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

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Page Twenty-Two THE SPARTALOGUE — 1956 I lie Release By TAMY COHOON. 13A The rocking of the boat ceased. The time of reckoning was close at hand, but the small figure, huddled in the corner, seemed lifeless. It had been such a long time since he had seen the sun¬ shine. walked on the cool, green grass, smelt the fragrance of the flowers. His thoughts drifted back to that day when he had been so abruptly shut up in this dungeon, this dark smelly hole in the hold of the ship. It had happened so quickly that his mind had not conceived the meaning until it was too late. He had been walking nonchalantly along the wharf, when suddenly he felt himself being grabbed and dragged up a gangplank. After bumping down two flights of iron stairs, he was shut up in this cage-like cell. A small window about ten feet higher than his head afforded him a clear view of people’s feet, moving on the upper deck. He did not under¬ stand this sudden imprisonment, for he had done nothing wrong, No one had bothered to explain the reason to him either. The only person he had seen, within speaking dis¬ tance, that is, was a short, stocky man with a black patch over his left eye. He was dressed in seafaring togs and walked with a pronounced limp because of a peg leg. This inimical character brought him his food twice a day. The so-called nourishment consisted of a dry cracker and maybe a small morsel of meat with a small ration of water to wash it down. At the beginning of the dire adventure, he at- to evoke a reason for his imprisonment. All he ever received was a harsh Shaddap! Many times he had tried to reach the ears of those people to whom the feet belonged, but to no avail. Not a soul seemed to comprehend the nature of his predicament. Finally he resigned himself to the inevitable. He could do nothing but wait and seer Returning to the present, he felt the boat sway gently from the force of the water. The scraping and shuffling of feet across the floor of the ship reached his ears. Hearing many voices ringing out, he listened intently until suddenly a familiar voice floated across the intervening space. It drew nearer and as it did so a great new hope surged in his breast, driving away the fear and anguish of the preceding days. Steps resounded on the stairs and then the door opened. A small, dark, immaculately dressed woman in her early forties walked to the door of the cage. As the latch was released a tiny brown ball of fuzz literally threw him¬ self at her and gave her a series of wet, affectionate kisses. With great sighs of contentment the dog admitted to himself that life was again beautiful for he was in the arms of his mistress as they landed in a new country. Crash Landing By JOHN SPARLING. 13A In the radio despatcher ' s office at Idlewild, the hands of the clock showed one a.m. Despatcher Welland stretched, got up, and crossed the room to the automatic coffee dis¬ penser. He was just returning to his chair when the red warning light flashed above the massive bank of instruments he operated. With the speed of long practice his hands flitted over the dials and switches. Almost immediately the speaker intoned. T5934 to Idle- wild—request permission and instructions for landing— over.” Welland ' s voice lapsed into that even, robot-like tone used in air communication as he answered. Idlewild to T5934: runway five cleared for landing. Range: eight miles. Ap¬ proach bearing: two zero degrees, over.” Planes using the number T59— were the new Comet IV jet airliners used by the British Overseas Airways Corpora¬ tion. As usual, this Comet was ahead of schedule. With its speed, it would be over the airport in forty seconds. The night was cool and clear, with unlimited visibility. The plane would have no trouble landing unaided. Welland sat back more comfortably in his chair, took another sip of coffee, and idly gazed out the window, watching for the silver ship to loom out of the darkness to the north of the field. A moment later the shrill screech of jets pervaded the airfield, and on the horizon a tiny speck rapidly grew larger. Aboard the Comet, Pilot George Blake pressed the button which would lower the wheels. A little red point of light flashed on immediately above the button. Something was wrong with the landing gear! The wheels were not down! He pressed the button again, but the red light remained on, like a stubborn eye. watching him, refusing to close. By this time his co-pilot, Nick Porter, had seen it too. They looked at each other, creases of concern appearing on their foreheads, their hands tightening on the controls of the plane. As if by command they both looked out towards the airport. It lay straight ahead, a field of light against the darkness, with a path of twin rows of lights beckoning towards the plane. The runway was only a few thousand yards off, and they had no wheels! Blake pulled up sharply on the wheel, and as the plane leveled out above the airport, he spoke with clipped terse¬ ness, T5934—landing mechanism won’t work! Our wheels will not go down. I will circle above the field. Try to see what is wrong—over. His voice was tense with fear, as yet under iron control. Idlewild. wilco, over.” Despatcher Welland picked up a telephone, snapped a few words into the mouthpiece and the whole airport awoke to the danger above. Searchlights stabbed up at the Comet, turning her into a bright white cross flashing above the field. Fire-engines and ambulances with sirens screaming concentrated at runway five. Radios warned all planes in the air to keep away from the field until the Comet had landed. As it passed overhead, observers could see that the right wheels were in satisfactory condition, but the left ones were only half down, and seemed to be twisted. If a landing were attempted, it would almost certainly be fatal. Inside the plane, co-pilot Porter spoke quietly to the passengers through the intercom, Ladies and gentlemen, please fasten your seat-belts at once. The landing will be somewhat rough. With this fine piece of understatement he finished his message, and returned to the business of helping to land a plane without landing gear. In their compartment, the passengers began to wonder why the plane kept circling the airfield again and again. They soon realized something was seriously wrong. They could see the fire-engines and ambulances below; they could see the searchlights focussed on their plane. Then someone on the left side happened to notice in the searchlight beam the twisted, slanting wheels of the left landing gear. Quickly the word spread through the pas¬ sengers. A stewardess walked hurriedly up the aisle to the pilot’s compartment. Five seconds later the co-pilot’s voice snapped harshly over the intercom. Ladies and gentlemen, I have been informed that you know the situation. Do not panic! Every effort to avoid danger is being made. The safest place for you is in your seats with your seat-belts fastened firmly.” They did not panic. Several began to pray silently; others spoke in whispers; still others sat with their eyes staring Continued on Page 67

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THE SPARTALOGUE” — 1956 Page Twenty-One HAWK Motionless in a breathless sky He listless hangs, He sights his quarry And, like some plunging star, He plummets down, Talons widespread. It struggles futilely in his cruel grip But he, Relentless, Unmoved by muted pleas. Lifts up into the pale sky, Bearing his prize to some bare, sun-scorched crag, To feast in unmolested gluttony. —Rosabelle Veighey, 12A. FAITH As we walk along the broad path of life Experiencing sadness, sorrow and strife, Knowing that someone greater than we Is willing and waiting to hear our plea, Knowing He sends the drops of rain We certainly ought to praise His name. As we live on earth from day to day Molding our lives as if they were clay. Seeing small buds bloom into flowers Watching the birds fly to church towers. Watching small children play for hours We soon learn who made this great world of ours. —Margaret Johnstone, 10E. BY THE RIVER The ducks are on the river. And ice is drifting by. The sun shines bright as silver. No clouds are in the sky. Nature used her magic wand. To make this all serene. No boats with shrill command, Now mar this peaceful scene. Spring will soon be with us. The wild ducks will fly away, And the boats with their busy fuss Will start again one day. —Ann Rutherford, 11A. WHY •’ Soft white clouds line the deep blue sky. Blossoms cover the trees so high. Many times I ask myself why God gave these gifts to such as I. Purple sunsets, brightest dawns. The greenest woods, the gentlest fawns, The shining sun with its golden crown All this He made when He came down. —Joyce Brent, UB. “FISHIN’ ” A business man may sit a wishin ' . To get away from his toils; But instead of wishin ' , to be fishin ' , He SHOULD be fishin ' . A millionaire may sit a wishin ' , To get away from plush and gold; But instead of wishin ' , to be fishin ' . He SHOULD be fishin ' . A school boy may be a wishin ' . To escape from his classroom toils; But instead of wishin ' , to be fishin ' , He SHOULD be fishin ' . A teacher may sit a wishin ' . To escape from his stupid hoard; But instead of wishin ' , to be fishin ' . He SHOULD be fishin ' . You may sit and be a wishin’. For me to end this silly poem; But instead of wishin’, to be fishin ' , YOU should be fishin ' . —Tom Anderson. 10E. THE RIGHT WAY The way is never filled with ease. The road is hard to see. I know that I can find my way, If I but look to Thee. The days are often dull and grey. No end to care I see. I know that I can find my way, If I but look to Thee. Many a time my hidden faith Has almost fled from me. But I know that I can always find The path to right, with Thee. THE LIGHTHOUSE Across the deep, black waters Stands a lighthouse bleak and grey. Its beacon light is flashing To guide the sailor ' s way. Around the little island Lie the rocks so sharp and cold. The white-capped waves come dashing. So white, so bright, so bold. The lighthouse is so desolate Filled with surrounding peace, You hear the sounds of eternal sea. The sounds that never cease. I often think of it at night, This lighthouse bleak and grey. Its beacon light still flashing To guide the sailor ' s way. —Judy Ambrose, 11A. THE POWER OF THINKING When all the World looks dark and gray. And all your hopes are gone. Sit down and think in just what way You did somehow go wrong. For life’s a hard and narrow road, A road that never ends. With lots of tears and heavy loads. But still your constant friend. And when you’ve thought it over twice. And searched down deep within your soul. I’m sure you ' ll lead a richer life, And then, my friend, you’ll find your goal. —Barbara Skeggs. 11B. —Dawn Campbell, 12A.

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THE SPARTALOGUE” — 1956 Page Twenty-Three 1 hrowing Away the Hypothetical Key to Helen By JACK WAYNE, 12A The globe of the mother planet spun beneath. I gazed for several weighty seconds. It all flashed before me, my useless past and more useless future. The only thing worthwhile was the present, and at present this was it: I was Topog¬ rapher ' s mate, A. Jones, H-199327, charting for the navy. It was July, 1944. I was trapped in my special (and rather cramped) rocket, miles above the earth ' s surface, heading quite rapidly in an unknown direction, out of control. Sud¬ denly it dawned on me that my chances of escape were slim. I was not a brave person nor a fatalist: the sound of screaming surprised me, and when I realized it was I who was screaming, I raved louder and louder until (I can re¬ member this quite clearly), the floor came up rapidly to put my most unworthy mind at rest. The floor did its job well, and I was unconscious for a most restful period of time. Upon awakening, I was introduced to a change of scenery. Boredom and futility were behind me now. All my pampered life I had sought excitement, and now my aim was forgotten (indeed everything was forgotten), for I had awakened in a huge garden, filled with everything to make life enjoyable—fruit-laden trees, beautiful surroundings, and magnificent companions. My companions were of such size and richness of colour and bearing and physical charm that I (all-star football center. 1941 season) seemed puny by comparison. They were individuals. Their life ( and. at this time, my life) was rich and full, devoid of struggle. On every tree hung the sustenance of life—food. Game stalked the woods; however it took cleverness to catch the game and boredom played truant from my life for the first time. Life grew richer than I ever dreamed possible. I was ac¬ cepted without reservation, (despite my humanoid short¬ comings). I learned from them the only possible way to lead a perfect life. Life was perfect. In that place, with those creatures, merely existing was the greatest pleasure. There were no superficial ones, until one day. This particular day was like all Atopian days, rich and full. About mid-day I began to feel comfortably hungry. Seeing a strange fruit tree in the corner of the garden I walked over to partake. I was stopped by one of the creatures. Do not eat this fruit, he communicated to me. “It ' s forbidden. He who eats of this fruit is cursed forever. Do not be foolish. Do not eat. He said no more. I was not so perfect as they, and as a result I became curious: I was plagued by desire. I began to think of ways to justify my eating the fruit, and of prov¬ ing the being’s fear untrue. Thus it came to pass that, one day, while out stalking game, I was approached by a snake. (It did not seem un¬ usual after all those other things I. Pssst,” he whispered, come here.” I went. Why don’t you eat from that tree there? he murmured, pointing to the forbidden tree. I explained why (rather unemphatically). What do these creatures know?” he laughed, as he wound his long, hideous body around a tree trunk. They do not wish you to know more than they. That is the tree of knowledge. Eat and you shall be benefited a thousand¬ fold than now. On saying this he wriggled off into the dust, in pursuit of a very warty toad which had caught his eye. Hmmm, I mused. The snake had told me what I wanted to hear and naturally I believed him. Within thirty seconds I was reaching out for the forbidden fruit, I tasted! The bitter taste is one thing I shall never forget. I closed my eyes. Upon opening them again I was horrified. I saw not a garden but a hospital ward. I felt the oppressiveness of July humidity. The ward smelled of antiseptic and third rate nurses. Groaning I gazed into the eyes of my wife, Mrs. Adam Jones (certainly not a magnificent creature). She spoke in her nasal twang. They almost didn ' t pull you through, she twanged. Your heart had stopped beating for a few seconds. It is very lucky Dr. Serpent was able to bring you back. He is indeed a wonderful doctor. Leave It To A Woman By CATHERINE WHITE, 12A As she ironed the sleeve of her new blouse. Dorothy Masco glanced at the kitchen clock. Scarcely three hours remained until her husband would return from the night-shift at the plant. With a faint puckering between her eyes, and a purs¬ ing of her lips, she quickened her pace slightly. It would be nice to have the ironing finished when Joe came in; perhaps if she pressed the tea-towels on only one side this week, she could make it. Then she and Joe could have a cup of tea before bed; sit and talk and maybe even make plans for painting the new house. With this pleasant thought, Dorothy returned to her ironing—a contented smile on her face. She was a tall, slight woman, whose twenty-two inch waist had varied little in twenty plus years of marriage, or to quote her husband, she was growing old gracefully. Her bright, friendly eyes were really too small to be considered beautiful, but the light from them lit up her entire face, so that acquaintances never noticed her other features—the too thin face, ordinary nose, or greying hair—just her eyes. So. Dorothy had never wanted for friends, never been lonely —before. It was not the new house that made her feel so alone, for Dorothy had moved twice before. But then it had been only a few- streets away in their own small town, and she had never really left her friends who could still “drop in as was customary. Here, however, in the big city of Toronto, she knew no one. Of course, in another month, when Joe was acquainted with the new position at the plant, there would be time for new activities. But now—even the children were gone. As she methodically pressed Joe ' s good Sunday shirt. Dorothy’s thoughts turned to her children—not really chil¬ dren any more, for Joe Jr. was in his last year at University, and Louise was now nursing at Winnipeg. Suddenly Dorothy wished desperately that they would appear beside her in the new kitchen in the new house. It would be so cheerful to see Joe, an incurable tease, shocking his fastidious sister with exaggerated big bites from his “Dagwood” sandwich. It would be so comforting to talk, and lean on them a little. Then Dorothy laughed out loud, highly amused to picture herself leaning on the children, for had not they always been the ones to do the leaning? Still it would be nice. . . After the laugh, she felt much better, and reproved herself for becoming so melodramatic. After all, in the week since the Mascos had moved in. Dorothy had met several neigh- Continued on Page 67