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

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be better to organize myself and leave the pier. While getting up, I said to myself in an audible whisper, Well . A deep subject, calmly and quietly the form answered. I was amazed and confused. Then I started again . Well, well, . , . A deeper subject, was the body ' s reply. This was too much. My mind was enclosed in a state of abeyance. I was ready to pounce on him and squeeze an explanation from that watery face, when I heard, What can you do? This was said very slowly and deliberately with pure disgust at life. With greater anxiety he said, What CAN you do? Then, with a piteous cry he yelled, What can you DO? He turned his head to me (now I was panting heavily) and asked, What can YOU do? More than you, so what? darted out of me. He chuckled very Ughtly and replied, Sew buttons and be a housewife. Then he burst out laughing and with no control over his feelings he interjected this phrase among his coarse exclamations of joy, I did it again. Izzie Horowitz 12B A FISH STORY Sitting on the pier, I began to wonder what an odd and unique character was sharing the solitude of thought with me. He was quite intent on staring at the ripples in the water, without considering the mystery my mind was dealing with. Fishing is a useless sport and any slight distraction can make one forget his stomach; therefore, I sat gazing at the staring eyes. These eyes were the only stationary portions on the face. He controlled the facial muscles of his forehead, cheeks and jaw in such a manner that there appeared wave after wave of flowing wrinkles. The cavity under the nose had a cigarette-holder with no cigarette in it. Glancing downwards, I discovered a homogeneous mixture of all styles and fashions of apparel. Safety-pins fastened cuff-links to the short sleeves of a shirt composed of black and white horizontal bars. On top of this shirt he wore the starched front of a tuxedo but this hanging appendage was black. His fishing pole was an old umbrella with the material in shreds and some spokes dangling loosely. From these spokes he had several lines: some, although tangled, reached the water; others, although hanging freely, did not. His knees protruded from a pair of rags patched up with pants. He had only one shoe, which covered the four small toes. That bare toe was different; the skin of the toe was painted with nail polish but the nail was blank. On the other foot he wore an extra sock, of a fruit-yellow colour, as a sub- stitute for a shoe. Incongruity is a source of curiosity; curiosity is a source of trouble. This chap was not a source of trouble; he was the opposite sex at a bazaar. I concluded that it would 58

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A PROLONGED AGONY The light cast grotesque shadows across the blurred, cold surface. Darkened rectangular figures gyrated to and fro and a heavy, hot mist dulled the atmosphere. Then, like the detonation of a powerful bomb, a nervous spasm shot up through his system and the student ' s mind cleared, focussing once more on the page of Latin Composition by Breslove. Utor, uti. usus sum — plus the ablative. The words jumbled in his mind, forming weird patterns and geometric spirals. What was the use of it all? He stared at the bare green wall and one hand mechanically turned the page while the other reached back behind his neck, relieving a disturbing itch. Oh yes, the scholarship. Mustn ' t forget that one needs a language other thgn English for the scholarship. His pen tapped an irregular staccato rhythm on Purpose Clauses, his chin nestled in the palm of his hand and his eyes reading and rereading, Present Subjunctive in Primary, Imperfect Subjunctive in Secondary Sequence. The words came out of his mouth half-muffled and he felt drowsy, very drowsy. His eyelids were closing with thoughts of holidays, but the date on the calendar pierced the enveloping fog and the student sat erect. His brow wrinkled with determination and he gripped the book with both hands. Mustn ' t do that Can.t do that, he said to himself. The battle of Pharsalus took place in the year Maybe it was time to take a break. Just a few minutes. Then the calendar met him face to face again and he realized that with only two days to go, there was no time for a break. Then he looked on down the page, leaving the battle of Pharsalus behind. He stared at the black printed etchings on the page and when they had reproduced themselves in his mind and he knew that he had learned what he had to learn. He would get the marks for that part and marks were very, very important. One could not get very far without marks. The student straightened up from his crouched position over the desk and relieved his dulled, cramped muscles in a yawning, drawn-out, strained stretch of his arms and a prolonged pointing of his throbbing, inactive legs. Time to go to bed again. Got to get up tomorrow and get a lot of studying done. After all, examinations are only two days away and one must work to achieve. That ' s education. Arthur Kamin 13F DOUG CHAN COME LIVE WITH ME - REPRISE My dearest one, I have to say That no one ' s yet proposed this way. I feel just now, a bit bemused, For you, my love, are quite confused. You seem to crave the open air. We ' d Hkely make an awful pair, ' Cause I am not a sporty girl. I much prefer the social whirl. A Bed of Roses sounds like fun. But just a mite uncomfy, hon; And though I ' m daring, so they say, Your wardrobe ' s just a bit outre. You make the food sound just divine — Whose hands prepare it — yours or mine? I ' ll warn you now that I can ' t cook — You ' re sure its me you want to hook? THE WIDOW She knelt quietly in front of the alter. Her eyes were tightly shut as if to shut out all the ugliness and misery of the world. Hands clasped together, she made an effort to maintain her rapidly fading strength. Her face was twisted with devotion and strain. Only her lips moved, formly barely audible whispers as she prayed for the soul of her dead husband. But worst of all, my dear young man, You lack (what is the word) — elan. You ' re hopelessly jejeune, I find — ■ This worldly miss is not your kind. It ' s clear I ' m not your ideal mate, Perhaps you just appeared too late; I ' m jaded now, and though it ' s sad, I ' m glad I ' m not a naive lad. Shirley Zucker IIB Jane Christie 13E 57

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THE SPECKLED HAND OR THE MAD DOCTOR RETURNS (in two parts) — a new, short, mystery thriller by Sir A. C. Coil. It was on a typical, foggy London morning that our hero first took an interest in the case in question. He was sit- ting in his favourite brown, leather chair, which was in a Baker St. rooming house, sipping his morning tea. In appearance, he resembled a cuddly muskox. He had a large curved Russian pipe in his mouth, which was almost a permanent part of his face due to continual use, a broad flat nose lying between a pair of chestnut eyes hidden under bushy brows, a corresponding set of pink flexible ears firmly attached to the sides of his head and a flaming log in his fireplace. Sitting in a nearby chair was his associate who was similarly endowed with the addition of several inches of corpuscular material about his waist. My dear Wattson. Yes Ohms. Have you, by chance, seen the morning Gazette? As a matter of fact, no. Anything of interest? Seems there ' s another unearthly fiend in London. Another one? Treats his victims rather poorly. Oh? Paints little round, red dots all over therrL Gads. Really? Quite. Shall we hunt up the scoundrel? Think we ought to? I don ' t see why not. Quite. Ohms and Wattson soon found themselves in the salon of the fiend ' s first victim. The unfortunate chap still bore the mark of the fiend — the circular crimson speckles. Ohms chose his first question cai-efully. Name? Harold Townsender Esq. What can you tell me about the fiend? Well actually, Gov ' nor, I was taking me constitutional down River Rd. when this fellow comes up behind me and near bowls me over, he near does. He turns to excuse himself and that ' s when I sees his hands and the hideous blotches — the little round red ones. Wattson, who had been knitting his brow, began pacing the floor. Queer, what, Ohms? , queries Wattson? Come, come Wattson. It ' s all crystal clear now. The man we ' re after is about forty-five with thinning ruddy hair. He walks with a slight limp (football injury) and wears dark clothing. He was a German tank gunner in 1916, loves his mother, tennis and fruit cake and only got nine shaves with his last Wilkinson sword edge. A little later, back at the Baker St. rooming house, the duo was planning its next move. Wattson inquires of Ohms. Odd? Ohms replies cautiously in order to avoid revealing unconfirmed hypotheses. Rather. After five minutes of silent concentration and pipe puffing. Ohms had managed, among other things, to fill the room with smoke. Wattson I ' ve got my hst of suspects. Good show, good show. The real identity of the fiend is either Walt Disney, your mother or an obscure German doctor called Mitts- potzimeloaded, alias the Mad Doctor. He ' s just returned from Germany. But Walt Disney is sixty-two and my mother doesn ' t use Wilkinsons so that leaves Mittsey. Correct , sounded a deep growling voice. A large sinister-looking figure in a dark, tweed overcoat was standing in the doorway eating a piece of fruitcake. When he limped into the light, he revealed his identity for his skin was heavily covered with ugly marks — the previously described little round red ones. Good evening doctor , said Ohms, I ' ve been ex- pecting you. You see I have known about you for some time now, really. Its just your motive for these actions which has me baffled. Could you be smuggling military secrets out of the country as microfilm, under the spots? Heavens no. Mother wouldn ' t like that. Then each spot is a miniature camera for espionage work and you are dotting the other people to camouflage yourself. Nice try but no. I think I know. , said Wattson. They ' re measles. Measles Wattson? He ' s quite right Ohms. Ah yes. Now I see. Germ Warfare. You ' re to infect the whole count Hardly Ohms, hardly. But . measles? just measles? If it will help, they ' re German measles. Blimey. Not much of an ending for the story. Eh Ohms? Rather. Hope our next job turns out a little better. Not much chance of that. Just some old crank out on the moors that keep complaining about a dog whose barking disturbs him. Sounds like another dull case. Quite. Says his name ' s Baskerville. Michael Cobus 13C DAVE OLIVER 13C 59