Kitchener Waterloo Collegiate and Vocational School - Grumbler Yearbook (Kitchener, Ontario Canada)

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THE GRUMBLER cgi. Euenfids Harvey Riefllinger. A XIII C Soft curtains in heaven unfold. Their hues merge the deep u'estern shy Resplendent in silver and gold. Where the last of day,s beauties must die. Soon gone is the red misty sphere. Eartlfs rustlings soon settle and fade. And soon to the u'orld,s listening ear Our tribute to sunset is paid. Hushed silence encases this earth. Deep stillness envelops the shy- The universe mourns the day's dearth .45 light fades. with an audible sigh. With a hush and a zrhispered song. Black :rings of the night descend On a day that has tarried too long And has come to a beauteous end. U1 iiiuts Anne-lies janzen. A XIII C Urer the sea In the flowered uhelds. 1l'l1lIi8 crosses stand. Kon' upon. solemn role. There lie our dead. Buried 1l'I.llI- their faces to the slfy: They sleep in everlasting peace. They have made the great journey from dust to dust. And yet they remain. Throughout the raging torrents of time Their names n'ill be on every lip. Their praise on every tongue. What greater tribute can Ill' give to these Our country's gallant soldiers. llnho gave their all in life that Il't' might live. Than to uphold this peace so dearly and so painfully bought. .-Ind humbly to pray to our Lord That these our boys have not been sacrificed in z'ain.'

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THE GRUMBLER 17 gnarled roots of a huge, uprooted pine tree, was a snug dry depres- sion in the rock, sheltered by the broad overhanging trunk. The marmot deposited her young one in this hollow and turned again down the steep bank. PF 7? :li Far up the Kashaweogama, where the banks were higher and the river bed rougher, a weasel cowered, cold and hungry, in the rotting stub of a dead tree. He was only partially protected, and the rain sifted in upon him, chill- ing him to the very bones of his thin lithe body. He tried to sleep and forget his hunger and cold. He had not eaten a square meal since the rains had begun many days be- fore, and his hunger was ravenous. He would doze off into an imagin- ary weasel paradise, dreaming wistfully of a tender young rabbit or a freshly killed grouse. Then he would awake with a start to the cold, wet, hungry world which he had grown to loathe. The wind, which had abated its fury for several minutes, suddenly livened to a sharp gale. A sicken- ing crunch, a sharp crack, and the dead tree splashed into the swift gray water below. Gripped im- mediately in the strong current, it wheeled and swirled and bumped as it journeyed down the rapids. Then out onto its upper side crawl- ed a bedraggled. dripping speck of life. It was the weasel. Never fond of water, and in the past few days having developed a fierce hatred for it, the weasel crouched, clinging in utter dejection and misery to his unstable craft. On and on he whirled, down countless rapids, past low marshy banks and through deep canyons. On and on, until he could cling to the log no longer. Then he rounded another bend and brought into view a grey limestone cliff on top of which a dead tree slanted grotesquely. A swift eddy caught the rotten log and whirled it against the rocky bank. It cracked dangerously, and then wedged for a moment against a protruding rock. The weasel, fearful of again being cast adrift in the torrent, jumped desperately for the bank. He caught at the rock and scrambled wildly. After a breathless moment of indecision, he drew himself up on a narrow rocky ledge. Directly in front of him was a hole, now partly filled with water, from which issued a warm, tantalizing odour. Without a moment's hesitation the starving little carnivor darted into the hole. In a back corner, partially hidden by a mass of leaves and grass, crouched a small animal hardly bigger than himself. With one triumphant leap he was upon it. There was little struggle, just a muffled squeal and a scrape on the rock. Then the weasel began to devour his victim. Oh how warm and sweet the fresh .blood tasted! How it seemed to pour new life into his veins! It filled the weasel with a new vigour and lessened somewhat the pang of the miseries that he had suffered for so long. Then, in the midst of this ecs- tatic revelry, a shadow darkened the entrance to the cave. The weasel turned like a flash faster than the swiftest eddy in all the rapids of the Kashaweogama. But he was not quite fast enough. The wary marmot-for it was she- had sensed some impending danger as she descended the cliff and failed to hear the worried whim- perings of the last of her offspring. 'She dived on the little tyrant even as he turned, and gripped him squarely across the shoulders. The weasel, supple as a snake and many times stronger, twisted and squirmed until he had obtained a glancing hold on the marmot's jaw. It was not a strong hold but it was fContinued on page 162i

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THE GRUMBLER 19 Fuifilment fs. X If l fl W 4' .f hx, f:?7'jf,fI'f' V f i ' f Zim! I tl' I f . 'mfg f lf ' JZ' ' 79 ,, ,f mlpbkwfd If Z, ,girl - . .2 - -- LFS? - lflify' El -5 2 '41 L 456 x R I 1,,7' fu ,, 4-Ezgf.-r , , f x . M , , x Z Q. e f' ,thx , - -kg Y Hs L . ' , 'x X s- I If gf xl X X -f'4 ',ffMu. He zrontlererl .... maybe he was ljllf'6'l'.:, HE old man plodded wearily through the dusty streets of the village. shoulders hunched, head bowed, until he was away from the watchful eyes of the town and on into the hill country. Then his head and shoulders came up and a look of exhilaration and happiness came over his wrinkled leathern face. To a casual passer-by, this trans- formation was like an ugly cater- pillar turning into a beautiful moth, But the villagers, had you inquired about this strange affair, would have told you to take no note of it because the old man, Peter Van- derson, was tiched . Even when he was a lad, the elders would go on to explain, he was queer. Used to like to run up into the hill country and play 'round the lakes. Even used to like to climb the mountains just to see the sun come up. Then he would come home and want to talk a lot of foolishness about the beauties of nature. But Marilla, his Ma, soon stopped that, they would continue, maliciously. She forbade him to go into the mountains. After that he sneaked up but at least it stopped his talking. Oh, don't think that's all! While the other boys were out shooting, or rowdying down in the tavern, Peter was sitting at that piano of his. Not playing good music, mind you-no folk songs or dances, for Peter made songs up himself and wrote them on paper. Funny, loud songs they were, and some were quiet ones where the notes didn't sound as though they went to- gether. He called them funny names like trees and lakes and tiny