Beggar on Horseback

Of course, that night we took in the Players's latest production, an amateur version of the Connelly-Kaufmann success, "Beggar on Horseback." Again we have to score a success for them. It was a stupendous undertaking, for the cast included sixty people in all, among them most of Hanover's youngest and most promising juveniles. Nor was this an end of the difficulties, for the original revolving stage, which permitted of some twenty different scenes, was built by the technical staff and used precisely and with very good effect. A short skit by the Davidod Marionettes completed the evening. These same Marionettes stayed around for a few days and gave a separate performance of their own in Robinson Hall, which was deservedly well-attended.

Naturally, we went to a dance, and whirled giddily about until some indefinite time in the early morn, threw ourselves in utter weariness into bed, and thought with a sigh of the sleepy promise that had been given, "I'll come and get you early, we'll run up and have a little breakfast and then get back to the hockey game"—which, all desperate resolutions to the contrary, is just what we did. The same thoroughly chilled and enthusiastic crowd was there, and we quite idly wondered how many quarts of tomato juice was slowly coagulating into tomato juice in how many different stomachs.

Then in a hurry to lunch, and quickly out to the ski-jumping, the major thrill of every Carnival we've ever been to. There's something one can never forget about that colourful crowd on the side of the hill, the shrill blast of the bugle, the short quick whistling about the jumper as he descends, and the sudden appreciative gasp from the onlookers. It is an occasion which plants itself firmly in one's memory, to be remembered long after the romanticism of sleigh rides in the moonlight has slipped away. There is always the scary female, of course, who feels her way timidly down the side of the bank, prodded on by a grim and embarrassed escort—and there is always the practical joker who gives her the slight assistance which she in no way needs, so that she finally sets off, with a hysterical yelp or two, on her precipitate way to the bottom of the hill, invariably managing to drag a few innocent bystanders into the avalanche with her. Then she gets up with a triumphant smile, as much as to say, "I intended to do it all along," which obvious falsehood is always made more clear by the surly way in which aforesaid escort hurries her away from the scene of carnage. Then there are the lukewarm hot dogs, the woman with cold feet "I'd like to see the rest but Henry my feet are frozen?', the conscious collegian who appears stockingless and with shirt thrown open wide, the stentorian voice in the background who explains in a slightly fuddled tone that he was brought up on skiing and would somebody please move over a little bit?

We paused here and there on our way home to view the snow sculptures in front of the various fraternity houses. Considering the scarcity of the element and the short time which was given the house-artists to work, they did right nobly. Nymphs, dejected Don Juans (though we don't know why), skating girls, Neptunes, Colossuses, and Temptation itself was represented—all done very skillfully, though we don't know yet to whom the award went.