Balfour Technical School - Beacon Yearbook (Regina, Saskatchewan Canada)

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This year the Beacon Staff sponsored a contest to stimulate interest in the Literary columns of the year book. The response was excellent. Prizes were offered for literary effort. Two firsts were awarded in the poetry class because the judges could not decide on the winning entry. Two other awards were made, one for the best essay, and one for the best short story. To those students whose work won favorable comment from the judges, an “honourable mention” was given. The Beacon Staff offers its heartiest congratulations to the winners, and a word of encouragement to all other contestants. —EDITOR. FIRST PRIZE Suniei A picture of glory, of rapture I se»; A gold Haze in heaven—a sky symphony. There’s gold like hot fire and Hue sapphire cool. And purple, as dark as the depths of a pool. I gaze■—my eyes tire and sting at the strain, But sight must embed this scene in my brain. I have just a moment before it is gone; Can I in that moment make beauty live on? Dusk dampens day’s glory, the sun sparks now fled And that sacred sunset lies withered and dead. That glory’s escaped me! 1 yearn for my loss And feel lone as the leaves that cold night breezes toss. I want consolation—for comfort I long, To soothe my sad spirit. hear it—a song! There, bright in the heavens — proud, shining on high Ten thousand stars carol, “Cod’s l eauly can ' t die.” —Trudy Woldrich 3A fycjiineAA. In the first place, what does “ugliness” mean? By consulting the dictionary you will find a definition something like this— “lacking in beauty; unfavourable; unde¬ sirable.” How many of us lack beauty, not only in outward appearance, but in the mind. It is therefore evident that ugliness not only refers to the realistic things in life, but to a much more superior class—your mind, your thoughts, your own attitude toward others. Ugliness in that sense of the word often becomes very involved as well as pestilent and infectious to yourself as well as to your kin. How many of us suffer from the ugliness of bearing defiance, malevolence, abusive¬ ness in our minds? That in itself is ugliness. We may say “Oh! how utterly ugly she looks!”—that isn’t ugliness, it is misfortune, and misfortune is not ugliness. How incriminating to hear words like that coming from someone who never knew misfortune. Wouldn’t it have been wiser to hear, “It’s a shame she is so unfortunate,” flowing from the lips of someone who understands? It is ugly to wish a misfortune on someone due to a mere burning jealousy. So many of us say without thinking, “I wish she was dead!”—oh how ugly that sounds! We may not be alive to the fact, but others sense the ugliness that is rooted deep within our minds. Love, beauty, and understanding can so often be marred by ugliness, and what a shame that is! Hurt, want, fear, and defiance are a form of a disagreeable dwelling in our minds, so let us not be sceptical in choosing the better; the grandeur of love, the splendor of under¬ standing, and create in our minds benevo¬ lence, so purging ugliness from our systems. Remember—outside ugliness does not exist; it is the inward ugliness that hurts! —Dora Siemens 3B in the IVaadd. With great eagerness Mary and I set out to look for the wild Spring flowers in the woods. There were fantastic sights, and beautiful things to see, and soon we found ourselves wandering near and far, for something new to explore. Mary sighted a bunch of beautiful daffodils, and called for me to come. I thought I would play a trick and hide on her. She continued to call; soon her voice grew fainter and fainter. 1 came out of my hiding place, feeling very proud of myself for playing such a trick . . . but horrors! Mary wasn’t there. Thinking she was hiding on me, I began wandering on very nonchalantly. So many tilings caught my attention that I forgot I was alone. I suddenly realized however, that it was turning dark, and that no one was with me in this darkening forest of trees. I called and called but to no avail, for all I heard was my echoing answer. Frightening! Then, in this hush of evening, I heard faint voices. It sounded like the wind, then like a ghost moaning, then weird sounds seemed to come from all around. My imagination was beginning to work overtime. I began to run through the woods. . . . Hands seemed to grab, and I struggled to get free. An owl overhead in the trees shrieked and I shrank against the tree for support. With very weak knees, I ventured on. From out of the darkness lights appeared, and I fell among some bushes to hide from them. Men held the lights, I knew, and I was positive they were after me. It seemed as if a miracle had happened for at last I heard my father’s voice calling my name. I ran to him with a cry of joy for at last I was safe and secure in his arms. —Joyce Bloomquist 4B FIRST PRIZE Myitic. 7ilxet Stillness, deep as Buddha’s clarions, Hushed, dark shadows lying prone: Dust untouched for countless eons Coats the carved and polished stone. Pillars cold, milk-white from ageless lime, Bathed in lustrous moonlight pure, Cast their chill blue phantom line Round the cavern men, that were. Above the mountains high and haughty, Pale Diana floats serene: Doum the sultry side the draughty Wind comes gushing, gaunt and lean. Dark the valley ’neath the mountains, But the crags are bathed in white. In the gardens, glistening fountains Catch the moon’s pale diamond light, And with it weave weird spells around. This makes the mystic Tibetan night. •—Joanne Seed 4B A tf-rUe+td in Need Bugs Bunny casually strolled down the shady path in the fresh green woods, leisurely chewing a twig. He stopped at intervals to greet his friends, Mr. and Mrs. Lovebird, the newlyweds; old Gramp Owl; Mrs. Bear, Junior Cub, and his best friend Baby Fawn. He left the path and skipped lightly over the cool grass. As he neared some small shrubs, he stopped abruptly. “What is that? Why it sounded like a sob” Bugs crept nearer. “ Yes, it is someone crying. Now who could be crying on this sunny Spring day?” Bugs wondered. “Who is it?” called Bugs. The sobbing did not subside, but continued. “Come out. I want to help you.” There wasn’t any reply. Bugs stepped into the shrubs, and to his utter amazement, he saw his friend, Stripey Skunk. “Stripey, why a re you crying?” Bugs inquired. “I can’t tell you-—you won’t under¬ stand,” was the woeful reply. But Bugs persisted. “How do you know; you haven’t given me a chance.” There was a pause, then Stripey shyly answered “Well, er—ah. I—” After stuttering and stammering, he gathered all his courage, and blurted Page 44 Balfour Beacon ’48