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

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forth his unhappy tale. “Some of the people of Woodland have been avoiding me lately. I thought at first, that it was my imagination—but last night I went to the Country Lane Dance, and everyone refused to dance with me. You know what a swishy rug-cutter I am. Not only that, but this morning in church no one would sit near me. After services, I greeted several people, but everyone shunned me. Please, what is the matter with me?” Bugs began, very embarrassed: “I wouldn’t say this if you weren’t a good sport, and I didn’t know you as well as I do ” “Come on, spill it,” Stripey urged, “ I can’t feel any worse than I do now.” “Well” Bugs stated, “The truth is- well-er-” Stripey knew. “You mean I’ve got ' -- oh my gosh! How stupid of me! I should have used Lifebuoy?” “No!—Arsenic!” —Elinor Gretzinger, 4C HONOURABLE MENTION Jl aelUteAA. How lovely the morning early at seven — Loveliness framed by the Artist of heaven, A white wonderland of soft snow and frost A tonic for feelings mixed up and lost. Crystal-tipped treetops bathe in the blue, Slim silver branches are reaching up, too, Embraced by the touch of the yet-falling snow, Warmed by the breath of that heavenly flow. The tall lovely maples so slender and white Carry their burden so graceful and light, The delicate branches are prettily flattered With glistening jewels attractively scattered. The willows and soft woods bend lowly their heads Their slenderness curved with thick-frosted threads, The laden-down fir trees so heavy with snow Stand radiant and proud of their glorious show. The earth beneath one is not earth at all, But a white wisp to dance on—never to fall, 1 ' he grey blue above growing light with the sun Is the snowflakes’ playground, perfect for fun. As they softly descend to enfold the white lane There comes the dim whistle of a hoar-frosted train; Still peaceful this scene clad in fairy-like lace Creates a glorious picture of beauty and grace. —Dorothea Kirschbaum 3A HONOURABLE MENTION In Jdotenin ' io-ui £n fCUfement Rintp How proud I was! Everyone who came into the Jewelry store, glanced casually around, until their eyes came to rest on me. Some were kind, generous eyes, some filled with envy; and some were greedy and cold. I was certainly not very fond of the latter. But I still lay in my beautiful gold case, lined with velvet, and no one had wanted me, (a lovely, sparkling, Diamond Ring) enough to buy me for such an unheard-of price. Whenever a prospect began to seriously think of buying me, my greedy little master would craftily and quickly ask them to return at a later date. When the later date arrived, of course, the price had increased considerably. And so life went on for three years of happiness and disappoint¬ ment. Happy because 1 made others happy with hopes that I would some day belong to them, and sad because I had filled other people’s hearts with envy and hurt. But gradually my master became more and more fond of money, and found he could wait no longer. So, when a little, old, bald-headed man came in to purchase me one morning I was wrapped up in a beautiful white box (which reminded me of a coffin) and I was sold. I thought my trip would never end, but finally I found myself in a large stone mansion, which seemed to lack none of the luxuries of the world. That evening a wonderful ball was held, with one hundred guests in soft, flowing gowns in attendance. The music was sweet and soft, and beautiful women and ugly women, danced on the polished floor with black-coated stiff men. At the stroke of midnight, I was placed on the third finger of a tall, thin woman who already wore too much jewelry. She heard none of her fiance’s words—nor her father’s—but gazed at me with cruel wicked eyes, scrutinizing my beauty, but I could not tell if she was satisfied. And as time went on, I knew the dull monotony of an unhappy life in a wealthy surrounding. I went to all the balls, I went to boring, constant society meetings, I went to banquets, and numerous other social gatherings. And always I remained on the third finger of my greedy mistress ' s left hand. Finally I went to my mistress’s wedding, and great joy filled my heart the moment a beautiful Wedding Ring came to live beside me. One day my friend and I were removed and placed in my gold box on the cabinet, while our mistress had her nails manicured. Suddenly, shrieks were heard from the housekeeper, and a sickening, thick smell of smoke drifted to my nostrils! The whole mansion seemed to cry out for help, and I knew instantly that fire was sweeping through the building. I never saw my mistress again, and I knew she would make no attempt to save my friend and me, but rather make sure she was safe! Scorching, terrible flames licked the gold case in which my companion and I huddled so closely together in fear. The heat was deadening, and finally I passed out from lack of oxygen. We remained in murky darkness for what seemed to be years and years, and 1 later found out we had been in the rubble of the mansion. One day, and for several succeeding days, there was a loud clamour of noises, and sharp commands of men working laboriously to clear away the remains. A sharp little childish cry was heard, and I felt myself being lifted up. The box opened up, while rich, warm sun¬ light flooded around us. We were taken to a tiny, humble cottage, in a poor but happy section of the city. From there we were taken to a “Lost and Found” shop, spending several months there. Then one day ou r little finder was called and told to take us home. Home—to the humble little cottage. His loving, gentle hands placed us carefully in his little bedroom cup¬ board, and he came to look at us every day. His Mother and Father, poor as they were, would not allow us to be pawned, and so we remained until the boy grew to be a tall, noble gentleman. One fine summer day I was taken from my friend, and once again was placed on the third finger of a left hand. But this time the hands were large and soft and generous. Hands that knew hard work, and hands that had helped many a weary soul. And the owner of them had the same good qualities as her future husband. Not long after, my friend, the Wedding Ring, came to join me in a small, cheerful wedding at a tiny little church in the neighborhood. We came to live in the cottage and have been here for many, many years, always on my mistress’s hand, and here where I have always known happiness, love, generosity, and kindness, I hope to spend the rest of my life! •—Anne Larson 4B HONORABLE MENTION 7a QesUUa Her brooding face is rudely cast, Defiantly she wields her broom. Yet, when she smiles - Laughter kindles in her eyes Like firelight in a gloomy room. —Shirlemae Grain 4B Balfour Beacon ’48 Page j .5

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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

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' luUce. A old 7ale Monday we’re back—all feeling so bright, Tuesday comes and wilh it the light, Wednesday finds us with much less to say, Thursday we somehow aren’t feeling so gay, Friday’s a muddle but the weekend is near — We’ll do our homework the next day with no fear, But it’s Sunday we struggle with cast-away books And go to school on Monday—with confident looks ? —Dorothea Kirschbaum 3A 1 fndeA. the Maple When I wanted to be by myself, I went to the maple grove to sit beneath the bending branches of the oldest tree. It was a shady and secluded spot. There I could let my imagination run free and be without interruption from anyone. Now and then I would carry on a con¬ versation with a carolling bird that sat among the listless leaves of the tree, or watch the bugs and beetles burrowing in the earth. After such refreshing experiences, I would go back to my work with renewed ardour. —Erica Rosenquist 4C An Crope iience In One of Tech’s Famous Engineering Models or A Familiar Sight Around Here in the Spring Merrily down the road we rolled in our old jalopy. Joking and laughing we travelled over the bumpy road, with everything but our eyeballs rattling. Abruptly the rattles stopped, and so did our motor. Out came pipe-wrenches, hammers, crescents, pliers, screw-drivers, and baling wire, the latter being the most used piece of equipment on the heap. In short, a junk dealer would have been in his glory to own the things we called “standard equipment on the bag.” Off came the hood, with little resistance on its part, and all three of us looked over the great chunk of metal that someone had once called a motor. Dewie tried to see if the liquid on the side of the block was leaking gasoline, with the result he burnt his finger and spent a hot five minutes jumping up and down, holding it. Louie pulled on an ignition wire to see if it was loose. The result? About a dozen wires came loose and dropped off. We spent a puzzled fifteen minutes trying to replace them all in their former positions. We had checked everything but the tires, and were ready to put it in the ditch and give it up for a bad job, when Dewie (still hopping as though he had St. Vitus Dance), looked in the gas tank. You guessed it! Empty. •—Charles Magrath 4C HONOURABLE MENTION fyn.uil ' iatio.+i. I turn on the radio for my favorite band, And this is whot I get— “Evil and Death walk hand in hand But the Shadow is living yet.” I switch the dial hoping to hear Music soft and low; “Dodd’s kidney pills for you, my dear, Are what you need you know.” With sinking hopes I try again, And this is what I meet — “Will Jane leave John while he’s in paint And will Jean marry Pete?” At last I hear my favorite theme — Ah! This is what I seek; But then it fades right off the beam, And he says, “Bye ’til next week.” —Joanne Seed 4B A Secluded Spat in tlte liload It was a regular elfin-dell folded in the sharp, spicy scent of the firs. There, when the pale moon beckoned the deep shadows out of hiding, I saw the stately arrowheads on the knoll swaying together while the silver-sprayed brook bubbled away in glee. It was only here that I felt alone, except for the sleepy chirp of birds and the dreamy whir of the fireflies. No one but myself, and maybe someone in the long ago, knew how faintly the breezes stirred or how closely the black depths of the pool blended into the murky shadows and then converged again into the empty darkness of the night. —Beatrice Tate 4C My Adoice to- Ifau Now is the time to concentrate Upon our vocat ions to be, While still at education’s gate And our futures can foresee. With untrodden paths before us For what future we choose to possess; Be it reckless fun or failure, Or the glory of success. Before taking another stride Over the threshold of education, Let us take time out to decide How to prepare for our vocation. Have complete confidence in your abilities, Keep your true course constantly in mind, And if you’ll never shirk responsibilities Your position will be easy to find. I believe every word I say, Though I don’t practice them, ’tis true; But please take it to heart anyway, For that’s my advice to you. —Madelaine Kaiser 3B Pan. Auiosi Marcia Lawrence was exhausted, but she forced herself to think over once again the events of that day. It seemed years since the morning— years since she and her mother had so gaily waved good-bye to her aunt, uncle and cousins as they left the farm to attend an exhibition at Hopetown, a small city eighty miles away. Marcia and Mrs. Lawrence had made their home at the farm since the death of Mr. Lawrence two years before. Marcia sighed as she thought of her father. He had passionately loved his flying job, and when Marcia was sixteen, he had insisted that she learn “the ropes” of flying. How wonderful that year had been! One wonderful day her pilot’s license had arrived, and her father made the first payment for a plane of her own. Then the blow had fallen! The news had flashed across the country of the terrible plane crash, and her father’s name had led the list of the missing. Her mother, filled with grief and resent¬ ment against the whole vocation, had cancelled the order for Marcia’s plane and had forbidden her to fly again. Marcia’s grief was doubled at this, for it seemed to break the last link between herself and her father. To make things even harder, her cousins owned a private plane of their own and it was housed within plain view of the farm house. Only a week ago, she had received a letter from Mr. Lewis of Central Airport. He had been her father’s boss and com¬ rade, and knowing of Marcia’s flying ability, he had offered her a position at the airport. Mrs. Lawrence, stony with determination, had insisted that Marcia refuse the position, and regretfully she had obeyed. Today, as she and her mother were preparing their dinner, Mrs. Lawrence struggling to remove the lid on a sealer of beans with a sharp knife, had slashed her wrist. Marcia understood the immedi¬ ate need of medical attention, but how could she get help? The nearest neighbors were two miles away, and her aunt and uncle had taken the car. Her only hope was in the plane—but her mother had forbidden her to fly. She set her chin. . . after all, what good would it do Mother to obey her now? She bandaged the wrist in an effort to staunch the flow of blood, and dashed out to the hangar. Within a few minutes she was on her way to Hopetown, her now unconscious mother beside her. Despite her anxiety, she was not insensible to the joy of flying again. If only she could accept that job! She forced herself to abandon that tantalizing thought, and concentrated on radioing the Hopetown Airport with instructions to have an ambulance ready when she landed. Soon after she landed, her mother was in the hands of capable doctors at the hospital. Page 46 Balfour Beacon ’J,8