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

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UX GLEBANAGXQQAQ- THE STORM Tnuw Pnuze by Jouoors Cook, 5-is Daunrless the tree stood quite alone, Aloof, abofve the wind-tossed sea. Its base, a precipice of stone, lVould last until eternity. F orked light flashed bright from tnrb'lent cloud Revealing rain-swept leafless lirnbs. The thickening niist, a phantorn shroud, Swirled to the gale's ternpestuous whinis. A rifoen cloud set free a blast Of light, and arrow-like it sped To rend the 151726. It fell from sight Far down to nieet a watery bed. And so with nian who travels on, Alone, aloof from hurnan ken. H elll rneet sonietirne a bitter dawn, And wishld he'd known his fellow rnen. MQPALERE FLAMMAM LADY MOON SECOND moz: by lllniuzaiun' OCilI,X'll'I, 3-F Like a silver boat upon a raging sea, The nioon is tossed within the wind-swept cloud, IV hose fingers grasp its edges greedily And seek to dint its light as in a shroud. Sir North Wind wakes and puffs his icy blast, Before which breath the clouds all flee away. Sweet Lady Moon in triuniph rides at last O'er heaven and earth, to hold her queenly sway. And now she pours her glory o'er the sky And sheds upon us all her radiant light, And oftirnes as we look we heafue a sigh That rnen can never keep their souls so bright. .-it T l . frm- ,5- ' Q0 x x x',f 1, 4 - T i 4 I 'QI .,-I' ' . I FOR ALL THAT by WINNI1flil'ZlJ DUNNING, 3-o Qllfith apologies to R. Burns? A man may be as poor as sand And yet be rich-for all that, If he can stand and face the world, He's called a man-for all that. If he can work away each day And ne'er complain-for all that, His friends will see the work he's done And like him more-for all that. The marquis, duke, the lord, and prince Are oft real men-for all that, But many are not kindly to The poorer folks-for all that. But still I'm sure that some day we lfVill brothers be-for all that, And live long days of friendliness With joyous times-for all that. THE GLEBITE by jack I-IAR15, 3-c Piece of toast and cup of tC2l, Brush my teeth and turn the key, Forgot my books, I must go back, And while l'm here is there nothing I lack? Out again and on my route And there's the shoe-lace of my boot Tangled around and under my legs, I ought to pin it with clothes-pegs. At last the building hoves in sight, And on my brain there comes a light, Of quicker thoughts and visions new, Of languages and Algebra, and X's:z. And so the dreary grind goes on just like a six-day marathon, But when exams do come around, I, in my greatest glory crown'd, Come home with honours to the T. Now dou't you all wish you were mc? f-lsslt

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UX GLEBANAGXZBAQ QAHDALERE FLAMMAM THE GAHIDIIAEEQU HILLS HE woonLANn in Autumn is a garden of massive oaks and great pale birches stretching like a Colossus or a drowsy giant towards thc crystal-clear blue of the sky. But if the common wood is a garden, then that which garbs the ancient, purple Laurentian Hills is an Eden, an Eden of wild life abounding in a play- ground of Nature's best. In the foreground of this breath-taking panorama, one glimpses a winding, needle-like thread, a dusty road, which fades as it ascends into the Autumn mist. It grips one with an urge to follow, to probe every nook and cranny of the woods' vastness, to attain the topmost peak and scent the pure air, untainted by the gloomy city. Our heavy shoes crush lifeless twigs under- foot, and a tiny squirrel scoots to a nearby tree where, balancing precariously on an overhang- ing limb, he scolds, his rusty and bushy tail arched stiffly as if to accentuate his stern dis- approval. The mid-day sun sifting through a leafy tree gives a dappled effect to the patch- work quilt at our feet. As we wander over a sloping ridge, we come upon a tiny lake sur- rounded by overhanging willows whose reflec- tions point the lake,s edges like some great hand-tinted saucer. Water laps placidly against an occasional trunk from which, in years gone by, the shore-line has slowly retreated. White r WARREN LANGFORD 4-A wisps of smoke curl idly from some concealed camp-fire. Drifting aimlessly, we reach the water's edge and pause to contemplate the myriads of tiny, gaudy leaves that have toppled from shore maples and are now forming tiny barges for the numerous aquatic insects. As we proceed along the shore, our footsteps rouse a grouse and she scutters a short distance, finally soaring to the security of a thinly-clad elm. A groundhog stares beadily from his earthy home, until losing courage, he turns, flaunts his abbreviated tail, and disappears, only to re- appear, perhaps, on the farther side of the ridge. Incessantly, the leaves fall like garlands in some great ball-room. The sun grows old and in the western sky there appears a ruddy glow, dark- ening continually. As darkness comes all too soon in these brief Autumn days, we reluct- antly turn our steps, and reaching the summit, stop to gaze once more at the friendly little lake whose waters are being slowly dyed a muddy indigo by the swiftly leadening sky. Feeling like convicts who have been granted one day of freedom, we return with drawn faces to our prosaic everyday life. -l-Q-.gi THE LION HEARTED KING u by SHIRLEY JACKSON, 1-A My storyis of a gallant knight, King Richard was his name, VV ho gained by sword and brafuery The laurels of his fame. Due to the teaching of Peter The ardent, loving, Priest, Richard left on the third Crusade, In the far and dangerous East. He left the shores of England, To sail the seas afar, And on the Isle of Sicily, U7 ed the Princess of Navarre. He warred on Emperor Saladin, In a battle for the cross, He besieged the Holy City, And many suffered loss. Deserted by treacherous companions, His hopes were growing low,' The Saracens gained a victory, And Richard home did go. IfVhile he rode en route for England He was captured by the foe, And placed within a castle, In a dungeon foul and low. 'Twas then his faithful nzinstrel, 'W hom many called Blondell, By a song did rescue him, Or so, the legends tell. And would you not pay tribute, To him whose fame still rings? This lion hearted warrior, The bravest of the Kings! il38l '

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' U X GLEBANAGXQQ- or-,SPALERE FLAMMAM HER BIRTHDAY FEAST by NELSON 66 oME IN, come in! creaks Grand- mother Eullasina Maria who is' 115 years old to-day. A noisy crowd of forty-seven relations l stream into her humble hut and gaze about greedily. Steaming pots of stew and piles of ripe fruit litter the floor. In the midst of this island of food is a white frosted cake, divided into forty-eight pieces. The merry relations hastily bid Grandmother Euflasina Maria the respects of REILLY 5-C She, herself, devours the last crumbling remnant. Irreverently, her relations gulp down this Hnal offering of hers. Scarcely waiting to embrace her, they tumble out of the hut and go their way. Grandmother Euflasina Maria watches the last one disappear from view. A hundred and fifteen years is a long time to wait, but it won't be long now. It won't be long now , she mutters to herself, as she crawls back to her hovel. The body departed in pain, and the mind in sore View. , the day, and swoop down up- hl f,iZu'lZZ?AenESf ll? SEEKS.. as as .-:,:,.- street. tomorrow to Kats cenxcterylmwisa- v OH the f00Cl- 30011, only gfeasy for mfffmenf- rS'2il 'Zil The next morning Grand- . . -'ggi' --l- l - 7 Emi 5621319 In SML, aifayg akes Own Cake mother Euflasina Maria is an e mnumera e rui - -u fa s . . Y On 115th Birthday - found dead in her bed by the peelings. -.- Asthm . . . . NBEI-L0 H0R1Z0N'1'E'BfH1il- 3 local parish priest who called , gaze. ov. F4.-UPJ-Grandmolherly Grlnnlngtoothlesslys Grand Euflasma Maria who claimed ' ' ' ' . . . ,he W., 115 ,sqm ,M baked works to give her his priestly blessing. mother Euflasina Maria quiets .gg ,e,.kef.,,he, t,i,.,,d,,,,'c,,m.,,, D, mm, A f h 1 t th d - - ' f h h'l A Sw r n her chattering kinfolk and E35-Qlnighifigf signing Ei2f',,g,,fn'Q'g3g3 ours a er' e goo , n ne or se n w re min lines theln up around the xgighgeiheafietgqdliggt dgngfg ggunijspiwglghl fnflfl IS 1I'1fO.l'lT1Cd that the fOI'ty- Wh,te ,tinged cake. Witl, in, :2ad?gddo3w:Di:gn?i?years of 553,55 f seven relations of Grand- Hnitg Care, Shg Sees that every- ' l'llOEl1CI' EIIHHSIUH Marla had one gets a piece, that no one AWDONTT We 21150 p21SSCd away in their ' ALLNOUAQE BETTE gCES IWO PICCCS, 110 OUC IIOIIC. '-TCINYINI Tl-IE Afxnx' ' sleep. -L-Q-Q-gi THE DYING CONQUEROR . by LLOYD FRANCIS, 5-A A foul ring of arms and a clashing of plate, And he of great life lay crimsoned in death. Vain grew the conquering roar: silent the vision of life. Firm lay the brow and the arms of bright steel, Disdaining to falter, scorning to yield, But the arrow of Death had achieved fatal aim, And displayed mortal body, the spoil. Quoth a general nearby: Behold valiant dust Of one accustomed to conquer, Lord of the world. Blood was his triumph, and Blood was his lust, And Blood was his triumph at last. God will wreak vengeance on the tormented soul, For the scourge of the world and the sorrow of lives. Yet methinks there is even some justice on earth: mental distress, For material wealth was his pleasure, his aim, Sure to the mind to dispel with the soul, Fate is reward, triumph and hope of the just. An aide of the chief, standing o'er his lord's corpse, Was moved in his heart to defend the dead's claim. Were the lines of your good the bounds of ' 1 mankind. You dream of a Christ in virtuous robes, i Resplendent in glory, in honour, sincere, To dispense in exactness rewards of blind lives. His was no mind of a wavering doubt, Clear-cut his decisions, ambition his goal. He lived in ideals and he died for them true. Vengeance on earth he nor reasoned nor felt, And he fought with his cause to the last. Were advance of the world an ideal or a goodly life? 'T is the choice ,twixt the former and the latter, 'tis the progress of earthly life! Mols - ---f- Y -