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

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28 D. M. C. I. BREEZES I tell my new friends of my travels. I have seen happy faces, casual faces, features lined with sorrow and grief, the wrinkled skin of the old, and the evil faces of the thieves. I tell them of the little girl who had wished to start a bank account with me, and— hist—what was that? Something is crackling, something is smelling. Then it breaks into the drawer. A long, red tongue is licking nearer and nearer. I see my brothers go up in smoke. I am very warm. The flame is nearer. Its hot breath is fanning my face. The edges of me begin to curl and smoke. So this is the way I am des¬ tined to leave the world I came to serve. Crackle! It is so hot Ohh! VIOLET BAXTER. EVERY MINUTE By O.O. The magnificent Canadian Pacific station at Montreal, West Side, seethed with life. Trains arrived and depart¬ ed in clangorous succession. Engines panted and struggled up and down the maze of tracks which crossed and recrossed in a bewildering pattern of shining steel. Trucks and carts of baggage, trundled by panting, sweat¬ ing porters, rumbled along the plat¬ form, the sound of their bumping and rolling resounding against the arched roof of the depot like distant thunder. Baggage men and conductors hurried about, thrusting their way uncere¬ moniously through the crowd. Pass¬ engers ran hither, thither, and yon, frantically trying to complete ar¬ rangements before the departure of their train. From his perch on one of the stools in the railway cafeteria, George Hurd watched the scene with open-eyed ab¬ sorption. He had arrived in Montreal only that afternoon, landing from the “Canconia” at three o’clock after an exceedingly rough passage. It seemed a tremendously long distance to his home in Ireland, to the farm where he had been born and raised, and where his father and mother awaited his return from this Canada, the land of plenty, whither he had repaired to make his fortune. Upon landing, he had made a gal¬ lantly pathetic attempt to enjoy the sights of the city, but had finally sur¬ rendered to the inevitable bout of home-sickness. Morose and depressed, he had, wandered to the station, whither he was to leave for the West. To his intense delight he had dis¬ covered this lunch-room, where he could get tea. To an old-countryman, tea spells the seventh heaven of rest and refreshment. Accordingly, he had ordered a cup, and, to his astonish¬ ment, he began to recover from his loneliness. The sight of the amber- brown liquid, steaming in the white cup, seemed to cheer him, and he began to look upon this new world through more friendly eyes. The scurry and bustle of this, the first large city he had ever visited,, confused and annoyed him, but the cup of tea worked miracles. He dis¬ covered that the people here were not at all dissimilar in appearance and manner to those he had always known, save for their faces. To him they seemed horribly pale and worn, con¬ trasted with the ruddy, almost scar¬ let, complexions he had always seen at home. Finishing the cup to the last drop, he glanced at the clock over the door, paid, his bill, and proceeded to the platform. Having no way of passing the two hours between supper and bed-time, and not wishing to go to the hotel too early, he paused, un¬ decided, leaning against one of the gigantic pillars supporting the domed roof. A shrill-voiced newsboy passed him,

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D. M. C. I. BREEZES 27 On gauze-like wings of golden hue A butterfly flew over, It stopped to rest amid the dew, Then fluttered o’er the clover. I turned and waved fair Spring adieu, Although I was encroaching On her domain, at heart I knew Kind summer was approaching. J. McCRACKEN. THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A SHINPLASTER To the forest, one day, a woodcutter came, carrying a huge axe. He marked one tree, destined to be many things, a main-staff on a ship, timber to build homes, paper to be read, and paper to be used for money. Crash! the first blow had fallen, then another and another. In a short time there was a rending split, and amid the sounds of crashing, splitting, tearing, the tree fell. After this tree had lain all winter, and passed through the seething waters on its way to. the mills in the spring, it was then in a proper state of seasoning to enable man, the lord of the universe, to ex¬ tract from its pulp the material neces¬ sary to produce the finished article— clean, white paper. A part of this paper is me. So you will readily un¬ derstand that much material, work, and preparation was expended in bringing me to a state of perfection. I am a shinplaster, and important; endorsed and vouched for by “The Controller of Currency” and “The Deputy Minister of Finance,” bearing on my face an excellent reproduction of Britannia. My valuation is twenty- five cents. I was created for the great purpose of service to mankind. Man, who had perfected me by many scientific pro¬ cesses, is entitled to my faithful serw- ice in improving conditions to the benefit of mankind. My destiny starts in one of our country’s great banks, passing there¬ from to the pocket of an old gentle¬ man who uses me as a gift to gladden the heart of a little lame girl in whose hand I crackle my appreciation of this kind act. The little girl con¬ tinues the act of mercy by using me to purchase a few lovely blooms to sweeten and brighten the sick-room of her mother. As the little girl leaves the flor¬ ist’s, a happy smile on her face, I contentedly rest in the till, awaiting a further opportunity of service. In a short time a boy who requires change selects me because I look so much like the bills his mother and dad use. Up to this time everything has been rosy but just here I experience one of life’s gloomy moments. Like a boy my owner is careless and drops me. Darkness overwhelms me, but I can hear voices. One belongs to the boy, and, crying plaintively, he is asking someone if he saw me. Another boy answers “No,” and I am astonished to learn I am under that boy’s foot. Receding footsteps grow fainter till they cease. Then, and not till then, does the boy move his foot. No one is in sight. Suddenly a dirty hand seizes me and I am crammed into a dirty pocket. Gone is the shiny look, for I am dirty from the boy’s boot, and the pavement. Gone is the crisp¬ ness, for I am crushed. Tiny wrinkles dot my whole face. I am an old shin¬ plaster now. A little girl picks me up, and I am used to start a bank account. So once again I enter the imposing struc- ure of the bank, and repose in the cashier’s drawer with my fellows. I could not foresee the horrible death which awaited me. Six o’clock chimes, and there is a bustle of excitement and hurry, the closing and locking of drawers, these diminishing gradually till all is silent.

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D.M.C. I. BREEZES 29 shouting at the top of his voice. George hailed him, and asked him, in a deferential tone, for a copy of the evening paper. Glancing at his face, the hoy grinned, knowingly, and de¬ manded twenty-five cents for it. The intricasies of Canadian currency were still mysteries to George, and he brought forth his wallet, crammed with notes, and, selecting a five-dol- lar bill, handed it to the boy. At the sight of the wallet, the lad’s eyes opened wide, but, with an effort, he turned his attention to his change. Taking his paper and change, George commenced to read, leaning still against the pillar, but his atten¬ tion wandered, and he soon became absorbed, in watching the fussing crowd. Mentally, he compared them rather unfavorably with the friends and neighbors of his youth. Why, he mused, old Tim Shaugnessy, who owned the largest farm in the dis¬ trict, and who, had turned sixty-five last autumn, could twist any two of these puny weaklings around his fingers, while, if a man of sixty-five, who had worked hard and long all his life could do that, what could not any of his other six-foot, fifteen- stone neighbors do? Still ruminating thus, he let his gaze stray over the crowd. Suddenly he stared, incredulous. Were these people mad as well as weak? There was a small, insignificant-looking slip of a man, running up and down the platform, following first one passer¬ by, and then another. He would run after one for the space of a few min¬ utes, then leave that one, and follow another. Puzzled, George watched the man closely. Then he gasped. The fellow was a pickpocket! Un¬ noticed in the hurry and confusion, he was quietly and, methodically ex¬ tracting wallets and valuables from the pockets of the unsuspecting crowd. The flash of the silver and gold of the watches in the glare of the arc-lights could just he discerned by an intent observer. It took several minutes for it to dawn upon him that he had better let someone in authority know about it. Besides, the thief had probably seen the wallet as George had paid the newsboy, and would be over to get it in a few minutes. He would have to find a policeman immediately. He turned quickly, searching frantically for the familiar blue uniform, and, bumped into a tall, well-dressed man who was coming up behind him. “I beg your pardon,” said the stranger in a pleasant voice, “You seem in an awful hurry.” “Yes. I want a policeman. Where can I find one?” demanded George. “A policeman? Would I do? I’m Detective-Sergeant Archibald, of the force.” Surprised at his good fortune, George poured out his story in a few minutes, pointing to the suspect as he did so. “H’m. We can’t arrest him just on suspicion, because no one will be able to identify the goods, as none of the victims knows he has been robbed. We must find some way of catching him red-handed. Let me see. Ah! I have it.” Speaking rapidly, he outlined his plan. “You stand here, by this pole. Take out your paper and read it. You say this fellow saw your wallet. Then he’ll probably come and get it. Let him take it, and then I’ll arrest him. I’ll stay here in the back.” “But—” began George, when the other interrupted him. “Hurry up, you fool, you’ll spoil it all. You’ve got to help me whether you want to or not, I’ll have you ar¬ rested for obstructing a police officer in the performance of his duty.” The thought of being arrested upon