City Park Collegiate Institute - Park Bench Yearbook (Saskatoon, Saskatchewan Canada)

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THE PARK BENCH 55 Why don't they hurry? To Iacques they seemed to be deliberately torturing him. The rifles were raised. Now its coming, l've got to hold on now. And through all this the scng continued: lls viennent jusgue dans nos bras, Egorger nos tils, nos compagnes. They are coming into our arms, To slaughter our sons, our friends. A silence. Fire! The hills echoed back thesound of the valley. The figure beiore the cliff stilfened for an instant and then slumped tc the ground. But suddenly the song retumed, at once triumphant and I little sad. Triumphant cver the ccming victory of France, and sad because of the deatlrr ct one of her sons. Aux armes, citoyens, iormez vos bataillcns! Marchons, Marchons, Qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons! To arms, citizens! prepare your battalions! March on, March on! Let their vile blood flow through our fieldsl' Marchons, Marchons! Qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons! -BRUCE CLARKE, BOCKS The world doth lie, shining, beneath the gaze Ot him who views it from the page of books. Before him lie, seen through a silver haze, Treasures of such brilliance, that human looks Would never see by ordinary ways. A glowing wonderland unfolds around, From stories, and from poetry, and lays Ot ancient days, and also modern sound. You live al thousand lives, both old and new. You laugh with Shakespeare, Steele, and Wodehouse, too, And cry with Dickens, Pce, and Burns, and you Do thrill with Shelley, Keats, and others who Felt strong within them freedom's ilame. All these Do guide you o'er this lite's tumultuous seas. -BRUCE CLARKE. l suppose your landlord asks a lot for the rent cf this place. A lot? He asks me for it nearly every week. Mr. Anderson Cat lost and found tablel Does this book belong to you? The name is obliterated. Sludent- No sir, my name is O'Brien.

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54 THE PARK BENCH LA IVIARSEILLAISE lt was just at the moment of dawn. The bright red rays of the rising sun peeked out over the hills to the east, and then bathed the great Compiegne forest in flaming red. The white buildings of the little village of Monthois, in northern France, stood out sharply against the dark green of the surrounding countyside. The scene was altogether one of surpassing beauty, and no one had ever been more aware of it than the silent watcher on a small rise just west of the village, who viewed it from behind the barred window of a stone building, and saw it spread out beyond the wearily pacing sentries and the double row of barbed wire. When viewed closer, this man, whose name was Iacgues Loudeac, was seen to h t h d h be of about thirty years of age, bearded and raggedly clothed. As e wac e e her times when he had viewed the scene under pleasanter was thinking back to ot circumstances. There was the time, when, as a boy, with his friend Adrienne, he had gone out before dawn to catch fish in the little stream at the foot of the knoll, and had stood and watched the sun rise from this very spot. There had been no concentration camp here at that time. Iacgues thought of the days he had spent playing in that same Compiegne Forest with his sister Marie, and the picnics with his father and mother. Then his mind went to the time when he was arrested. He had been walking on the Main Street of the little village when the grey-uniformed men had appeared. They had spent halt an hour picking out twenty of the most able bodied, and Iacques had been one of them. That was six months ago. lt had not been pleasant in the camp: bad food twice a day, and the clothes he now wore were the ones which he had had on when the soldiers had arrested him: but at least it had been bearable. Then out of a blue sky had come that formal statement from the stern-faced Over-lieutenant, informing him that a German soldier had been murdered in a town across the hills and that he had been chosen to be one of the hostages to be shot in reprisal. That had been yesterday, and now he was waiting for the soldiers to come. There was the tread of marching feet, a sharp command, and a rattling at the door. lacques thought, Will I keep my nerve? Can I hold myself in? Will l be like that other one last week whom they had to drag away? The door opened, and lacgues stepped out, to be placed in the middle of the squad of soldiers. As in a dream, he allowed himself to be marched across the yard and out of the gate on to the dirt road. At that instant fear struck him, and his knees felt weak. Can l stand this much longer, he thought desperately. Will l show these soldiers that l am a coward? At that instant the song started. The country people had heard about the exe- cution and were hiding in the woods beside the rcad to watch the procession pass, and they were singing La Marseillaiseuz- Allons, enfants de la patrie, Le jour de gloire est arrive ' Onward children of your Country, The day of glory has arrived. Iacques head snapped up. lf his people had not forgotten him, then he should not disgrace them. Centre nous de la tyrannie L' e'tendard sanglant est leve'! Against you stands tyranny, The blood stained banner has been raised! The song continued. The soldiers were marching in step with it now. They turned off the trail and halted beside a small cliff. Iacques was placed in front of the cliff and the soldiers lined up before him.

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56 THE PARK BENCH F I NALE I suppose there are not many, if any, who remember Ioseph Stevens. He died about ten years ago. For a short time after his death the papers played it up, and there was a great deal of interest, but then people found other things to talk about and Ioseph Stevens was soon forgotten. I have thought a great deal about his death. It was an event that contained, to me, the mystery of a tale from Poe, and the more I think of it the more it fascinated me. I find that I can no longer keep from putting down the story of Ioseph Stevens' death. The first time that I saw Ioseph was at a festival in Boston. You see, he was a violinist. I remember at the time remarking to myself when I heard him play that here was a genius. Uncultivated, true, but a genius, I felt, who would some day force his music into the staid hearts of music critics everywhere. I went up to him and introduced myself, for I was deeply interested in this man who could thrill a hardened newspaperman like myself. We talked for a while. He talked little and with restraint. We spoke of his music and of his life. I learned that afternoon that he worked as a clerk in Stamens Grocery, a small store in Boston. I-Ie told me that it wasn't much but it gave him his nights free to practise his violin. I learned that above everything he had a tremendous love for music and particularly for the violin. ' When I returned to New York I unfortunately lost touch with Ioseph Stevens. Then one day I noticed in the Times an announcement that lose' Iturbi was presenting his protege' Ioseph Stevens at Carnegie Hall on the 26th of Iuly. Ioseph Stevens was to play his own Concerto for Violin. I immediately reserved a box, for I took a kind of pride in Iturbi's and my mutual opinion of Ioseph. That night I shall never forget. Iturbi and Ioseph appeared together. I was very shocked, but my amazement soon turned to sympathy. For walking out on the stage was Ioseph attired in an ill fitting business suit. This caused a murmur throughout the audience and I heard a few laughs. I could see that he was ill, for he was pale and his face was drawn. He tripped slightly, and doing so he dropped his bow. This caused a general laugh to break out and I could see things were going to go bad for him. Iturbi raised his baton and the orchestra started the concerto. I was very dis- appointed. For stemming forth from Stevens' violin came not the beautiful music I had expected, but rather frightened music that was unemotional and uninteresting. As the concerto progressed the audience became restless. There was a general stir- ring. Stevens looked very ill. Then as he began the final movement a change came over him. I don't know whether the audience noted it or not in him, but they noticed it in his music. I have never in my life heard music so fine and beautiful. It was truly inspiring, Words can not describe the effect it had on everyone. The music grew and reached its climax. Iust as the last notes of Ioseph's violin died out, his bow dropped from his hand and he slumped to the floor. I felt a personal interest in Ioseph Stevens so I hurried down to the stage. A doctor was summoned. This is announced that Ioseph Stevens twenty minutes. This announcement caused superbly a violin concerto. As then because there seemed no people stopped thinking about But I have thought about at is almost too unbelievable of Stevens' Concerto we were the strange part. After examining Ioseph Stevens he was dead and had been dead for at least fifteen or quite a stir among us, for we hod just seen him finish I said his death caused quite a stir for awhile and explanation other than that the doctor was mistaken, it. it often ever since. The only explanation I can arrive to be practical, I believe that for the last movement listening to a dead man play. Yes, a dead man. A