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

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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

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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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There was beauty untold, I thought. If that wealth had always been there and I had passed it by, there must be more I was missing. From that time on I looked, always, for beauty. And whenever I found it, I yearned to make some portion of its fleeting loveliness last. I came to appreciate what poetry was. How wonderful it must be to be able to put into words the glory of the sunrise and sunset; the majesty of hill and vale. Men like Shelley, Tennyson, Lord Byron, Longfellow, Thackeray, and Keats are immortal because of the beauty they gave to the world. Beauty in words. Listen to Thackeray describe a sunrise. “And lo! in a flash of crimson splendor, with blazing scarlet clouds running before his chariot, and heralding his majestic approach, God’s sun rises upon the world.” A poet is a magician who weaves his spell with words. A spell that brings us the wealth of romance, adventure, and history. But nature was not the only place I found beauty. I found beauty in music— “That rarest, subtlest form of sound.” Somebody said that music was the language of emotion—that is true! No matter what type of music you hear it affects you emotionally. Beethoven said, “Music should strike fire from the heart of man; and bring tears from the eyes of woman.” Many people do not feel the emotion because they do not listen. The difference between listening and hearing is that hearing is acknowledging the sound of music, while listening is letting your soul interpret it. When you hear a rousing Sousa march you cannot help but thrill at the booming of the drum and glow at the blare of the horn. A popular song affects you temporarily either happily or sadly—whatever the trend of the piece, because there are words to give its mean¬ ing. But classical music where you must find your own meaning requires listening. That is why many people flippantly declare symphonic or orchestral music is too deep for them. They are so accus¬ tomed to hearing they have forgotten how to listen. But train yourself to understand the beauty of the music of the masters, and you will find a new and deeper sense of gain. From nothing can you benefit as much as from friendship. A friend with whom you can share your troubles and joys— someone who will be an eager listener to your problems and a willing helper to solve them is something all the money in the world cannot buy. Friendship is, in many respects, like a bank account. You must be able to give as well as take. If you always draw out and never deposit, your account will not stand very high in anyone’s opinion, and with a friendship, over¬ drawing on one part can often be the cause of its ruin. When you find a friend, take articulate pains to nurture this relationship. Treat it as though it were a delicate tropical flower—just as it is hard to get, and exotic as it is, it dies quickly unless you handle it carefully. A friendship can be strengthened by little everyday actions— a smile from the heart, a knowing hello or any little act of kindness and con¬ sideration. You never appreciate a tiling until you have lost it; don’t let this happen with your friendship. Don’t wait until you find yourself alone and with aching heart and brimming eyes find out what you have missed. All our real riches are like that. You have to be able to appreciate them the first time they present themselves, or have them not. It costs nothing to take a little time to enjoy the wondrous things God has given us and the dividends we reap are all the more precious for their being so free. Let us all store up in our souls the riches that no bank could ever assess or hold. Let us become really rich and draw out our savings on a rainy day when we can get love, comfort and consolation from them. ■—Trudy Woldrich 3A bete+itia+t Detention, The teacher’s invention, If you skip, They want none of your lip, You just get on a 10 to 1 bet, Detention! Detention, Back at 2 every day, Back at 2 with no overtime pay, Back in good old room 22, Back alone with you know who! You jack around and Extension, Detention! Attention! To skippers who think they know their stuff, And truck out when the going gets rough, Once again we will mention, Detention! —Norma Gaul 3A •—Shirley DeBolt 2A Ib ' iou.CflU an the. P ' lai ' ii L The crop, seeded with much hope in the Spring, was now a sad sight to behold. It was parched to a sickly grey by the blazing yellow sun. Hundreds of grass¬ hoppers took care of what was left. The endless, hot, choking winds tore away the soil and piled it against the fences. Not a drop of rain had fallen in this dry, hot land for days and weeks on end. Heat, heat, and more heat seared all plant life, dried up the sloughs, and baked the land until it was as a desert. •—Chalmer Shoeman 4C FIRST PRIZE QalfOSie. 2 awn Bill stretched, and wriggled his toes, feeling the cool linen of the hospital sheets. His eyes still closed, he was startled by a feminine voice that said: “Time to get cleaned up, Mr. Marshall. This is a big day in your life, you know.” It was a very pleasant voice and Bill found himself wondering what went with it. As he slowly opened his eyes, terror gripped him. He leaned forward, straining towards the light, and then fell back exhausted. So it hadn’t been a dream. The doctor’s words still rang in his ears. Blind! Blind! Blinded by an accident which had nearly cost him his life. “Perhaps a year, maybe two years— if all goes well.” But Bill knew the hopeless futility of such a promise. A wave of frustration and despair swept over him. Life was all over at twenty-five. It couldn’t happen to him. Bill Marshall, whose brilliance in the field of science had already won him fame and recognition—and yet it had. Slowly the world came back into focus. The nurse had left him alone. Alone. The word gave him a peculiar sense of elation, as if some great burden had been taken from him. He reached out, groping, feeling until he felt the smooth hard enamel of his bedside table. At last. His fingers closed around the small object—half a bottle of sleeping pills! Suddenly a knock was heard at the door. Recovering from his momentary panic, Bill slipped the bottle under the covers and called, “Come in.” Two men entered. Bill recognized the doctor’s voice. “There’s someone here who wishes to meet you, Mr. Marshall.” The stranger had not spoken, but his footsteps were confident and assured; a man who must have some great purpose in life, reflected Bill. The necessary introductions were made. “Mr. Jones,” said the doctor, “is the head of one of our largest manufacturing companies, and thinks perhaps he can find a place for you.” “Yes,” interrupted the stranger, “men of your capabilities are much too valuable to be hiding away in hospital rooms. Hundreds of our workers have, like yourself, lost the use of their eyes, but have become so skilled with their hands that we could not manage without them. Our administrative branch offers inter¬ esting work with chances for advancement, also.” Bill clutched the bottle tighter, and laughed bitterly. “Why not set me up at a pencil stand? Yes, and maybe after I learned the business I could branch out into shoelaces, too. No thanks,” he said, Page J,8 Balfour Beacon ’1,8