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

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LONDON NORMAL SCHOOL MARGARET BANNER 6 St. An ne ' s Place St. Thomas. Ont. ZELMA BATEMAN Strathroy. Ont. EVA BICUM Mull. Ont. ELVA BOB I ER 17 Elgin St. St. Thomas. Ont. CEC1LLE BURNSTINE 440 Giles Blvd.. E. Windsor, Ont. HELEN CARES 17( Penrose St. Sarnia, Ont. MARY CARTER R. R. No St. Thomas. Ont. RUTH CLEMANCE Denfield. Ont. RHEA CLARK Watford. Ont. LOUISE COLLIER London, Ont. MARIAN CREWE Wheatley, Ont. VERA CUNNINGHAM Clandeboye, Ont. MILDRED EATON Hall St. Ingersoll, Ont. RUTH ELVIDGE Princeton. Ont. BARBARA ELSON R. R. No. 7 London, Ont. MADELINE FOX R. R. No. 2 Ridgetown, Ont. BERNICE FRASER R. R. No. 3 Ilderton. Ont. AUDREY FURSE Thamesford, Ont. GRACE GRAHAM R. R. No. 1 St. Thomas, Ont. Page Eleven

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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

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Never-to-be-Forgotten Scene DURING my very limited experiences, I have had many interesting and touching scenes stamped on my memory. The most touching one of all occurred in one of our leading boarding houses, while I was on a sight ' seeing tour. This home resembles our exclusive boarding schools which are scattered throughout Canada. It nestles between two high hills. From a distance everything spells peace and prosperity. But wait! When I entered through the heavy brass barred door, a uniformed guard cautiously shut and locked the door behind me. Assuming the indifferent attitude of the bystander, I overheard the following conversation between a visitor and the informer. To see a friend, sir? Your name and his name, please! Glancing down the hall, after they had gone, I noticed that everything fairly glistened from continuous applications of soap and water. The large kitchen was filled with husky men hurrying about preparing meals for the numerous boarders. The chief cook creams the potatoes, intentionally omitting cream and butter. Several men in dark blue overalls carry in pails of foamy milk to be separated. Next to the kitchen is a small, narrow room boasting a hard springless cot. Several gray blankets are folded carefully across it. In the corner there is a washstand and chipped granite basin. The floor is smoothed by the tramping back and forth of the homesick roomer. Several rooms of the same character follow. In each room there is the occupant ' s dress suit, a gaily striped straight jacket, hanging from a nail. To the right is a large theatrical-looking room dec- orated with hand-made Bible pictures. The old, wooden benches are battered from constant use by the worship- pers. Here comes that friend now striding manfully down the hall. How thin and pale he is. Although he tries to smile his eyes are so pitiful to see. He has paid his debt to society but the signs of suffering remain. He hands his dark blue suit to a guard nearby. The G. R. buttons are gone forever. With one last re- pentant look, he bids his past boarding house, — The Guelph Reformatory, — farewell. VERLYN LADD. Form IV. The Lift Bridge WHILE driving some day on Dundas Street in Welland, you may watch the gigantic lift bridge as it stands, obscuring all view from the other side of the canal. The giant siderails cling to the massive frame as if in fear of the great abyss below. The sturdy tile floor stands defying anyone to try to mount it. We are now at the bridge. A horn blows. A freighter is slowly finding its way down the canal. It is the City of Erie. Vast clouds of heavy black smoke pour from the centre funnel. The smoke has been allowed for many years to settle on the ship, so on the whole it has a very dingy, grimy appearance. The dark vessel is now directly beneath the bridge. The pounding of the engines is quite audible. A fine spray is thrown upon the banks from the paddle wheels as they turn laboriously in continuous motion. The ship is past; the shadowy hulk fades away into the distance, leaving an oily path gleaming behind it in the sun. The cables creak as they are pulled downward by a humming electric motor. The wide corridor is beginning to lower. Majestically it seeks its position on the earth and forms once more the means of crossing the canal. Now, the car engines are starting, one by one. Now, they are all running. Horns are echoing as the congested traffic slowly crawls across the crowded bridge. Soon the noise dies down and the excitement is over until another ship chances to pass that way. Often times I think how grand it would be to sit by this magnificent bridge some moonlight night and watch it ascend towards the heavens and descend again, as it obeys the command of every passing ship. LLOYD FLANNIGAN. Form I. Uncle Tom ' s Cabin (As It Stands Today) I CAME finally to the supposedly historical spot and stopping in front of a zigzag fence, my eyes met the most neglected and forsaken scene imaginable. The line of fence was interrupted at one end by a partly- opened gate which had long since neglected its duty of repulsing invaders. Inside the yard, close to the gate, a shabby sycamore tree stood as a sentinel on guard with a sign of warning of prosecution for trespassers. From a bare branch of the tree the stillness of the place was broken by the unpleasant caw of a lone crow. In the space ' tween the fence and the cabin the undisturbed grass and weeds had reached a considerable height, and, I am sure, proved an ideal breeding place for reptiles. No paths leading to the ruins could be traced out. Age had ulcered its way and crept so steadily into every crevice and corner of the cabin that the roof and parts of the walls were present only in the imagination of the observer. Time had robbed the framework of the colour and freshness of its youth. The elements of nature had also played havoc with the interior of the cabin. The rain and snow had hammered and ruptured the walls. The wind had pierced through the weakened structures and had scattered debris about the place. The rafters had long since been food for larvae. In fact, the whole place spoke of utter desertion and no point of connection with the Uncle Tom ' s cabin of the story could be found. One was led to believe that its sole reason for existence was as a haven for unwanted children of Nature. SISTER ISABEL. Form IV.