Gordon Bell High School - Purple and Gold Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

Page 12 text:

GORDON BELL HIGH SCHOOL First Prize Old Dan By DOUGLAS SKEAD rpHE name “Old Dan” is deceptive; he was not actually an old horse. Ten years before he had been a spindley-legged colt trotting bravely up steep hills beside his mother. He lived the whole span of his life in the district surrounding Alsask, in Alberta, and as a “four-year-old” he was the strongest and largest horse in the country. His owner, a huge Swede named Sorenson, never tired of telling his envious neighbors of “Old Dan’s” prowess, of his huge chest, and his proud fine head. Sorenson knew and loved horses. His stables housed some splendid animals and Old Dan was the most promising young horse he had ever possessed. Then came a night that changed Dan’s life. There was only one thing Sorenson loved better than his horses—his family. And on this night his little son was choking to death in the dread grip of pneumonia. The panic-stricken father had rushed to the barn at midnight and saddled “Old Dan.” It was fully nine miles across the rolling prairie to town and the gallant horse galloped through the streaming rain all the way. He seemed to know that his master needed all of his great strength and courage that night. During the wild ride to get a doctor Dan had stumbled once and the next day and ever after he walked with a limp. Because he was useless now for heavy labor, Sorenson retired him to the simple task of pulling the children to school in a light democrat. Then came the fall of 1928. The land was covered with a wealth of wheat. The skill of the Slavic and German peoples combined with the heavy rains in the Spring had produced a bumper crop. To the north

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GORDON BELL HIGH SCHOOL Editorial Staff Back Row—Don Grant, Advertising; Bill Dempsey, Music; Stafford Wilson, Humor; Tom Jack- son, Advertising; Ira Vogt, Grade X Write-ups; Bob Law, Circulation; Buck Walker, Advertising; Wilfred Blier, Associate Editor; Ted Lamont, Associate Editor. Second Row—Don Whitehouse, Advertising; Bill Paterson, Circulation Manager; Edison Trott, Humor; Douglas Skead, Grade IX Write-ups; Harold Hurst, Grade XI Write-ups; Bill Edmondson, Sports; Jack Ritchie, Circulation; Dave Ritchie, Circulation; Bernard Thompson; John Ashton. Advertising Manager. First Row—Margaret Thirwell, Circulation; Margaret Hastings, Sports; Clara Barton, Social; Mr. Gow, Advisory Council; Miss Laidlaw, Advisory Council; Mr. Snider, Advisory Council; Norman Christie, Business Manager; Pauline Law, Editor; Jessie Ainge, Drama; Lois Phillips, Art. energy to the publication of our year book. This group includes a number who wrote articles for the book but who are not on the editorial staff. We are greatly indebted to Miss Laidlaw, Mr. Snider, Mr. Gow, Norman Christie, and John Ashton for their unselfish and untiring work in connec¬ tion with the book; and to Miss Flanders and Miss Blanchard, who helped the staff immeasurably by typing notices and material. We should also like to take this opportunity of thanking the following companies for their in¬ valuable assistance in publishing this issue: Brigden’s Limited, for the cuts and engravings; Henry Sedziak, for all photographic work; and the Walling¬ ford Press, for the printing and assembling of this year’s annual. Congratulations are due to William Gray, the first Gordon Bell graduate to win a University scholarship. Since this article was written the University results have been published, and he has been announced the winner of an Isbister.

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GORDON BELL HIGH SCHOOL and west of Sorenson’s home stood two sections of waving Marquis wheat, golden in the sunshine, that would “go thirty bushels” and over to the acre. A big crop means a scarcity of men and horses. The men came from the cities on freight-trains—lacking in experience but filled with wanderlust and the need of money. One of these walked the nine miles to the Swedish homestead and asked for employment. He had no scruples when asked if he were experienced, though he had never driven a team in his life; and because the season was short and men were scarce he was given work driving a team on a rack. One of the horses in this team was “Old Dan.” Thus, in his tenth year, Old Dan was back pulling a heavy “stook-rack.” In an experienced teamster’s hands he could have held his own, but the ignorance of the city youth j was slowly killing him. With the threshing half done, there came a Saturday of terrific heat. I The sun beat down on the wheat fields and the fitful wind stirred up a fine dust, choking everything. It was a day when tempers were short, and, while Old Dan worked his gallant best, his teamster drove him brutally. After sundown, when the unhitching was done and the teams were fed, the old horse could scarely stand. In the autumn chill he shivered with weakness. The teamsters and engine crew were too weary from the terrific heat of the day and the long hours of constant labor to notice the peculiar stillness of the air or the jagged flashes of blue-green lightning on the western horizon. Their only interest was their supper and a bunk of hay in an empty granary in the field. The storm came with scarcely a warning. A few splashes of warm rain making little balls of dust on the ground, and then toy broke looose. The wind howled in from the west and swept everything before it. The cook shack rolled over and over and came to rest against the door of the granary that served as a bunk house and imprisoned the men inside. The horses, tied to the granary racks, tugged frantically at their halters as they noticed a new terror even more fearful than the raging wind and storm. The 1 overturned cook stove had set the shack afire and the flames were reaching out to the empty granary. Terror seized Old Dan’s heart in its grip. He knew he must get away from the dread killer, fire. Then, above the tumult of the storm he heqrd a voice, a voice he loved. “Dan! Old Dan!”—Sorenson calling him once again in his hour of need, Sorenson who had allowed him to be lashed and driven almost to death. But his master needed him; so he must go. With a mighty tug he tore loose the halter shank tied to the rack and turned to answer that call, “Dan—come here Dan, old Boy!” It came from inside; so he must get in. He trotted twice around the building, whose west wall was burning now. Then, suddenly, he started to kick—to kick down the wall-and reach the voice. Time after time the steel-shod hooves drove against the wooden siding, until they had smashed a hole for the men to escape. He turned around and tried to force his tired, old body through the opening to reach his master. But the old worn heart had stood too much already. He slowly sank to earth—and twenty choking, smoke-blinded men escaped death over the gallant body of Old Dan.