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

Page 23 text:

Page Twenty-Two THE SPARTALOGUE — 1959 MEMORABLE NIGHT Along the decks they amble gaily With only care of what to do, The game of skill and sport are over And now they must invent anew. Let ' s watch the path the ship is cutting (That sparkling spray of foam!) Or count the stars that glow o ' erhead— No night like this at home. Among the many faces there Not one could ever guess That soon they ' d find their final home— Their final home of rest. Dash it all, what have we here? You say the ship is sinking? It cannot be; it must not be: The danger light ' s not blinking! So many died, so many failed To grasp at life ' s fast-fading hand, Yet no remorse, regretting now Can help the members of that band. What can it be that in men ' s minds They dare to tempt the mighty gods? It cannot be; it must not be: Or else be victims of the odds. AND THEN THERE WAS ONE The date is August twenty-seventh, nineteen fifty-eight. The setting is a United States Air Force base in the Mojave Desert of New Mexico. The place is a glass-walled control tower, crowded with military dignitaries, and scientists. The occasion is the first attempt of a jet plane to shatter the confines of the earth ' s atmosphere. From the control tower of the air base the viewers can see the poised profiles of two sleek United States Air Force experimental rocket X-9 aircraft. The planes are a bee¬ hive of activity as technicians and mechanics scurry to and fro making the customary last minute checks and test s. The picture changes as the broad expanses of runway become remarkably void of movement as the wail of a siren signals that the runway area must be cleared for action. Now, only two men stand beside each plane, one to help the pilot into the cockpit and the other to remove the ponderous blocks from the airplane ' s wheels. Two test pilots emerge from some unknown area and walk side by side towards the needle-nosed metal birds on the runway. Their faces are not taut with anxiety; instead their warm human laughter at some personal joke seems to shatter the tense atmosphere of silence which has prevailed. Indeed, as the two pilots strode to their planes and climbed into the cockpits one could not help wondering where and what human emotions lay cloaked beneath the plastic bubble of their oxygen masks and the bloated swellings of their thermal flying suits. Were they really as calm as they seemed; or was their stoical app earance and laughter a mere cloak for human fear? A blaring loudspeaker once more motivated a burst of activity. The runway was cleared for flight and the control operator gave the okay for take-off. One, then the other hurtled down the runway at screaming speeds until the noses arched upwards and wheels no longer touched our world. The first plane wheeled in a broad circle ' till the two were at the same altitude; then they disappeared into the haze of the afternoon sky. All eyes were then turned to the scopes and dials of electronic tracking devices, while on the runway trucks with mobile antennas started tracing the flight of the two planes. Meanwhile, the co-ordination control centre locked and guarded its doors for security reasons and was en¬ gaged in a wave of furious action. Plotting reports from radar and detection apparatus were relayed on to the scopes in the co-ordination center room, revealing the altitude at which the planes were flying. One minute, two minutes, five minutes, ten minutes went by until finally the planes could be detected no longer. They had flown through the atmosphere. The co-ordination center announced this via the loud speakers and pandemonium broke loose. Men slapped each other on the back and shouted phrases of jubilance. But in the control center room there was cause for alarm. After one minute the scopes had again begun to track the planes. True, enough, there were the blips on the scopes. But anxiety turned to stark fear and amazement, for now there was one. —Jean Holdsworth, 13A. —Arthur Armstrong, 13A.

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•THE SPARTALOGUE” — 1959 Page Twenty-One ♦ ♦♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ it ♦ t ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ DO YOU DREAM? HAVE YOU EVER DREAMED ABOUT THE DAY YOU WOULD BE A TOP EXECUTIVE OR THE SECRETARY TO A TOP EXECUTIVE? You Have? Excellent! However, dreaming or imagining alone won ' t get you there. Don ' t be satisfied with mediocrity. Is the best too good for you? You bet it isn ' t! Then why be satisfied with anything less than the best, when the best is so easy to attain, if you want it enough? Graduating in BUSINESS ADMINISTRATION or EXECUTIVE SECRETARIAL work at the WINDSOR BUSINESS COLLEGE is the quickest, surest and least expensive method of making your dream come true. HIGH SCHOOL GRADUATES, INVESTIGATE BEFORE YOU DECIDE ! We heartily welcome your call for full information about either of these courses. TRAIN IN THE SCHOOL THAT WILL DO THE MOST FOR YOU! WINDS R. J. SERVICE, Principal Bank of Montreal Building 15 Chatham Street East ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ■f ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

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•THE SPARTALOGUE — 1959 Page Twenty-Three WHAT EVERY TEACHER SHOULD KNOW Crack! A long silence. Crack! The screams of a child. Bang! The closing of a door. Clop, clop, clop. A skinny black-coated figure strode to the front of the room. Waving a flexible willow switch, Master Stonehouse growled, That goes for the rest of you little urchins too! Repeat the Declaration of Independence. Weak little voices answered his terse command. Louder, do you hear, or you ' ll get the licking of your life. Perfunctory shouts sprang from the trembling students. A piercing smile of cruel satisfaction appeared on Master Stonehouse ' s face. When I was a boy, I knew my lessons perfectly. I had to! We had strict teachers in those days. None of this molly-coddling! shouted Stonehouse. That night, one of those petrified pupils of Master Stonehouse went to see her grandmother. Grandma, do you think the pupils were really as good as Mr. Stonehouse says they were? she asked. Certainly not, dear; children were just the same, answered her grandmother. Imagine that Mr. Stonehouse scolding you. For land ' s sake, do you know he was the worst boy for putting frogs in girls ' lunches or sneaking off to go swimming. I guess he doesn ' t remember too well, giggled Jeannie, but you ' d think he ' d understand us a little at least. The next day at school, Master Stonehouse looked dif¬ ferent somehow, but in what way? He did not look really different and yet there was something different about him. Please recite your memory work with me, he said blandly. All joined in with an eagerness hard to describe and smiles dotted faces that would not have dared a smile otherwise. Don ' t you know your memory work? questioned Stonehouse. All the smiles vanished as little Jeannie trembled and said, No, Master Stonehouse. Then a look of amazement spread throughout the class¬ room as Stonehouse said, Let me help you, then and he proceeded to recite slowly with her. That evening, Jeannie just had to go to see her grand¬ mother. ' Gee, M r. Stonehouse was different to-day, blurted out Jeannie; she was in an especially gay mood. Mr. Stonehouse helped me, and Mike and Georgie tool she hastily added. Why was he so nice to-day, but so bad before? inquired Jeannie. Grandma smiled, rocked gently back and forth, and then said, Sometimes a little memory work does a teacher good. NIGHT FLIGHT Up and down, with dips and dives, With black hooked wings, and shiny eyes. Without the sun, always at night, He screams ahead and continues his flight. His target is sighted, destroying the land, He climbs high above and dives on the band, He continues his flight one knows not to where. Then returns to his homeland through the same silent air. His companion, the night hawk, is making no sound, But swiftly and suddenly swoops on the ground, Attacks his object, then circles up high. Attacks again without even a cry. A screech is screamed from the tree-top tall; Two lights are gleaming as they commence to fall. The white feathered owl with his two hooked feet, Has captured the prey and has made his retreat. Like the shiny black bat making his dive, While screaming, descending, gleaming like eyes, The powerful jet of enormous size, Streaks boldly along, dominating the skies. —Milton Lesperance, 13C. JOHNNY Johnny was a brainy, scientific kind of chap. He knew his cubes and calculus, Geometry and formulas, As soon as he could talk. He studied up on physics with his pablum and his pap. He nearly made an atom bomb, For which he was chastised by mom, As soon as he could walk. At school he was a problem to his teachers, one and all; Discovered anti-gravity In Kindergarten primary While playing with a top. He floated rafts of building blocks that cluttered up the hall, And coasted on them, yelling, While others did their spelling. They couldn ' t make him stop. In high-school tho ' , he settled down and worked with might and main. He polished off his chemistry, His history and his hemistry, And looked around for more. Higher education made a certain minor change inside his scintillating brain. He began to build a rocket But later he just dropped it For it had begun to bore! You ' ll find him in Bahama lying underneath a palm tree, Gathering virtue like a Buddhist, Contemplating his left knee. —Andy Small, 1 2A. —Mary Holden, 1 2A.