London Normal School - Spectrum Yearbook (London, Ontario Canada)

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LONDON NORMAL SCHOOL HOWARD GILLAM Mt. Brydges, Ont. JOHN GLOIN Yarmouth Centre, Ont. LORNE A. GILROY RALPH GRACEY R. R. No. 7 Springfield. Ont. Alvinston, Ont. GORDON L. GROGAN Arkona, Ont. CLIFFORD L. HEYWOOD R. R. No. 1 Exeter, Ont. GORDON HOUGHTON ERIC R. McLEAN 17 Argyle St. 630 Princess Ave. London, Ont. London, Ont. JAMES C. MARK E. GERALD NELSON, B.A 789 Richmond St. 317 Wortley Rd. London. Ont. London, Ont. EDWARD NORTHCOTT Mt Brydges, Ont. ALEXANDER D. RAE R. R. No. 1 Wilton Grove, Ont. VALENTINE SHOULDICE GEORGE G. SWITZER Lion ' s Head, Ont. Acton, Ont. THOMAS SPEIDEL JOHN WAKELING Amherstburg, Ont. Thorndale, Ont. Page Nine

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Little Brown Hands DON ' T you dread them and love them, the little, brown hands? They ' re the plague and the pride of a teacher ' s career. Oh, so eager they are when the nine o ' clock bell Calls to them that the time for their lessons is near. Through the morning they labour, red pencils held tight, On the paper to trace all the work you assigned. Painstaking, each effort, that the little brown hands Can record the directions of each willing mind. How wildly they wave when the answer is known To the question you asked in the history class! How gaily they clap when they ' re told that it ' s right, And droop, oh, so sadly, if you say it won ' t pass. When the day is far ' spent, and the closing-time nigh, And most of the duties assigned them are done, Spelling errors corrected, arithmetic o ' er, Little hands get so restless, so ready for fun. The red pencils are played with, and rulers are dropped; Treasures shown to small neighbours, examined with awe ; Elastics well-hidden all morning are found; And they bend till it quivers, each school-teaching law. Oh, grant us the patience we know we shall need To fulfill all the tasks our profession demands. Let us love them and lead them to true things in life, And direct them with wisdom, dear, little brown hands. E. MacMATH. Form III. Tryst with Nature L. 7 (. S. Bird Morning, May 14, 1937 Against pale s ies the woods in early dawn Are half ' defined blurrs of many greens. Our voices whisper as we enter, for We feel that God is very near to us. The marshy places blaze with marigolds, And here and there blue violets smoulder low; And every tree and every shrub that grows Has donned the robe God lendeth it to wear. We hear birds singing, each a different song; And, listening, we can remember well Those other springs when other birds trilled to The children that we were, those same old songs. Reluctantly our footsteps bear us bac To city streets and things of common life; But hearts are light, and sorrows that we new Are left forgotten down where violets grow. E. MacMATH. WE are pleased to publish the following little poem written by a ten-year old pupil of Grade IV, Trafalgar School, of this City. If these verses which, in their rhythm have captured something of the robin ' s song, are typical of the work our public school children are doing, we see bright years ahead for the poetry of Canada. The Robin I hear you, robin, I hear you Up in the greenwood tree, Singing your merry, Jilting song, So brave, so gay, so free. I hear your melody, Robin, Ea ch morning and evening you sing, To tell us the gay glad message, It is spring! It is spring! It is spring! I see you, Robin Redbreast, Perched high on a bare gray bough. Have you straws for the nest you re building And mud to shape it now? Oh, Robin Redbreast, I love you, I love your cheery song, May nothing come to harm you Through all the summer long. JEAN HOOPER. Early Spring Brown are the fields beneath the tangled grass Which died last year, and now unwanted lies. On wings that labour black crows slowly pass Below the listless skies. It might still be November; who can tell? But listen: in the oldest apple tree A hopeful robin lets his anthem swell. Then, it is spring — to me! E. MacMATH.

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LONDON NORMAL SCHOOL A Normal School Classroom AS we enter a certain little room whose windows face the north, we see a host of huge historical pictures lining the walls on three sides. On the arms of the chair at the front of the room rests a score or more of these grey-backed, highly-coloured illustrations. On those dullest of blackboards, peering hesitatingly from between the pictures, are selections from the finest of English poetry, their faces marred by the scars of scansion. On another slate, standing alone against their dark background, the names of four metrical verse forms catch our eyes. In the corner next the windows is that mysterious little cupboard which is usually kept locked. But inside it are so many strangely unfamiliar things — volume upon volume, in which may be found such a multitude of selections which we shall certainly hear read some day. Oh! There goes the gong, and now we simply must leave. But as we slowly walk from that class- room, we cas t one more longing, lingering look toward that little cupboard in the corner. RUTH SHEPLEY. Form IV. Dr. Mark ' s Book Big, blac boo , sinister, appalling — Is your fate as you surmised? Doomsday boo of the formal students With the ' doom ' italicized. ' A DEEP-ROOTED chill creeps up your spine as you catch the first glimpse of a massive, black-coloured volume which reposes on the top of the master ' s desk, and which hypnotizes you as you draw near. Yes, it is THE BOOK — . As you enter the room it tangles you in its magic spell, and seems to smile as you cower to your seat. There it waits — so full of records of success and of doom that the covers bulge and swell till you yourself seem as a mere nothing, read- ing your destiny in letters of staring, black type. It is as if though you, having shrunk to a ridiculous size, are frantically trying to pry the pages open, scurrying first to one side and then to the other. With this same sense of smallness you slump back in your seat and gaze at one top corner. The hugeness of this corner overawes you. It must be made of iron to be able to hold those millions of pages; pages worn at the edges because of so much reference; pages that hold the multitudinous secrets; pages that crackle to proclaim the news the master never exactly reveals. The other students are trudging up one by one, one by one. Some come back grim-lipped; others glow within. Perhaps — dare you hope? The last critic teacher said you were doing fine. The master calls your number. It is your turn now. You stumble forward. Luck go with you! MARY MILLER. Form III. Only Some Paper AS I sat in my seat yesterday during the art ex ' amination, I tried to recall the different nations and peoples that contributed to our alphabet. As I closed my eyes, I saw the sheet of paper on my d;sk stand up and it began to cry out its story to me. I am neglected. Think of how I have contributed to writing. Without me men would still be living like the ancients. I was born in Northern Ontario, and lived with my brothers and friends. Many of my ancestors were neglected and died. One day I was released and al- lowed to go for a long voyage by floating down the river to the south. I docked at Hull, on the north bank of the Ottawa River. Some men came down to the harbour to meet me. They helped me get ashore, and from here they escorted me to their fine factory. Upon my arrival I was given a good bath and I was then sent through the house of fun. I dipped and dived as I went through hot water and cold. I jumped here and there, through rollers and presses. After my madcap experience, I was treated royally. Factory attendants dried me off, dressed and perfumed me. I was dressed in a brown coat and sent for a trip to the London Normal School. One of the teachers tore my brown coat down the back and let me out I climbed on your desk to help you write this examination. Think of what my companions and I have done. We have made it possible for the Normal masters and instructors to give you weekly tests. ARCHIE CAMPBELL. Form 1. Page Ten