Daniel McIntyre Collegiate Institute - Breezes Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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36 D.M. C. I. BREEZES POETRY AT NOON HOUR IN ROOM 22 ' J ' RAMP, tramp, tramp! Mary has been pacing around the room now for half an hour, repeating her memorizing over and over again. Her feet keep time to the rhythm of the poetry, and she pays no attention to the comments and conversation of her fellow students. “Much have I travelled in the realms of gold—” “Say, Mary, what are you frying to do? Wear out shoe leather?” “And many goodly states and kingdoms seen. Round many western islands have I been—” “I can’t stand this any longer. I’m going down to the library.” “Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.” A moan, a stifled yawn, from one of the spectators. “Oft of one wide expanse have I been told, That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne, But did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold.” “Mr.-was right when he said you’d make a good auctioneer, --—. Please be quiet.” “Then felt I like a-” “Fool! I said be quiet, didn’t I?” “When some new planet swims into his ken, Or like Cortez, when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific—-There! I knew I’d forgot it. But I must go on. Oh sleep, oh gentle sleep, how have I tempted thee, That thou so oft wilt weigh my eyelids down And steep my senses in forgetfulness.” Apparently thinking it was history period, Mary dozed off, and dreamed sweet dreams about the poetry of eating. The whole room was now busy memorizing. A peculiar wailing noise arose from one corner of the room. One particular gentleman seemed much depressed, his eyes gazing admir¬ ingly at the sufferer. However, he continued his task. “If music be the food of love, play on. Give me excess of it, that surfeiting The appetite may sicken, and so die. “That strain again?” The noise continued. ‘ ‘ It hath a dying fall. ” The singer rose from her seat and hurriedly left the room. The room gossips continued their discussion of poetry and poets. Had poets any inteligence? Alfred Noyes remarked that most sonnets should be destroyed at birth; should this not also apply to poets? A Poet’s Epitaph Under this crumbling heap of stones Lies a man who wrote some poems. ’Tis said his spirit often groans, For they buried his sonnets with his bones. —D. W., Room 22.

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D. M. C. I. BREEZES 35 solution to the problem. One of the gypsies must produce the wanted musical composition. Alas, she was the only one in camp who could compose music. Others could sing, but Anita alone could compose a song. Anita decided on the only course. She must write it herself, and without anyone knowing it, take it to the monastery. For weeks she worked, always off alone in the woods, listening to the sounds of nature around her. Then the last morning of her work came; afternoon found her on her way to the monastery; by twilight the music was in the hands of a kindly monk. At last the much looked for announcement was made. The exhi¬ bition of all the gifted men of the time was to be held in Rome. The gypsies, along with swarms of other eager people went on down to the great city. Kings, great lords, wise men, and common folk from far and near were present. A great surprise awaited them all, even the gypsy queen. The herald blew his trumpet. The huge court room was suddenly silent—there, before the greatest people of her day, stood Anita, with her mother’s guitar in her hand. A murmur of scorn ran around the room; then Anita began to play. It was as if the walls of the court room had suddenly crumbled, and the people in their minds stood in the midst of a Bohemian forest. Distinctly they heard the birds singing, the little brooks running down the hillside, the wind whispering in the tree tops, then all the beauties and glories of nature were brought together in one grand climax. For an instant the room was still ,then shouting, clapping, cheering and all manner of applause followed. The gypsies need not worry about their freedom. Anita had succeeded. —Evelyn Moir. A DAY IN SPRING glLENCE, darkness, all is still, Then slowly over yonder hill Orion rises! Majestic, luminously bright, Flooding all the world with light. Everything with love aglow, Flowers blossom forth and lo! All is life! Birds in joyous chorus sing, With gladsome hearts they welcome spring. Then, as the sun sinks to its rest, The birds chirp softly in their nest. Day is dying! The sky is flushed like a lovely bride As she meets her bridegroom, the ebbing tide. —A Buddin’ Poet, Room 56.

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D.M.C. I. BREEZES 3 ? LOCHINVAR (Modernized Version) O 11 ’ young Loehinvar is come out of the West; Through all Manitoba his roadbug’s the best, And save fifty cents, he shekels had none. “I should worry,” quoth he, “payday will come.” With so lean a bank-book and but a Ford car, There ne’er was a sheik like young Loehinvar. He trod not the brakes, but he stepped on the gas; He saw not a car that he couldn’t pass; But ere he pulled up at the Fort Garry gate, Sweet Ellen said “yes” to a Yale graduate. For a mathematician with a Pierce Arrow car, Was to wed the fair Ellen of young Loehinvar. So boldly he entered the Fort Garry hall, Among ladies and gentlemen and waiters and all. Then spoke Ellen’s daddy, his hand on his gat, (W r hile the fellow from Yale on the Chesterfield sat), “If it’s Ellen you want, you won’t get very far, So will you clear out, my dear Loehinvar?” “I was engaged to your daughter,” young Loehinvar sighed ; “You told me to go, so I thought that I’d hide, And now I’ve come back and I’m sure feeling fine, To dance the Black Bottom, drink one cup of wine; There are co-eds in Winnipeg more pretty by far, W r ho would gladly hook up with the young Loehinvar.” The bride filled the glass, our sheik took it up; He gulped down the wine, and he let go the cup; She opened her compact and powdered her face, She tinted her cheeks and closed up the case, He turned on the radio ’ere her mother could bar; “We’ll dance the Black Bottom,” said young Loehinvar. So snappy her form and so handsome his face, They danced tip the hall at a terrible pace, While Mother did fret, and Pa tore his hair, And the College lad murmured, “that isn’t fair.” But none of them noticed the door stood ajar. And there lay the scheme of young Loehinvar. One touch of her hand, one word in her ear, When they reached the main door and Lizzie stood near, So light in the coupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the wheel beside her he sprung. “She’s mine! Let her go! To the States isn’t far. Just watch my dust,” said our young Loehinvar.