"Spectator" Competitions

RULES AND CONDITIONS Entries must be typed or very clearly written on one side of the paper only. The name and addresses, or pseudonym, of the competitor must bo on each entry and not on a separate sheet. When a word limit is set words must be counted and the number given. No entries can be returned. Prizes may be divided at the discretion of the judge, or withheld if no entry reaches the required standard. The judge reserves the right to print or quote from any entry. The judge's ckecision is final, and no correspondence can be entered into on the subject of the award. Entries must bo addressed to :—The Editor, the Spectator, 99 Gower Street,

London, W.C. 1, and be marked on the envelope Competition No. (—).

Competition No. 9 (Set by "DUGLI.") A PRIZE of £3 3s. is offered for a new and original poem about the Derby. Poems may be in any form, and may be serious, pathetic, humorous or satirical, but must not exceed twenty-five lines of English verse.

Entries must be received not later than Monday, June 15th, 1931. The result of this competition will be announced in our issue of June 27th.

Competition No. 10 (Set by " SCADAVAY.") A PRIZE of £3 3s. is offered for the funniest " Synopsis of Previous Events " to precede the fifth instalment of an imaginary serial story in an imaginary daily newspaper. Entries must not exceed 850 words in length, exclusive of the title (which must be given) and the magic words "Now Read On!" with which each must end. Readers who have allowed their acquaintance with this type of literature to lapse may refresh (if that is the word) their minds by reference to almost any illustrated daily paper.

Entries must be received not later than Monday, June 22nd, 1931. The result of this competition will appear in our issue of July 4th.

The result of Competition No. 8 will appear in our next issue.

Report of Competition No. 7

(REPORT AND AWARD BY DUGLI.)

A PRIZE, of £3 3s. was offered for a Thumb Nail Short Story (true or otherwise) beginning " On Whit-Monday . . " Stories were not to exceed three hundred and fifty words.

This competition has found Spectator readers in a state of acute depression. The mention of Whit-Monday has suggested tragedy, disappointment and crime. The cheerful holiday parties that start off so gaily in the morning return as lifeless corpses, as man-slaughterers at the best, to find their houses wrecked by thieves. Even the Clerk of the Weather, who might have been given credit for one act of grace in making Whit-Monday, 1931, a perfect day, is pilloried as " the only Clerk who forgot that Whit-Monday was Bank Holiday."

" On Whit-Monday " is another beginning, " Henry Hunter

decided to commit suicide." Henry Hunter failed in his design, since he had not got enough money to pui in the slot of his gas meter, and the story is merely one of another spoiled holiday project. " On Whit-Monday Jenefer Combe had been married to Tom Pearce," seemed a hopeful start. But no ! " sear by sat Harry Sillivant, black misery in his heart." At the end " all eyes turned in the direction of Jenefer, who knelt beside the still body of Tom where he lay, shot through the heart." It was a relief to find Bertha Bettley's opening " On Whit-Monday I committed murder," followed by a clever sketch of the author's " dead self of twenty years ago."

The following deserve special mention :—Monica Tindall ;

Canon Swain ; A. G. Skinner, whose account of the Cornish apple firing cheers up a dismal tale ; Lady Erskine-Crum, for a charming little legend of Abingdon Fair ; S. Barrington McClean, for an amusing rendering of the house-breaking story; Isobel M. Lillie, whose little fragment shows real imagination ; Ethel M. Kennedy ; T. E. 011iver, for the least lugubrious of the drowning tragedies ; and L. V. Upward, for producing a smile " amid severest woe."

The prize of £8 3s. is awarded to Meryon (who is asked to send name and address) for an original and effective piece of writing. - •

THE -PRIZE THUMB NAIL SHORT STORY.

TOLD BY THE OLD SAILOR.

On Whit-Monday, the ship- lying • off the coast, Ezra Parkinson, the- cook, and I got ourselves on shore, having a

• •

desire to look upon the country. And passed out of the town, wherein was only confusion, and made towards the hills. S we came into a strange region, where was no human thing seen, neither birds nor the appearance of any small beast, but only rocks and the hillside, and it seemed to us that the trees themselves bore evil shapes.

And as we journeyed through this place there came on us a great thirst, yet could we find no water. While we were thus tormented, there appeared before us a dark man wearing a red shirt, who bade us follow him and he would find us refresh- ment. And, following him, we came upon a mighty stoni house, having windows overgrown with green stuff, and a courtyard wherein sat a great company, both of men and of women. Some there were playing cards and some drinking, and some who played on instruments, yet nane of them spoke a word, nor did they turn their eyes upon us, and their faces were yellow as lemons. And seeing them there came upon me a chill and a dread, so that I fled from the place, but Ezra, wild with thirst, stayed to drink from the fountain. And going some way down the hillside I was ashannd that I had left him, and turned back to fetch him away. But when I came to the great stone house the court was empty, nor could I find him, though I sought throughout the place. Nor could I find aught but emptiness, and at the back of the house an old graveyard whereon one had carved roughly on the wall- " Here perished of the Plague the family and household of Quito da Fonseca, May 5, 1604. God have mercy upon us."

MARTON,

Highly Commended.

HELP !

On Whit-Monday the American lodger invited some friends round to play cards during the afternoon. As Mrs. Green said, this was very inconsiderate of him, because it meant that one of the maids would have to forgo a well-earned holiday and stay in to attend to his wants. But there it was ; the sacrifice had to be made, and the lot fell upon Betty, the little kitchen-maid.

Betty took her misfortune philosophically, and settling herself comfortably in the kitchen with her favourite weekly journal, was soon immersed in the story of love and intrigue. That was why, when the first cry for help floated down from upstairs, she failed to grasp its significance. It chimed in so aptly with what she was reading that she thought it must have been a product of her imagination. But at the second cry she stirred uneasily, put down her paper and listened intently.

" Help ! " For the third time the cry rang out, and Betty, now seriously alarmed, jumped to her feet and opened the door. At the threshold she hesitated. Memories of stories she had read and films she had seen flooded her mind : gambling, high stakes, cheating, violence ! Possibly even— death ! She shuddered. But there was real grit in Betty, and deciding that she could no longer ignore the call, she began to mount the stairs.

At the first turn in the stairway she came face to face with the American. He carried a jug, weapon-like, in his hand ; on his face was a look of fury.

" What is it, sir ? " gasped Betty. " Is anyone 'urt ? "

" Yeah ! " he said, dragging the word out venomously. " I'm hurt, I guess ; and yew sure will be if this water-jug

ain't filled pronto I yelled three times 1 " Betty was almost fainting with fear. " What's wrong ? " she moaned. " Where are you 'urt ? What 'elp do you want ? "

The American stared at her strangely. " Gee ! " he said. " I misremember yore name ; but yew aire a hired help,

aincha ? "

L. V. UPWARD.