THE STUDENTS’ DAY.

Otago Witness, Issue 3724, 28 July 1925, Page 46

THE STUDENTS’ DAY.

With their customary self-confidence and with that spirit. of hilarity and nonsense that is inspired by fancy dress (or the lack of fancy dress, as the case may and an effective disguise, which may or may not be an improvement on the original article, the students began their yearly capers on Wednesday. The proceedings were opened with the fantastic procession and tho ceremony of accepting the self-bestowed freedom of the city. Long before the first blare of discord shattered the noontide peace and sent the sparrows resident in the Octagon trees flutterings skywards in fright, the streets were thronged with the citizenry of Dunedin, and necks were craned eagerly down George street. Even those who condemned the festival as a display of buffoonery and crude humour, and a reversion to type, and such like, seemed to forget their prejudice and watched the proceedings with interest, which showed that after all they could appreciate an obvious joke as well as a subtle one. The route led past the Hospital into George street, and then down Princes street to the old Post Office and back again to the Octagon, where the official speeches were delivered. There was nothing highly original in the procession, though the topics of the year were fairly well represented. Near the front loped the Hunchback of Notre Dame, a grotesque figure with the hideous protuberance on his cheekbone, aggressive teeth, and a wandering eve, while a tangled growth of long hair reached to his deformed shoulders. The Octagon Hall served admirably as a substitute for the historic cathedral, though the Hunchback took no risks and confined his gymnastics to hopping around inside the balcony. Upon tho entry of the May Oral magnificence and the Vice-Regal splendour, however, he modestly retired, and tho “Mayoral” speech was delivered. His “Worship” gave short shrift to the frivolous complaints regarding the breakdowns of the Roslyn trams, and emphasised the great value the student was to tho community. A few more or less well-chosen words were given by the “Governor-General,” and then the city waa handed over holus bolus. A rather cynical representation of the Dunedin War Memorial was a conspicuous detail of the procession. A small block of stone with thin steel bars rising up like bristles in a brush, with a little sprinkling of y loose sand round the base, the whole surmounted on a motor lorry, bore the proud announcement that it was the result of seven years’ efforts. Then there were one or two cross-word puzzles, Felix cats, who mewed most piteously, several ladies, basket-ball teams, the New Zealand polo team, four members of which bestrode a sorry-looking draught horse, and a host of “girls’* (one of the favourite masquerades of lho capping student). The time-honoured custom of playing “ring-a-rosy” by little bunches of girls (genuine ones) was observed, and, taken all round, a good time was had by all. They were nil orderly mob, and no unseemly incidents occurred to mar the fun of the afternoon. At any rate, the police had no complaints. One morbidly prophetic in(fcvidual obliterated the Rattray street cable car timetable with a notice bearing the gloomy information that ‘St ain’t gonna run np rao’.”