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

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Glebe's Olympic Hopes T THE time of going to press, the members of the Canadian Olympic skiing team have not been chosen. The showings of Johnny Fripp, and Gene Heggtveit, two of Canada's out- standing blade experts, warrant places on the Olympic roster. School examinations, and local financial embarrassment, inter- fered with their partaking in the Dominion Championships at Fort William, still, their excellent displays in all Eastern Canadian shows, and United States Divisional Tourna- ments, gives them that necessary touch for Olympic qualifications. The experience they have gained from international competition, plus the honours they brought to Ottawa and particularly THE GLEBE leaves but one course open for the Olympic Skiing Committee. Towards the middle of the season, they were hailed by leading sport's writers as the greatest interscholastic combination in North America. At the close of the season, when they were defeating Inter- collegiate and National Champions, they wtefeulabelled Les Canadiens Incompar- a es . Our ski team has made a grand slam in Interscholastic skiing for the second year- hats off to the boys-they have left no doubt in Canada or United States as to their grand ability, courage and sports- manship J. MACL. Pkflffk The Skier I climb no more but rest on ski Upon the summit of the trail That winds far down 3 now I am free To spread my wings and swiftly sail, A fleeting figure through the snow, My destination-points below! I start quite slowly,-gather speed, Faster still-I do not heed The dangers of the turns ahead 5 A thousand thrills pass through my head. I stem a turn, my balance true, I catch my breath but am not through Twisting, dipping, seldom straight, The trail leads on, then comes a gate And off across a Held I glide Slowly, slightly still I slide, Until beside a hedge I stop And look with wonder at the top. DOUG. WILLIAMS-4B. LITTLE SVVITZERLAND'S THE HUMDINGERH Pholo by Paul H orsdal LUX GLEBANA F ri cl a y by Edna LeSueur HEN anyone mentions Friday, one's mind immediately pictures the be- whiskered old gentleman described in Robinson Crusoe, but Friday, to count- less numbers of harassed youngsters, takes the form of an angel, a guardian angel. Think of a world of raving high school stud- ents! Think of a world of maniacal, screech- ing students! That is what this universe would be like, if it were not for the guardian angel Friday. Picture a person, John, utterly woe- begone, weary, disconsolate from the tense endurance of a dignified Monday, a dis- gruntled Tuesday, a dismayed Wednesday, and a tearful Thursday, arising at eight o'clock, one sunshiny Friday morning. Hu-' rrah! John says, stretching himself with a catlike agility. No more school after to- night . He does a little Irish jig Cin honour of good old St. Patrickj, and even manages to whistle as he tussles with his clothes, the latter emerging the loser. Now for a good breakfast to start the day right. Mother, John yells Cneedlesslyj downstairs, I want a breakfast of grapefruit, scrambled egg, bacon, toast and coffee. Are you sure that's all? responds his mother, a sarcastic edge tinging her voice. You seem in good spirits to-day. No wonder, to-day is Friday, the boy replies. Once downstairs, he trots to the table, swallowing whole a thin slice of left-over cake. When the breakfast has been suc- cessfully gorged, John grabs his books, and rushes off to school, noticing it is ten to nine. Reaching the assembly hall at one minute to nine, he stretches himself in his seat to relax. In a fog he hazily hears the order Assembly dismiss, and regretfully removes his manly form from the chair. First in his order of time-table, comes French. Once nicely settled, John opens Capitaino Pamphilof' and stares vaguely down on the pages of wisdom. Am I ever going to have a swell time to-night, with the gang, he says to himself. Suddenly startled, he hears his name. Yes sir, John falteringly answers. But unfortunately for our brave hero, he had no more idea of the question than the wood in the woodshed. First detention of Page 27

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the day! Shucks, a fine way for a guy to spend Friday, John mutters to himself. Then he manages to extract his compos- ition books and depart for the next period. There, he has a perfectly jubilant time, revelling in the supposedly admiring glances of the girls. The composition-oh well, is not there all week-end to do it? Remember to-day is Friday. The recess bell clangs in the hall. Now, John is ready for a swift dash to the cafeteria for a hot dog. I'm famished, so I am, he remarks to an inan- imate audience. In a hectic two periods of Literature and Latin, he manages to draw some very classy outlinesiand eiface a true Virgilian translation for a much more suitable one of his own. But why quibble? Poor John was thinking only of the night to come. Now, home for lunch! After the meal our young man hastens to the scholastic edifice, reaching it at exactly half-past one. After obtaining the usual late slip from the office, he rushes into his Geometry class face red, hair matted, and slips noisily into his seat, growling to himself, Another detention, and to-day is Friday and I'm going out to-night. Heck! The instructor awakens him from his lethargy to demand the enunciation of the theorem which he has studied yesterday. Why, sir, I-the -the-bases are equally proportional to the altitudes of triangles. No. I mean- Oh! Sit down. Getting a correct an- swer from you is harder than finding a needle in a haystack. Every Friday, this whole class seems to think it is a holiday. CFierce- lyj Now concentrate, for goodness sake. Thus speaks the teacher. . At the end of this lengthy oration, the bell rings, and John thankfully escapes to the welcome portals of the Chemistry Laboratory. Here, he was so successful as to carry out an experiment without breaking a test-tube. I must be improving, he repeats to himself. CJohn talks to himself a great deal.J In trigonometry space, he manages to finish his Anc.ient History note on Ha.fn.niba,l. When Ancient History comes along, John says, Just thirty-five minutes and I'll be out of school for the day. QThinking about the detentions.J And I'm not going to stay for those detentions. This is the day for the party and I'm not wasting precious hours here. Ancient History ended, he departs for home in a fever of haste, evading the ever- sharp eyes of his teachers. Page 28 ' After a hearty supper, in which his mother coaxingly remonstrates with him to eat like a gentleman fan impossibilityj, John gets ready for the big event. Spruced up and clean for once, he jumps into his father's car and calls for the heart-throb. Once at the party Jolm has a hilarious time, trying especially to impress his partner with his importance. His chest seems to stick out three more inches, as the shades of night wear on. Then, about three o'clock John leaves the party and steers the car for home. In the harrowing ride, he loses his way once or twice, and is nearly knocked into a ditch by a big truck, which was hogging the road. Sharply he rages to the terrified girl by his side, Why don't those guys watch what they are doing? He nearly killed me. With a happy sigh, he finally deposits the girl on her doorstep. He drives his car into the garage, he enters the house and in less than ten minutes flops into bed. What a day is Friday! Remember, if we did not have Friday, our youths would go stark mad. Good old Friday! 'kflsik To a Sparrow Little bird, are you so cold, Do snow-Hakes that we so admire Chill you and fill you with dread To-morrow, knowing that your bread Is under it: Or is it hunger now That makes you chirp so dismally On that boughg come, be bold And take this bread from my hand Stretched forth so. R.L. 213434 A mother who had taken her little girl to an art museum was touched to see the little girl in tears before a picture of Christian Martyrs being thrown to the lions. Think- ing what a sensitive child she had, she consoled her: Don't cry now. Their sufferings are all over now. I'm not crying for the people, sobbed the child, but look at the poor little lion over there in the corner. He's not getting any. LUX GLEBANA