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

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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

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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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20 THE GRUMBLER animals. He even called a loud one after his mother. He's a queer one all right, don't take no stock of him. Yes, old Peter Vanderson knew what they were saying. When he had been younger he hadn't be- lieved it, he had even laughed at the trifle tiched part. But now as he walked along beside the crys- tal clear mountain lake, with wil- lows dripping into it, and saw his reflection, he wondered ..., Maybe he was queer .... Maybe what they said was right .... All his life he had wanted so little. Understanding. When he was a boy he'd tried to tell his mother the huge overwhelming, sometimes frightening, feelings that came to him when he looked at the large, rugged, mountains towering above him, but she had called it a foolishness and told him to be quiet. No one in the village would listen to him either, and he was brimming over with emotions that needed expression. Then he had found a relief which had, through the years, become an escape, his main comfort in life, that was writing down his feelings in music. He'd described all the mountains, lakes, trees, flowers, clouds, his happiness, joy, sorrows, hopes. In his lighter moods, he'd even described the village gossip. His music had been his one and only way of expression. If only . . . he thought as he gazed at the fieece-white clouds, like great fluffs of white cotton against the deep blue of the sky . . I would find someone who would understand my music, I would be happy. I could die in peace, for then I would know I was not tiched , and someone, after all these years, would know how I feel. When he had been young, Peter had thought that someone in the musical world might understand his Works and thus, him. So when a travelling band came through the town Peter quickly ran with his music, hopeful, sure of himself, confident at last that he would reach his goal. But the band- leader had laughed, and in front of the whole village had told Peter it was no good. Heartbroken and crushed, Peter had returned home and written his longest work. Through this me- dium, the piano, he told his petty villagers that it was they who were wrong, that one day he would show them that he was not crazy, that his songs were worth something, that his way of life was good. But life had gone on as before. Peter was growing old, he had already passed the allotted span of years. One day as he sat playing . . . lost in his music, baring his soul through it to anyone who could understand . . . a man was slowly approaching the village. The name of this weary traveller was Josef Relyea, a name known to every music lover in Europe, for Josef Relyea was sick-not sick physically, but mentally. He was tired of the shallowness and super- ficiality of the great cities. He could no longer play great music because he did not feel it, deep down inside himself. In the hope of finding inspiration he had started on a walking trip through the mountains of beautiful Bavaria. Now he was discouraged. He had gained nothing and his steps lagged as he approached the village. As Josef walked through the town, he heard, coming from the open window of a humble cottage, loud chords of defiance and hate. Then as he stopped, spellbound, and listened to the beautiful music he heard the first sad notes of a crushed soul pleading for love and understanding. Never had Josef Relyea heard such stirring music. He could not