Central Collegiate Institute - Analecta Yearbook (Calgary, Alberta Canada)

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28 The Analecta janitor with a long white beard told me to use the side door. After gaping at him for some moments I decided that he was Mr. Andy Hill. Well, I used the side door and finally wended my way through the long lines of baby carriages and nursemaids in the hall. (This seems to prove someone’s theory that the grade nine kids are getting smaller and dumber every year). But the school certainly had improved. Helen McKenzie ran a restaurant on the new roof garden. Ted Neilson had the candy concession and bowling alleys in the basement and did a little private bootlegging on the side. Doctor Hutchinson had retired, and who do you think was principal? None other than Harry Gibson, shell rims and all. He had reached this position after years of honest effort. And the teachers—! Helen Carr taught French and Joan Inglis was dispensing Algebra. What a difference fifteen years made! A sign on the bulletin board an¬ nounced that the Board of Education with Bill Ludlow as president was in¬ troducing horse racing as a special course, and dancing for students every night from 9 to 3. At this point I awoke and found it all a vision, but every time I think of that dream, when 1 see Emerson Borgal, I have to laugh. GRADUATION! Graduation—what is it? The term, generally speaking, signifies one of the important events in the life of the boy or girl of today. It means the end of school days and a taking hold of the duties of life—the end of youth and the entering into adult life, manhood and womanhood—-the end of class work confined within four walls, and the commencement of the world’s work where space and distance are negative quantities—the end of obtaining knowledge under paid tutors, and the beginning of the acquiring of wisdom through experience,—the end of dependence and the beginning of in¬ dependence,—a testing of the strength of one’s wings, and the first attempt to stand on one’s own feet. All these and more are what graduation means. Now, just how would the average student sum it up for himself? Probably, something like this-—a breaking of old ties, a separating from old associates, and a feeling similar to that of a young bird standing on the edge of the parental nest. Nevertheless, the majority take it rather philosophically. A few see a good time ahead; a number, whose thoughts are on University life, picture themselves rolling peanuts with their noses, or imagine what a cold dip would be like, when least expected; still others, wonder how it will feel to teach instead of being taught. A very small minority, either from natural timidity, or from the faculty of seeing what rare opportunities await those capable of mastering world-wide problems, with excusable nervousness or temerity, as the case may be, engage in a private chat with their instructor, a successful business man, the family doctor or any one whom they think would be likely to give them the advantage of his experience. The result, to their surprise, is a different viewpoint from each one with whom they converse. The instructor stresses concentration; the minister, faith; the dentist diet; the lawyer peace “at all costs”; the manager, work; the physician, health, and so forth. The wise student will find in these friendly chats hints, helps and much food for thought. But, he will be convinced that he must carve out a line of activity for himself irrespective of others, and that success depends entirely on his own efforts. ZELLA JEANNE OLIVER, XIIB

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The Analecta 27 At the next corner I stopped at the “Sorenson and Dingman Newstand” and bought a copy of the “Calgary Daily Herald .” I gasped. There in scream¬ ing headlines was written: “CALGARY GIRL PROVES WOMAN EQUAL TO MAN INTELLECTUALLY.” Miss Muriel Sherring’s plays declared by famous critics to rival those of Shaw and Ibsen.” I turned to the editorial page and read a striking article on a subject of interest to everyone—-“Why the Chicken Crossed the Road”—by Stephen Johnson, the editor. While perusing the paper I tried to cross the road and was nearly run over by Johnnie Souter, who was driving a Taylor Bros.’ ten-ton truck, and was a salesman for the “Wilkie Non-Slip Suspenders”. My life was saved by the timely interference of “Ruff” Bingham, the lady traffic cop. Just then a clear musical voice startled me by asking—“Excuse me, but I think I have met you some place. My name is Simmons, Mrs. John Simmons.” “Simmons, Simmons, Mrs. John Simmons? I don’t seem to place you, Mrs. Simmons, but your face is very familiar.” We shook hands, solemnly, searching eachother’s faces. I was about to ask where we had met, when a picture flashed into my mind of XII A, a general hubbub, a sea of faces from which one stood out. It had flashing dark eyes and laughing lips and wavy hair. The passing years had made very little change in that face. “Why Connie Bramesness!” “Betty, of course. ” “And so you’re married?” “Yes, a missionary to the North Pole. We are home on furlough now. You must come and visit me and see my adorable family, three boys and a girl.” “How time fl es,” I mused. “Have you seen any of our old class lately?” “Oh yes and I met Freda Allen the other day. She’s quite a writer you know—-she does articles for ‘College Comics’.” “Yes, I believe I have read some of her things. And Helen Brown I heard that she had eloped and her family had disowned her. Is it true?” “Goodness no! She married a very decent chap—quite an athlete and now he’s manager of the New York Giants.” “Do tell me about all the XIIA’s you know about,” I asked. “Well,” she began, “I’ve been staying at Mrs Taylor’s—she was Jean Rutherford, you know. She married a fellow who worked in a garage and now he owns the largest automobile factory in Canada. They have just one child, John Junior—-a boy of ten. I had tea at Isobel Becker’s, now Mrs. Abel; she’s quite a charming hostess and a society figure in the little old town. Muriel McPhaul has taken Miss Elliott’s place on the C.C.I. staff and is teaching H. of L. and keeping scores of pupils in at noon. And the human question box! He’s a lawyer now, and on the side dabbles in real estate. 7 hare is quite a string of King Apartments, subdivisions and so on. “Betty Clarke has become a great social worker and ran for Parliament last year. Got in, too! And—-oh, yes—Marjory Reid is a successful music teacher.” “Dear me, what a change, what a change!” I sighed. “That’s all I can remember—no!—there’s Dorothy Begg! She’s quite a lecturer and public speaker. I heard her on the Chautauqua.” “Well, I must run along now. So glad I saw you. Do write!” “Yes, certainly. Goodbye.” “Goodbye.” Then I decided to go up to the old Alma Mater and gaze upon the scenes of my past folly. There was a sign on the east gate—“Please do not park aero¬ planes on the lawn (strange how freely people use that word lawn). On the north fence I observed a deep curve near the centre, worn by generations of school girls, too lazy to go around by the gate. I tried to go in at the front door, but a

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The Analecta 29 CHRISTMAS W ESTERN CANADA with its clear starry skies and snow-covered prairies, resounding with the music of the sleigh-bells, is especially favored by ! Nature at this season of the year. Christmas Day is a time of family reunions, when the children of other days return to renew the happy memories of childhood. Then the modern world pauses for a brief period in ifts pursuit of wealth; the clangour of industry is stilled; and the bustle of the stores ceases I —all pay tribute to the Christ Child. The celebration of Christmas, with its traditions of sentimen and religion ) unite us in bonds of sympathy with the whole human race. Many of its quaint customs have their roots in antiquity. Thus, among primitive peoples, this period immediately succeeding the shortest day of the year was the occasion of a festival in honor of the sun, which had always been considered to be the giver of life. The Christmas Tree had its origin in the old Teutonic fir tree, which was decked as a symbol of the rising sun. The name Yule, which is sometimes used for Christmas, was a festival of the early Saxons, It is related that in ancient ( times the Yule Log (Clog) which was generally the root of a large tree, was introduced into the house with great ceremony. When each had sung his Yule song, standing on its centre, it was burned. The Mistletoe Bough was cut from the sacred oak by the Druids of Ancient Britain; the Christmas Fire probably had its origin in the great fires burned in honour of the gods Odin and Thor, when sacrifices of men and cattle were offered; while the Waits correspond to the minstrels of old. Christian nations have retained these beautiful old customs, while trans¬ forming the spirit which animated them; for at the coming of the Prince of Peace, “Nor all the gods beside. Longer dare abide.” the lust for human sacrifice was replaced by the remembrance of the greatest of all human sacrifices; the licence of pagan rites gave place to the Christian spirit of love and good fellowship: “On earth peace, good will towards men.” In modern times the significance of Christmas is interpreted anew in the practical gospel of giving and of spreading rays of “sunshine” and happiness into the poorest of homes. A sense of responsibility for the welfare of others permeates the whole of society, and not even the smallest child is content to have a “good time” without sharing his happiness with others. Now, in 1926, the spirit of Christmas has taken possession of us once again. Who can resist the charm of the stores with their fairyland of toys and presents? A sudden interest is aroused in the movements of the heavily laden postman as he slowly passes from door to door, leaving behind him a host of eager faces scanning the greetings from absent friends. What a flood of happy memories those letters arouse! And, alas, what vain regrets for correspondence neglected! Within the house, amid the bustle of preparations, deep secrets weigh heavily on the brows of young and old. What is the conspiracy that is threat¬ ening the peace of mind of the (otherwise) good people of the household? And what is happening at “Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock?” Of course, no modern boy or girl believes in the existence of Santa Clause I—that benevolent old gentleman who, like Peter Pan, refuses to listen to the stern voice of Father Time. But, happily, doubting Thomases are not to be found among the happy little children, who stir uneasily in their sleep. What will the morrow bring for them? Time (and Santa) will decide. —G. ROBINSON.