Eastwood High School - Gazette Yearbook (Edmonton, Alberta Canada)

Page 44 text:

42 E.H.S. YEAR BOOK The Graduates, 1933 They come to our classes and taste of our cheer, They surely must like us, to stay for a year; Here’s Frances S. Reeves, leaves teaching out east To share in Grade Twelve intellectual feast. Now Grassick comes on in a black and white sweater, His mates all agree no pal could be better; A dreamer of worlds that are other than ours, Alexander he seems when he shows all his powers. Fred Wheatley just moves in the shade of another, His only shortcoming, he had a big brother; His brain is as keen, he’s sure just as clever, No credit he gets for his skill or endeavor. Here’s Taylor again, we thought he had gone, He loves us so much, he felt so forlorn; Just halftime at Eastwood, McDougall takes halt, These divisions in love make everyone laugh. And William has trouble, a Nikipilo too, He found the lost X, now there’s nothing to do; So tragic for Eastwood, if X came to light, For William, no homework, he’d die in a fright. Let Eric called Wampus or Ward as you please, Distinguish himself by living at ease; No subject can flaunt him, he’s bound to secure The value of Knowledge, revealed or obscure. And here’s Janet Sheldon all smiling with glee, In spite of the troubles that vex you and me; She shines like Aurora, and brightens the room, And teaching’s a pastime, she scatters the gloom.

Page 43 text:

E.H.S. YEAR BOOK 41 The Graduates, 1938 What Mary would do if the sun did not shine, We fear we would miss Mary Wozny in line; But miss her we shall when autumn is near. The world will seem empty and barren and drear. P Sure Gordon has had a hard time for one year, When sickness is rife, one has but small cheer; Still here’s to our Webster, he’s going to make good He’ll blaze a straight roadway right out of the wood. P Some girls are so tall, that it seems hard to beat, To take in one look from the head to the feet; So Isabelle Welsh takes the top notes each day If height be the fashion, we’ll charge for display. P Bob White is a puzzle, jig-saw if you like. His corners don’t fit as the ‘M’ does in Mike; Secure in a dream of the world out-of-door, In study behind, in dreaming, before. When Williamson Peggy first trod a school floor, She lapped up instruction and looked round for more; She now has its measure in metre and tune, A life that is summer, September to June. And Lillian Yurechuk, an artist of faces, Paints models in stores and gives them their graces; She now dresses windows shows fashions and styles, And Paris is with us, with gowns and head tiles. P Mike Korpan is new to the Eastwood tune, He’s learnt all the beats and pauses for June; At Xmas he came, and ’twill not be long, You’ll hear him at Seba, a-singing our song.

Page 45 text:

E. H. S. YEAR BOOK 4 : The Graduates, 1933 And Mike is a wrestler, his strength is that of seven, If you wrestle with him, you’d best prepare for Heaven; He likes to study history, of Kings and Knights and Squires, It was the game of chess, that many a youth inspires. Grace Morrison has but a half day in school, Her afternoon’s spent on a tall kitchen stool; She makes all the pies with pastry that’s slim And times all her baking by chanting a hymn. Now Mildred knows cattle, she comes from the farm. Not like the Lord Nelson who had but one arm; She’s clever at milking, with pail and with stool, She’ll be President next year of Edmonton Pool. Jo Flesher has got a Napoleon streak, You pin her in Elba, she’ll escape in a week; You tie her all up in a sack full of learning, You see her next day, ’tis the sack she is burning. One pauses to think of our Cliff as a man, For ten years he’s been in old Astrakan; He’s teaching the Turk to make power out of streams But still he’s a Clark with fancies and dreams. Yes, Edge is a keen one, he’s good at his comp., Just wrestles with words, and has a good romp; And knee-deep he stands in sentence and phrases, And sometimes he swears, as, ‘you go to blazes’. Some students, like houses, have attics to spare, And Sadie is one, her mind pastures there; Renewing old dreams when Time was her own, Strange bats in the attic? Oh no, they are flown.