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

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Page Twenty-Four “THE SPARTALOGUE 19 5 3 LIBRARY STAFF Front Row: Back Row: Inset: Absent: Judy Steadman, Miss Philpot, Diane Yates, Catherine Copeland, Anne Haeberlin. Marilyn Sinclair. Caro Armstrong. Susan Hallett. Shirley Shangenuk. Books are keys to wisdom ' s treasure, Books are ships to lands of pleasure, Books are paths that upward lead, Books are friends. Come let us read. The first four books ore recommended for senior reading, the next three for Juniors and the last two are of interest to all who are looking forward to the Coronation. The Silver Chalice—Thomas B. Costain weaves an in¬ spirational story about the cup used by Christ at the Last Supper. Its fictional hero is Basil of An¬ tioch, a skilled artisan, purchased from slavery to create a casting for the Chalice. Braving the perils of Christian persecution and the ire of Nero, he pursues his task, diverted only by two women. It is a story of spectacular beauty, power, and spiritual insight. Out of This World—Here is your invitation to high adventure! It is Lowell Thomas Jr.’s exciting tale of the journey that he and his father made into the forbidden land of Tibet. Only a handful of west¬ erners have ever been permitted to enter Tibet and the Thomases were granted this rare privilege. The pictures taken at that time depict a spectacular and unequaled life in that secretive land. High Bright Buggy Wheels—The bright buggy wheels and the flying feet of Maida were to take Tillie Shantz, daughter of a Mennonite family, far from home and friends and into a world of laughter and warmth. Marriage outside the faith meant giving up her family and friends. But it also meant George Bingham ' s love, an awakening to colour and music, the lure of an expanding, wonderful world for Tillie. It is an absorbing story about a little-known element of Canadian life told by Canadian-born Luella Creighton. My Three Years in Moscow—This is the first full-length accounting to the people of the free world by an American ambassador to Moscow since before the war. It covers three crucial years of the cold war, telling what the author saw and did and thought in the world capital of Communism. Walter Bedell Smith gives us a vivid picture of Russia during a period of deepening crisis. (Continued on Page 26)

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“THE SPARTALOGUE” 19 5 3 Page Twenty-Three THE DECISION Jackie Welch, 13A He stood alone in his chamber watching the sun rise. Near the doors that opened out onto the balcony, he could see his city—his people—still asleep. This was the only time he felt really superior to them, when he could stand here and look out over their homes. It was strange how people thought a ruler or king was some¬ one sacred, intangible, someone you heard about, but never saw. He had always thought he was a strong person, leading his flock, as he thought of them, wisely. Now he realized that he was the one who wos subject —subject to them. As the warmth of the sun dispersed the early morning mist, the city cleared before the eyes of its governor. They were sharp eyes, shrewd ones, set in a naturally dark and inscrutable face. A big nose, in¬ herited from proved Roman ancestors, helped to com¬ plete his features. His chin was cleft and fitted into firmly set jaws that remained clamped when he was angry or thinking, as he was now. His face revealed determination, his body power. But he did not always appear a god of strength. There were times when he felt shaken—fearful—and this was one of them. He felt n aked before his conscience. Looking down into the empty streets, he knew that soon they would be jammed with the people. At first they would only mill about. Then the dis¬ contented grumblings would reach his ears. Later would come the shouts and perhaps even stones, for his people were a strong race, easily excited to anger and often fickle. His thoughts were prophetic. Not long afterwards, the crowd began to assemble. Time was running short; he must decide. If he had been a religious man, he might have turned elsewhere for help, but he was not so. Hearing the growing restlessness, he moved towards the doors and looked out to see soldiers mingling among the people. He hoped there would be no mob violence. However, he knew even soldiers were no match for an angry mob. It was this group who had put him in office as governor. To protect and please them was his duty; yet he still felt they were wrong in this matter. The witnesses had not been consistent. Some swore one thing, some another. Surely they could see there was no sound case against the man. A servant moved into the room. The crowd, sir, clamours for you to give them your decision. They grow wild. You will have to speak to them soon. Yes—yes I will, soon. First, bring me the prisoners. Soon they stood before him. One was rather small, gentle looking with eyes like calm waters, and in their light you felt peace. The other was big, not as big as the governor, but a big man with an ugly, evil face. He was the murderer and robber. The frenzied screams of the mob snapped the leader back to reality. He walked out onto the terrace and the prisoners stumbled after him, under the force of the guards. He spoke. I find no evil in this man.” He motioned to the quiet one. “I— But the crowd roared in unison its disapproval of his decision. He whispered to a nearby servant who then hurried away. How could he show them they were wrong? A few pebbles fell around him as a warning of how the crowd would react if he went against them. Yes, his people were a strong race, but right now they were a mob of hysterical, frenzied madmen, crying for blood. When the servant returned, he placed a bowl of water on the ledge of the balcony. Slowly dipping his hands into the water, the governor raised them dripping before the audience. “Behold, I am innocent of the blood of this just person, he cried. The multitude repeated its cry. When he saw that he had prevailed nothing, but rather had caused a tumult, he raised his still cleansed hands for silence and beckoned to the real criminal. It is the custom that I release unto you one at the passover. I give you Barabbas. He looked at the guards, a broken man. I find no fault in him, but you have heard the voice of the people. Crucify Him! And for the second time that day, Pontius Pilate felt the power of the people. The Beauty Parlour Betty Holdsworth, 13A The surest remedy I know for curing the “blues is a visit to the beauty parlour. Even now, as I push the gleaming glass doors open, my spirits begin to rise. My feet take wings on the soft-as-a-cloud carpet; soft strains of a Viennese waltz caress my ears; the scent of expensive cosmetics embraces me, and I am once more absorbed in the luxury of this house of beauty. A model of perfect grooming from his well-polished shoes to his sleek black hair is Monsieur Francois, the glorified male receptionist. He greets me in the charm¬ ing manner for which the French are famous. Assuring me that Marie, my special hairdresser, will come for me shortly, he asks me to wait. Sinking into the roomy, modernistic lounge, I glance about me. I see a second time the pictures of the models with their sculptured hair smiling down at me, and I grin in return, confident that soon my hair will gleam in a style as chic as theirs. Marie pert and petite in her crisp uniform beckons; we pass several other booths and soon reach her own small cubicle. A bouquet of colourful autumn flowers before me, green walls in a clear but not glaring light attend as the real beauty work is begun. A quick brushing reveals the true condition of my tresses and all its possibilities, a brief consultation, and then the scissors. Skilled hands sound “snip, snip , expertly shaping my new hair style; a last snip and every hair fits perfectly in this new creation. Now comes the shampoo, my favourite operation in the cure for a de¬ flated ego. Oh, how good it is to have my scalp rubbed and scrubbed until it tingles, to feel the spray of warm water and smell the refreshing odour of the shampoo-liquid! We return to my grooming chair be¬ fore the flowers for the next step, the setting. Silently (Continued on Page 44)

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Hallowe ' en Party — October 31, 1952 , While witches, ghosts pirates and gypsies were prowling about in the darkness ol the night, the students of Forster Collegiate were enjoying themselves at their an¬ nual Hallowe en Party in the school auditorium. Miss Gurney, suitably dressed for the occasion, led a rollicking singsong with her hearty voice. For nearly an hour the auditorium rang with such old favourites as Down By the Old Mill Stream and “I’ve Got A Lovely Bunch of Coconuts”. Miss Gurney and Miss Munnings instructed a large group of students in the basic steps of square dancing, and although there were few professionals, everyone managed splen¬ didly. We hope to have more square dances in the near future. Students who helped make the Hallowe’en Party a real success were Jackie Welch. Ethel Mercer, Stan Drabek. Don MacLennan and Joyce Wells. The Spartalogue staff wishes to thank the committee for providing the student body with an evening of wholesome fun. Football Formal — December 19, 1952 Soft lights illuminating the auditorium, a cascade of red and white streamers hang¬ ing from a silver star suspended from the centre of the ceiling, a gaily decorated Christmas tree standing on the stage, and a background of tiny musical notes glittering from the green curtain—all contributed to a festive atmosphere for the annual Foot¬ ball Formal. Multicoloured balloons, bright posters, and a huge goal post bearing the name of each player on our “1952 Football Team”, completed the decorations. The dance committee, under the able direction of Mr. Whetstone, was responsible for all the arrangements connected with the dance. Committee members dancing to the strains of Bill Richardson s Orchestra were John Cleminson. convener, there with Carol Patterson who looked charming in a gown of white tulle; Tom Yates escorting Shirley Borshuek—Shirley wore a gown of lavender net over taffetta. Joyce Wells, also on the committee, and wearing white net with navy, attended with Jim Oliver. Gordon Kirk was there with Marilyn Hughes—Marilyn wearing a gown of yellow net with a black velvet bodice. Florence Senfa. atttractive in a tiered orchid tulle gown was es¬ corted by Bob Willoughby. Gail Morris, wearing pink tulle, came with Dick Howitt. and Peter Masson was with Anne Johnston, lovely in deep turquoise net. Arriving at the school after having coketails at Anne Johnston ' s were Phyllis Klein and Dave Rudkin. Nina Mudry and lan Hamilton. Diane Yates and Dave Strick¬ land. Elizabeth McLister and Dave Marsden. Jill Armstrong and Bill Johnston. Dorothy Sorenson and Bill Powers. Marg Carson and Chuck O ' Hara. Carol Stephenson and John Anderson. Donna Cunningham and Bob Hamilton. Many graduates returning for the festive occasion were Mavis Herdman and Ed Callaghan. George Sutton and Grace Robinson. Diant ha Hester and Les Dowdell and Shirley Johnston and Ken Wagner. Sipping cokes and chatting at intermission we saw Lois Bowley and Stan Drabek. Ken Bottoms and Joyce Posthlethwaite. Betty Steer and Paul Ariss. Lorraine Baronows- ki and Don McLennan, Mavis McCuaig and Alan Mills, Joyce Crew and Harry Fiddler, and many others. Lending their patronage were Mr. and Mrs. Whetstone. Miss Scanlan and Miss Farr. All in all, everyone agreed that the dance was a fine way to begin a welcome Christmas vacation. (More Activities on Page 30)