THE CYGNET
C OMMITTEE.
Editor: M. SHELLEY.
Treasurer: B. HENDERSON.
Third Year Representative—B. GREEN. Second Year Representative — B. T. CHARLES.
THE CYGN ET DECEMBER, 1931
Editorial
T
HE result of this title-election confirms me in my belief that the Editor should have at least six casting votes—or rather sixteen—or as many as she likes. ' Leda,' a lovely and melodious name, classic in aura yet free from pedantry, beautiful in itself yet not too remotely connected with the symbols of Saint Hugh, was defeated by the sibilant and tongue-tieing name ' Cygnet.' If the author of this suggestion dare reveal her identity, a small purse awaits her according to agreement. Miss Green carried off the prizes for the best shortest poem and the discourse on ' Community Life,' but some other contributors gained honourable mention and their efforts are printed within. Miss Shelley won the cover-design.
Prize-winning Poems EXHORTATION.
Swift limbs, white shoulder, Dessicate, moulder I BRENDA GREEN. COMMUNITY LIFE.
(A s Lord Byron might have pictured it). I.
' How filthy are the masses ! ' When you've said it A sort of halo forms around your head, And that fat ego of your soul you've fed it With food enough to make a hog see red, Enough to blow you out, and to discredit The claims that all the kindly world has made ; And then, you feel a fat lot better for it And float like any disembodied spirit. ' Of course,' you say, the individual matters Much more than any base, mechanic mob Whose limited perception only batters Its bovine wits about a lump of gob, And smiles its twisted smile, and goes in tatters Of drab respectability to rob The brave, the bright, courageous individual Of his rich freedom and his mental fuel.'
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Of course you're wrong, you dirty little sniveller, You like to think that you're misunderstood. (Forgive me if I can't appear much civiller, But individuals get me in this mood.) Because the more a man's a dirty driveller The more he spurns the liberal and the good, And as his damned exclusiveness grows vaster He sets up for a saint in alabaster. Of course it must be perfectly apparent That the gregarious rout is always right ; They've got the numbers, and they've got the parent Of right, which, as we know, is always might. So hark'ee, individual, let your rare bent For affectation shun the tell-tale light Of public disapproval, which will show up The peevish imprecations which you throw up.
v. And, if you please,, endeavour to remember That hunting with the hounds is safer far, That he who stands alone is some dissembler Whose eye is always on some windy star ; While the wise crowd is careful to condemn a Bent for astronomy, that's sure to mar The sly, obsequious, correct veneer That's soul sufficient for our sojourn here. BRENDA GREEN. PATHOS. Alone On the lawn At dawn Cold and grey Dully lay A stone. THE MEDIJEVALIST.
Tristram is gone with the young morn. Rosamund, whose name's a tune, Passed in the high and leafy noon. Gleamed the late Southern sunset light On Laura's hair. And now the night Finds me here in the dark forlorn. JOAN LAPRAIK.
A Flame From a fire, New-sprung life To its Pyre. MYFANNY
Ev ANS
THE CYGNET OCTOBER GARDEN. By lawns yet green, a joyful bed Of dahlias flaunt their gaudy show ; A leafless tree against the sky Spreads forth his arms from things below : Remember, giddy flowers, to die— For while your dancing skirts are spread A skeleton is standing by. S. AUTUMN RONDEL,. This little trembling love is dead— A folded bud that had no flower ; Now Summer's treachery is fled This little trembling love is dead. The Autumn where no seed is shed Awaits in vain Spring's waking hour : This little trembling love is dead— A folded bud that had no flower. L.B.B. METAMORPHOSIS. The impish mask, the roguish grin, The ears askew, the jaunty gait, The quipping tongue, the pointed chin, The twinkling eye, the polished pate Away ! Begone that form uncouth ! For dignity becometh one Who'd guard the gilded words of youth. Shroud that slim form in feathered down . . . Now midst the hens of old St. Hugh You run—an ugly duckling too. E.P.P.
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THE CYGNET
Phantasmagoria e Coll. S. Hug. When his BIRD had laid a SHELLEY egg on a SEATON a FREESTONE in the THORNEYCROFT, the COCHRANE a-CROSLAND to the GREEN DOWNES, from the WOOLF and the KER, outracing the ROEBUCK, who was a fast WALKER, and crying, EVANS ! I mustn't let IRwIN, the little Hussy.' She replied, WHATLEY-gitimate excuse can I plead for having PRESTON your heels so fast?' Presently they reached the THORP, a peaceful place, for this PORTSMORE sheltered in WINTER, and here you may see the DOLPHIN scaling the waters. Here there was a veritable RALLT , for the SALT of the earth were present, viz. the CHANDLER, the BAKER, the TAYLOR, the COOPER, the GLOVER, the REEVE with his BUCKLER to PARRY the attack, and the PROCTER with his CLARKE to LUCAS over. And they said : CHARLES, my GOODFELLOW, everyone BETTS that jEUDWINE WHALEY WHALEY and shake like an ASPIN if you could SEYMOUR of the STRONG. FRENCH TROUP under the MARSHALL in the HALL, making SPARKS fly, while the PARSONS in the EYLES• of the TEMPLE chime their three BELLS ; for this has indeed been a HARDCASTLE to defend.' J.C.T.C.
A Discourse on Community
Life
It has been for many flowery moons the privilege of this despicable and unworldly scrap of humanity to participate in the honeyed joys of earthly life in this most august temple of knowledge. In obedience to the inspired councils of my worthy and reverent preceptor, my studies have been directed to a perusal of the learned works of antiquity. It was while scanning the work of that illuminating philosopher, Aristotle, that my unworthy eye lighted on this sentiment : Property should be private in ownership, but common in use. Pondering on the wisdom stored in these erudite words, it occurred to this miserable wretch how excellently they suited the community life enjoyed by the favoured members of this celestial abode. Each dark-eyed flower of the Orient possesses many rare pieces of exquisite porcelain, but with noble generosity keeps it not concealed, but displays it openly in a common chamber whence all may come and take. Heart of Rose desires another cup for tea ; she is not reduced to make humiliating entreaties and to prostrate herself before her neighbour, Jaded Lily. No, with careless joy• she appropriates the delicate porcelain her heart has long coveted. Such noble gestures are indeed worthy of our ancestors. Again, as I mused, the thought came to this despicable person that not only the precepts of divine philosophy, but the example of the bravest sons of antiquity, have helped to direct the communal life of the favoured dwellers in this ivory temple of virtue. Do they not partake of rice at common tables in a spacious hall, seated in due order of wisdom, the reverend sages presiding, the humble students below? Ever thus the sage Herodotus relates the ancient Spartans satisfied their inward lusts. Surely the wisdom of Confucius descended on the reverend ancestors who built this honourable dwelling, and granted to this unseemly clod of earth to share in the celestial joys of community life. 0.M. S.
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ONE OF THE SIGHTS OF OXFORD.
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Community Life Community life is like Democracy—many attempt it but few succeed. Its theoretical appeal is universal, but it needs a special temperament to work it. We in England do not possess that temperament, but none the less the land teems with petty communities, all on the wrong lines, scattering selfishness, sublimation and sex repression. Community life should be a work of art, but we have made it a pernicious travesty. They know how to do this, too, in Russia. Fortunate creatures, they are temperamentally suited to communal life. The Slav is a sociable soul. He loves to rub shoulders with his neighbours in the vast dining-room of the Working Men's Club at Moscow. In the house communes of Dnieprostrey his wife delights in frying fish at one of the stoves which line the walls. She would miss her daily gossip over the preparation of meals— she has no individualistic inhibitions driving her to veil domestic duties in a shroud of secrecy. The Slav cannot be happy in superior segregation. He clusters with his fellow men—talks, thinks, sleeps and eats on top of them. This is community life in its only feasible form —built up on co-operation and spontaneous sociability. We have no glimmerings of this in England. Our communities spring up from the force of circumstances where some common objective obliges us to live in herds—as in barracks and boarding schools, convents and colleges. The members contribute no more than is inevitable to the life of the whole. Nowhere is this more obvious than in college life, where each one hastens to nurture her own limited intellect. It is not enough to take a group of one sex, one age, one set of interests, to herd them together in one building under one conventional code. That is no healthy community : it is a cross between a convent and an incubator. What makes things worse is that we glory in our inbred isolationism. It is our temperament to keep aloof, to harbour strange reservations and preserves. Very well then, let us face the fact and adapt our system to our sensitive souls. We should abolish our artificial and pernicious communities and plan our lives to live alone. And, in the first place, let us begin with women's colleges ! B.A. B.
A Character Sketch after the Manner of John Earle, a Waiter Is a Gentleman for eight hours of every day, after which he makes shift to be plain homo, though he have left his humanitas with his Dressclothes. His duty is to wait at your table, and yours to wait at his pleasure. He is very cunning in the carrying of many dishes, and if he lose his present position confidently expects to turn Juggler. One that is as skilled a Linguist as any Gentleman : for he converseth in one tongue with the Diners and in another with the Menials behind the counter. His greatest Learning is to expound unto you the Menu ; and he is for ever below the comprehension of a No Gratuities, which he deems to be removed as far as the Antipodes from the Tip. His white napkin betrays him : but for which he is not to be distinguished from those whom he serves. And, indeed, his Maker cannot tell them apart even now. JOYCT, HAZLE,HURST.
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Yews Waves of dark yew monotonously lifted and fell, sounding like a sea shell held to the ear. Yes,' the voice went on, ' it is an unassuming hill from the road, bare and round. These yews don't look very big from the distance, more like shrubs than trees, and the wood is on the side away from the road.' I noticed it first driving one night from Nettlebed, when I was struck by its deadly stillness in the moonlight. The sky was a light Eastern blue and the trees cyprus-black on the grey hill, which made me think of Gethsemane and Golgotha. But I went up there, first, not at night but in the evening. Walking as usual along the Ickneild Way, I stopped to admire three oak trees. They looked like Roman sentinels, and their knotted branches pointed straight over my shoulder to the hill, which rose about two• fields away. I thought vaguely how ancient it must be and, obeying an impulse, climbed through a gap in the hedge and struck out across the fields.. The light was getting dim. Tall pale flowers brushed stiffly across my legs, and every now and then I stumbled against a tussock of grass. Beyond a fan of young trees I could see the hill looming up higher and higher with every step I took. It was much higher than I expected. When I gained the last barrier, a pungent smell of toadstools and dank undergrowth filled my nostrils, and the silver undersides of hornbeam leaves glinted flatly overhead. I picked my way over the rocks and rabbit-holes and emerged on to the hillside. It was very steep. I bent double and breasted it vigorously. My eyes noted the white rubble on the ground and the same tall stiff wild flowers which brushed my finger-tips. When I had climbed some way, these gave place to soft moss, breaking now and then into chalky soil. I paused for breath and lifted my eyes to see how much farther I had to go—and had a moment of sheer panic. A great black
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wave crested the hill-brow overhead threatening to break, and then I realised it was trees, those same shrubby trees I had seen from the road. Now they seemed to crouch like watching beasts of prey. I started to walk towards them, and as I came nearer I saw they were yew-trees, their long skirts of foliage brushing the ground. Although I had gained the top, I could not see the other side of the hill : humps of moss as large as ant hills stretched on interminably luminously outlined ; here and there a wicked thorn tree ; the yews, still as death, ranged round in bays. At first, I looked impartially at everything, at the sky and the trees and the curious hillocks so yielding and springy to the feet, and the little flowers starring the moss. But each time the yews held my gaze longer. Their stillness mesmerised me, then their formation, each bay raying out from where the mass was blackest, and, at last, I could not turn away, for, like a magnet, they drew my soul through my eyes. They loomed larger—they were moving—they were advancing upon me—they were closing upon me. Then a shout from the valley burst on my ears like a thunder-clap. I became conscious that my legs were moving, that the trees were stationary. Swirling blindly on my heels, I started to run and did not stop till I reached the tarred road again. But I could not drive the memory from my mind. Each night I dreamt about that hill, a sequence of dreams, each more complex and horrible than the last. And by day my eyes turned constantly in the direction of that bare, round hill, so unassuming from the road, while the craving to go up there again and test my strength grew more importunate. On the one hand desire, on the other hand fear. It was a bright early summer morning when I turned off by the oak trees again. The sky was as blue as a jay's feather. The tall wild flowers glinted in the sun like yellow metal. Striped caterpillars were on their stalks. The long seeded grasses flickered and shone. I gained the barrier. The young trees thrust up their shoots, the crushed leaves uncurling. The same flowers brushed my legs and hands as I climbed steadily upwards. I noticed the transition to the moss. The moment was coming when I must look up. I looked up. It was a line of yews that crested the hill, a vivid shining green in the sunlight. I walked up to them and broke off a needle-like frond from the gently tossing branches. Bounding from hillock to hillock, I trod the same path—so different, almost unrecognisable that morning. Everything was glittering and impregnated with light, the yews with a bluish sheen, the insects humming and flashing round the mauve and yellow flowers, the cloudless sweep of sky above. A bird whistled in the wood and a rabbit flashed to its burrow. My eyes travelled with delight from sky to trees, from trees to earth. The earth was steaming. It was the sun, the sun was drawing all the humours from the spongy brown moss. It fascinated me, that vapour, it steamed up, it ascended, like smoke from an altar, from the plot of ground where I was standing, quite a small plot ringed with trees— the yew-trees that stood all round. The place might have been set for some old rite, here the altar, the vapour, the sacrificial smoke ascending, the trees . . . I looked up . . . MARY SHELLEY. CREED. Loving you I Touch blasphemy. BRENDA GREEN.
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Going Down Where slide the willow-guided streams Through the shallows half-asleep From deeper into deeper dreams ; Where the minnow people keep Their incessant chivalry Forming fours remotely, I, I should have written a poem for you then, Oh Oxford of the heart, but I'd forgotten How the hot people with their old and rotten Necklaces of dead animals come spreading Down the long platform when you get to Reading. And Paddington was hell on top of heaven Where straightway even Reading was forgiven. BRENDA GREEN.
Topsy Philologist [With apologies to A. P. Herbert.] MY DARLING TRIX, Don't ever be so misguided as to go in for higher education, specially on the linguistic side. Your poor little Topsy is in the process of being made into a full-blown philologist, and is being all but exterminated in the proceeding. My cerebral functions are just too intermittent as a result of prolonged attempts to assimilate the caprices and vagaries of the Gallic tongue in the filly stages—my dear, too back-to-nature—the cult of the noble savage simply isn't in it. To begin with there is a most disgustingly sensational literature, deaths on every page, and not clean crime at that— too crude and barbaric. They simply did nothing but fight all day and hacked each other to pieces in the most un-Christian manner, and as soon as one army was extinct, my dear, another appeared on the spot out of some insanitary ambush or other, and no half-time— too episodic — and apparently you aimed at scattering the component parts of your corpse as much as possible, and all the best people died at most indecent length in those days. I gather if you took under twenty minutes over the final agony or failed to perorate the regulation amount of laisses (the kind of pseudo-poetry they apparently all talked in) it was considered too menial and plebeian and you would simply be cut dead in Hades or wherever they did foregather in the next world. They seemed all to suffer from a horrible disease called pamoison ' (probably caused by sleeping in armour — my dear, too business-like and unbending) which invariably attacked them at the most inconvenient and crucial moments. I asked Mr. Haddock if it was anything like scurvy, and do you know Trix he went too snowy about the gills and simply goggled at your inoffensive little Topsy, so I gathered I'd rather lost grip of a whole brick wall darling—so trying—and it seems after all that all it is just being out of breath ! And then of course you have to decide why Latin isn't Latin any more, but got vulgar and somehow turned into French instead—why those unspeakable. Gauls couldn't have decided on English I can't think—my dear, so much more universal —or even Esperanto ! I think they must have been just too primitive
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darling—there is a whole book about an uncouth man called Roland—my dear, a prig of the first water—who spent all his time bickering at great length with a man called Oliver whom he declared was his best friend the minute he'd gone round a corner, or alternatively cracked up France just because he was in Spain at the moment — so completely insular ! And what makes it all the more difficult is that nobody had thought of inventing spelling in those days, so everyone wrote just exactly what they felt like, so how you're ever to know how they said it I can't imagine ; they would write things like ' moat' and everyone squabbles as to whether they meant ' mountain ' or ' much '—I hate unnecessary post-mortems, don't you darling? And then of course someone else suddenly appears and upsets everything by saying it meant ' moult ' or something staggering like that. And then you learn a whole lot of completely ineffectual rules—my dear too soul-deadening—and of course none of them ever apply because every word has invariably expanded or contracted or been borrowed and not paid back, or some paralysing calamity you have utterly ignored has befallen it. Or else it is contaminated—my dear it really is all too unsavoury, but I have left that branch severely alone as befits your puresouled little Topsy. And anyway what does it matter when they're all dead and gone, and anyway I say let's be charitable and why rake up past scandals. And another significant point is that all the authors were anonymous in those days— I expect they had to be for fear of being lynched or something. Anyway my dear don't ever be a philologue or a morphologue — the only thing ts our phonologue lecturer man is rather divine. I rather fancy Trix that your little Topsy is not wasting her sweetness quite on desert air darling—the other day our eyes met and held over a fricative yod, and when I asked him exactly how a velar plosed, he gulped back a guttural spirant with palpable emotion. Well no more now darling. Your academic little TOPSY. M.G.
Sailors Went By By S. BIRD. Sailors came swinging down the street And every door Gaped open and the windows eyed Then roundly as they passed. And all at once, Within the even echo of their tread Was heard The blue defiant marching of the sea. We saw in dreams untravelled shores, Great forests where enormous flowers Cut gold fantastic capers like drunk fools Before the laughing audience of the sun. A nd scarlet shrilling parakeets Burned colour in the gloom of hanging trees. Sailors went swinging down the street And far away, there swayed The lisp of quiet waves on long brown sands : Windows shut down again ; the children played, The sun went in and all the colours greyed. Sailors went swinging out of sight.
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Fair Emma Fair Emma dwelt within a humble Cot Half-hidden in a pleasant Vale ; she was The Daughter of a Jobbing Gardener, And oft her Timely Aid the Girl would lend To the Old Man, what time with Horny Hand He culled his simple Herbs : the Turnip wan, The homely Cabbage, and nutritious Bean— Foods far more chaste than Flesh of Cows or Sheep, And such as raise within the Temp'rate Breast No raging Passions or unclean Desires. It chanc'd one day that Emma's Aged Sire Took to his Bed, with many an Anguish'd Groan Complaining of his Joints ; the simple Girl With Filial Duty hied her to the Task Of Thinning Out the Vicar's Broccoli. Unhappy Day ! Chaste Muse, avert thine Eyes, While I unfold that Vicar's Infamy ! He mark'd the Maiden at her Rural Toil What time he pac'd about to Meditate His Homily Hebdomadal ; and straight Within his Bosom there arose a Flame By Lust enkindled. Let not Simple Hearts Recoil astonish't at such Turpitude ; For Evil finds a lodgement in the Soul Whether one Wears one's Collar Back to Front Or in the Normal Way. Th' abandoned Wretch Long ponder'd Darkly how he might Obtain The Favours of the Chaste and Virtuous Maid ; Till, Madden'd by Despair, one night he pour'd Weed-killer in the Cocoa of his Spouse, Who straight—unhappy Dame !—in direst Pangs And strong. Convulsions Perish'd. That same Night Th' unholy Vicar in his Study sate, And oft he Rubb'd his Hands, and oft Revolv'.d Within his Mind the Happiness to come When Emma should have Join'd her Hand to his. And as he Ponder'd thus, there came a Knock, And to him enter'd Honest George, a Youth Well known and lov'd throughout that Rural Vale As Pig-man to the Squire ; who, blushing deep, Requested that his Banns should be put Up Within the little Church, for he had Gain'd The Love of Emma.
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THE CYGNET This untimely Shock So Discompos'd the Vicar that he ran At once into a Phrenzy, and Confess't The Blackness of his Soul ; and when at Last Upon the Scaffold he prepar'd to Die A Felon's Death, so great was his Remorse That e'en the Hangman wip'd away a Tear. The Vicar with his Latest Breath pronounc'd A Blessing on Fair Emma and her George, Who liv'd to a Great Age, and had, 'tis said, A Numerous Progeny, some of whom were Twins. B. HENDERSON.
' The Critic The St. Hugh's College Dramatic Society acted Sheridan's Critic' on the afternoon and evening of November 25th. Costumes and stage effects were admirable. The acting in the afternoon lacked assurance, and this hesitation was emphasized by the mechanical repetition of a certain few gestures and cadences of speech, but in the evening this impression of uncertainty was corrected by the vigour with which each individual actress threw herself into her part in the whole. The first Act was certainly the weakest. In spite of the presence of Mrs. Dangle and the too brief appearance of the French interpreter, these two scenes, until the arrival of Puff, might be criticised not unfairly in the words of Sheridan himself, Now insipidity succeeds bombast.' Sneer, surprisingly enough, showed a marked intent to ' threaten the world with high astounding terms,' and even Dangle seemed to catch a tendency to ' roar,' though more mellifluously.' The audience was relieved of the too frequent gestures and pacings for the few moments when Signora Pasticcio Ritornelli played the harpsichord to a dainty Fragonard group; and the entrance of Puff, a charming and mercurial figure in his white satin, lifted the play again on to the level of comedy. For Miss Evans, in spite of an inclination to gag,' was the mainstay of the whole performance. She made a genuine comedy figure, good-tempered, airy, and with just enough naturalism to be convincing. The Spanish Armada' provided more scope for most of the cast in the direction of farcical melodrama. Miss Green's portrayal of madness was superbly in tradition, and she was well supported by her confidante, ' in white linen.' Once or twice the play showed an odd disposition to come alive,' to break through the artificial bond of comedy, more particularly at the entrance of Miss Irwin as under-prompter, or when the handsome Leicester suddenly became the tired actor enquiring how he was to make his exit, or when Mr. Puff raged over the three morning guns.' Some of the limitations of the stage explain, perhaps some of the effect of unrest and overcrowding, but the applause of the audience showed that these were triumphantly overcome during at least the evening performance. J. LAPRAIK.
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Book Review By Phyllis Hartnoll. (Blackwell : 2/-.) Miss Hartnoll, who won the Newdigate in 1928 with her poem, The Sands of Egypt,' now follows up her triumph with the inevitable slim volume' of verse, which is in this case dedicated to Miss Perham. The first poem is an address in cliches to the reader : Be not too harsh • do not condemn. A cruel touch will wither them.' Such naïve anticipation disarms criticism, and leaves the reviewer without a leg to stand on. Neverthelss, the critical analysis ' may still be indulged in, and one or two quotations given which will speak for themselves. The poems are grouped, more or less, in three sections. The first are the Nature poems, such as The Leaf and the Wind' : At dead of night a little leaf that walked alone down a silent street,' which must be full of significance,' though this significance escapes me. This is followed by Stillness Before Snow ' and This Day,' which is, despite the first verse, all too reminiscent of a one-time popular song (` When you Come to the End of a Perfect Day '), perhaps the best in the group. The next section is the most original and individual in sentiment. It is in the nature of the case' that this should be so, for these are the Love Poems. The first is Invitation a l'Amour,' but why, one is tempted to ask, give it a French title — unless it be to add an unwonted and undeserved spice to the somewhat trivial sentiments and phrases which follow ? Transience ' and Sonnet ' are undistinguished, but Finale ' and Devastation' rather more interesting, for matter rather than manner. I quote from the first Let us make haste to part, with no repining : We shall not know again a night like this, Sweet with the hesitation of desire That lingers on the verge of a first kiss, Reluctant still to be possessed by rapture But ah ! how swift, when one, to consummate. Who would have thought a love begun so gladly Could end so soon in weariness and hate? ' Strangers ' is the best poem in the book. The sentiments are sincere and not a mere poetic convention. The theme is that anticipation is sweeter than possession : . . It is not in fulfilment But in love's promise that our pleasure lies.' There is the disillusion of satiety : But we have dulled the edge of love with loving And blunted the sharp sword. Too well I know The curve of supple body and smooth cheek And soft red lips, and in our intercourse There is no longer any mystery.' TWENTY POEMS.
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Fantasy yields more than actuality : And in your tenderness I find much lacking That my imagined lover freely gave.' Before turning to the group of Christmas Poems, there is a comment ' On a Modern Novel' deserving of notice. The phrase Here is no sound but the sound of a hair-splitting ' is delightful. The Christmas Poems have all the tenderness their subject requires, are often delicately conceived, but are unfortunately spoilt by more hackneyed phrases, as in the verse : Here is the ass, stricken and dumb, Knowing full well the day will come When he must bear this baby King To shameful death and suffering.' Miss Hartnoll's poems are sometimes interesting for their matter, but are always self-condemned by a complete lack of distinction in expression. ANONYMOUS.
Hockey Report College hockey has been complicated, as usual, this term by United and County matches, and we have not once been able to play our actual First XI. It was particularly unfortunate that we were obliged to take a very weak team to Reading, and this excuses our to—o defeat there, but the fact remains that, with only one reserve, we were beaten 6—i by L.M.H., owing chiefly to their excellent combination and our almost total lack of it. Fortunately, this is a fault which, with a little effort, we ought to be able to remedy before Cuppers next term, because it is not that we lack good players. We certainly need far more accurate hitting and passing, closer marking, less hesitation in tackling and rushing, but more than anything we need simply a knowledge of one another's play, and I see no real reason why we should not acquire this—and all the other things, too— during the first half of next term, and turn out a really strong team. Of new players in the team, J. Sparks has proved a great discovery at left-back, and, with her speed and good hitting, should improve enormously ; T. Bird has played well at right-inner and has an excellent shot, but she has received little support from the other forwards, and so is tending to play too individual a game. Congratulations to these two on winning their Colours. The First XI has been chosen as follows :—J. Burton,* I. Josephy,* J. Sparks ; D. Morgans, J. Lippold,* H. Winter ;* V. Basildewitch, T. Bird, M. Hardie,* P. Wallbank, M. Evans. I.A.J.
* Old Colours.
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Netball The splendid numbers in which the first years turned up from the outset, the high level of play of individual members of both teams and a much keener enthusiasm amongst second and third years, have resulted in the raising of the standard of netball this term. Full practices have been regular, in spite of the difficulty of the unsatisfactory condition of the pitch, and the frequency of ' odd moment ' practices has been exceedingly helpful in creating accuracy and speed. The First Team has played a consistently strong game, Morton and Wallbank being particularly good : they are to be congratulated on their inclusion in the United First VII. The steady improvement of Green and Irwin deserves mention. More careful passing is needed on the whole, though the excellent combination of which the team is capable was demonstrated in the struggle against King's College. In the Second VII, Hall and Ironside are up to first team standard, but the rest of the team except Chmelintzley has been rather weak. Teams. First VII.— Irwin (G.), Wallbank (Di.), Holt (D.C.), Morton (C.), Betts (A.C.), Collington (A.), Green (S.). Second VII.—Woolf (G.), Gregory (D.), Lawrence (D.C.), Hall (C.), Ironside (A.C.) , Keay (A.), Chmenitzley (S.). Matches (all at home). St. Katharine's, Wantag-e : First VII won 16-13 ; Second VII lost 18-17. King's College, London : First VII won I5-12. Somerville (friendly match) : First VII won 20-11. Wychwood School : First VII lost 20-13 ; Second VII drew 12-12. M. P. H.
Lacrosse The general impression gathered from this term's play is that of a certain lack of individual initiative on the field, though at the same time it is obvious that there are considerable possibilities. We further expect that next term, when new members have bridged the gulf between school and club play, the standard will immediately be raised. It has been noticeable, especially in the match against Down House, that the defences are better than the attacks and on the whole more reliable, although until they trust one another they will continue to find it difficult to hold and mark their own partners. The attacks are on the whole fairly good in mid-field, and the catching and passing has improved since the second half of term, but until they develop determination in their rushes and in their tackling back, we shall continue to lack goals.
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THE CYGNET
Among last year's players, Miss Temple has been, as ever, a great source of strength, Miss Preston and Miss Goodfellow have shown marked progress, and many thanks are due to Miss Levington for her courage in taking up the position of goal. We should like to comment on the general keenness among the Freshers, which makes them definitely an acquisition to the Club, and to say that there is much good material which only wants developing by individual stickwork practice. Those deserving special mention are Miss Doveton (Godolphin), who is a reliable and sound defence, Miss Thorpe and Miss Bone (S. Swithun's, Winchester), who both show knowledge or the game and promising stickwork. United practices have been attended by Miss Lewis, Miss Phillips, Miss Temple, Miss Spurgeon and Miss Sprules. On the retirement of Miss Moore (L. M. H.) from the position of Treasurer, O.U.W.L.C., Miss Lewis has been elected in her place. Miss Lewis has also 'become Vice-Captain of St. Hugh's L.C.C., and Miss Phillips was elected Secretary. Many thanks are due to both for the great help they have given during the term. j. M. S.
Oxford and Cambridge University Women's Club in Cornwall A club for Oxford and Cambridge University women has been formed in Cornwall. The membership is open to all old students or undergraduates of any Oxford or Cambridge Women's College, living or working in Cornwall. The Club aims at having two meetings in the year, held early in July and early in October. Further particulars can be obtained from the Honorary Secretary of the Club : M. GRAHAM BROWN, The Training College, Truro, Cornwall.
MORTALITY. Whate'er breath Postulates, Austere death Deprecates. BRENDA GREEN.
HOLYWELL PRESS, OXFORD.
CONSTITUTION OF THE COLLEGE MAGAZINE. I.—That the Magazine be called
THE CYGNET. '
the officers of the Magazine shall be an Editor and a Treasurer, elected by the J.C.R., and an elected representative from each year.
2. —That
3.—Contributions shall be accepted or refused by the decision of the majority of the Committee, the Editor reserving the right of the casting vote. 4.—The Committee shall not be held responsible for any opinions expressed in the Magazine. 5.—Nothing of intrinsic merit shall be excluded on account of views expressed therein. 6.—The anonymous character of contributions shall be respected when required. 7.—Contributions are eligible from the Senior and Junior Common Rooms, past and present. 8.—The Committee shall be empowered at their discretion to invite contributions from anyone not a member of the College.