Glebe Collegiate Institute - Lux Glebana Yearbook (Ottawa, Ontario Canada)

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UX GLEBANACH9 QAHDALERE FLAMMAM OUR GOVERNOR GENERAL oHN BUCHAN has a new home. His new household is Rideau Hall at the en- trance to Rockcliffe Park, Ottawa. His life has been changed by an act of the King, just as in days of 'Yore' when the King exiled his enemies to foreign lands. Before he was given the title of Lord Tweeds- muir, there seemed to be no constitutional reason why he should not occupy his Royal oflice as plain John Buchan. True, it is not usual for commoners to have a Sovereign's escort of cavalry at a public function. ln a few instances in which they have done so, they usually have been knights, rather than esquires. Still, there is no constitutional point involved to say 'no'. But other than constitutional con- siderations hedge about the crimson carpet. The Governor Generalship is Canada's badge of membership in the world-wide British sys- tem, and that system still bears the imprint of the caste that built it. Thus when once in a while, commoners have been raised to Vice- Regal honours, it has been the rule to first raise them to peerage. john Buchan chose the title of Tweedsmuir, taking the name from a small parish whose heights command a wide view of his native moorlands. alt is not blood that the Buchans have in their veins, but ink , someone once said of this very literary family. The appointment of such a man to the second greatest of the Vice-Regal posts has been not only unprecedented but even sensationally so. Some literary men are prone to stutter, and stammer when they leave their cloistered seclusion, and their speedy return to seclusion is a matter of simple humanitarianism both to themselves and their audiences. But Lord Tweedsmuir is that, ram avis , a man whom heaven has endowed with a golden pen, and a golden tongue. He may be defined as the man who has made the 'thriller industry' respectable. His greatest fiction success was written to beat the American 'dime novel', and for the last sixteen years he has turned out a thriller-a-year with clock-like regularity. He carries three of them in his head, and writes them down as he can. Some, in fact, have been written in the train while travelling between London and Oxford, his Q2 WILLIAM FREEMAN 1-M home in England. He works at top speed, writing them all out in a legible longhand, and turning the pages over to his secretaries, or perhaps relays of secretaries. Although some of his novels are intended for the hammock and the train, there are others, particularly the historical novels, which it is impossible to read without becoming aware of his learning which must have shaped them. But his finest, and most scholarly workmanship has gone into history and biography. His life of Oliver Cromwell, published in IQ34, ranks as one of the standard lives of the fProtector'. His life of Sir Walter Scott has taken rank next to the vast seven-volume life by Scott's son-in-law, J. G. Lockhart. His life of the Marquis of Montrose is a notable picture of one of the most controversial figures in Scottish history. His war service with Lloyd George, as director of information for the Allies, resulted in his adventure stories in the Hannay trilogy, The Thirty-Nine Steps, Greenmantle, and Mr. Standfast, his four-volume history of the War, which came out in 1921 and 1922 was an immense project carried out with the accuracy and sound judgment that characterizes all his more serious work, and still ranks as one of the foremost general histories of the war. His latest book published in England under the title of The King's Gracen, was a Silver jubilee book, and from the publishers' point of view its success has been no less noteworthy, in fact it was the most popular of his more than fifty books. To set forth the unique constitu- tional status of the British crown and to relate to it the tremendous events of the reign of the late King George called for tact, dignity, and management. ln Buchanis handling it was a beautiful and lucid piece of work, and it is typical of him that it was written in four months, time, mainly at week-ends . We have talked of his books-a long task in itself-but we have missed his early life, a still longer task. Being a member of Parliament when he left England, one can well imagine the type of education that he has. He was a private lCon1inued on Page 31 Qlt

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UX GLEBANACXQQ QAQQALERE FLAMMAM l if l if ir vt 1 ,I qfllffoon 15' qjlylnpfiony 1r111s'1' 11111212 ' 'A' Silver trees all batloed in mooizligbt, Rustliizg, glimmering-g Eerie zeplayrs tloro' them qiiifveiiizg, Si glaiizg, shimmering. Iefwel-like stars set iii the night l Glittering, tfwiizklingg Bands of moonlight on the lake TiVide1zi1zg', fwiiizleliizg. Pine trees softly moaiziizg, sighing, Grieving that the night is dying. by HELEN M. FAIRBAIRN, SA if sl 28 ls

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UX GLEBANAGHQQ- mj3PALERE FLAMMAM THE THREE BEARS E was a real old-timer, judging by his antiquated clothes, walrus mous- tache, and outmoded pipe. He was known to the farmers and summer cottagers, who congre- gated in the general store on Saturday night, as Old Pete. Once a week, he told some story of his youth or his life as a trapper and settler in the Gatineau. Judging by the expectant looks on the faces of the occupants of the store and the way Pete bit off a huge chew from a plug of tobacco which he had fished from the depths of his pockets, it was evident that he was about to tell another story. He chewed contentedly for a few seconds, cleared his throat and began: Many's the time I've been lost while huntin', but I recall one time 'way back in the eighties when I had a very interestin, experience. I was only a young shaver then, about thirty years old. We were homesteadin' in back of Island Lake near Blueberry Creek. We'd been there for nearly a year, tryin' to make the land fit for farmin'. Near the cabin was our outhouse where we kept all our grub, includin' home- made maple syrup and a big sack of sugar. One mornin', when I went out to the store- house to get some soap to wash myself with fit was Sundayj, I was surprised to find that the door had been torn from its leather hinges and the sugar sack ripped open. Big tracks led to the thick bush close at hand. Only one thing could have caused this-bears. I wasted no time but ran into the cabin, stuffed some grub into my pockets, grabbed my gun, and started off after the marauders. I followed the trail which led deeper and deeper into the unexplored forest west of our cabin. At a spot where the trail led across a piece of swampy ground, I saw by the spoor that I was followin' two cubs and a full-grown bear. This fact did not worry me, for I was such a good shot I could put a bullet through the eye of a needle at Hfty yards. I followed the trail for several hours, but it led so far into country where I had never been before, that I decided to return to the homestead before it got dark. Accordin'ly I set out in the direc- tion of our cabin. I had not gone far before I came to a big spruce tree, towerin' far above the surroundin' rl 3 1, ROLF LOCKEBERG 5-B countryside, even though the top seemed to be broken off. I was not quite sure of where I was, so I decided to climb the tree and have a look. I climbed to the top but sat there with some difficulty, for the tree was hollow. just as I was mappin' out a way to the cabin which I could see in the distance, I lost my balance. I fell right down inside the tree and my gun fell outside. I did not hurt myself, due to my extreme toughness. My father, who died a couple of years ago at the age of a hundred and seven, used to spank me with fencerails to make me hard. After a few seconds, when I had recovered from my slight shakin up, I started to grope around in the darkness at the foot of the tree. I stumbled over a small furry body and fell across another. Bear cubs! I looked hurriedly up at the circle of light at the top of the tree to see if the cubs' mother was returning yet, but my fears were groundless. I tried to climb out but I found that the inside of the tree was too smooth to afford a hand or foothold. Makin' the best of a bad situation, I sat down with my back against the tree and ate the grub I had brought with me. Fear was a lesson which I had never learned, so it was not long before I feel asleep. When I awoke I could see the light of the stars far above me. I heard a scratchin, on the outside of the tree. It could only mean one thing-the bear was comin' back. Soon the starlight was blotted out and I could hear the bear descendin' on the inside. As soon as it was a few feet above me I stood up, reached for the bear and seized a little of the thick hair on the bear's sides in each hand. I hung on for dear life and bit the bear as hard as I could on the tail. Surprised at this unexpected attack, the bear started up the tree as fast as it could go, draggin' me up with it. Well, sir! the bear had pulled me to the top of the tree in less time than it took 'me to fall down inside. I let go the bear at the top and climbed down the tree on the opposite side from it. Bein' very fast and nimble in those days, I reached the bottom some time before the bear. I jumped the last few feet and, as luck would have it, I landed Ol'