LAMENT OF AN EDITOR.

Genius burned— I hoped. I'd receive A poem, Scan it through, And sigh	Grammar stuck— I hoped. I'd receive A poem, Scan it through And scream.
Talent lived— I hoped. I'd receive A poem, Scan it through And weep.	Hope endured For lo! This magazine Appears!

R.D.

(A wood with a little cottage in the background. Alfred knocks on the door, a woman appears).
Woman: "What do you want, young man?"
Alfred: "I am a poor tramp and I am very tired and hungry, could you give me food and rest?"
Woman: "I will, if you mind my cakes while I go and see the goats."
(Exit Woman).
Alfred: (He starts to think about his battle with the Danes. He forgets about the cakes and they start to burn. Soon he hears "Crack" on his ear, the woman had come back and she had been whipping him).
Woman: "You, you wicked thing burning my lovely cakes." Alfred: "Oh, oh yes ! I am so sorry."
(Enter her husband).
Man: "Who is this man, my dear?"
Woman: "This thing, he burned my cakes."
Man: "Who are you, young man?"
Alfred: "Me, I am Alfred the Great."
Man and Woman: "Oh, my lord, forgive us."
Alfred: "It is all right you did not know."

MARGARET YEWDELL, Upper II.

I saw a little bush,
And in it was a thrush,
And it did sing;
And that reminded me of Spring.

STEPHANIE S. DALTON, Lower II.

WINTER.

The snow has come,
We crunch and crush,
And then it melts,
And all is slush.

We slip and slide,
Upon the ice;
And I think
That it is nice.

EUNICE CATTERMOLE, Lower II.

THE GIRL OF CASTLE DREAMS.

Riding her coach through shining beams,
Is a girl in dress of white;
Her home it is the Castle Dreams,
Her country is the night.

Her coach is made from feathery clouds,
Her horse a dragonfly;
She rides among the sleepy crowds,
And, "Sleep, sleep," she cries.

When every eye is closed up tight,
And all the shadows creep,
She flies away at dead of night,
Because her name is "Sleep."

JEAN GALLAGHER, Lower IV 1.

WHAT AM I?

My first is in drum but not in Piano,
My seconds in duet but not in Solo,
My third's in Soprano but not in Alto,
My fourth's in Viol but not in Flute,
My fifth's in Vocal but not in Mute;
You can make me yourself if you really try to;
Or you can listen while others make me for you.

[Click here for the Answer]

GABRIELLE POTTS, Upper IV 3.

KNEES.

I think that I could never see
A thing as bony as a knee;
A thing by lovers often used,
A thing that's many times abused;
That's rarely blest with form or grace,
A knobbly lump of sheer disgrace.

A knee that may, in Boy Scouts, wear
A most abundant crop of hair;
That may, in small boys, dirty be—
From soap's attentions ever free;
A knee by rheumatism torn,
A thing of beauty quite forlorn.

ANN BOYINGTON, Lower V 1.

It was a cold and rainy afternoon. The day was Wednesday and so, because I had not been particularly naughty that week, I had the afternoon off. I was rather drowsy, so I curled up in the armchair by the blazing fire and tried to sleep. It was not long before I fell into a light doze.

I was suddenly startled by a prim voice saying, "Wake up child, are you ill?" I was in a form room. All around me were girls of my own age, but dressed in long black dresses with white frilly knickers showing just above their feet.

Standing over me was the owner of the voice. "Are you ill?" she repeated. No I assured her I was quite well. "We will now continue with a test on the geometrical theorum which you learnt for your home task yesterday evening," she said. Now I must let you know that I am not exactly bright in this subject, even when I have done my homework. I raised my hand.

"Well child, what is the matter now?" "P-please ma'm I-I don't feel very well." "I thought not," she replied. "Miss Jenning, the brimstone and treacle, quickly." I was now trembling in my shoes. I had not thought of that. The brimstone duly arrived, but alas the treacle was all used up. I began to sob, hoping it would soften her heart. But no. Fate was against me. In sheer desperation I lunged out, smashing the unlucky jar to smithereens. All went black.

"Why dear you've knocked the flower vase over. But come along, your tea is ready. You've been asleep all the afternoon." It was my mother!

MARGARET PICKARD Lower IV 1.

SUNRISE.

Over the moors I walked one morn,
To wait to see a summer dawn,
The moors were hushed in mists of grey,
The world was waiting for the day.
At last a small soft streak of pink,
Formed night and day's one rosy link,
Then came shades of mauve and blue,
And pasted tints of every hue,
So I was glad I came that morn,
Across the moors to see the dawn.

SHEILA GLASSMAN Upper III 2.

THE UNDERGROUND RIVER.

The underground river gushed out of the ground,
And glad to be free it rushed madly around,
And the tall, rugged peaks and crags filled with the sound
Of its song of escape as it bounded along.
It bellowed and roared like the boom of a gong
To the sky and the mountains this wild happy song.
"I've escaped from my bonds in the earth's rocky tomb!
No more will I hear the loud thunderous boom
As the underground waterfalls crash to their doom.
I'm free from earth's tunnels and honeycombed caves
Where a deep stormy echo loud rumbles and raves
In mockery of all the streams, earth's fettered slaves.
I'm free mighty mountains! O listen, vast sky!
Freedom and flowers! O wonderful day!
But now that my tale's told I'll hasten away
To tell other rivers the horrors they may
By chance tumble into, if ever they leap,
Without first looking, down mountainsides steep."
So down tumbled the river, far down Winnat Peak.

JILL STATHERS, Lower IV 1.

WASHING UP.

How I hate that washing-up, Every saucer, plate and cup— I've got to do it every night, Although I try with all my might To wriggle out of doing it.

Every night I slip and slink, From the table to the sink With pots just balanced on my arm, My father looks up with alarm, And he is not amused by me.

We have a lovely pewter mug And a pretty cut glass jug, At least, we had a cut glass jug Until I dropped it on the rug Things don't seem to be so sunny Since Dad stopped my pocket money.

One day when I'm old and grey I will look at dirty pots and say To my own daughter, "Wash up, dear, And do not leave a single smear Or anything that's dirty, dear." But that's a dream and now it's gone, Pass me the dishcloth and let me get on.

SHIRLEY NUTCHEY Upper IV.

There was a young man called Jim
Who drove with the greatest of vim
"I can beat a greyhound,
In covering the ground,"
And now the ground covers him.

JOAN TATE Upper IV.

UPON LOCHRANZA ROAD (Isle of Arran).

He stood upon Lochranza Road,
He looked not up nor down,
He turned towards the ocean,
And o'er his face a frown
Spread like the clouds across the sky.

Behind him rose the mountains,
Before him was the shore,
He looked across the waters
And saw the seal once more,
The black seal, the seal he always saw.

Long, long ago when he was young,
They'd crossed the Clyde one day,
To come back to their island home
From the mainland far away,
Across the mighty, heaving waves.

His wife was standing by his side,
She looked across the sea,
He watched her troubled glances
And thought what it might be
That troubled her on such a day.

He knew well what had happened
His heart felt like a stone,
For the great seal, the black seal,
Had called her to his throne,
His throne beneath the mighty, heaving waves.

Behind him rose the mountain
Before him was the shore,
He looked across the waters
And saw the seal once more,
The black seal, the seal he always saw.

D.M.R.

CHARLOTTE.

Just beside the chocolate box
Poor Charlotte stood all day;
Just imagine her delight
When mother went away.

Just beside the chocolate box
She took twelve of the best,
And ate till mother entered
With a grand, good looking guest.

"Will you have an orange cream?
A chocolate cream as well?
Though where twelve sweets have gone to,
Is more than I can tell!

Now Charlotte, Charlotte, Charlotte,
Come here and take your pick."
Just then there was an uproar—
Poor Charlotte had been sick.

MOLLY SHEPHERD Lower IV.

A SAD TALE.

This is the tale of Herbert Dean
Who caught his nose in the Mincing Machine
He cried, "O Ma, come pull me out!
In the mincing machine I've caught my snout!"
His Ma came quick and with a cry
To pull him out she began to try—
'Twas all in vain I regret to tell,
Poor Herbert cried out with a yell.
So Mrs Dean unscrewed the machine
From the place where it had always been,
And there it hangs on Herbert's snout
To stick for ever without a doubt.

BETTY DENTON Lower IV.

All the birds had flown to the warm places, except one small brown bird. This poor bird had broken its wing and was trying to reach the New Forest, where it could rest, while its wing got better. It had reached the Forest. The first tree it came to was a Silver Birch tree. The Brown Bird said, "Please, can I shelter in your branches till Spring comes, because I have broken my wing?" The proud Birch said, "Of course you can't. I have my own birds without you." The poor bird hopped to an oak tree. "Please can I shelter in your branches till Spring, because I have a broken wing?" "No you can't, get away you ugly thing," the oak answered. It hopped to the Willow to tell its story but it said, "No." It hopped along and as it went it said, "Nobody wants me so I shall die." Then the Spruce tree said, "Little Brown Bird hop into my branches and rest." The Fir tree said, "I shall shelter you from the Winter's blast." The Juniper said, "Little Brown Bird eat my berries when you are hungry." King Winter sent the North wind through the forest but he said, "Leave the Spruce, the Fir and the Juniper with their dresses of green for they were kind to the little Brown Bird with a broken wing." That's why in Winter the Silver Birch, the Oak and Willow trees never have leaves and the Spruce, Fir and the Juniper do.

PAULINE KAYE, Upper 3.

INVERTED COMMAS.

I learned in English long ago
To make my commas "in the air,"
Later I learned to read in French
And on the line found every pair.

In German there was more to learn—
The first pair clings upon the line,
The closing pair are higher far—
Imagine what surprise was mine!

M. GABRIEL, Lower V.

THE MARCH OF TIME.

'Tis the voice of the Prefect, I hear her declare,
"Don't run, girls, DON'T RUN!" 'tis a cry of despair,
For once round the corner she knows very well
Those bad little girls will be running pell-mell.
But the years will bring wisdom—at least so we hope—
And those girls, now grown older, with others must cope.
"Don't run, girls, DON'T RUN!" they beg and implore,
And those that don't heed, must sit down on the floor.

Now as the years pass many changes they bring,
But nevertheless you still hear the same thing.
"Don't run, girls, DON'T RUN!" just the same as of yore
Goes echoing shrill down the long corridor.
In some distant future, all wrinkled and grey,
You'll sit by the fire, nid-nodding away,
Recalling those days when you all had such fun,
And the voice of the Prefect, "Don't run, girls, DON'T RUN!

M. D. SKETCHLEY.

HATS!

The girls of Lawnswood wear their hats at every sort of angle;
Some look as if they're back to front, and some behind do dangle;
In some you see a pleat or two—result, a pseudo-halo—
And over some I think 'twould be but kind to draw a veil O!
The hair "does" too, those puffs and rolls,
They really are quite dashing,
Suspend a beret at the back to make it really smashing!

ANON.

REFLECTIONS.

As I stood on the bridge and watched and dreamed,
The shimmering silk of the waters gleamed
In the shadowless rays of the watery sun,
Which lighted sad earth still clothed like a nun.

Dust in a coal-barge swaying silently there
Sparkled like frost in the cold keen air,
Wisps of smoke from the house near by,
Hovered like wraiths in the ice-blue sky.

A few trembling leaves swirled lazily round
And fell on the water with scarcely a sound,
I gazed yet longer on the still broad stream
Till the hoot of the barge came to shatter my dream.

C.E.M.

BETHLEHEM.

O Bethlehem, thou art not least in Judah,
For thou within thy walls didst hold the Lord.
Proud of thy divine appointment
Wouldst have cherished like a mother,
And raised with loving care the Blessed Child,
To hear from Holy lips His message of salvation.
But Herod's cruel thrusts thou didst receive,
And in thy awful agony of pain,
Burning tears from frantic eyes fast streaming,
Didst call upon thy God.
But thou shalt ever be remembered,
For by preserving at so great a price
The dear life of our infant Lord,
Thou didst enable Him to make the final sacrifice,
To ransom all mankind from powers of evil
And bring it back to God.

J.S.