Forster Secondary School - Spartalogue Yearbook (Windsor, Ontario Canada)

Page 24 text:

“THE SPARTALOGUE 19 5 3 Page Twenty-One THE RACE Don MacLennan, 12B Sitting on the porch, Mr. and Mrs. Peters could hear the sound of sawing and ham¬ mering coming from the garage. The boy sure is busy. He makes the place sound like a carpenter shop, Mr. Peters commented. Yes, he does enjoy working with tools, agreed his wife. I wonder what he ' s build¬ ing today? We may find out. The hammering seems to have stopped. A moment later, young George Peters came coasting down the driveway in the new soap-box automobile he had just con¬ structed. He turned the wheel sharply at the sidewalk to avoid going into the street, skidded to a stop and looked up, beaming, at his parents. Isn ' t she a beaut? Bet I can go a hundred and sixty miles an hour in this old speed demon! Mrs. Peters gasped. To her the auto seemed hardly to be a beaut at all. It was built of scrap lumber and patched here and there with flattened tin cans. And it looked quite lopsided, for the two right side wheels were larger than the left side wheels. The wheels on the left had been taken from an old coaster wagon and the ones on the right came from an unusued baby buggy. - Mr. Peters gulped and grinned. Yes, she ' s a beaut, son, but couldn ' t you have found four wheels that matched? I used the wheels this way on purpose, declared George. And boy, if you think she ' s a beaut now, wait ' ll you see her after I get her all painted up. George turned his car around and started back to the garage, where a number of nearly empty paint cans of red, yellow, blue, green and orange awaited him. Meanwhile, on the porch, Mrs. Peters was saying, Heavens, Joe, we can ' t let our son be parading that junky contraption around the neighbourhood. It ' s dis¬ graceful. Why, everybody will think we’re either too cheap or too mean to get him proper toys. Well—oh—he seems to like it the way it is. But I get your point. Since he seems so very much interested in cars, I was planning to get him a snappy little blue number from the toy store for his birthday. It ' s got a real loud horn and lights that work on a battery and even the tail lights flash when you step on the brakes. Instead of waiting for his birthday. I’ll pick it up to¬ morrow. Then he ' ll forget abou t that junk heap he made. George ' s eyes lit up with great pleasure when he saw the smart little blue car. He thanked his mother and father fervently, then scooted around the block in his new car to show it to all his playmates. But, fifteen minutes later, Mrs. Peters was dismayed to see her son gliding out of the driveway once more, steering the lopsided hot rod of his own make, the junk heap. George was called into the house. Don ' t you like your new car? he was asked. Oh, sure. It ' s real keen! Then why aren ' t you using it? Oh, I ' ve got to practise up with good old Zero Three! Mrs. Peters then noticed that the soap-box car, in addition to having a paint job that resembled an un¬ tidy rainbow, was now also sporting two giant figures on the side— 03 . Before his startled parent could collect herself to ask any further questions, George was scooting down the driveway and along the sidewalk, heading for Simp¬ son ' s lot. It was Saturday. George came down from his room wearing a football helmet, shoulder pads and goggles. You ' re not going to wear goggles while playing foot¬ ball, I hope, said his father. Oh, I ' m not going to play football, said George. This is the day we ' re having the stock car races over on Simpson ' s lot. Stock car races? Well, that is interesting, said Mr. Peters. Are you entering with your new Blue Devil? Golly, no! exclaimed George. I wouldn ' t want to get that all scraped up. Besides, new cars aren ' t al¬ lowed. I ' m going to win, too! What ' s the prize for winning? Well, there are ten guys in the race and we each chipped in a penny so the winner will make himself a cool dime. We ' d better see this. Mother, said Mr. Peters. Get your hat. (Continued on Page 44)

Page 23 text:

Page Twenty “THE SPARTALOGUE” 19 5 3 THE GREEN NECKLACE Judy Steadman, 12A Eleven thirty! He sat there in the dark, thinking—thinking back to the night he had first met Arthur, trying—trying to remember how it had all really begun. It had been dark and raining heavily. He had stepped into a doorway while waiting for the streetcar, and there stood a boy of no more than seventeen. He was tall, slight, and very pale. He could be handsome had he a little more meat on his bones,” thought Alex. He remembered saying, Cold night isn ' t it? By the way, have you got a light? The boy had answered in no more than a mumble, but after a considerable amount of prying, Alex had succeeded in learning that the boy’s name was Arthur Johnson, that he was a stranger in the city, and that he was looking for a place to stay. Then something—he didn’t know quite what it was—had prompted him to say, How about staying at my place until you find one of your own? It ' s a dreadful night. He had taken the boy up to his two tiny rooms, and after they had eaten, the boy grew more confident, almost friendly. Arthur had stayed that night and many more. The weeks dragged by and Arthur had found no place of his own. Every boarding house was filled and a- hotel was out of the question. Finally Alex had said to him, Listen fellow, you can ' t find a place of your own, so why don ' t you stay with me? We ' ve hit it off just fine so far. In fact, I rather like the company. If was agreed that Arthur should stay and that was how it had been ever since—at least until he had met Kitty. He stood up and began to walk around the room. In the dark, he could see something glittering on the dresser. He picked it up and held it to the light. It was green and evil. There were dots of red in the green. Red, the colour of blood! The gold was tar¬ nished too. That cursed necklace! He flung it to the floor and sat down on the bed again. He thought back to the night he had taken Kitty to the movies. They had been walking home along the Avenue when suddenly she had stopped and said, Oh Alex, isn ' t it pretty?” He had only glanced at it. It was a necklace—a green one with tiny red lights in it. If lay there coiled in the red velvet like a small venomous snake. To him the necklace had been not at all pretty. Yet somehow it had been strangely fascinating. Oh Alex, buy it for me, please? she had pleaded. Come on Kitty. It ' s getting late. We ' d better get going. Why Alex you’re as snappy as an old turtle to¬ night. Won ' t you buy it for me? It really is so pretty. I always did look good in green. Please Alex. She had pleaded with him. Oh, how she had pleaded with him! And in the end, she had twisted him around her little finger. He had given in and told her that he would buy the necklace. At the time he had not known how he would get the money. Two hundred dollars was quite an amount to scrape up. Yet, some¬ how he would manage it. He had to. He could not let Kitty down. She was not the kind of girl that could be refused easily. Then one night the idea had come to him. It would be so easy—or so he had believed at the time. If he had only known! He looked at the clock—twenty minutes to twelve. Twenty minutes! Just twenty small minutes left! There was too little time. He remembered how he had planned it—every de¬ tail. He remembered the times he had spent the night pacing back and forth, back and forth before that jewellery store. Each time that evil green necklace seemed to draw him nearer. It fascinated him. Then one night as he returned he had met Arthur at the door. He remembered Arthur saying, Oh Alex, I know what you ' re up to. Let me help you. We’ve been friends for nearly two years. If you ' re really going through with it. I ' ll help you. He had protested, but Arthur had been insistent. To Arthur it had been a game and a joke. A joke! Cer¬ tainly, it was no joke now! Outside it was beginning to snow. Big white flakes were drifting down past the window. Along the Ave- (Continued on Page 44)

Page 25 text:

Page Twenty-Two “THE SPARTALOGUE 19 5 3 WHY I LIKE TO LIVE IN CANADA By Zenon Zubrycky 1 IB I like to live in Canada, because here I enjoy free¬ dom of speech, of religion, and of enterprise unheard of anywhere else in the world. In other words, Cana¬ dians live in the true democratic state. In order to make you understand why I choose to live in Canada, you must see the contrasting life of the country where tyrants rule over millions of enslaved people. This unfortunate country is Ukraine which along with many other states is suffering under Russian communist domination. I have lived in Ukraine, a beautiful country which Russians transformed into hell and called “paradise. There was a time in my country when the farmer was a free man. He was master of his own property, but now he is merely an unwilling slave on the collec¬ tive farm. Every day he must perform the menial tasks assigned him by the overseer. One work-day of 10 hours day labour is the measure of pay for the peasant. For one work-day, one receives 3 pounds of grain, mainly rye or barley, since the Ukrainian wheat is taken chiefly to Russia or exported to foreign countries, two pounds of potatoes, and 2 to 5 rubles in cash. But one must consider the value of the money; a blue serge suit of clothes costs from 700 to 800 rubles. All the farm workers get paid once a year, in the fall. No sooner has the worker brought home his treasure, than some member of the village council appears with the question; “How much ' surplus ' grain that you have beyond your needs, can you sell to the government? “Beyond my needs? answers the farmer, I don ' t know how I will pull through on what I have until next harvest!” The conversation usually ends with the peas¬ ant selling “of his own accord as much grain as the council had already consigned to him, according to orders from above. For anyone who refuses to sell, the door is quickly opened to Liberia. The Soviet regime has developed to the stage where a 20-minute lateness for work, except for some unusual reason or sickness, carries a penalty of one year ' s hard labour in concentration camp. I have never seen a Canadian punished so severely for being late for work. From the beginning of the Soviet regime millions of people have been exiled to slave labour camps in the forests of Liberia, where they are subjected to slow death. Some Canadians will ask: Who are these people and why are they there?” These people are peasants who refused to join the collective farms, manufacturers, merchants, and professionals. Their only “crime was love for the land they tilled and a desire for a better method of farming. The farmers who submitted to collective farms lost their whole property. The bound¬ aries between fields were ploughed under; all the horses, cattle, swine, and poultry were driven to the collective farms. Then each peasant was ordered to report to the state labour. The whole collectivization was enforced in the most brutal method. I think that no Canadian farmer would give his claim to his land and wealth for which he has worked so hard, and willingly submit to being a serf. The Soviet Union is held together by the terrorist grip of the NKVD, the political police, which uproots the least suspicion of opposition, punishes every word of criticism of the government, and forces the people to pray to Stalin and keep their mouths shut. As for elec¬ tions, they are merely for propaganda purposes. How can the people have any choice, when the party execu¬ tive has already selected its candidates and when there is only a single list of names? Such elections are called democratic by the communists from Moscow. You can see how fortunate I am to escape from behind the Iron Curtain, and live in Canada where the government is chosen by the citizens of Canada who, by voting, control the changes in the government and its actions. This I call the true democratic government. Here in Canada the communists, owners of good homes, autos, and other property work as spies and propagandists for Moscow. They work under the pro¬ tective wing of democracy for the overthrow of the very government which assures such freedom for all inhabi¬ tants of Canada. These people won ' t believe that in the Soviet Union the production plan provides just three socks and two-thirds of a yard of woollen goods for each person. Loyal Canadians who are concerned for their coun¬ try ' s welfare should rouse themselves to the menace of the communist fifth column and be on guard to defend their country against communism which under its entic¬ ing slogans of freedom and prosperity brings un¬ restricted police terror, poverty, and the domination of Moscow. After comparing the way my countrymen live, under Russian terror, with the life you enjoy here in Canada, you can see why I enjoy so greatly the freedom Canada offers me. MISSING No cross to mark his resting place, (Save that which in my heart I bear); No eyes to look on that loved face, No gentle hands to smooth his hair. At that dear head no stone will tell His name, to careless passers-by; Only the Sea intoned his knell, And sobbing Wind and weeping Sky. But God who walks the lonely deep. Brooding, watchful, (as in the past), Will gather him from this last sleep And bear him safely home at last. Judy Steadman, 12A. A TRIBUTE In the early days of Sandwich High, A helping hand was always nigh. The self-same hand is helping still Our students climb the slippery hill. A kindly word, a genial smile Guides us o ' er each rocky mile. Our thanks to this dear friend of ours And wishes too for happy hours. We give Three Cheers for J. L. Forster And wish we could do much more Sir . Elizabeth Anne McLister.