St Hugh's College, Oxford - The Imp, Jun 1929

THE IMP June, 1929

COMMITTEE.

Editor: R. M.

J.

CAMPBELL.

Treasurer: JOAN DICK.

Third Year Representative—M.JAMES. Second Year Representative—E.HICKS.

THE IMP JUNE, 1929.

ettitoriat

O

WING to the distressing effect of Divvers on the brain, the Editor regrets that she has no illuminating remarks to offer save the interesting fact that the Synoptists agree—you know that? Oh, well, let us pass on.

One minute ; we cannot forego the joy of our first use of the editorial ' we.' And, having got that off our chest, let us to business.

COMPETITION RESULTS. Photography does not seem to have been regarded as an aesthetic enough pursuit for the Imp's contributors, since the entries were not very numerous. The first prize was awarded to Miss Bond for her ' Laocoon,' a striking culture study. The evil expression of the serpent on the extreme left has been particularly well caught. The second prize goes to Miss Bourne for her ' Down in Alfaqueque.'We also commend ' Cherry Ripe' (sent in by Miss Lake and depicting undergraduettes in merry mood) and a striking picture of ' Walrus and Young' (Miss Huse). Originals may be seen on application to the Editor.

lexcur5ion If you were to look in the University Records—or in whatever dark place such things are written—you would•see that Lillith Shipton was sent down in the year 1926, for repeated infringement of the rules and regulations of this University and for contempt of the Proctors.' I was one of the few people who were privileged to know Lillith and to know the real reason why she left Oxford : in the interests of veracity I here set it down. The plain truth of the matter was Lillith Shipton was a witch.

Her mother was one of a long line of Mother Shiptons : her father was no mortal, but the Evil One himself, and in the normal course of affairs Lillith would have settled down to a humdrum existence of spellmaking and potion selling, varied by an occasional Witches' Sabbath.

But she was always exceptionally intelligent, and her mother, jealous of her superior attainments and precocious quickness, sternly forbade her access to the hereditary books of spells, and tried to keep her to such paltry and infantile pursuits as turning milk sour and giving children colics. Lillith naturally rebelled at such treatment, and, since she could not obtain unlawful knowledge, took to the lawful with avidity, and spent

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her time in the laboratories of various wizard friends. But these were mainly mild old men with a passion for finding the elixir of life or the philosopher's stone, whereas Lillith had the real scientific mind, and wanted to know more than they could tell her. She made up her mind that she would go somewhere where she could really study chemistry as a science, and not as a necessary part of a conjuror's equipment—she would take a University degree.

And so it came about that Lillith Shipton was matriculated as a member of the University of Oxford. There was trouble immediately she crossed the College threshold. She signed her name directly she arrived, and her father's name, Prince Asmodeus on this occasion, though I have heard her give him many names ; but when it came to father's profession' she seemed at a loss. Finally, with a slight smile, she wrote down Undertaker.' The Secretary found the curious entry, and showed it to the Principal, who raised her eyebrows, but only remarked drily, ' I fancy there is something curious about Mis s Shipton's family history, since she persists in using her maternal name. You might request her not to make flippant answers to the University's questions. I have it on the best authority that Prince Asmodeus is the governor of some tropical territory.'

Lillith Shipton was not likely to pass unnoticed even in so curious and diverse an assemblage as a women's college. She was extremely tall, with dark hair, a rather swarthy face, prominent nose and chin and very penetrating green eyes. At first sight I thought her hideous, but gradually she fascinated me, and I found in her a strange beauty. Her most peculiar characteristics were a habit of muttering to herself, a passion for loneliness and a marked hostility to the world in general. She spent all her days and most of her night in work ; strange odours exuded from her room, and people who slept opposite the College pantries complained bitterly of nocturnal brewings and experiments in connection with the gas. Finally her neighbours complained to the Bursar that their corridor was becoming positively unhealthy, owing to Miss Shipton's partiality for strong chemical perfumes in her room. The Bursar decided to investigate the matter, and accordingly visited her room during dinner. It certainly smelt very peculiar, and was strewn with strange phials and test-tubes, but the first thing that caught the Bursar's attention was a large black cat, sitting peacefully in front of the fire. It was a cat of peculiarly malignant aspect, having very green eyes and long, murderous looking claws. Immediately it set eyes on the Bursar it advanced towards her with arched back and bared teeth. It then proceeded to sharpen its claws on a chair leg. The Bursar, who was not fond of cats, retreated hastily. The next morning Lillith received a little note, requesting her immediate arrival at the office.

Pets are not allowed in College, Miss Shipton,' said the Bursar firmly.

I must therefore 'request you to remove your cat at once.' ' Remove Pouke? I can't possibly do that.'

I'm afraid it's a very strict rule, Miss Shipton, even with regard to tame animals, and your cat did not strike me as belonging to that class,' ' Very well. If Pouke goes, I go.'

Now don't be theatrical, please. You know perfectly well that you can't throw up your work for the sake of a cat. If you don't take it away by to-morrow I shall have it 'removed myself.'

I don't think you'd better try. Pouke is always particularly fierce to strangers. There is nowhere I can put him. I refuse to part with him.'

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Pets are not allowed, Miss Shipton,' said the Bursar wearily. Lillith flounced out of the office. She strode to her room, muttering to herself, and drew out a large musty looking tome from under her bed. I found her buried in it when I went in to her some hours later. She had a lot of seeds laid out on the table in strange patterns, and there was a queer smell of burning. When she saw me, she shut up the book hastily, and thrust it under the bed. ' What on earth have you got there?' I said, vainly trying to get a look at it. • ' You just wait, and you'll see. But the cause of it is that I only know the beginning.'

I didn't take much notice of her muttering at the time, but the next day it came back to me. The Bursar appeared at breakfast with her hand bandaged up, looking very pale and frightened. Later in the day, she retired to bed. It was given out that she had septic poisoning in her hand, but I heard the doctor say that it was the most extraordinary case he'd ever met, for the hand to be paralysed into such a strange shape.

Lillith seemed more cheerful at dinner, and had two helpings of pudding.

Curiously enough, nothing more was said about the cat, and after a week the Bursar suddenly recovered.

As I grew to know her better, I couldn't help noticing that she was never in her room till long after twelve at night, but would appear there very suddenly without my hearing her come along the corridor. Once I was up late, and saw a light under her door at about four o'clock. I went in, and found her in the cloak she wore out-of-doors, looking as if she had just that moment come in. She was strangely flushed and excited that night, and was unwontedly communicative, telling me how bright the full moon was, red as an orange, and how the smell of gorse at night went to her head. ' Have you been out, then?' I asked. ' Out? Why, who would be in, with the wind tossing and tearing in the trees and the dead leaves spinning and singing overhead, and the full moon sailing in a wrack of clouds—? ' But however did you get in?' said I, impatiently stemming the flow.

At that she stopped short, looking at me sideways under her eyelids, and changed the subject.

Only a few days later she came up against authority very violently again. This time she appeared at the lodge gate after midnight, very irritable and bedraggled, and clutching an old, broken garden besom.

She explained sulkily to the Principal next morning that she had broken down.

But your name, Miss Shipton, does not appear to have been inserted in the gate book.'

I'm sorry. I can't help that. I didn't think I should be late, but 1 broke down.' ' You should allow time for accidents, Miss Shipton. Do not let this occur again.'

Unfortunately, the very next night a worse thing happened. It was a very wet night, and the rain was beating in at the windows in Lillith's corridor. Her neighbour, a stupid, well-meaning girl, guessing that Lillith would be out, and would have left her window open as usual, went in, shut it and latched it. Very late that night I was roused by furious knocking at my window, which was next to Lillith's on the other side.

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Looking out, I could dimly see the furious face of Lillith herself. In less than a moment she stood, dripping wet, in my room, again clutching a garden besom. When she had finished cursing the interfering fool who had shut her window, and she had the most vivid vituperative vocabulary I have ever heard, she told me the whole truth. Until then I had dimly suspected ; now I fully understood, and, understanding, feared for the unfortunate neighbour.

The next morning Silvia Hadley was nowhere to be found. Night came ; still her room was empty. The second morning the maid reported her absence to the Bursar, and I tremblingly visited Lillith. She was sitting over her fire, brewing some horrid compound, and softly singing to herself. Hopping disconsolately about the room was a small toad.

Lillith, do you know where Hadley is? ' Lillith hummed provokingly, ' Who is Silvia, what is she?'

Do answer me properly.'

She hummed the same phrase again, and then pointed with her wooden spoon at the small, unhappy toad. Horrified, I understood.

Lillith ! How could you! You must change her back at once. You're an absolute monster.' ' Oh, am I? I consider I'm being extraordinarily mild. I very much wanted to turn her into a mouse and let Pouke have her, but I conquered my desire, gave up my own wishes to the good of others, pursued my usual unselfish way—and then get called monster.' Anyhow, I'm going to turn her back again ; I was only experimenting ; I've only just discovered the secret. Up till now I've only been able to manage small portions of the anatomy, which gives an unpleasing and unsymmetrical effect. Hadley ought to be very pleased to be any help towards the cause of science.

She'll be back again by this evening.'

Hadley, indeed, returned that night, and immediately went and told the whole story to the Principal, who hastily called in a doctor, and wired to Hadley's parents. She went home labelled Nervous Breakdown,' in spite of all her protests, and has since manifested a distinct abhorrence of ponds or stagnant water.

But now that Lillith had once, so to speak, tasted blood, her appetite was insatiable. The Oxford Mail was full of reports of bobbed-haired young girls missing from home since Friday : a tutor walked but of her house one fine morning—apparently into the fourth dimension—and was found three days later chewing grass meditatively in Port Meadow. Sometimes Lillith forgot to return these unfortunates to their proper shapes, and I have often fancied that I could detect a likeness to certain North Oxford characters in some solitary sheep, or wandering hens.

Finally she went too far. She was sitting- at dinner one night, when I suddenly saw a curious glint in her eye. Her fingers began to twitch, and her whole -body to stiffen. Casually, she began to make bread pellets, muttering the while. I began to get seriously alarmed, especially when I noticed that her eye was intently fixed on the Principal. Presently someone said, Funny ! The Princ.'s gone out again without anyone hearing her. I believe she's got an invisible cloak.' At the same time someone else said, Oh, do look at that funny black cat, walking down from High ; doesn't it look like the. Princ. ? ' I leapt up, terrified, but Lillith was before me : with an eldritch laugh, she caught up the cat and fled to her ,

room.

Lillith's corridor complained of a dreadful eat fight that night.

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The next morning the Principal was reported seriously ill, and Lillith was taken by two Dons to see the Proctors. What happened at that interview no one will ever know, but it says much for the majesty of the University that Lillith was quelled into submission. That very evening she went down, but she put her head into my room before she went. ' Next time the Princ. rows you, just mention whiskers. And notice how often fish appears on the menu next term. Beelzebub, father of me and of all devils, I've done with this University.'

One more incident remains to be recorded. After the summer degree giving the Oxford papers contained the following :— ' SHOCKING SCENE AT SHELDONIAN. EX-UNDERGRADUETTE CURSES VICE-CHANCELLLOR. ' An amazing scene was enacted yesterday at the Sheldonian, when the degree giving was suddenly interrupted by the entry of a tall woman in a long cloak, who, standing in the great doorway, solemnly cursed the Vice-Chancellor and Proctors in ear-piercing tones. She was forcibly removed, but is understood to have escaped when outside. Several onlookers identified her with Miss Shipton, a science student of considerable promise, who was sent down last year, and who thus vented her rage and disappointment at not obtaining her degree.'

The affair was speedily hushed up, and no trace now remains of Lillith's descent upon Oxford but the Principal's rooted dislike of fish.

M. F. E.

Table Talk Conversation overheard on High :

What a noise !

Conversation overheard in Hall : WURRAWURRAWURRA.

Zip Sidgwick Flan having made a Spiritual Abandonment of the houses streets people bicycles and policemen of the very Important city in which he lived in a sudden determination DETERMINATION to experiment with his new Zip philosophy —which needs explanation by the way—Zip being a symbol for an utter eradication annulment or ' throwing over.' Not in a concrete but

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Going to bridge—tea provided— with a certain. Mrs. Genesis, he Smiled enigmatically it was all so Disrespectable of course Mrs. Genesis was renowned for .her good works and Cultured conversation But Sidgwick had irresistibly imagined her as Lovelei and the rest of his thought waves were equally illuminating. Should he or should he not shake hands with that Cactus which appeared to be human? then observing Mrs. Genesis, GENESIS, GENESIS inundating towards him, he decided more rapidly that they were all dematerialised and Zipped through the window.

—thought a bus was a Lighthouse and had his whole Zip philosophy refuted by the obvious fact that it wasn't. But protested from his death-bed—one should always conclude with this— that he was ' hugely delighted ' with the Experiment : the spiritual had simply been extended to a concrete Abandonment and he was still quite convinced that Mrs. Genesis was inhuman. Then he Zipped into the unknown.

E. S. H.

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Editor of the Imp,' passant.

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zgbe juggernaut Mr. Andrew Marcomb, of 5,864 Hanover Place, Cleveland, stepped from the doorway of his ancestral home with a sprightliness uncommon in so elderly an aristocrat, and absent-mindedly sniffed the morning air. ' Well, it's a fine day,' he granted. Just as he straightened his shoulders and grasped his cane preparatory to starting off on his morning constitutional, the door opened and Mrs. Burnham, his widowed housekeeper, appeared in the dignity of her guardianship and a ruffled white cap.

Just look at you ! ' she exclaimed. ' Off again without that overcoat ! Anybody'd think you hadn't the wherewithal, when it's really sense that's lacking. Come right in while I fetch it. You'll catch your death ! ' Obediently, the old gentleman remounted the brownstone steps ; then, at the door, halted.

Dear me,' said he, clearing his throat in embarrassment, it slipped my mind. Yes, yesterday when a poor shivering sort of man came to the door, and asked for some old clothes, I just gave him that coat. You see, it was right on the rack near the door,' he added apologetically.

Once again Andrew Marcomb set forth on his matutinal excursion, clad this time in his third best overcoat which, as Mrs. Burnham said, might not be so easily stolen off his back in broad daylight. Mrs. Burnham's despotism was often obtrusive, but—what could he do without her ?

He would forget all in thjs bracing March weather.

Soon he had joined the few newsboys, clerks, stenographers, businessmen and housewives, all hurrying, and intent that their worms should be caught. Mr. Marcomb took especial pride in this city of his forebears, and keenly noted all that went on with a sense that his supervision of affairs was due. He was now on Euclid Avenue. Gradually the crowd thickened, and it was with some difficulty that he made his way. But Andrew Marcomb found a sort of ironical amusement in lightly tapping ankles with his cane. . The owner of the ankles would instinctively step to one side, and he unconcernedly pass through the space thus made. It was his triumphal progress.

Then before him he caught sight of a poor woman of middle age, a wan washed-out individual, who exhaustedly pushed a dilapidated babycarriage with hooded top. Her black dress and hat were of antique date, and her roughened reddish hands were suggestive of hard labour. Perhaps she was a scrubwoman. The incessant stream of people hurrying by jostled her. No one thought or had the time to offer assistance. Andrew Marcomb determined to be her knight.

Pardon me, my good woman. Perhaps Hem,' he addressed her. you will allow me to push this carriage for you.'

She stopped uncertainly, glanced up, then replied with a tired smile, Thank you, sir, it is rather 'eavy.'

The perambulator might be a burden to her, but to him it was a mere nothing. The profession of carriage-wheeling was not among his avocations, but never too late to learn . . . Cato acquired Greek at eighty.'

Have you more than one child ? ' he asked.

Yes, sir. My daughter is married a year come next month, and my son is workin' in the Plain Dealer printin' office.'

Oh, indeed. I suppose he will be a newspaper man some day.' ,

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As conversation waned, the elderly bachelor attended strictly to duty.

It was a beautiful day, and Cleveland was a fine place in which to live.

No, not even the saucy flappers, nonchalently flecking bright heels along the street, could disturb his satisfaction, the satisfaction of a cheerful, benevolent spirit. With a slight effort, he began to remark on the weather forecast, growing interest in which seemed to hasten his speed until be found it necessary to walk more slowly, lest his lady be left in the lurch.

He was much too absorbed to notice her lingering glance at a dry-goodsstore window.

They came to a crossing, and, as Mr. Marcomb manoeuvered to steer the carriage, he made some inconsequential remarks concerning the traffic regulations. Safely on the other side, he turned to ask, How much further do you go?' To his amazement, his eyes met those of a frigid young business-woman in a green hat. His acquaintance of the tired mien had disappeared ! The throng going in the opposite direction had now recrossed the street. He could recognise nothing but a sea of heads.

Dazed and apprehensive, he looked about, and half turned the carriage, when an irate lady whose toe a front wheel had pinched turned on him with an injured, Sir ! With a sense of futility, Andrew Marcomb retraced his steps for over ,a block, and then gave it up as a waste of time.

The woman might have gone in several directions. Then a horriblethought struck him. What if the infant should awake? It must be very young to have slept so long. He dared not look inside the hood. He would undoubtedly frighten the child. A panic seized him. He had visions of himself climbing the traffic policeman's tower in order to view the crowd. But what should he do with the baby? Oh, this was terrible, unthinkable. Here was he, Andrew Marcomb, direct descendant of Moses •Cleaveland, stranded with an unknown infant on his hands. The thought haunted him. He began to stop people along the way, begging wildly' a poor woman in black—walks as if tired—.have you seen her?' or ' this baby belongs to a woman in black—have you seen her? ' A dapper youth stared as if he thought the inquirer insane, then shook his head with a sardonic smile.

He turned on a newsboy. ' Young man, have you seen a poor woman in black near here lately?'

Sure, mister, but I couldn't keep track of 'ern ! ' Exasperated and helpless, Andrew Marcomb shoved the carriage, which seemed to have assumed Juggernaut proportions, to a nearby doorway.

Here, while mopping his brow, he could think. A glance in the store window revealed a puffy old gentleman of florid complexion, hat awry, and spectacles drooping over one ear. Well, his course was plain—to a police station. Once again Andrew Marcomb was thankful that he knew his city as a boy knows the ins and outs of his many pockets.

Wearily, he bent to the handle-bar. He felt himself to be an old gentleman, a poor democrat, against whom the fates were conspiring. just outside the station house entrance he stopped with a jerk. What if he should be accused of stealing the infant? Well, he must go in.

Awkwardly, he opened the door, and dragged the carriage after.. On the Lost : a brindle pup. . . vestibule wall several clippings caught his eye.

Kidnapped.' He took a step nearer.

A pedigreed Angora cat. . .'

Four months old son of Mr. ' Mary Helen Grant, three years old . . .' and Mrs. — ' Good Lord ! This must be it. Perspiration stood out or his forehead. He entered the office. A working woman stood with

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her back towards him, excitedly talking to an officer. He caught the words : . . . And I thinkin' he was a gentleman ! I ran a minute to look at a dress, and there he was—gone—and, oh dear, oh dear, that washing ,belonged to the great lord or somebody that Mrs. Burnham's housekeeper for ! ' Andrew Marcomb walked to the front of the carriage. He pulled away a blanket. There was a package of washing, and on it a tag which read : Mr. Andrew Marcomb, 5,864 Hanover Place, City.

For washing, Marcia 16th, $5.00.

Mrs. Annie Rehan.

M. B.

a tart to Iji iiii5tre55

Found on a broken leaf of C17 manuscript at the Bodleian. Slightly reminiscent of Donne in tone, and believed to have been written in a flatbottomed species of old-fashioned barque, in which the lady lay while her lover propelled her up-stream by means of a long wooden pole.

0 maiflye, would I had that playce Upon my ladye's supine grayce : What joye to frolick on the hamme That beautifies our lovelie Pam. 1623.

C.D.

Wolf iOrnrp Wolf Henry lived in a tumble-down shack at the foot of the clay cutbanks of Six Mile Coulee. The shack was built of rough, unpainted boards, and the roof was of poles covered with a layer of sods. Time and the action of the weather had worn away the soil from between the little squares of sod, so that from inside one could look up and catch little glimpses of the sky here and there between the chinks. In summer this sod roof was a veritable garden, where wild daisies, harebells, and goldenrod bloomed in their season. In winter a thick covering of snow shut out the glimmer of the stars, and shut in the warmth of the rusty iron stove.

The furnishings of the shack were scanty and none too clean. A stove, a rough deal table, a home-made barrel-chair and bedstead were all the comforts the single room could boast. One tiny window let in a filtering of light, greyed by passing through the dust and cobwebs of years. The door had a heavy bolt.

What Henry's other name was no one knew, and he himself had long forgotten. He had been a trapper in the early days, and had come down to Trowbridge from the mountains of British Columbia. Here he had found the shack, built and abandoned by some early squatter,' and had settled down in it. In the spring and summer he worked as gardener and general handy-man in the town of Trowbridge. Early every morning he harnessed his old mare to his cart and set off for town. The cart was bright red ; upon it he had painted crude pictures of grinning timber-wolves, and it was from this that he derived his nickname of Wolf.'

Ye see,' he would reply in a hoarse whisper, when asked the meaning of these pictures, it's to make 'em think I like 'em. That's the way I fool 'em.'

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Here he always became greatly excited, and his voice would become more and more shrill.

When they see the pictures it throws them off my trail. But they'll get me—they'll find me out in the end—they'll smell my blood, d'ye see . . . ' ' Who, Henry? ' one would enquire, astonished at the old man's agitation. ' Who are they? ' The wolves—the timber-wolves. They're after me, and they'll get me—in the end they'll get me.'

Suddenly a look of intense cunning would come over his face. But I like them. Why should I have their pictures on my, cart if I was afeart of 'ern ? ' And, turning on his heel, he would go back to his work, muttering and cursing to himself.

What terrible experience in the wilds lay behind this frenzy of Henry's we never knew. Pressed for the reason why they ' should want to get him, he always became so excited and incoherent that no one could understand him. After such periods of excitement he would not appear in town for days, and then suddenly, early one morning, we would hear his tuneless little whistle in the garden, and, looking out, would see him bending over the flower beds or trimming the grass borders.

One morning, late in September, Henry drove his cart up the lane, hastily tied his horse beneath the great maple, and hurried to the open kitchen door. The maid, who was preparing breakfast, appeared at his impatient knock.

I must see the Missus,' he said. ' You can't see her now, Henry ; she's having breakfast.'

I must see the Missus,' repeated Henry, doggedly.

Something about the aspect of the old man frightened the maid. There was a wild gleam in the bloodshot eyes, and the lips beneath the draggled grey moustache twitched uncontrollably.

I must see the Missus, girl,' he repeated, and the frightened maid disappeared into the dining-room. A moment later the door opened, and the Missus ' came into the kitchen.

What is it, Henry? ' she asked, a note of impatience in her voice.

Henry's grimy hand beckoned her nearer to the screen door. He glanced nervously over his shoulder, and then, lowering his voice to a whisper, said They've come,issus.'

Who have come, Henry?''

His eyes looked past her ; he saw what he described.

I was lyin' in bed, when suddenly I heard a snufflin' under the door, and the pad of their feet. An' then I knew. The door was barred, like always. Then I heard a scufffin' at the window, but they couldn't reach up to it. An' then there was silence—that awful' silence--you know, Missus . . . ' (the bloodshot eyes turned toward her again, for a moment, and then stared intently into space) . . . that silence when you know there's somethin' near you, waitin' for you, and you don't know where to look for it. And then, suddenly, I. knew they were lookin' at me—I could feel their eyes burnin' into me—an' I looked up an' saw them lookin' through the crannies in the roof—yellow eyes like fire, an' then green. I looked at them ; I couldn't move, couldn't do nothin' but stare into them awful eyes. An' then suddenly they began to scratch and claw at the roof.

I jumped up. I yelled and screamed to scare 'em, but they kept right on scratching. I grabbed my gun and fired.. I fired again. Then I heard an awful cry, and a thud. I loaded and fired again and again. I guess I was kinda crazy, Missus '—(the bleared eyes regarded her apologetically for a

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moment)—` an' then I didn't hear any sounds—just silence—but 1 knew that they had gone and taken the dead one with them,' ' Did you kill one? How do you know you killed one? ' demanded the Missus,' astonished. ' Because of the cry—it was the death-cry, ye see. An' I know they took him away with them, because they weren't no sign of him this mornin' when I looked. But now, ye see, Missus '—the frenzied 'look came into his eyes, and again the apprehensive glance over his shoulder—` they've found me, an' they'll be bound to git me now I've killed another of 'em. They'll follow me, an' follow me, an' some day they'll git me. When I'm not ready for 'em . . . ' The old man was apparently beside himself with excitement and fear.

His breath came in great gasps, and he clutched his throat as though already he felt the sharp teeth of his pursuers. The Missus ' Was thoroughly frightened, and, like most pioneer women, being frightened, she became angry. ' Henry ! Be quiet ! You should be ashamed of yourself.'

Her voice, sharp as a lash, reached even Henry's nightmared brain, and did more to quiet him than any words of sympathy could have done.

It was a voice he was accustomed to obey. Slowly he straightened up, and a saner light came into his eyes.

Yes'm. Yes, Missus,' he mumbled. ' Come in here and drink this coffee '—the voice was milder now. ' You're simply hungry and overwrought.'

Yes'm,' said old Henry.

That day at noon the Missus ' spoke to her husband about the episode.

Poor old man, it is too bad,' she said ; ' but you should speak to the authorities about him. He is becoming dangerous. He really frightened me this morning, and he would be much better where he can be looked after than alone in that miserable shack.'

Her husband agreed, and broached the matter to the authorities. But red tape is red tape, and time passed. Henry seemed even quieter than usual, and came and went regularly in his red cart ; but the Missus,' watching him closely, noticed that he seemed apprehensive and ill at ease, and that the fearful glance over his shoulder every few moments had become habitual. He was as a man haunted by some spectre, invisible to others.

One morning he did not come to work. This had happened many times in the past, but this morning the Missus,' remembering his strange behaviour of late, was concerned about him. As the morning progressed she became so obsessed with the idea that something had happened to him that her husband consented to drive down to the shack in the afternoon to see if all was well with the old man.

It was early evening before Alec Shaw and a friend drove down Six Mile Coulee road. Above, on the prairie, the light lingered, but down in the valley the autumn evening was already closing in and the tall trees threw a heavy shadow on the road. The dead leaves under the horses' feet made a dry, rustling sound. ' Just a fancy of my wife's,' said Shaw. ' The old man has been very queer lately, and she is afraid that something has happened to him. It's probably nothing at all. He may be getting his potatoes in or some such thing. But she was so worried that I said I'd come. It's a nice time for a drive, anyway.'

As they neared Wolf Henry's shack the howl of a dog, long-drawn and mournful, drifted across the valley. .

THE IMP ' Funny time to howl—there's no moon,' commented Shaw, lazily.

Then, as•a thought struck him, By Jove, that sounds like Shep, Henry's old mongrel.'

They drove on. Rounding a turn in the road the little shack, with its tumble-down barn, black against the shadows, stood before them. There was no light in the window, no sign of life about the place. Again from the shack they heard the howl of a dog', which, as they approached the closed door, changed to a furious barking. Shaw spoke to the dog. Recognising his voice, the barking changed to a whine, and the dog could be heard scratching at the door. Pushing against the door, they found it barred. ' Old man's gone off and left the dog inside, eh ? ' suggested Laurie.

Perhaps,' answered Shaw ; but the door is barred from the inside, and there is no other.'

They walked round the house and looked in at the window, but the dust and the darkness inside prevented them from distinguishing anything. They shouted and beat upon the door. No sound but the renewed scratching and whining of the dog. The heavy door resisted all their efforts to open it, and at last, thoroughly alarmed, they broke the window, and Shaw crawled through.

He had barely reached the floor before he felt the dog rubbing against his legs, and a cold nose was thrust into his hand, sending an involuntary shudder through him. He struck a match. In the dim light resulting he looked about him, and saw the cold stove, the rough chair, and the untidy table. Across the bed lay Wolf Henry, his head fallen back against the wall. The flare of the match died out.

Shaw quickly found a lantern, lit it and, joined by his friend, examined the room. Wolf Henry was dead—dead in the grim fighting attitude of a man who faces his foes for the last time. His rifle lay on the floor beside him, where it had fallen from his hand. The blankets were thrown back, as though, springing from the bed in desperate haste, he had flung them from him. A cartridge box, half full of shells, lay on the bed beside the old man, and a number of empty shells strewed the floor, as though he had loaded and fired in frantic haste. Everything else was as it should be.

As the two men stood, stunned by the unexpectedness of it all, the memory of his wife's account of Henry wild story swept over Shaw. He seemed to see the old man as he stood at the kitchen door that morning —his straining eyes and twitching lips as he glanced fearfully over his shoulder—and fragments of the story came back to him : . . . I could see them lookin' through the crannies of the roof . . . I screamed and yelled to scare 'em, but they kept right on scratching . . . I grabbed my gun an' fired an' fired . . . I guess I was kinda crazy, Missus . . . ' M. S. There was a tall damsel named J--s Who spoke in no sweet dulcet tones.

When she let out her smile • You could hear it a mile, And it quickly reduced us to groans.

Said a gownless young man to a Proc. : ' On the Judgment Day nothing will shock.

But you'll feel ashamed When the proctors are named, To hear how the archangels mock.'

14

THE IMP

6quirrel5 Special subscription suggested, since squirrels supply students so successfully—several separate sources. Satisfy sight, scaling secretary's sill, slyly stealing sandwiches, sporting so saucily. Secondly, squirrels save situation, supply subject—speech scarce, stony silence, Saturdays, Sundays . . . sausages, sardines, scrambled spheroidals . . . student says : Saw squirrel sampling select sultana ' ; second student says : Saw squirrels surrounding sycamore ' ; seminarist says : Snapped squirrel, Sunday splendid scene ! ' Surely stipend should succeed such services. Salve, squirrels ! Sure saviours ! Sixpences, shillings, send soon : Secretary, Squirrel-supporting Society.'

ffir5t pear Pap Ai playwright having descended like dew from heaven upon the First Year, they were enterprising enough to produce one entire play (B. Spedding : heaven-sent playwright). ' Catalina, or The Future of Conspirators ' is written round the efforts of four youthful reformers of the world (R. Attenborough, H. Forth, M. McNair, N. Penhale : youthful reformers of the world). The acting throughout was very good, and looks encouraging for the prospects of next year's College play. To praise every well-played part would lead to an embarrassing confusion of names, but perhaps D. Gray as the heavenly father, E. Slimmon as the Scottish gardener, and H. North —especially in her lifelike impersonation of our President, which brought the house down—are particularly worthy of mention. B. Spedding and the First Year in general are to be congratulated.

1e5otinb 'tress Logs burnt cheerily in the big brazier and the white ash flaked on to the hearth. Furniture loomed up here and there, and faces glimmered, their bodies lost in the thick, opaque glow—and I pushed myself deeper into the piled softness of the couch, and listened to Isa. Every time a log spluttered I had a momentary glimpse of the pale oval of her face, with its honeycoloured braids of smooth hair, and could see the glint of her grey-green _ eyes, cold and lovely as water beneath a ledge of ice. My brother sat beside her—they are engaged—and his arm was passed round her slim body, for his hand showed light upon the dark stuff of her dress. ' Yes, I was with your Aunt Poppel when she died,' the low voice said, and nothing can adequately describe its even music—like crystal drops falling one by one into a dim pool of silence ; it was last year, when we were in Russia . .

The words Aunt Poppel ' had carried me back to the scene at breakfast that morning. How angry my father had been when, instead of receiving the news with a fitting and significant silence, we had burst out laughing at his solemn Children, I hear your Aunt Poppel died four weeks ago co-day.' Really, it wasn't fair—how dare anyone have a Christian name like Poppel, and how could Daddy have expected us to be sad at the death of one of our many Russian relatives we had never seen, and who had a name like a comic poem by Belloc? But Isa's voice fluttered through my thoughts, and again I found myself listening.

THE IMP . . . I could not sleep that night, and after tossing and turning for a little I thought I should be comfier if I had a softer pillow. I remembered that your Aunt Poppel had a down travelling cushion, for I had seen her thrusting it into one of her dressing-table drawers that morning, so I determined to borrow it. Very quietly I tiptoed across the passage and into her room. I did not turn the light on because I did not wish to waken your Aunt, but I could see a square, grey patch where the window was, and looming up beside it the darker bulk of the chest of drawers. Softly I stole across to it, and, careful not to allow the brass handles to creak, I began to open the third drawer . . . ' Isa's voice had become like a small, sighing wind, infinitely cold, mysterious and sad, and somehow, too, filled with an appalling loathing and horror. I noticed that Harold had withdrawn his hand from about her waist, and was sitting a little apart, tense and still. ' As I was pulling the drawer out inch by inch—the cushion was making it difficult to open—I gradually became aware of a cold and dreadful sensation between my shoulder-blades. Something was behind me, something dreary and evil, staring, staring. Filled with a sickening horror, I could only turn, slowly, oh so slowly, round—and there, in the huge waste-paper basket by the foot of the bed, her thin, bony knees drawn up to her crinkled chin, sat your Aunt Poppel, her eyes big and pale and flat, with nothing that signified life in them but yet were not dead, fixed upon me. Oh, that loathsome Thing, huddled into the basket—that was not alive, but yet not a corpse, that gazed and gazed so balefully with eyes yellow and soft as decayed shell-fish, and the skin stretched so tight upon its . . . ' 0 God, but I saw it now. The others had fled, screaming, vomiting, and I was alone. Somehow the windows had burst open, the curtains were lashing into the room, and the wind shrieked round the floor—and there, there on the couch opposite, sat, not Isa, but the Thing. Horror of horrors, ineffable, obscene, and Dear God help me to move ! But I cannot stir, frozen, motionless, amongst the soft cushions. Gradually It begins to move.

Its dangling shanks reach the floor, and oh—I have buried my head in the deep pink cushions, holding one tight across my face with both hands.

It is the end. I am cold, cold, and there is a stench. Slowly Something comes and begins to turn back a corner of the cushion . . .

C. D.

funeral dirge (To be sung over those who depart from our midst this year.)

Here lies a most singular lady ; Her brilliance leaves us limp.

An epigram maker, A breath-away-taker, She edited the Imp. Ah wellaway !

Here lies a lion tamer ; Savage tribes shall feel her sway.

Small birds and we May hope that she Resurgat in pace.

Ah wellaway !

THE IMP Here lies a sweet Scots lassie As will be mourned by a', And a' wee books In their new nooks Cry, Dinna gang awa'.'

Ah wellaway !

Here lies a noted mariner, Apostle of fresh air.

Though she shall land On Stygian strand She'll take out her tub pair.

Ah wellaway !

Here lies a well-loved pilot, There never a better shall be.

E'en in her tomb She'll use her comb And preserve her dignity.

Ah wellaway !

Toll the bell ! The dirge is done, Schools are over, the race is run.

Ah wellaway !

eport5 S. H. C. T. C. Domestic Science T.C., lost 3-6; Norham Gardens, lost 4-5 ; King's College, won 8-1 ; Bedford College, won 5-4• CUPPERS.—First VI v. Somerville, lost 4-5 ; Second VI v. St. Hilda's, won 5-4 ; Second VI v. L.M.H., won 5--3.

Considering that we have had to call upon reserves to fill places in the team so much, the results of the matches are on the whole quite good.

The 1st VI Cupper against Somerville was a very close match, which we might have won had we been just a little steadier and more determined.

The and VI have done very well in winning the cup for St. Hugh's, and also deserve thanks for the willing way that they have filled in the spaces in the 1st VI. MATCHES.—Gloucester

S. H. C. C. C. Hugh's v. Headington, won ioo-88; St. Hugh's v. Oxford High School, lost 83-47.

To BE PLAYED.—St. Hugh's v. O.H.S. (Cupper) ; 82 ' v. The Rest.

The result of the Headington match was very encouraging, St. Hugh's proving particularly strong on the batting side. The bowling, though better than last year, was still not very good. M. Punter, with top score of 28 runs, played a very hearty innings : F. Hoare was second with 15 runs.

The second year has been very virtuous in turning up to practices, and there is considerable keenness among the Freshers. L. Braddick and M. Punter have been given their colours for good all-round play. St. Hugh's with Duthort, Reeves, Jones, A.ttenboroug-h, Jackson and Mortlock form a large percentage of the United team. M. M. M. MATCHES PLAYED.—St.

HOLYWELL PRESS, ALFRED STREET, OXFORD.

CONSTITUTION OF THE COLLEGE MAGAZINE. i.—That the Magazine shall be called '

THE IMP. '

2.—That 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.

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.

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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 Col. lege.