REFLECTIONS

The Song of the Red Caps.

By ERNEST BISHOP (Third Year)

There is no school like D. C. S.
Where'er the light of day be;
There are no caps like our red caps
So smart and bright as they be;
There is no school like D. C. S.
Where'er the light of day be;
There are no boys like Downhills boys
Such sporty lads as they be.

And they shall work for Downhills
And reap for her success,
They'll play and beat all rivals
And win by stern prowess.

There is no school like D. C. S.
Where'er the light of day be;
There are no girls like Downhills girls
So kind and sweet as they be.
There is no school like D. C. S.
Where'er the light of day be;
There is no Staff like our Staff
So masterly as they be.

And they shall strive and struggle
To teach us all they can -
To pass examinations
And grow to play the man.

The Cake that Vanished.

Dorothy Drake, she purchased a cake,
Which she hid in a hist'ry book.
"For then it will be entirely for me,"
She said, with a Stuart look.
But then in disguise, did plump little Wise
Search it out. "All, ha! Oh, ho!"
And alas and alack! when she came back
Her cake had contrived to go!

The Geniuses of IVc.

By ONE OF THEM.

[The Editors, having carefully disguised all the names, cannot accept responsibility for the statements (pleasant or unpleasant) made in the following article.]

Of all the forms in the School, IVc is noted for its high-water mark of genius. To demonstrate this, it is only necessary to mention Runfesog the tall, and Runfam the small, who are close friends, the poet Ihmst, the fortune-teller and scheme-promoter Immngski, the famous mathematician Illgrawth, and the once-famous editor of magazines Itlberg; here we have at once six of the IVc "eleven."

Runfesog is to-day renowned as our form boxing genius. At one time in his Downhills career he had a perfect genius for getting the cane, but, since his promotion to the Fourth Year, he has almost ceased to give evidence of that side of his genius. Owing to his enormous height, he finds that the youngsters of Year One "look up" to him, and seem to expect him to set a good example; so he has allowed all his brains to run into his fists, and, realising his responsibility he has developed a fearsome dignity.

Runfesog's particular friend and close pal is Runfam, the small, another popular genius whose special line is conjuring. Runfam can hold us all spell-bound with a piece of wood. He will place it on the bench before us, and, after distracting our attention with yards of humorous patter, he will make a few mystic passes, and to our amazement, the piece of wood will disappear. Then, after grinning and bowing his acknowledgment of our laughter, he will produce it from his pocket, and proceed to perform another trick. This, however, is by no means the only outlet for his genius. He is also an accomplished violinist.

Of Immngski there is much to say, for he is our famous fortune-teller and scheme promoter. He once took a glass stopper to school and for a certain payment, he was ready to give us a very witty and, of course uncomplimentary, account of our future. Then he invented a scheme called the "Nulli-Secundus," which from our point of view was very clever; but from his point of view was a failure. He promised to give a penny to any boy who had the cane, received lines, or lost conduct marks, and who was in his scheme; but to be in this scheme one had to pay him a halfpenny every week regularly. Unhappily for Immngski, our Form is so far from being an example of virtue that very soon he found himself going bankrupt, and had to wind up his affairs. After that, he turned his scheming mind to journalism. He was, in fact, the first founder of a Form Magazine. He charged a half-penny for "a read" (in School) and, strange to say, this was a great success until other form magazines began to appear. Then Immngski, the genius, who, although he recognised imitation as the sincerest form of flattery, had no liking for competition, sold his editorship to two other shining literary lights, Itlberg and Degeh; but they also ceased their laborious efforts after producing a few numbers.

About this time, Ihmst and Illgrawth (an editor of a magazine) came into IVc. They were welcomed, for Ihmst and Illgrawth were both geniuses; Ihmst as a poet, Illgrawth as a mathematician, Ihmst immediately showed us some of his poems, which even Immngski admitted were "pretty good." Included among them was a poem called "Immngski," which Ihmst rather wished he had not written when Immngski chased him all round the School, and finally caught him. Illgrawth's genius we did not discover until we found that he did two sums to our one, and got them both correct.

Lr.McNne also is a genius in the way he makes up new French words and forgets the original ones; but now his genius takes the form of beating us all hollow at history. Not so long ago, his name could generally be found at the bottom.

Igor is a genius of many parts. How he manages to get full marks for conduct always puzzles us. His genius also reveals itself in his ability at woodwork and metal-work. This side of his genius is recognised to such an extent that a certain mistress once even condescended to give Igor the honour of making her an ash-tray. Ilwes's genius takes the form of dodging all work, especially homework, whilst Tprta, in contrast, has a wonderful genius for getting more work than anyone else.

Readers will have discovered that I, also, am a genius in that I have managed to write this clever and illuminating article without giving myself away. It will be seen, therefore, that Downhills Central School has reason to be proud of its IVc in which every boy is a genius.

The Dancing Lesson.

By HARRY THOMAS (Fourth Year).

With steady step the ranks advance
To take their partners for the dance.
The serried band upon the floor -
Its heart is light, its feet are sore,
For useless now are Russian boots
And, all in vain, the warning hoots
Against the mighty force of man
Who kicks and treads where'er he can.

The one-step they attempt at first
And then for more the boys do thirst.
Soon afterwards, all flushed and hot,
They try a waltz and slow fox-trot.
The gramophone's shrill plaintive bleats
Incite their feet to further feats.

Now see them dance the Gordon Gay!
With four steps - turn - the same each way!
A twist - a turn - and then a glide
With quick step round the Hall they slide.
The Flying Boston then they try,
And round and round the Hall they fly,
With "Look out there!" and "0h, my nose!"
"Good gracious me! You've hurt my toes!"

But when the whistle sounds, "Cease fire,"
Those gallant damsels we admire;
For though their limbs are stiff and sore
They still pretend they'd like some more.
When on the morrow lessons call
And they all troop in to the Hall,
'Sembly and lessons dull do seem
For of that time they sit and dream.

It's a hard life most of the time, nowadays. Bob lends Jack some money so that Jack can lend it to Bill so that Bill can pay Bob some of what he owes him. See?

The Cookery Centre.

By H. KIMMINGS (Fourth Year.)

The Cookery Centre happens to be next door to our Form-room, and many are the delicious odours that steal through the door to our nostrils. For instance, the other day, when we were all deeply absorbed in the puzzles of mathematics, a delightful smell of burnt kippers was wafted through the door. Heroically, we stood it for a time, until the teacher in charge made an excuse to leave, presumably for fresh air. As soon as we were left to ourselves, pandemonium reigned, and there was a wild rush for the open windows; all fighting for air. However, after a time the smell became less pungent, and gradually ceased to trouble us. I suppose the girl in charge of the kippers suddenly realised that they were burning. Now and again our nostrils are assailed by some really alluring odours, such as that of toast. This smell is so enticing that to tease us with the knowledge that the toast is so near and yet not for us, amounts almost to cruelty to young children. In my case, my mouth waters, and I begin crunching the crisp toast (in my imagination) the moment I sniff the odour.

On some days there is no cooking in the Cookery Centre, but washing, and that, perhaps, is worse. The girls are certainly very energetic, but I, for one, wish they were not, and I am sure all the boys in my Form have the same feeling. First of all, to start the ball rolling, we hear a rumbling noise like distant thunder which, from experience, I have come to know is caused by the girls rubbing the clothes on the washing-boards. After this preliminary, our Form-room (which, as I have said, is next door) is invaded by a dense mist. It is so thick at times that the boy sitting next to me looks like a ghostly spectre. We cough and cough as the mist gets down our throats, until, just as we are feeling desperate, to our intense relief the mist clears off, and normal air is restored.

One day - oh! how I do regret that day! - I was strolling by the Cookery Centre, warbling like a lark and full of the joy of Spring, when the door opened and out came a girl with a dish of pastries in her hands. Feeling rather hungry at the time, I glanced covertly at the cakes, and the kind young lady, noticing my eager glance, took pity on me and offered me one. Ah, me! Like a poor misguided youth, I took the seemingly dainty confection, and - lo and behold! - after eating it, I turned a sickly yellow! That cake was black on one side and white on the other; the middle was soft and sloppy like a piece of wet dough. Before I ate the cake I was a joyful and lively boy of mirth, but within a few moments of devouring it, that terrible, indescribable feeling came over me, and I crept away, broken in spirit and a physical wreck. In the afternoon I visited my doctor, who ordered me to be put to bed for the rest of that week. Never again shall I taste a cake baked by a Downhills Central girl.

Now take warning from me, you young and innocent lambs of Year One. Do not cultivate a taste for toast; do not put yourselves in the way of burnt kippers; never let a girl take pity on you; and, above all, do not blight your lives by eating a Downhills Central cake.

How I wish - oh-h! I can feel that pain returning. It is the clinging memory of that cake - I - can write no more!