Oakwood Collegiate Institute - Oracle Yearbook (Toronto Ontario, Canada)

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THE UAKWOOD ORACLE to reach it. It is useless, I must drift along at the slow pace set by my neighbours. In this state I round the corner and hear. above the chatter of the lower orders, the majestic height of that familiar voice: Do you want a detention 'F Then get into line. Suddenly I feel weak and feeble. That sudden shock is becoming too much for me. Again I look vague- ly around for my form as those piercing eyes light on me. I wait in trembling expectancy and my faith is rewa1'ded. Get into line, there! My dignity must be sacrificed. Quickly I step into the midst of a first form line and pass, quaking, before the death-dealing scowl. I have tried this remedy once or twice in place of the rapid-vanish- ing. I do not consider it quite as satisfactory, but something must be done. The line is never where any national line might be expected to be, and one is never sure just where it is irrationally. No amount of search will reveal its whereabouts, no degree of imagina- tion excuse it's absence. In fact, it is almost pure suicide to venture to the third floor at all. The second, and even the first floor is much more humane. They, at least, realise that those who have reached the dignity of fourth form cannot always be concentrating their tremendous brain-power on such a trivial matter as a demater- ialized line. We have been taught that a straight line is the shortest dis- tance between two points. Never- theless, if we venture to walk in such manner-in a straight line- we are usually conscious of vehem- ent protests from all sides. It seems that we are expected to travel in a straight line, but not in a straight line. Strange! Alas, it is too much for my poor weary brain. Besides, there's the bell, and I must get out in the hall and try and find that line. IVI.C.IV Q Moonlight Sonata The hour ol' midnight rang out high and clear, The strokes clanged through the silence one by one: The student raised his weary head and sighed, And opened up his dry, parched lips to groan. IIC brushed the tangled hair from off his brow Where beads of moisture rolled like cascades down, 1 IIis face was lined with care, his eyes were dim, He bore the traces of a constant frown. IIis book was open in his trembling hands, Its words were whirling wildly 'neath his eyesg Ilis weary brain was dull and took not in The knowledge that it was his wont to prize. Ilis ehatt'ring teeth, like castanets, met, to part, llis eye was wild, a flush his cheek 0'G1'SD1'0ZtdQ Ilis work was done, but so was he, alas, And bent and old he tottered off to bed. lhlfjl Tru lily M. C., IV.

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I think I must have fallen asleep, for I remember waking with a pricking sensation in my scalp. I had heard strange sounds above my head, a stealthy step, followed by a cry, and then a crash! The blood froze in my veins. Now I remem- bered that old Mr. Welsh had said, The Place is haunted, it is said, but you will give no credence to that tale, of course. I rose from the couch, trembling in every limb. rather ashamed of myself for doing so, too, but unable to control it. I raised my eyes to the ceiling, where the candle's light shone, and saw that there was a crack in it. As I gazed, a dark red drop slowly detached itself from it, and dropped beside me. Fascinated by horror, I touched it, and my finger-tip was red. With this sight, all my fear left me. I was ne1'ved to find out the meaning of it all, and my old training as a soldier aided me to brace myself to help, if help were needed, in that room above me. THE OAKWOOD 0l!ACl,.E Turning on my flash light, I dashed into the hall and up the staircase. Reaching the room above the Library I turned the handle and flung open the door. Facing me was a young woman in a dressing-gown. She dropped a curtsy, and said, Be you the new master, sir 7 I said I was, and ask- ed her what was the meaning of the shriek I had heard and the red drops I had seen fall from the Li- brary ceiling. She said she had spilt a bottle of red dye, with which she was coloring her best shawl, and it had dropped on the floor. She was very contrite, and called her father from the loft. Together they got me some warm food, and made me comfortable for the night. In the morning I explored Kelton Court, and found it beautiful. Margot, the little maid, grew old in my service, but she always im- agines that I don't like red shawls. Perhaps she is right. Adelaide E. R. Sternberg, IIIA. 3Bu55Ie-- jfinh the line Get into line there! This rapidly vibrating air-column frequently smites the tender mem- brane of my ears as I pass a cer- tain door on the third floor. At each such crisis, I glance hastily around in search of the familiar faces of my class-mates, find them not, and finally, panic-sticken, van- ish into a neighbouring cloak-room until the hawk-eyed one has gone to refresh himself with fair water at the other end of the hall. Then I venture forth into an atmosphere still trembling with the volume of that oft' repeated sound. After long experience, I have found this remedy the best. It is useless to declare that the line has vanished utterly and unaccountab- ly into space. The line should not have been left so long alone that it could find opportunity to disappear. It is equally vain to assert that the pad has gone with its bearer. The pad can then be found and its cus- todian relieved of his burden, These things I have tried and thus have I been answered. Now I conceal my- self as before mentioned and await a more favourable opportunity to continue my journey. This quest-for the line seems endless. I leave the room at the end of a class firmly ensconced in a central position in the straggling line. As we reach the door of the next class-room, it belches forth a horde of wreckers, who pass through the line and leave me stranded in a whirl of first-formers, second formers, third formers, fifth forn'1ers, in short every for n in the school but the right one. Far off in the c1'owd I glimpse a fami- liar hair cut and valiantly struggle Page fVl.llf'ff'Cll

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THE OAKWOOD ORACLE Beatrire anti Quntie Auntie had something on her mind. It was obvious to Beatrice. It was eight o'clock in the morning and Beatrice was standing in the hall. She lifted books from the telephone-tableg dropped them into her school-bag. The door was open. The early wind crept between the pages of her books. She watched Auntie stooping over the small cream-bottle. The morning people were passing in the street. An auto-brake quarrelled with the quiet. Auntie was very old. She put the newspaper into her apron. It was her daily surprise to find it lying, each morning on the step, slenderly, like a present. Always she could not wait to read it. She would open it at the door excited. Something was wrong to-day. How is the Dragon '? Auntie turned, putting a thoughtful hand to her knee. t'Middling, Beetie. He slept quietly. The Dragon was Auntie's rheumatism. He was temperamental. They watched him with jealous care, for it was necessary, constantly, to placate him. Auntie turned the toast with a finger tip. Would you like to have lunch at school, to-day? Beetie did not ask why. It was the cus- tom between them never to spoil what the other said or did by ques- tioning. It was enough to be glad without reservations. That is a lovely idea. There is always lots of fun at noon. You must stay oftener, then. good-bye Y Auntie spread out the newspaper on the breakfast table. She could not read. Her glasses were steam- ed from the tea. She raised her cup, put it down. She could not drink. Last night she had heard two of Beetie's friends, talking. One had said: Oh, what is the use, with Beetie's old Aunt always around '? the other: 1 sure pity Bettie, with no one but that old Auntie in the way. She does not have much fun. Auntie had no one but Beetie. She was not like a mother, busy with her other children, busy with her husband, worried by number- less claims. No. She was old. The days gave her time to think out the things she loved, and to do them. She sewed amazing gar- ments. She cooked royal food. She shopped, bought something excit- ing as well as n.ecessary. A deli- cate glass cat for the mantel, a frail handkerchief for Beetie, a book of Elizabethan madrigals. She did not ramble in her talk, queru- lously as old women do. She talk- ed of things they both loved. She did not drag Beetie's thoughts from her. She put herself graciously at the elbow of her sympathy. They were very happy. Things were in- teresting. They laughed much. When it rained, that was new, if it was sunny, they were delighted. When it snowed they were surpris- special habit. ed. Auntie had a She liked to change about the fur- niture in the house at least once a series of fine week. Through a days she would put the table near the freshness. the window to lure have the pictures in different places, like surprises. After some such change, she would be breath- less until Beetie came home sud- denly, in the midst of things usual progressing. Oh Auntie, look, the candle- sticks have moved over to the win- dow. We can see them now, from the hall. Auntie would pant. smile, fumble with her small hands. Now her heart was full. They had been two people who loved each other, who did glorious things. Now, time stepped between. Her seventy years entered the house, darkening Beetie's light sixteen Page Twenty-One