Lamont Public Hospital - Yearbook (Lamont, Alberta Canada)

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Twenty-Eight Lamont Public Hospital A PRAYER BEFORE EXAMINATIONS O Lord, perched high on Heaven’s lid, Look down on me, your little kid, And in this last dread awful hour Help me with your Almighty power. I’ve lapsed a little Lord, I know, Sometimes I hike down to a show, I’ve danced a bit, and skated, too, But never more than others do. Some mornings, Lord, I’ve let things slip Of course I didn’t have to trip, But you who know all secrets deep Can tell how much I craved that sleep. Perhaps to you, O Lord, it seems I waste much time in foolish dreams. But if you knew this foolish dame, I bet a buck you’d do the same. So perched up there on Heaven’s lid, Look down on me, your little kid, Forgive the times I’ve been an ass, And help me now to get a pass. WOULD YOU EXPECT A HEARTHROB HIDDEN IN THIS? Ventricles velocitate at merest sight of you. Auricles appraisingly give approval, too— Corpuscles capitulate in conquered fashiqn fast; But medulla oblongata resists stubbornly ’till last. —Aldana Bauser. 14. It must be a ladybird. 15. Absorbing vitamins—? 16. Ethel Blue Gown. 17. Nursery pet. 18. Miss Mischief—1948. ' 19. Champion moth swatter. 20. Bandaging—Class ’48 style. 21. Back to the old thumb. 22. Here’s the girl who always says “cheese.” 23. Dick, Day and Davies. 24. Lady G. 25. P.M. with Mom Yerex. 26. Jayes.

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Thirty Lamont Public Hospital D. K My first crack at domestic life begins like so ... . I get a summons from the T.S.O. “Go down and learn the trade,” is all they say, So skeptically I scan the old D.K. “Remember, doctor’s tea you have to make,” And so I hurriedly begin a cake. “The raisins?—Oh! you can’t have them today. The cook is off and they ' re all locked away.” Stuff cooked with lard just hasn’t “eat-appeal” And so a bit of butter I must steal. In other locked apartments is the flour, In trying keys, I’ve wasted half an hour. Now, all but soda I have right at hand. It’s in the store room, heaps of good “Cow Brand.” Now where’s the key? “You’d better ask the cook.” “It’s on the table. Take a better look.” “I tell you woman, it just isn’t there!” “Then Annie has it,” Cook begins to swear. “Have you the storeroom key?” “Me don’t know what you say.” “Come, translate for me please.” Then Annie’s got away. My spuds have all boiled over. Good heavens, what a smell! The dietician showers salt In hope all will be well. My salt free spuds all salted up! I angrily then yell, In booming voice that certainly Will reach the T.S.O. But I have got a cake to bake So off again I go. I give my vegetables and soup Another loving look. And wonder if for storeroom keys I dare approach the cook. And then a flock of angry maids Approaches in a troup. “Why must you wash our nice clean floors With cream of celery soup?” “Old Isaac Newton is to blame.” My point they fail to see. You’d almost think they blamed the law Of gravity on me. “God help the diet kitchen nurse,” Is my last helpless plea, And consequently doctors Will have sandwiches for tea. E. Richardson. (Censored and copied without permission).