Balmoral Hall School - Optima Anni Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

 - Class of 1963

Page 11 of 92

 

Balmoral Hall School - Optima Anni Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada) online yearbook collection, 1963 Edition, Page 11 of 92
Page 11 of 92



Balmoral Hall School - Optima Anni Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada) online yearbook collection, 1963 Edition, Page 10
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9 dreary eyes revealed many long days and nights of pain. Disregarding the frantic child's pleas mingled with insults, the two "delivers" gently lifted Casey up the stairs, through the hall, and out the back door. Iohnny's cries against Beth's "Stop-it"'s were useless. Casey had gone forever to be "put away." Mrs. Walden leaned against the wooden doorway. Her anxiety, almost completely masked was revealed by her beautiful, yet red, roughened hand on her son's head. She had always been proud of Iohnny's shining blond hair which fell loosely over his dark forehead. Now he was wet and dirty as he quickly wiped away a tear, trickling down his cheek to join the pool on his chest. What was happening he neither knew or under- stood. He could only see that his mother was in deep misery. Suddenly the hand, once soothing, pres- sed down so desperately that he wanted to cry out in pain. But he didn't. I-le saw the reason for his mother's unhappiness now. l-le watched eight burly men ignore the doorbell to his home: he watched them trudge into the combined bedroom-kitchen. Not able to en- dure it any longer, he darted from under his mother's hand to follow the workers around the corner. At last he saw what his mother had been keeping him from all morn- ing. He saw his brooding father sprawled on their only bed, his dark, dancing eyes now languid under coal eyebrows. All of them threw in their power tone could have managed easilyl to "strong-arm" the vio- lent, dangerous man, the thief of sixty-five dollars from a home on Crescentville Drive, out of his home into the chill summer air. No resistance--Iohnny resumed his place under his mothers gentle soothing hand. Together, silently, they watched him being driven away, the man who had tried to save his family from starvation. MADELEINE MURRAY-Grade XI The Escape The light had been turned out and from the single bed in the corner of the dormitory soft sobs could be heard. Minerva Mullins was not at all happy at boarding school. She missed the family and the freedom she had had at home. She hated it here. All she could think of was escaping, leaving the place and going home. That night she had a brain wave. Now the way to escape was clear in her mind. It was going to take a considerable amount of time, but it would get her home. The next day she set to work. Being a bright girl, Minerva realized that she must have a means of transportation. Immediately she knew what that would be, but the ques- tion was where she would construct it. Where around the school could she make it, so as not to be discovered? She pondered over this for a long time: then finally she remembered the garage behind the school which appeared to be vacant. lt would be perfect. Step two was to find the materials for the vehicle. Since she was at a school, the chassis would be easy to get, but other parts would have to be bought. She sighted as she rcalizcd that this would mean saving her allowance and therefore staying in on Saturday afternoons. No movies, no cokes. but it was worth it. Tools would present a problem, too. She could find out where the caretaker kept his tools and borrow them secretly if she could get the key. One day when the caretaker was mending a table she followed him to see where he put his tools when he had finished. They were kept in a little room down in the basement off the room where the furnace was. As she watched, she saw that he did not lock the door. What luck! The tools would be easy to get after "lights out." That night, after everyone was in bed, a robed figure crept out into the basement. Cautiously she tiptoed down the stairs to the basement. Iust as she was about to leave the tool room, she heard footsteps on the stairs. Quickly she jumped back into the shadows. lt was the night watchman making his rounds. After checking to see if any- thing was unusual, he left. Slowly Minerva crept out and tiptoed up to bed. The next day she went downtown to look for pram wheels and a racing chain. She decided, since she wanted to get home quickly, that a racing chain would be best. The wheels were easily purchased but the chain was a problem. Either the second-hand dealer did not know what a racing chain was, or he did not have one. Finally in a dingy little shop on an insignificant side street, she found an old but still usable racing chain. Now with the parts collected and the tools ready, she set to work. Each night after the lights were turned out she would tiptoe through the silence, through the

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8 to reality, for under the nearest lamppost a dark figure lingered, head lowered, staring fixedly at the rough pavement. As I neared the lamppost, my heart stopped beating momentarily as I stared in terror at the face so familiar to my thoughts with a damp curl of raven black hair sticking to the lined forehead. The face, calm and unruffled be- fore, was now a wall, holding back pent-up grief and sorrow. I watched his facial fea- tures tighten and then erupt in fury when, with a swift movement which startled me, the eerie figure flung to the pavement a tiny object that he clutched in his dark fingers, and then, turning, disappeared into the sha- dows of a worn and decrepit building. The object spun on the uneven surface, whirled around, and rolled to within a few inches of my motionless feet. I dropped my eyes and stared blankly at the gold wedding ring. W 'A' 'A' "The bus swerved, reeled, hit the curb, and, with a blast of air escaping from the left front tire, collapsed heavily, completely demolishing one entire side of the vehicle." I turned the page. The last few paragraphs completed the story of Carl Steegerson, re- lating his painless death as a passenger on the fatal side of the bus. Of course I knew my spontaneous fear was preposterous, but my liking for the handsome darkie, the cause of my anguish, overpowered my sane judgement. I could not obliterate his face imprinted on my mind. 'k i' 'lr I climbed the great stone stairway with the black book under my arm. Suddenly, on impulse, I turned and craned my neck to see the Greyhound bus which had stopped opposite the libarary. My eyes scanned rapidly the distinctively different heads a- long the window. Not a familiar face. Dis- missing my fears as superstitious absurdity, I turned but wheeled about again to con- firm my fleeting glimpse of a dark man running toward the bus. I opened my mouth to shout, but no sound came and I help- lessly watched the image of Carl Steeger- son step onto the bus, panting, but smiling at his good fortune in catching it. The sink- ing feeling in my stomach was hard to explain, and, as my gaze followed the ve- hicle into the perils of fastamoving traffic, I wondered . . . about Tomorrow's Life. SUSAN RILEY-Grade XI Award-winning Story-Senior Literary Competition Peace Peace can be the lapping of waves at sunset, The waving grass in a mountain meadow, Or the close darkness and stars of night, A walk through a wood in fall With leaves fluttering . . . Peace reigns in the ruins of Delphi, Where cypress trees whisper, The donkey bells tinkle, And the water trickles down through rocks. And the majesty of stone stands unconquered: But true peace Lies within the heart. J AN E' MOODY-Grade XI Award-Winning Poem -Senior Literary Competition Under the Brooklyn Sun The Brooklyn sun seems to favour Cres- centville Drive. Perhaps this is because this wooded drive is the "better district" of town, for its rays certainly never slant down into the shabby houses of Hudson Street. In this dark gloomy section of the town lived the Waldens. They were not quite so fortunate as their namesakes on Crescent- ville Drive: instead of living in a leisurely way in a grey colonial mansion, they spilled over in a two room home: this Mrs. Wailden wore, not a blue shantung suit from Saks, but a clean cotton dress, scrambled for in Handy Andy's basement sale. The lives of these two families were in a different mould. In fact they had only two things in common: each had a nine-year-old son, Iohnny-and each had to suffer a precious loss this Mon- day morning. "Why? Why? First give me one good reason," demanded Iohnny in the most fre- quent tone of voice. He turned angrily to the negro maid who was preparing the cheese souffle for lunch. "Beth-Mom will be home soon, eh? In time to stop them, won't she?" asked Iohnny, suggesting rather a command than a question. "Yes-and-stop- bothering-me," was the curt answer. Her request was futile, for Iohnny called to her attention to the doorbell. Beth let in two men wearing clean white jackets. They stopped politely in the front hall to remove their hats and then outlined their job briefly. They were not inexperienced and knew that their task must be done quickly. They found the whimpering beagle in a dark corner of the basement. His dark



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10 school building, put on her jacket and boots., which she left in a vacant locker, prop the back door open with a block of wood, and hurry out to the garage. This went on for three weeks. Then finally on a Saturday night the vehicle was ready for a trial run. At twelve o'clock Minerva wheeled it slowly out of the garage into the street. It ran beautifully and Miner- va was quite proud of herself. Then it hap- pened. lust as she turned the corner, the chain broke. Minerva, very discouraged, wheeled the machine back to the school. All Sunday night she worked on the broken chain and finally repaired it. During the next week Minerva saved food and collected things for her escape the next Saturday night. Finally the time came. Dressed in a jacket and slacks and carrying the money and food she needed, Minerva tiptoed down the corridor of the residence for the last time. She wheeled it out of the garage, and as the clock chimed three, Minerva Mullins pedalled west on her four-wheeled desk. RUTH THOMAS-Grade X Canada Canada! A rugged nation lapped on either side By a salty wave. A maze of furry forests, Of trophospheric slashing peaks, Of pancake prairies, and of living waters, Adorned by a radiant sunset, And topped by an ice-cream north. But we dare not speak of this splendour! 'Tis best we forget our glorious past- The dauntless men, Their dreams, their hopes, their labour, Courage, determination, Democracy- The foundations of our country. If these things were spoken of, Why men might think us proud! Come, Canadians! Let us be proud of Canada: Let our pussy-footed pens write of it And our dull brushes dip in Canadian colours. For out of our glorious past, And from the pulse of the living present, Must emerge a mighty future! CAROL SWINDELL-Grade XI Red or Dead Thomas Greenwood paused outside his red brick house and inhaled one last breath of the new spring air. Spring was his favour- ite time of year, maybe because it reminded him of his flaxen-haired fifteen-year old daughter, Sarah lane. She had grown es- pecially dear to him since his wife had died five years earlier, and he was proud that he was bringing her up by himself-unaided by his ever-helpful female relatives. "Yes, spring really is the best season in the whole year. The birds sing and ..., " Thomas Greenwood's pensive mood was interrupted by muffled sobs which echoed from the direction of the bathroom. Un- doubtedly it was Sarah lane. Mr. Green- wood raced to the top of the stairs and threw open the door. The sight he beheld fixed him to the spot and he grasped the door to keep his balance. There in the centre of a profusion of topless bottles containing a bright liguid, paper with directions, and red-tinted towels stood Sarah lane with a head of flame coloured hair! Mr. Greenwood blinked rapidly a few times as if trying to dispel a nightmare, but when he opened them again and found the same sight before him, he cried, "Sarah lane, my dear girl, what have you done to yourself? Do you know what colour your hair is?" I "I only wanted a few streaks in the front," wailed the girl, "but then . . . " "But then your whole head fell in by mistake," finished her father sarcastically. Don't tell me the rest!" He clapped his hands to his head and tried to think what did one do in an emergency like this? Dial 999? Phone the fire department? Maybe Aunt Martha would know. No, he would handle this by himself, and as tactfully as he knew how. He turned to his daughter again and stated in a matter-of-fact way, "Well, wash it out." "I can't. The directions say that once it's in, it won't come out for two w-weeks. "TWO-two weeks? Young lady, you have to go to school tomorrow, and I re- fuse to allow you to leave this house look- ing like a-a fire engine. Surely this stuff will come out if we use plenty of soap, and scrub," he ended rather dubiously. No amount of pleading could dissuade him. He srubbed for half an hour, but that only made the colour brighter. Finally he

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