CART GON {WEEK

THE HUNTER AND THE HUNTED!
The Monster is out again. We will call him that as he is ferocious, though harm-
less. However, he is a very superior beast, good hearted if adamant.

The hunt is on for receding chins, bulging eyes, a protruding nose, large
prominent teeth, a head which shall no more be graced with that abundant luxury
which “was” the pride and joy of one’s life. The Monster pants, ‘Let me at ‘em.”’
One shrinks behind doors, slinks down halls, turns corners on high, all to no avail.
He is at heel.

“Won't you pose for me, you have such a lovely wart, a shame not to hand
it down to posterity.’’ Another small voice is heard, diffident and shy, “Do me.”
There is a lull, the Monster looks your way. You are just sort of commonplace, the
average size shoe, nondescript features, no gaping seams, still retain your own teeth;
a mouth, nose, eyes, chin, all there, but you are definitely not “material.” It sneers
and turns,—the hunt is on again.

Through all arteries of the school this week, fifteen minutes before lunch,
appetizers are collected. The Monster devours them feverishly. Later groups col-
lect, shrieks of laughter, “Oh, do let me see.” “Isn't that lovely!’’

“Nyah, nyah, nyah,’’ said the little fox, “Nyah, nyah, nyah, you can’t catch
me.’ But it did. And, to his surprise he won a prize,—if vicariously—with a face
that not even a mother could love.

Ed. In the contest which was held, prizes were awarded as follows:
First: Wesley Milne. Second (tie): Peter Aspell, Molly Lamb. Honourable
Mention: Bill Roberts.

MEDIEVAL PARTY

Up rose ye goodly monarch, Charles ye Scotte,
Quoth he, “A hearty welcome, good my lords.
Unbuckle ye your armour, sheathe your swords
Fair revelry shall now hold forth | wot

From uttermost of earth’s far corners sought.
Come—those whose names are legendary words—
To grace great Castle Cambie’s festive boards.
The romance of the ages here is caught—

Sweet damsels, pages, greybeards, knights and squires
Shatter dim night with laugh and jovial shout.
O kitchen varlets! Tend ye well your fires,
Let nothing lack at this all-joyous rout!

The flaming torch flares yellow over all:

The King makes merry in his banquet hall.’

ene shia ae a
Lo
CART QO-N WEEK

THE HUNTER AND THE HUNTED!
The Monster is out again. We will call him that as he is ferocious, though harm-
less. However, he is a very superior beast, good hearted if adamant.

The hunt is on for receding chins, bulging eyes, a protruding nose, large
prominent teeth, a head which shall no more be graced with that abundant luxury
which “was” the pride and joy of one’s life. The Monster pants, ’’Let me at ‘em.”’
One shrinks behind doors, slinks down halls, turns corners on high, all to no avail.
He is at heel.

“Won't you pose for me, you have such a lovely wart, a shame not to hand
it down to posterity.” Another small voice is heard, diffident and shy, “Do me.”
There is a lull, the Monster looks your way. You are just sort of commonplace, the
average size shoe, nondescript features, no gaping seams, still retain your own teeth;
a mouth, nose, eyes, chin, all there, but you are definitely not “material.” It sneers
and turns —the hunt is on again.

Through all arteries of the school this week, fifteen minutes before lunch,
appetizers are collected. The Monster devours them feverishly. Later groups col.
lect, shrieks df laughter, “Oh, do let me see.” “Isn't that lovely!”

“Nyah, nyah, nyah,” said the little fox, “Nyah, nyah, nyah, you can’t catch
me.’ But it did. And, to his surprise he won a prize,—if vicariously—with a face
that not even a mother could love.

Ed. In the contest which was held, prizes were awarded as follows:
First: Wesley Milne. Second (tie): Peter Aspell, Molly Lamb. Honourable
Mention: Bill Roberts.

MEDIEVAL PARTY

Up rose ye goodly monarch, Charles ye Scotte,
Quoth he, ““A hearty welcome, good my lords. 2 |
Unbuckle ye your armour, sheathe your swords

Fair revelry shall now hold forth | wot

From uttermost of earth’s far corners sought.
Come—those whose names are legendary words—

To grace great Castle Cambie’s festive boards.

The romance of the ages here is caught—

Sweet damsels, pages, greybeards, knights and squires
Shatter dim night with laugh and jovial shout.

O kitchen varlets!_ Tend ye well your fires,

Let nothing lack at this all-joyous rout!

The flaming torch flares yellow over all:

The King makes merry in his banquet hall.””