THE ANNUAL RENAISSANCE

Now that Spring is rustling through the cloistered scaffolding of the Yard, the Well-Dressed Senior is considering what intellectual raiment he shall wear at the exclusive Divisional Tea. Already the nearly-baked undergraduate is begiuning to feel that he has completed everything in his college course except his education. As one semi-intelligent put it, "I hate to leave this place after four years knowing as little as I do." In his modesty he did not realise that many other members of his class had already departed for this very season.

The tutors, too, have begun to sense that the firm, confident tone displayed at their conferences is indeed an upward swing in the scholastic cycle, and not a more bull movement. No longer are a tutee's remarks confined to what he can assemble from the pigeon holes of the Encyclopedia Britannica. No longer does he deftly turn the conversation from Elizabethan to contemporary drama, on which he chats in his best demi-tasse manner. No longer...

No, the candidate for a degree has not even time to become reminiscent, for He has just discovered that the Child Memorial is not a monument to flapjacks.