London Central Secondary School - Golden Glimpses Yearbook (London, Ontario Canada)

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Tl-IE REVIEW 51 Hguch ls Lifel' T was a torrid summer day, similar to many others that had preceded it. A sizzling sun was beating down upon an already baked earth that looked like an urchin's face in dire need of water to freshen and sweeten it. The usual Sunday traffic was in evidence and numerous cars were passing along at a rapid pace. As one watched this transit of human beings on wheels an episode transpired which set conliicting thoughts fiashing through one's mind. Someone from a passing automobile discarded a partially consumed sandwich, throwing it to the sidewalk. A man, probably around forty-five years of age, shabbily dressed, with features rather drawn, was standing nearby. With a furtive glance in various directions and not realizing anyone was near enough to take in the situation, the man quickly stepped fonvard and gathered up what remained of the discarded food and proceeded on his way, endeavouring to satisfy the pang of hunger that was threatening the structure of a human body. The scene changes--the softness and warmth of summer is gone. Frost is in the air and the trees have shed their leaves and taken on an aspect of sadness. Soon the day will be engulfed in the blackness of night. It seemed ashamed that its fading light could not hide a little sooner in the coming night to prevent the following tragic sight from becoming visible. A refuse pile, and a human being searching for food. Can it be. possible? Is there food fit for human consumption to be found in a filthy dump? Crusts of bread, orange peel and what not. The f Eveline Coulls human derelict fills his pockets and goes on his way. But this scene still remains in the mem- ory as a blot on the name of any civilized state in which such a thing could happen. I arrive at home, sick at heart, and picking up the newspaper see a glamorous description of the opening of Can- ada's Parliament with the pomp and splendour perhaps befitting such an occasion. Being a little weary and while wondering over the discrepancies in our human sphere, I fall asleep and in a dream I vision a new world. No longer do I witness hunger and poverty amidst plenty, not a mansion here with liveried attendants and down another street a structure unfit for habitation, no lines of worry are on the faces of the populace. I look and wonder, but feel happy that a change has come about, that selfishness has been dethroned and that love is the king that reigns in every heart. Now the sweet life seems to be just as the wise Creator intended it to be. There was meaning in the sunshine, not only for a few but for all. Rain could not dampen the spirits of lives filled with love for one another and built on such a rock that a storm could beat upon it but not destroy it. With a feeling of contentment not known before, I wander from place to place. The thrill of the joy of life is everywhere, but with thoughts of why such a condition of life could not have existed always, the vision fades. Realities of the present loom large and ominous. However, the vision of what could be and should be will linger in my memory to stimulate action so as to help bring nearer the day when selfishness shall be banished and love reign supreme. 0 O 0 DTSCOTIUCHKCC1 : : Dorothy Maher An old farmhouse, with meadows wide, Sweet with clover on either side: A bright-eyed boy, who looks from out The door, with woodbine wreathed about, fab VVishes this one thought all through the day, If I could only Iiy away, How happy-oh! how happy I would be. ' Amid the city's constant din, A man who 'round the world has been, Who 'mid the tumult and the throng, Is thinking, thinking all day long, '23 Oh, could I but tread once more The field pieceto the 'farm-house door, The old green meadows could I see, How happy-oh! how happy I would be.

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TI-IE REVIEW 53 -l-l'1Z fXfl6dClOVV E had always thought it the most picturesque of all the Basque villages-the few rows of clean little houses, prim gardens, and some of the finest and oldest beech trees in France, towering giants, dwarfing even the stately Hrs, and the pride of every villager. Was it not under these same trees, old even then, that their forefathers had gathered, twelve centuries past, to divide the spoils from Ronscevalles' battle and quarrel for the trumpet of Roland? They were objects of veneration to all alike, the villager and the peasants from the surrounding mountains, who flocked in, on fete days, in their red breeches and black velvet jackets to the little shrine of the Virgin, Notre Dame d'Escualdaritz pied-de-pre. But the most outstanding feature of the place, to Maclean, was its location, nestling, as it did, in a pretty green valley among the foothills, at the base of a great precipice. Immediately overhead, a wedge between two pink walls of granite, was the meadow, le beau pre, the most exquisite expanse of loveliness in all the beautiful Pyrenees. Such had it been and as such had Neil Maclean remembered it, this little Basque village, Escual- daritz pied-de-pre. From above he came down upon it, to paint, one spring morning, past the meadow, so bright with fresh spring bloom, and down the cliff face to the valley. But now, all was different. A concrete pool marked the site of the spring in front of the shrine where once the village maids had scrubbed the family wash. A white-stone hotel reared high its modern head sur- rounded by an ugly brood of tourist cabins. The few beeches suffered to remain had been trimmed and cut to hold look-out platforms in their branches. Coloured lights swung from tip to ground. The peasant houses were gone, the peasant dress, the peasants. No more white blouses and gaiters and big red berets. Instead modern ladies strolled along artificial promenades and leaned against metal railings on the roof of the casino. An American, son of one of those thousand Basque men, who had emigrated to South and North America for their fortunes, had returned to Escual- daritz to beautify his father's homeland, a la Buenos Aires, a city, beautiful it is true, but not equal to the Basque conception of beauty. Escualdaritz was no more. Eaux Belles was there in its place. ' john Henderson Neil Maclean put up at a shepherd's cot in the neighbourhood, and was told the story of Edmond Pireda, as he munched his sheep's milk cheese. Edmond had been a fine youth, a shepherd like mine host, strong of limb, pleasant of face, and with a rare turn at the Basque trumpet, with its long winding throat. He had married a pretty girl, Lucille, the daughter of the richest cattle owner in the district. It' was a good match for him, they had said, but though he adored her, he was not happy. She had travelled, been to Paris. But it was worse when the American came. He had money and ruined her husband. Pireda was jailed for assault and some theft. The American had married his divorced wife and now the shep- herd wandered in the hills. But today was the great fete and cattle mart at Hasparren, and every red bereted peasant in the village was there, except mine host. He had injured his ankle climbing up the path to le beau pre. Maclean decided to visit this meadow. It was the only thing left to paint. Seated on a rock, all day he painted. Screened by a clump of pine saplings and with his back against a slab of the fine, pink marble, exported since Caesar's day, he worked away, a splendid landscape growing upon his canvas. A large field of flowers set in a fold of the hills, several tons of rock dotted with innumerable blossoms bloomed on that thin top-soil. To the left were the snow- capped peaks, 10,000 feet high, of the Spanish border. To the right, green earth gave way to bright blue sky. Eaux Belles, in all its grossness, seemed far away. A flower moved unduly-but was it a flower? A red beret, a peasant, was there, had been all day, as he worked, thought Maclean. All the rest were at Hasparren. Twilight fell. A thousand garish lights sprang up in the casino. The man started and knelt down, fingering something. The watcher leaned forward. Suddenly, there was smoke and a great explosion. The man recoiled on the edge of the cliff. The meadow moved. Swiftly Maclean reached out and tried to seize him while, with rumblings and crashing of rocks, the lights in the town below went out, wreathed with meadow flowers. Red beret followed, stark of face, down the deep and empty cleft. Luc1lle! TEACHING STAFF Back row-M. L Wntwistle, B.A. N. C. Anderson, B.A. C. K. Bluett, B.A. C. S. Buck, M.A. E. O. Hall, M.A. C. McCallum, B.A. J. B. West, M.A., W. E. Shales, M.A., B. Paed. C. W. Maddeford, M.A. W. E. XVebb, B.A. Third row-W. H. Adamson, M.A. Grace Armstrong, B.A. Ethel-UM. Rymill, Eleanor McCormick, B.A. Edith Edge, Mary Macpherson, B.A. Frances Wiancko, M.A. Marian Henderson, B.A. Catherine Mackmnon, M.A. Second row-Margaret Thomson, B.A. Antoinette Gilles, B.A. Frances Gibson, Audrey A. Webster, Katharine Morrison, B.A. Madaline Roddick, B.A. M. Louise Wyatt, B.A. Mat,-:ie McKee, B.A. Dorothy McCann, B.A., B. Paed. Jessie O'Neil, B.A. D. H. Carr, B.A. Front row-E. 0. Liebner, B.A. A. A. Affleck, B.A. W. C. Johnson, B.A. Principal E. A. Miller, M.A. J. P. S. Nethercott, M.A.. N. R. Gray. B.A. J. H. Cameron.