured ; but nothing more was forthcoming. Will you not tell me your vice before I go,' I pleaded. Springing to her feet, she shouted in my ear : Punning ! Let me give you a few specimens— ' But I had fled shrieking from the room. INTERVIEW II. I found La Pamela seated in the loggia of her Italian villa, surrounded by lovers and lovebirds. She was wearing a peculiar garment made of two bright-green sacks, a diamond rose-ring and crimson sandals. Sit down,' she said, and have some millet. I have a great theory '—the lovers began to slink away—' I have a theory,' she repeated, raising her voice and shooting a basilisk gleam from her eye at the delinquents, that if only we eat enough bird-seed we shall all attain the divine simplicity and energy of these lovebirds. All the evils in this world,' she continued, seizing an unfortunate and somewhat corpulent gentleman from South America by the arm in an iron grasp, can be traced to insufficient exercise and wrong
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food.' Here she gave the aforesaid gentleman an excruciating pinch which made him leap several feet into the air. Keep on doing that,' she remarked, until you are in a good sweat. Nothing like a good sweat,' she continued, turning confidentially to me. ' You have a very pretty garden,' I remarked. Have. I? ' she said. I never notice it ; but then I only use it for running, and one has not much leisure then to observe it. You don't seem to be enjoying your millet. Try some maize. Or perhaps '—regarding me balefully—` you have not been taking enough exercise.' I retreated precipitantly, intimating that I had another engagement, and was fortunate enough to escape before she seized me. When I' looked back the South American gentleman was still performing his antics, while she stood over him, her statuesque figure outlined against the portico, and a cloud of green and yellow lovebirds round her head. INTERVIEW III. When I set out to interview a former theology student I expected to be led into ecclesiastical or scholastic surroundings. Judge then of my amazement when I found her behind the scenes of a London Pantomime, drawing on a pair of red tights. Yes,' she said, I expect it seems strange to you, and I certainly left college with very different intentions ; but it was no good—my face was too much for me.' Placing a little pair of horns on her head she gave her old Mephistophelean smile. ' You see,' she said, I need no make-up. Pantomime producers kept saying that my face was my fortune, until at last I listened to them. And it is.' But surely,' I remonstrated, with your degree you might have risen to any heights. Look at Bishop Ursula, drawing crowded congregations to St. Paul's.' Yes, yes,' she replied, but look at my audiences. And my theological training comes in very useful—gives me the right background, you know. Besides, I'm very happy. I've started a kindergarten for the younger devils and fairies, and handcrafts for the clowns ; and the scene-shifters tell me all their little troubles ; and I'm the only person who can calm down the leading lady. So even a devil can have her uses.' Think,' I said sternly, of the Mosaic law ; think of the Arithinian heresy ; think . . . ' But it was no use. With a particularly Machiavellean smile she was making little devils out of brown bread. M.F. E
Epitaph on P. B. Good-bye to love-birds ; sweet repose To shawls and sweeping dresses, To leather belts and sombreros And black symphonic tresses. St. Hugh's maybe will hold again More valiant souls and faces, More super-hyper types of brain And more alluring graces. But again beneath its thatch, Or, rather, tiles senated, Will never see so large a patch Of colour concentrated.
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Bad Sir Bryan the Brazen c. A.D. 230 Sir Bryan had a Scholarship, a very,, very nice one, All for researching on the gay Spanish shore. On Tuesday and Sunday, particularly Sunday, He'd tell his humble subjects what they really knew before :— ' I am Sir Bryan! (ting-ling) I am Sir Bryan ! (tee-bee I am Sir Bryan, bold as a lion, Sir Bryan the Scholarlee I ' Sir Bryan had his eye upon a tidy little castle, A. spruce one of which he was particularly fond, Occupied by cottagers of secondary status, Whom he brazenly evicted and despatched into the pond. He will not wake one morning in his hard-won stronghold,
Confronted by the villagers and blipped upon the head, Humidly submitting to Euspongia's albution, Tearfully attending to the song of revolution, Chanted most politely as they; pull him out of bed :— ' You are Sir Bryan? Indeed ! You are Sir Bryan? Dear, dear ! You are Sir Bryan, bold as a lion? Delighted to meet you here ' Sir Bryan ought but will omit to thank his lucky stars That providence allowed a pre-historic kind of hun To undergo post-dated birth in courteous times like ours, When ducking's out of fashion and the apple-pie's not done. H.M.F.
A College Song A week or two ago Lobelia happened to find herself at an AngloA merican tea-party. Some forty persons of both sexes and nations had assembled to eat curious sandwiches and discuss the relative merits of English and American Universities. After the discussion those in favour of the English system withdrew to one end of the room and drank tea, whilst those who preferred American custom congregated at the other end and consumed quantities of a sinister-looking pink beverage reputed to be very thirst-quenching. At any rate the bare sight of it was sufficient to quench Lobelia's thirst.
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So Lobelia stood half-way between the two groups, waving a plate of pea-nut sandwiches in an attempt to appear both sane and helpful, whereas, in fact, she was deeply engrossed in thought. She was annoyed at having to think. Lobelia hated thought, and having dropped in after a hard day's work, mostly for the sake of amusement and partly to support a good cause„ here she was thinking again. She had not, in her provincial way, expected to learn anything from the Americans—and behold she had ! Lobelia had discovered the one thing lacking in English colleges. Just one little thing—but vital. We haven't any College Songs. They had sung a selection of American college songs during the course of the entertainment. Wonderful, incredible songs. Lobelia, sitting there holding her breath with astonishment, had been suddenly roused by the pleasant twang of her left-hand neighbour's voice. ' Well,' she was saying, ' wasn't that just too lovely . . . dear old Pittsburg U . . . dear . . . old . . . Pittsburg . . . U.' Her voice faded off into a sigh, and, Lobelia had just begun to wonder whether it would be necessary to lend her a handkerchief when she suddenly brightened up again and a glint of triumph appeared in her eye. ' Say, has your carlage got any songs ? ' she whispered. ' No ! ' Lobelia whispered back fiercely, ' not yet ; but we've got a Saint with a swan and a roof you can sleep out on, and . . . and we had some new coffee cups last term.' This last sounded rather weak, but after all one had to say something. ' Lobelia, you must write a College song for us,' whispered her righthand neighbour—a distinguished ex-editor of the imp. ' Lose no time about it. We are disgraced in the eyes of a whole continent.' Lobelia had nodded sadly and agreed that she must. It was a pity, because she didn't like writing. However, there seemed no other way out of it ; so, closing her eyes, drawing a deep breath, and reciting to herself a short poem to the effect that life was real, life was earnest and the grave was not its goal, Lobelia had started to think. And that was why, ten minutes later, she was seen frowning so heavily„ and waving the pea-nut sandwiches with such apparently aimless despair, exactly half-way between the two care-free chattering groups. About a week later Lobelia sent me the following efforts, with the modest request that I would publish them if I thought fit, with suitable commentaries, as she knew that I had made some study of American songs.* This I gladly consented to do, though I have no very high opinion of Lobelia's literary ability. Well, the first principle of an American college song is that it should express a deathless affection—I might almost say enthusiasm, for one's college, whatever the condition of the weather. Hail or thunder, springtime or fall, make absolutely no difference. The best type of American song is simply a reiteration of this almost unbelievable constancy. Now Lobelia, while interpreting the spirit of the American song, quite rightly I think, adapts the form so as to make it more expressive of English' sentiment. Really our climate makes it impossible for us to take the vagaries of the weather so seriously ; but in this song emphasis is laid on our equally amazing loyalty in other circumstances. (The music is actually an American air slightly adapted by Lobelia to render it more conformable to English taste.) * Through the courtesy of Miss Bixby, to whom I feel some apology is due.
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To our College (Dons and even Hugo can be with us here), To our College when we're hungry And when dinner time is near.
This, you will say, is a poor affair—slight in subject and positively barbarous in rhyme and metre, without mentioning the music. I agree. But if you consider this a cause for complaint it is obvious that you have entirely missed the spirit of the American college song. You think the appeal to" Fairest Alma Mater ' banal and unnecessary ? You are wrong. Lobelia herself wanted to omit it, but I could not allow such vandalism. No college song would be complete without it. You might as well try and sing the National Anthem without mentioning the King. However, Lobelia's second effort may be more generally acceptable—it expresses in slightly more finished verse another sentiment very proper to college songs—a profound, though quite inoffensive, appreciation of the general superiority of the members of one's own college, combined with a tactful omission to mention what one thinks of other colleges. I am glad to see that Lobelia introduced into this song the almost indispensable element of the College Yell, which, while in origin a respectable excuse for
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uttering animal-like howls, now forms an inspiring chorus for many college songs. We English have so far been very backward in appreciating the emotional value of the organised yell. Well, here it is—I give only a bur or two of the music as it is all alike. The chorus has,, of course, no tune.
It's the College of St. Hugh, Of which we sing to you. A magnificent host Of students we boast, Learned and beautiful too. We number a hundred and four, Or possibly fifty more : I can't very well Their number tell To within a couple of score. ell.—G-r-r-r-rh Bow ! G-r-r-r-ah Wow ! G-r-r-r-ah Bow ! Ah ! Ha! St. Hugh's, Each student is faultlessly dressed, And on Sunday appears in her best, And brushes her hair With particular care To honour the Sabbath blessed. She pinches her permanent wave, And with aspect lofty and grave She powders her nose, Then off she goes To Church—that's how we behave. G-r-r-r-ah Bow ! etc. On week-days we're girlish and bright— Oh, yes ! we're our tutors' delight ; Lawn tennis we play, And also croquet (Or at least we conceivably might). But in spite of such vigour and vim In scholarship we're in the swim, And if anyone tries For the Newdigate Prize Why then she is certain to win. G-r-r-r-ah Bow ! etc.
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St. Hugh's is our glory and pride, And so to the world we have tried To show that our College* Has beauty and knowledge Undreamt of by people outside. We've adopted this College roar, Which we perpetrate Both early and late, To impress the world still more. G-r-r-r-rh Bow ! G-r-r-r-ah Wow ! G-r-r-r-rh Bow ! Ah ! Ha ! St. Hugh's ! There, ladies ! Shall we sing them from the tower? B.J.S. * I must say I consider it a serious defect that Lobelia has not here introduced any reference to Alma Mater.'
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Columbine
St. Hugh's garden is unhesitatingly and deservedly ranked first amongst the pleasaunces of the ladies' colleges. God Almighty first planted a garden. And, indeed, it is the purest of human pleasures.' But Eden had plenty of live-stock besides its complement of human beings, Adam and Eve had bird-song at morning and hyenas' laugh at night ; and shall we leave all the cacophany to Hugo's serenade to the moon,, or the hideous mirth of our own kind? St. Hugh himself is as inseparable, in our imagination, from his swan as was St. Jerome from his lion. But a swan sings but once, and we do not wish to set up as a miniature Yellow-Stone Park. Then why not a dovecot? The suggestion calls up all that is most pleasing to eye and ear, all that is most rural, most soothing:, most human. The shattered Schools candidates could sleep to the gentle roucoulement ' in the distance, whilst the more active P.P.E. fanatics could work out the expectation of life per dove and the increase of population per cot. There would be more practical aspects to be considered. First there would have to be a Dove Secretary—possibly a member of the Peace League would fill this office, invest each member with its olive branch, and see to their feeding, for which the College Shop would doubtless provide. (No dove, of course, could leave the cot after 9 p.m. without a subfuse band round one leg and a green light on the other.) You will say that the proposition so far has provided nothing but sources of increased expenditure, only provided for from our funds at the sacrifice of a new dance record or some other rigorous self-denial. But you are wrong—quite, quite wrong. You forgot that doves as well as pigeons could be trained to carry notes ! The College messenger could be abolished or retained merely for non-collegiate correspondence. There would 'be a dove for every college, with his respective arms blazoned on his wings ; and since one of these winged messengers goes faster than any car, we should save TIME !
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While that idea is sinking in I will go on to the other points of my scheme. Two peacocks would of course grace the terrace and might be taught to scream whenever the J.C.R. gramophone was played. Tortoises might be imported, as I understand that they are insectivorous, besides .conducive to brighter tennis—since the latter sport, like cricket, is definitely getting too easy. The adoption of an orphan (a suitable specimen could be selected by a phrenologist) would centralise all the misapplied maternal instinct of our unhappy community. Cocoa, brewed by loving hands, would flow into a hungrier, or rather thirstier, mouth ; our sapped energy would go unheeded and . . . But I see you have already grasped the idea of the dove-cot, with its amazing possibilities, so I need not go any further now as the rest will follow inevitably. KITTY HARMAN.
Epitaph on a Third Year Hers was no barren field of corn With gleanings sparsely scattered ; Her way of life was bright with dolls And other things that mattered. • Her smile was quick, her face delight. 'Twas sad she had to go—as With 'her departure, out of sight Went darling little Boaz ! B. BETTS.
Remarks. That Don't Ring True t. Yes really, Hugo has not got much intelligence.—M - ss S - LT. 2. I don't think anyone should be denied a bath, whatever the hour.— M - ss G - - LD - NG. 3. The advantage of my room is that it is so convenient for Chapel and the Library.—'E. P -cKL - s. 4. For my part, I think one room is as good as another.—M. B - - TT 5. I often wish I had the courage to express my opinions.—B. SP - DD - NG. 6. I think more time is wasted in the J.C.R. than anywhere in College.-B. H - ND - RS - N. 7. I am utterly convinced . . . —M. H - RD 8. I know we can't help loosing books.—MI - SS PR - CT - R. 9. I can see as much as I like of my brothers in the vac.—D. GR - Y. to. Yes, I know exactly where she is.—THE P - RTR - SS. I. I believe in enjoying life.—E. R -13- NS - N. 12. I don't need any advice about this.—B. - L - FF.
13. I feel so depressed this term.—D. J - N - S.
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Epitaph on the Passing of a Wit When hall and passage echo loud and long The cachinations of a giggling throng, Those empty vessels which, the proverbs tell, Betray their lack of wit by raising hell, Pause, stranger, and with lamentation fit, Regret the passing of a Subtle Wit. Her grasp on life was perfect, and no one Had ever seen it ruffled or undone ; Her gestures and her attitudes expressed Her genius for the merry quip and jest ; Her voice was low ; her poise was exquisite ; 0 let us mourn the Passing of this Wit ! UPON ANY SCHOOLS SUICIDE. Be still ! She navigated Schools, She dared the deep in -Wind and wrack ; Hers be the calm of cloistered pools, Hers the illimitable vac. Peace, peace ! Upon that further strand Schools are no more, and tutors are Impalpable as dreamsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;they stand In gracious silence, each a star. And there is found an end to tutes ' ; Her only care throughout the day Still, still upon euphonious lutes Unconstitutional, to play. So be it ! Cease thy partial moan : To other and to wider skies Her soul has taken flight aloneâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; Her body in the Isis lies. B.G.
The First Year Play \
FRESHER'S TRAGEDY.' B. Green, the author, produced some highly entertaining chorale verse after the manner of Gilbert Murray, which was chanted with a vivacious relish. We wished there had been more of these odes. There were several good impersonations. The most remarkable external metamorphosis was that of B. Betts into the Vice-President, but especial praise must be given to B. Henderson for her intelligent representation of the voice and gestures of G. Joel, which brought the house down. In addition, 0. Shapley's Beattiesque effect and L. Bell's inspired ' Better? Better?' were greatly appreciated.
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' On the Present Discontents (With deepest apologies to S.T.C.) By KITTY HARMAN. It is a worthy Third Year, • And she stoppeth one of three, By thy large horn-rims and scholar's gown, Now wherefore stopp'st thou me? The hatch's doors are open'd wide, The queue is crowding in, The hags are met, the grub is set, May'st hear the filthy din.' She holds her with her inky thumb, ' There was a book,' quoth she. Let go ! Quit that, you ghastly bore ! ' Her hand quick sharp dropt she. She holds her with myopic stare, The famished one stood still And listened with a Fresher's air. The Third Year hath her will. The crisis o'er, one essay more, Library-wards we trot, Before the shelf, before the slips— Before the bally lot ! We pinned a notice to the board, To get the books for me. And it looked well—(facetious, too, The wit supplied by me). Sadder and sadder every day The absent books we sing.' The Starving One here threw a fit, For she heard the last bell ring. The Princ. hath paced into the hall, The supper scents afar, With martial stride before her goes The head of the J.C.R. Tutorials spurred us fiercely now, And nearly drove us mad, And giving up our former hopes We biked down to the Rad.
THE IMP With buckled wheel, chain tied with cordâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; Results of crashes in the Broad ; Still whirl the pedals, like a Ford That sniffs B.P. ahead. The bike did grind against the wind, And Rad-ward aye we sped. We read the book we ne'er had read, And swift our pencils flew, Our heads did split with the size of itâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; But the Rad. had seen us through ! ' Great Gotha's little First Year,' For with shame her form now shook, ' Why goest so grey ? " I scarce dare sa'Twas I that had that book ! '
Intimations of Immortality Bifel that, in a season on a day, In Oxford at the Tabard as I lay, At night was come into that hostelrye A humorously garnered companye. A BURSAR there was, whose crispe lokkes crulle Darted around her face like golden wire What time collegiate moneys did require Her daily application, and a beaste Her seasonable scrappes from the feaste Relished at noon by positively hordes Of hungry students ravening at the bordes. And ONE there was of seeming lovely grace,
A damself of unhurried even pace.
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With dainty scruple picked she out her way, Fastidiously veering from the fray, Her arms across her chest, as if she trod The pirate's plank and scorned the plank she trod. But sikerly she was of great disport When it her pleased to sacrifice her port ; And under all there lurked the diplomat, The cunning skill that Macchiavel begat.
I looked, and feared, and heard the future moan : She'd walk her plank, at right angles, alone.' But who is this? A 'POTHECARY bright Clutching a small thermometer so tight, Bouncing along with sturdy sounding tread, And chin tucked in, and face a radiant red. A jolly wig-ht that every ill could cure, Skilled in Jumping at the Temperature As none beside in all this Engelonde.
THE IMP Gaily there laughed the brown and eke the blonde, Two Younge Girles, fresh as is the spring, Whose beauty poets tried, and failed, to sing. One darksome, lithe, and with a glowing eye, A lady's voice, a lady's breeding high ; A moulded face complete with drooping lips, A skittish kittenish walk she had, with skips Ever anon to variegate the pace ; A dainty mortal with a dryad's grace, Dancing, and dancing, on from flower to flower She passed and ever passed nor ceased an hour. Motion unending, opalesque all through, I wist she was, and sparkling as the dew. Yet soothly for to say, her greatest joy Was playing of a whistle like a boy, And never any maiden off the flicks So charmingly performed her parlour tricks. A SHADE there was, in lion's skin bedight Hot from the battlefield of Afric's night. Zeal for the Bantu glittered in her eyes Or e'er she undertook yon enterprise, Or e'er embraced she irretrievably The continental charms of Mandate B. Tremendous shade ! Still present absentee ! A POET there was, that dealt in portraiture, All for encompassing cathartic cure Of his chaotic sensibility. Result : a pessimist's philosophy (Wherein the pea-stick symbolised much) Which stupid wights mistook for double-Dutch. With labyrinthine maze of daedal song Strewed he the way, and, though I may be wrong, It seemed he caught at Ariadne's thread And almost thought the outward path to tread. Peace to his striving ! Followed then a stream Of scholars that pursued a lonely dream ; A don or two, sartorially astray, Researching avidly along the way ; A giant scholar penetrating sheer Through learning's dun obscureâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;Minerva's dear. Amongst the remnant of this companye A SOCIALIST there was ; a ' hearty'' he, Aspiring hopefully to god-like speed Astride his nervous locomotive steed. A very worthy Communist, I wisse, Plighted to study with a solemn kisse, As rumour not infrequently averred,
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THE IMP And oft I saw, but rather oftener heard, The Guardian Angel of the Library That dropped the little bookes, one in three. Mine HOST He came, attended by a rout Of Beauty, Sorrow, and the Down-and-out. He .tipped him gently forward out of line And added to the perilous incline By clasping of his hands before his chest. Yet was the leaning column e'en redrest By law of Newton, and this Pisan tower Remained as such, immutably secure. Full often jerked he out the witty phrase Scarce audible, and with unseeing gaze Perceived the faring of this Pilgrimage, Each guest his name, his station, and his age, His dealings all with every other inn, The occupants thereof, their name, their kin. 0 sikerly his memory was stored As well as any wight's in Oxenforde. H.M.F. !
What Might Have Been OR THE INDISPENSABLE HELPMEET.
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It was dark in the Sorcerer's room. She walked hesitantly, dragging her feet a little. A long green garment, curiously wrought and fashioned, swirled round her as she moved. She peered rather apprehensively into the fiery retorts, started at the dripping of the water from the roof, and made her way, with mysterious steps, like a second Bluebeard's wife, into the fastness of the book-room. There was dust everywhere. From the depths of the corner, she took a hide-bound volume, dark with inscriptions, and opened it. Then for hours, leaning intensely over the black runic letters, she assimilated their inner meaning until past ten o'clock. The Sorcerer usually came home late and weary from practising magic. Unfortunately, the fire was nearly always out, and the tea he had to make for himself, but his work for the following day was always prepared by his wife. Tabulated lists on piles of thin paper lay upon his table. The characters of all his clients were analysed to a nicety : A must be treated skilfully, but may be easily deceived ; be blunt with B or she will find you out,' and so on. Depsding, my dear, as a wife you are an asset,' he was wont to say in his pompous fashion, ' I am glad I sensed the uncanny foresight within that ariel gaze.' One such evening, when the Sorcerer was already nodding in his deep armchair, but Depsding still leaned over the volumes, a loud klock sounded on the door. A worried but withal cheerful face appeared, surmounted by a mop of yellow hair : Hello,' she called breezily, I want your help.' A resounding bang on the shoulder recalled the Sorcerer to life. Erâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;eris there anything I can do for you?' he inquired. An injured look came to
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Raydow's face. Can't you see. . . ?' she entreated. At this moment, Depsding, who had recoiled and taken refuge behind the nearest chair, gave a violent tug at the Sorcerer's coat-tails. Tell her she's getting slimmer,' she hissed psychologically. A flush mounted the magician's neck, from there suffusing his cheeks': ' You look much sl— fitter, Miss Raydow, this evening.' Running and riding,' she replied, smiling, but immediately the worried look returned : My steed Jacobus is causing me trouble—that is why I came here. He is becoming too conspicuous. Poor, very poor.' At this, Depsding's face darkened and her eyes took on a far-away look. Then a glimmer of light came. Fern seed,' she hissed in her husband's ear. ' 0 yes, Miss Raydow,' he asserted blandly, I have the very thing— fern seed sprinkled on the head will make his invisible.' Good,' she replied, delivering another hearty slap on his shoulder, and taking the remedy offered. The door slammed. Depsding subsided in a shaking heap near the dying embers of the fire, worn with shock and intense thinking. So the fame of the Sorcerer grew with the years. But none, alas, noticed the change that came over the indispensable Depsding. Long years of runes bent her back and dimmed her eyes, until, one night, she was found lying quite still and cold over a volume of Aristotle. Bitter was the Sorcerer's cry when he saw the table without the piled papers. Her funei-aI was conducted as befitted that of the wife of an important man. Well-known garments were piled on the bier—the wrought green kirtle and the spotted bridal muslins. With her were buried a few select volumes of Aristotle and a pair of scissors, her habitual companions. The precious brain, rich in grey matter, was embalmed and placed in a costly vase upon the Sorcerer's mantelpiece, as an instigation to work and a memorial of better days. There was much talk among the neighbouring women. They expressed a faint sympathy for 'the Sorcerer, but remarked in relieved tones that he would at last be looked after by an efficient housekeeper. In spite of their hopes, however, the poor bereaved man went into a decline. His brain, after long years of inactivity, could no longer absorb the runes over which the faithful Depsding had pondered • his clients were clumsily treated and left him ; he was found muttering alone by the hearth about the necessity for concentration. After a few months, he too was found dead, lying in a prostrate position before the Embalmed Brain. His last wish was that the epitaph on his grave should be a tribute to his own inferiority : Here lies the body of Depsding's husband.' F. M. H. Oh World, since you have taken Mary, with the rest, grant to a dull forsaken mourner this request— That shades of her may linger in spots you ne'er profane— that memory may bring her to dwell with us again. So on the terrace walking at night—this is my boon— her friends may cease their talking and whisper : See—the moon l '
THE IMP ' tread softly now—be wary, on haunted ground we go, for here the ghost of Mary wanders to and fro.'
Report TENNIS. The First VI were successful against St. Hilda's in the second round of Cuppers, but lost to Somerville in the final. It was unfortunate that one member of the team was unable to play. The weather made it impossible to complete the match, which had to be abandoned as soon as Somerville had scored sufficient points ; but it is probably that the final result would have been satisfactorily close. The Second VI failed to come through the second round. Several College matches have had to be scratched owing to weather and to the paucity of good players outside the two teams ; this was especially noticeable when the third year began to turn their attention to higher things. Congratulations are due to M. Buick on being elected United Tennis Captain for the season 193o-31, and to I. Josephy on gaining her Blue. Teams :First VI.—M. Buick, I. Josephy, R. Johnson, M. Beattie, R. Attenborough, M. Hardie. Second VI. —M. Zvegintzov, P. Kirkby, H. Faure, P. Talbot, K. Jackson, M. Robertson. ,
S. H. C. C. The match with Headington School—our only contest apart from cuppers—was lost by five runs. M. Mortlock took most of the wickets, and C. Duthoit was top scorer. The attendance at cricket practices can hardly be described as congested, though there is considerable keenness among the Freshers. Mortlock, Duthoit, Braddick, Jones and Lavington play for United. N.P. ROWING. St. Hugh's has had a very successful season, having won cuppers with total of 3L, points (second, St. Hilda's, 25+ points ; third, Home Students, 25 points). Miss Lloyd and Miss Layton are to be congratulated on obtaining places in the College boat, and -Miss Freestone on her excellent performance as stroke. The crew take this opportunity of thanking Miss Keens on 11-3r valuable work as coach. College IV :Bow Layton. 2 Cooper. 3 Lloyd. Str. Freestone. Cox. Keens. E. I. COOPER. ROLYWELL PRESS, ALFRED STREET, OXFORD.
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