Eastern High School of Commerce - Eastern Echo Yearbook (Toronto, Ontario Canada)

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Poor Wee Nlousie ' ' Our house at Royal Oak was the kind one reads about in books described as Ha rambling old place covered with ivy . On each side was a wide field of tall grass wherein dwelt many tiny field mice. The little creatures were very friendly and often slipped in our side door for a little visit, regardless of the danger lurking there in the shape of two large cats. and hidden traps with tempting morsels of delicious cheese destined to ruin many a mouse. One night when I lay in bed thinking happened that day, which about what had had been Easter, I heard a peculiar scratch- ing coming from the corner near the foot of I turned on the bed light my bed. Quietly and fixed my eyes on my gaily painted waste-paper basket in fascination. Running around the top as if being chased by a cat, was a tiny baby field mouse. It looked harm- less enough, but I must confess that a mouse of any shape or size makes me shiver. No, I did not scream. Curiosity got the better of me and silently I Watched the strange antics of that small rodent. When it by BIARYBELLE IXIULLAN, ZH stopped. its small body quivered and jerked continually to balance itself on the narrow ledge of the basket. Piercing dark eyes darted alertly about the room. I held my breath when the eager eyes scanned me, but they didnt seem to realize I was not just another piece of furniture. Then it peered down into the darkness below. from whence came tempting smells at which a tiny nose wiggled with delightful anticipation. At last I understood what this venture- some small creature wanted in the privacy of my bedroom. In the basket were some half- demolished jelly beans and several egg shells. and that poor wee mouse was so hungry he disobeyed his stern mother's warnings and let his stomach lead him into danger. He kept up his little game of running, stopping for breath and running again until I was in a bad state of dizziness, even if the mouse was not. Suddenly I gave the bed a shake. The mouse looked startled and fled. The next morning a baby mouse was caught in the trap outside my door. Stock Figures in Fiction f f by ELs1E HILL, ZH To read. is to observe, and one cannot read an average of one book a week with- out observing that stock figures in fiction are not scarce. There are several of these popular CPD heroes or heroines, who have no doubt existed so long for no other reason than that they fit well into the story, and, with a different name tagged on. pre- sent a very interesting subject for a few hoursl reading, to make the book a little longer. Some person once observed that f'The Bible or Shakespeare was the beginning of fiction . Whichever it was, we can blame our choice for giving us such characters as are common to-day. The first stock figure EASTERN ECHO -and the most common-in my opinion would be the typical hero or heroine. This particular main character will continue to labour under great odds, with everyone turn- ed against him as a result of being accused of murdering the wealthy matron's tom-cat. or of not removing his hat in the elevator, until he reaches the final climax by resetting the mayors daughter-or the presidents, which is even bettereand being restored to his original position as chief buttonhole maker, By then the author mercifully decides to withdraw, and leaves the hero to his ulti- mate happiness. Sometimes the story is varied, and the hero is a thoroughly insignificant, ragged, unaspiring urchin, until one day, by Fifty-nine

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ll W6 Could Choose G I wonder how many of us long to throw up this humdrum city life and do what we really want to do? Don't you sometimes feel as though city life were slowly strangling you? Have you ever experienced that restless feeling inside your breast, a helpless desire crying and struggling to free itself and become a reality? If you have, you know what I mean when I speak of the city as a prison. Perhaps you have also thought of a prison you'd enjoy. Will you bear with me, while I describe mine? A rugged mountain range majestically stands guard over one end of the valley, and then like a giant staircase it drops down on either side. On the other end a dense forest rises against a deep blue. cloudless sky. In the foreground stands a large log cabin. Chairs, couches, and tables are manufactur- ed from wood brought from the forest. Soft leather cushions make chairs and couches the acme of comfort. A bear rug in front of an open fireplace makes cold wintery nights a cozy delight, A short distance from the cabin there is a rather small. but deep creek. This basin was worn out of the rock, years ago, by an underground river and is now an excellent swimming hole. However, we must stay quite near the surface, for the water is rather cold at the bottom. For drinking water and to catch fish, we must climb a short distance up the mountain slope. An icy little river trickles over the worn stones, gathering force and volume, and tumbles down a five foot drop, creating a miniature Niagara Falls. It rushes on and then after a short distance it slows down as if infiuenced by the peaceful scene around it. It ambles lazily along until it finally disappears into a crevasse. We find indescribable beauty as, at dusk. the glorious sun sinks slowly down behind the mountains. Its dying embers, like a great tire, tint the snow-capped mountain peaks a blood red. At last its splendor fades and darkness closes down. When we return to this spot a short time later, we are equally speechless as her misty sister climbs steadily up into the vast dark Fifty-eight ur prison by YERNA SMITH, 2F sky. Again the mountain snow is tinted, but oh. how differently! The colours are soft and ingenious, as if a master painter had lightly passed his brush over the scene. Soft orange, splashes of silver, royal deep purple, and a delicate yellow form the colour scheme of our mountain guardians. The forest shines with a ghostly light and a soft breeze car- ries to us the heavenly odour of the pines. The little river rushes past like a Hood of disturbed quick-silver and dashes over the precipice, throwing up a misty veil that seems to have all the colours of the rainbow and more besides. The splashing water sparkles like a thousand jewels and babbles with joy as if it realized its own beauty. The lights of the cabin cast a reddish glare on the still creek, while the moon builds a silver roadway down the centre. But unlike the babbling, conceited little river, the creek bears her beauty modestly, and re- mains silent. Peace, contentment, beauty of Nature, we find all here. We find something to really thank God for. Now, I thank you for your kind attention. I hope perhaps you'll say, as my brother did: Say, you're stealing my stuff. Thats what I always wanted. 0 OUR HOMEWORK ll'ln1f keeps us in the whole night througlz? lilies us sad and makes us blue? Jlzzkes us mad and sulky too? Our Homework. I ll'!zat causes us to grunt and groan? To sigh so deeply and fu moan? To mutter in a nz0on'y lone? Our Hl7l7ICiE'l7l'k.' ll'l1f1f makes 115 stamp and fear our hair? Gives to our eyes that vacant stare? -Ind Causes us a jrmwl to wear? Om' H0n1CIL'ork.' WIARIAN WANGLAND, 451 EASTERN ECHO

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accident. he is found to have tattooed on the nail of his big toe an emblem which entitles him to become heir of an earldom, and a large estate. which is invariably in England. Owing to his nurse dropping him down a hatchway in London, he was given up for good, and sailed away to America, where he became king of his special alley. A sub-division of this is the bad hero. who does everything imaginable to get in the juvenile court. Finally someone appeals to his manhood. and he grows up to be bank president, marries the girl whose hair he used to pull in school, and lives to refiect on his past life in amaze- ment. The second figure is the young, energetic, know-all detective. Quietly he makes his rounds, despite all the snubs of the com- manding officerenearly always a sergeant- until. in the last chapter, bleeding in ten places. he relates the amazing tale of how he escaped from the burning building, cut himself loose with a piece of tin, and captur- ed the band of twenty single-handed with a revolver made of tar soap. Third comes the rich old uncle, who will do nothing to help the destitute grandson or nephew. Forcefully he tells him to depart from the house, and never cast his shadow across the door-step again. When the young relative saves the family fortunes by sell- ing out stock, or by frustrating an attempt to rob the old gentlemen of his corn plasters, he is taken into the now warm bosom of the family. Next, and fourth, is the Public Enemy No. 1, the landlord or the holder of the mortgage. In vain does the erstwhile proud family plead for more time. Never! The villain is firm. The money he must have or the house, At the very moment the tearful family are vacating. up pops the hero, who had gone out into the world to make his fortune, and tells the villain where to get off at. Ha! Foiled againfl says he, and vows revenge. Luckily he is killed in tinie. and so does no more damage. To omit the Gentleman Jack of fiction incomplete. Broad- men who steal for it away, abound in would make this list hearted. kindly, loving the mere joy of giving story books, but I doubt, in life. Gentle- man jackf' 'tRaftles , or whatever his name might be, makes his scoops with monstrous daring. He must be a ventriloquist, a boxer, an expert at the art of ju-jutsu, a good rider, Sixty a wonderful conversationalist, and must pos- sess a quick finger on the trigger. The day after a typical f'haul he makes the rounds of the slums, dressed in immaculate evening clothes, and showers his gifts on the poor. He continues this life until he falls in love, when the girl undertakes to reform him. She succeeds, and the poor proceed to starve because of the discontinued gifts. My comment on staple figures in fiction seems to lean to satire. and one would think fiction was my greatest bugbear. That is not so, for I enjoy fiction, These are just my opinions on characters who abound in the average book. SPRING Soft whisperings of waking life, .41 rnurrnzzr tells of br0ole's won strife .-fgainst the grip of lVinter's chain, For Spring has come to tmwz again. There is some sulrtle, vital thing, .Aflront the quiet approach of Spring. It comes upon us unaware .-Ind fragrance fills the moist, tuarrn air. Where once did lie a patch nj snow, ll'e see the dainty Crocus grow, .alll pink and gold or ros' and white, lfI'as there ever such a splendid sight? I hear the whistling meadow-lark .ind listening, just lrefore 'tis dark, I hear the robin say, Good nighif 1'n1 weary after my long flightf' I wake with the glad burst of dawn .-ind hear the lrluelrird on the lawn, Wake np! wake np. ' he seems to sing Wake up! be glad! for it is Spring. KATHLEEN XYILSON, ZG. THE SUN GOD'S LAST GESTURE ROBERT STREET, IF On the edge of the great sea stand a score of Eskimos, gazing intently at the sun. The great God is about to make his departure. His rays will not light the Arctic for seven long months. fC07liilZNt'd on page 01.3 EASTERN ECHO