Galt Collegiate Institute and Vocational School - Specula Galtonia Yearbook (Galt, Ontario Canada)

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ss SPECULA GALTONIA p The first spring morning-a yellow sun in a blue sky beating down eddying rays of warmth that soften the merry breeze and sends steaming up from earth an incense long held captive-and every fibre of your body drunk with light and heat you stand, a pagan, glorifying in sun and wind and earth smell, nothing beautiful about you-no need to hear a bird, no need to see a bud : trees may be stark, deformed, grotesque, dirty puddles of half-melted snow may be at your feet g there will be no perfume of roses borne on the breeze. In that moment you are not simply on the earth, but of it, and it is completely your heritage 5 you are flushed with life-forgot- ten are its hopes and fears, you exult in the mere reality of existence, not in what you may turn it to! Truly a very animal is this carefully-nurtured product of ages. An evening late in autumn-the quiet rain has fallen like a benediction upon a weary world, the ground is darkly luminous with water and the wan yellow leaves thirstily cup it in gnarled edges 3 the sky is dark with the immensity of space, clouds are slow-moving masses barely distinguish- able from the background of night! You may stand under a tall tree and sense with each stir of wind a pattering of drops about you, leaves flutter- ing softly down, caressing you lightly as they pass, to rest with a scarce- audible sigh on the thick-strewn earth. And you feel a sadness too deep for tears, the aching, poignant desolation of nature, the unutterable loneli- ness and futility of humanity, the intolerable weight of centuries gone and yet to be. Truly' a very god is this animal man. ABE Reticence By MARION GROH The sun rises, and the marshes grey Look forth from watery lowlands To greet another day. The world seems silentg No life stirs in this wild vein Till herons build their nests, And the loons cry again. A winter silence reigns, The marshlands white and deep Show only 'bove the watery snow Slim rushes sunk in sleep. Ghost light the scene relieves, No song the marshlands know, And only dreary winds can cross This northern waste of snow. Away across this Hinterland, Across these fields of snow, Rough crags loom out against the sky, The crags that no men know. For only geese in summertime, And only loons in fall Have ever found this mystic place Or know of it at all. l I

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SPECULA GALTGNIA 37 Nature's Moods , By HAROLD DANDO The mists drawn upward to the morning light, Revealed a pleasing, peaceful sight, A heron gleaming greyish blue, Wondering what, this day, to do, Stood in the sedgy shallows of the lake, And with many a playful toss and shake, His feathers was preening. Around him floated lily-cups, pure and white, Glowing softly in the spreading light. In the east, the dainty, rosy hue Grew stronger, then changed to blue. Then over the treetops, for his time-honoured race, Sprang Phoebus, and on his broad, smiling face, A welcome was beaming. Then over the hills came the call of hounds, And over the ridge with weakening bounds Came a noble stag, gasping for breath. Then he turned to do battle to the death. Such was the stag's inevitable fate, For destined it was to come soon or late, And he met it defiantly. obs! Rambling By MARION TAIT 'HERE are two seasons which call a man's heart a-gypsying back through dim centuries to a primitive, uncivilized fellow-being roving carelessly through vast forests and broad plains quite animally alert to the joy of sun and wind and earth, and which for a few fleet seconds brush away the dust of years. It is not so very strange perhaps that these should be the seasons which signify to man the birth and the death of a year, because man is the highest embodiment of a life whose most import- ant factors are birth and death. Summer is life which is too floridly and perfectly beautiful to counsel searching of heart and wandering adown years-winter too absolutely devoid of life. It is when man stands reverently in the very presence of a year pul- sating into life or sinking into death that he may sense in moments that are an eternity perfect harmony between himself and the earth. Not that one can mark off an hour, a day or a month as apart from the discord of time, for the miracle never occurs at the same hour-may never occur- that miracle of transforming a man into a sweeping, surging, blind exulta- tion or an overwhelming, fathomless sorrow.

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SPECULA GALTONIA 39 Snapshots By ASH LORRIMAN HERE is one in every house, and the worst part of it is that they are never mislaid, but seem always very handy and ever ready to subdue any visitor. I refer to snapshot albums. You go somewhere to spend a nice quiet evening when, plop!-someone throws a photograph album on your lap, sits down beside you, and you're caught. That is mother when she was my age. Look at the funny dress, and the hat! I'm glad people don't wear things like that now. And that is Robert on his bicycle. Isn't he the image of his Uncle Peter? And this is myself at the lake last summer. That is the way I went to a masquerade. And that is the ferry. And this is Robert after he fell in the creek. Isn't he a scream Mother made him go right to bed and he missed his din- ner . . . and so on, until you begin to wonder when the end is going to come. To get the agony over sooner, you try stealthily to skip a page or so. But no, it cannot be. Wait a minute, you missed a page. Oh! it is a good one too! Look at Robert there, with Dad s derby on his head. Isn't he just too cute for words ? But I have a plan now. I m going to fool these in- I-nlnk veterate snapshot fiends. I am going to have somebody 5l1::.:..:. take fifty-seven snapshots of moi-meme and carry them in my pocket. When I go visiting I shall always !l!Qi!ll!l' have them with me, and if someone tries to catch me 'illililill-Q, , x with an album I am going to say, I have brought some I l of my own pictures that I thought might interest you, and out will come the fifty-seven varieties. I shall ny!-l,:L:. , hand them over one by one, with a bit of patter-talk l !ll!ll!ll!! about each one, me sitting in a chair, me in a bathing '.1,,illiQiii!' suit, me on horseback, me fishing, me in golf clothes, E-5E?:? ' f me eating-fifty-seven different varieties, one after I' - M the other. s ' ff And if that doesn't cure my well-meaning friends, I'm going to move to Borneo. aes As We See Them N reviewing to-day's best sellers one invariably questions- Where are the best-sellers'l' of yesterday ? It is widely known that a few may become classics, and, from time to time appear as reprints, others come into being on five-and-ten cent stands, the relics and treasures of old homesteadsg others have been ignominiously burned in the ardent flame of the eagar new generation, they are sub- merged-we know them not. We are busy appraising our own output-what are other-day favour- ites to us? But time will deal ruthlessly with our best sellers, will reject or accept them without mercy-they may become as age-dim as the candles and crinolines of our Grandmothers.