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

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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

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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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Many anxious hours followed. After a seemingly interminable time, the long wait came to an end. Dr. Kent smilingly approached her. “Mrs. Lawrence is going to be fine,” he said. “She has regained consciousness and asked me how you got her here. She sent you a message.—You are to go and see Mr. Lewis about that job tomorrow. She said that you would understand.” Marcia smiled to herself again, then resolutely closed her eyes. Ller appoint¬ ment with Mr. Lewis was for nine o’clock in the morning. Tomorrow would be a very busy day! —Stella Bundy MetnosueA. The other day I came across a box I’ve had for years and years. It held so many memories that it nearly brought me tears. But then I had to chuckle too when I found a valentine, An Orphan-Annie glow-bird that’s now too old to shine. And the noisemakers and paper hats from many a New Years’ dance; A string of beads, ticket stubs and souvenirs from France. A clipping from a newspaper, some pine- cones from the park; A snap-shot, a shamrock, and a layer of birch bark. A pair of little wooden shoes, a souvenir from Holland, And although I cannot wear them, in my heart they take their stand. ' To most these things are just inconsequential, but to me They’re more than that, they’re sentimental “memories’’. ■—Ruth Anderson S4 Claud C eoti The plot of an ambush was suspected among the clouds that were gathering over the tall majestic trees. Spearheads of grey clouds darted about in preparation for the battle. Then with a loud roll of drums, war was declared. The angry cloud soldiers donned their caps and hoods of crimson, maroon, and navy trimmed with black and flashes of gold. Now fully equipped, the vexed array rose above the trees and marched forth under the blue banner of the sky. Each flashing artillery-man stepped forth to deliver his bombardment on the trees and earth below, and then retreated into line. When their fury was spent, and their ammunition running low, a reluctant retreat began ' — their blue banner still waving high but themselves weary and spent. —Elinor Gretzinger 4C FIRST PRIZE 7 he deed Ricli i a£ In this modern age of machines and business everyone seems to be concerned with getting money—money—and more money. Ralph Waldo Emerson once said, “Money often costs too much.” I interpret this sage piece of advice to mean that when we start to consider only money, it becomes a disease—a disease that makes itself our master and as the dope addict is held to his addiction, so are we held to the craving for more. To satisfy this craving we sacrifice everything that makes our lives worth while. We sacrifice real riches for monetary gains. And in the long run do we profit by so doing? Is it fair to waste our precious lives working for something the net result of which will bring us no happiness? A pile of money can never do this! When we finally have accumulated our ill hoard we must start planning how to save so that our pile will stay as big as it now is. Then also we must padlock our doors for fear of someone stealing our riches. Monetary riches are tangible goods and tangible goods can be stolen. Real riches are those intangible things which make up our happiness. Can anyone steal our happiness from us? Has there ever been so clever a thief that could boast of having stolen even the most minute particle of anyone’s happiness? And another thing, monetary riches satisfy only our bodies. Are our souls to go hungry forever? If we want happi¬ ness, we must feed our souls—and what our souls thrive on, are real riches. With Webster’s help I have come to understand that riches are anything truly precious. Therefore dollars are not real riches because they are not precious. True, when we lose one we weep for it, but that lost dollar can be replaced. But real riches are things which we experience rather than have, so if we miss out on one of them, that chance to enrich ourselves is gone, and cannot be replaced. The real riches of our lives are built up in much the same manner as a brick wall is constructed; the wall—stone upon stone, our riches—blessing upon blessing, beauty upon beauty. The little everyday things are what really count in the long run. What was it that made your heart lighter yesterday? Was it a little bird’s bursting song, a pretty pansy face, the sun making jewels from rain drops, a lonely star reflecting in a pool of moon-lit water, a cricket choir; or was it a haunting strain from a pleading violin, the crashing crescendo of a concerto which broke like the massive ocean waves that smash over the rocky shore; or was it just a friendly hello, a meaningful smile, a kind word or sympathetic glance? All these things are not singularly important but take them out of your life and you have only an empty shell left. Lord Byron says, “The best portion of a good man’s life is his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness.” Let us take each phase of our real riches individually and see how rich they really make us. In my mind beauty of nature comes first. There is nothing in the whole wide world that begins to compare with the freeness and abundance of the beauty of nature. You don’t have to be rich to enjoy it! You don’t have to travel over the world to find it. There is beauty right in your own “backyard” if you can but see it. If you cannot appreciate this beauty—if you see nothing wonderful about it—then you will not be able to fully appreciate nature’s more magnificent shows. Thoreau says, “There is as much beauty in the land¬ scape as we are prepared to appreciate-— not a grain more.” Far away places hold a certain romance for all of us, but Ralph Waldo Emerson says “Though we travel the world over to find beauty, we must carry it with us or find it not.” I remember the day I first saw clearly how much joy we can have from nature. It was a warm quiet day and I was studying for a history exam. Looking to the cloud-flecked heavens for relief from the monotony of the printed page, a shimmering strip of silver caught my eye. Peeping out from a wall of trees it would turn golden whenever the sun struck it, wind inwards again and then disappear. Though I knew my conscience would “raise cain” with me afterwards, I left King Nebuchadnezzar sitting in his tomb and broke off in a merry run to explore that elusive ribbon in the wall of green and gold. There was a wide field to cross. The wheat grass brushed soft and silk against my legs and a little breeze caressed the field rolling the grass with a rhythmical motion that became almost hypnotic. Birds chirped and swooped down low carolling with happiness. I emerged from the field in a sort of oozy daze and crossed the hot gravel road onto a cool floor of green grass and wild flowers. Wandering to the water’s edge, I improvised a tune. There, over¬ hanging a steep bank, sat a gnarled old maple tree. With secretive whispers and beckoning branches he called to me to come and share with him, from his strong arms, the beauty of the scene. I spent that afternoon in amazed wonderment. Was all this here before, and did I not see it? Or had some great power materialized a fantasy of my imagination and made this paradise just for me? It did seem as though I was in an ethereal world alone—queen. The waters danced for my pleasure, tossing up golden bits of the sun’s rays to honor me; the joy-crazed birds sang like some mighty chorus; the air was filled with an intoxicating potion which made me breathe happiness—my soul ached with the beauty of it all. Balfour Beacon ’48 Page 4