Alma College - Almafilian Yearbook (St Thomas, Ontario Canada)

Page 26 text:

The Apple I saw a little apple, Up in an apple tree. I called to Mr. Wind and said WPlease shake it down to me.n The wind came by and shook it. It tumbled to the ground. I picked it up and held it. It looked so nice and round. The Fairy Snow Man Elizabeth Mckay Little flakes of snow are falling silently all night, And from our little window there is nothing left in sight. I guess the fairy snow-man must have come to-night, To drop a little snow-ball everywhere in sight. Spring is coming very fast, And Mother Nature now has cas A spell of beauty all around, t And flowers are peeping from the ground. 433 el! fb A k ' 4 Joan Davidson Jean Penhale U W.

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QB fffftf The Thrill to Diet Chimes! Ah, here we are, the noble eight, going down to a very filling feast of air! It is the first of the week and, since last week's gain of ten pounds, our wills are strong, resolute, determined. Nothing can make them bend to the desire of that bothersome organ called the stomach, absolutely nothing! Our yearning to be slivers will be realized yet. Breakfast--delicious muffins, lunch--soup, and pancakes with maple syrup, dinner--beans, potatoes, fish, and fruit salad! Ah, what delectable meals are served that first day! Do you think these delicacies will weaken us? Not us, not the noble eight! Why should we weaken? Haven't we sufficient nourishment stored up? Strangely enough, though, the week drags slowly by, and the meals become more superb and enticing as the week goes on. Our wills are as strong as ever, at least from the outside. Inside, however, they are slowly but surely weakening. Now meals are no longer a pleasureg not even in the desire to be the one who eats the least. Just to think of them, let alone sit down to them, is agony. ' The last straw comes one morning at breakfast near the end of the week when bran is served. I can bear up no longer. As I resolutely eat my precious bran seven pairs of horrified eyes are turned on me. This makes me so nervous, that before I have taken two spoonfuls of the cereal, I begin to drop it in my lap. But, my, how those two spoonfuls bolster me up! I notice, however, that the barrier is broken at noon. All but one hearken to the beseeching cries of their stomachs. Have you ever heard your stomach cry out for food? Oh, 'tis a pitiful sound! One alone maintains her stand to the end of the week. Saturday at last! What a loss! Crushed and hungry the noble eight listen to, and succumb to, the cry of the stomach as it now shouts in joy over its victory. Once more it has been proved that to reach a state of mind over platter is a difficult goal to attain and that few reach it. Now, every day, we look for pie, or any other indulgence but, since it hasn't been noized abroad that our attitudes have changed, we keep getting fruit! Margaret McEwen. Junior Literary Section The Snow The snow is falling very fast, And all the people go tramping past. But oh poor snow ' You soon will go! ' Poor snow! Rachel McKay. 25

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Senior Poems The Last Reguest Thy days are almost numbered, friend, Of time there is no more, Thy feet pursued the weary trend, Come out ------ and look the door! Look not behind you, O my friend, But forward, I implore, Thy things forgotten I will send, But come ------ and lock the door! Thy destiny thou'st met, my friend, Thou hestenest to the fore. Thine upward path again to wend, But didst thou look the door? What saidest thou just then, my friend? The clouds above do soar, Thou askest me something?--O to lend, The Key to lock the door. Thou maK'st request of me, my friend? Of me thou dost implore? That I may not forget to send The key to lock the door. For when thou leavest school, my friend, When all thy tests are o'er, Thou must remember at the end-- Go out!-- and lock the door! Forsythia The forsythia, a lovely flower Peeks out from its golden bower, This is its triumphant hour, Its hey-day. As in their nests the birds do settle, In my hand their drops a petal Fashioned from some golden metal Of the May. 27 U Margaret Hunter I. Alexander