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

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Spring IT was the twenty-first day of March! Huge, fleecy clouds chased one another across the turquoise sky, against which the crimson buds of the maples contrasted vividly. A sudden little wind swayed the branches of the gnarled old apple tree, and the robin perched on the topmost bough sang a melody of summer days filled with pink and white apple blossoms, and of later harvest days, and branches hanging with rosy apples. Deep in the woods, the small denizens of the forest scurried about for food, keeping a wary eye for any possible dangers. Thev, too, felt the call of spring. In the meadow beside the woods, half a dozen woolly lambs gambolled madly about, to the exasperation of their more sedate mothers. In the little red schoolho use on the hill, rest- less little eyes wandered from their books to the open window, and to the awakening world be- vond, longing to be anywhere but in the school- room, and dreaming of joyous jaunts in quest of wild flowers. The instant they were dismissed for recess, they dashed outside, the little girls to their skipping ropes, the boys to marbles. The teacher paused for a moment to glance out at the children; she, too, felt the new spirit. Spring had come! NANCY ROBB. Monologue on The Register OH, dear, another assignment! Isn ' t this Normal life just one thing after another? Hm! this looks different at least. Oh, I see, one of those simple ones to rush through in a maxi- mum of ten minutes. Just mark the register for a month — that ' s the whole assignment. I will do it tonight. Twenty-five names, in grades, arrange alpha- be ticallv; simple! There, all done! Oh, Willie Orme didn ' t come until six days after the first of the month. Now I ' ll have to recopy it. (Pause for recopying.) Now, I see that those shoeless Russells were away until the fourth, too. (Pause for erasinig and recopying.) Maybe Mr. McKone was wise in suggesting pencil for the first try — or six. Right at last! That was only half an hour for the first step — oh, well, we have that only once for next year anyway! Attendance — Isaac Jones — -grandmother ' s fu- neral. Hm — lawful? Surely that time-worn alibi is law by now, at least for school children who don ' t know any better. Martha Middaugh, why aren ' t they all like that? Russells — oh, those shoes again — how would they expect them to come, barefoot? Lawful, of course. Van Dyke, parental neglect — he couldn ' t help it — this is the child ' s record. Lawful — for him. This poor child who died! He certainly was absent for the rest of the month. Poor boy! Lawful absence. Olds, Ben. — witness in court. Now that depends on what he was witnessing. No, I ' ll count that unlawful. If he had really been inside the law he wouldn ' t have been in court. Done at last! A good night ' s work finished; but I don ' t mind work when I feel it is well done when I ' m through. What could there possibly be about that to ask Mr. McKone? Surely he credits us with some sense. RUTH WILLIAMS. Long May They Live! THE night was warm. The moon was golden bright. Down by the schoolhouse strolled two gay lovers chatting and planning a new course of life when they should be no longer two but one. Said Miss History, I think the Fates indeed were kind to us. With your wide knowledge of land and sea and my data on facts and past events, we two should live in useful and happy wedlock. No one is more convinced of that fact than I, murmured her young admirer, Mr. Geography. We should become famous from zone to zone. The Prevailing Westerlies shall whisper your charm to the high mountains and even the seas shall know you. As a happy epilogue to this romance the two young lovers were wedded one sunny summer ' s day. As at all such occasions, there gathered friends of bride and groom — some to wish them well and some to criticize the match. Professor Science took a foremost seat. Over his dark-rimmed spectacles he viewed the pro- ceedings nor could he quite decide to favour or disapprove the union of his two young friends. Never in his young days would such a helper have been approved by high authorities. But a trial and error method would surely prove the result. In a far comer near the window sat two prim old spinsters wielding their fans in obvious dis- approval. Miss Grammar could see no logical plan by which two such diverse personalities could live successfully under one name. Nor could Miss Mathematics predict anything but dis- aster for the unfortunate couple. Solemn and still were all present as the vow was pronounced. Not a tongue spoke; not a muscle moved. Master Music played triumphantly as the couple withdrew for well he knew that he too was to share a greater part in the new life of the community. Pretty Miss Art and Mr. Manual Training, hand in hand, cast confetti on their newly married friends. The Fates indeed were kind to the youthful pair. Over their door when the honeymoon was over, they found this inscription, presented by their many friends: The Home of Social Studies, Long May They Live! MARION MOORE. [23]

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What Are We Worth? T A 7 E Normalites are sometimes tempted to feel, quite incorrectly of course, that we are not quite so important as some other students in the City of London. When one says, I ' m going to Normal this year, one frequently receives the reply, Oh, another school marm! in a tone which sounds as if it were accompanied by an internal shudder. Perhaps it is because the memory of a stern figure with a frigid voice demanding, What are you doing back there, Johnny Jones? remains with everyone most of his life, that the Londoners are unwilling to give a lofty position to the greatest profession in the world. The London Free Press which prints, daily, news of the university, even if it is only that the men are growing beards during examinations, deigns but seldom to print news of the Normalites whose news-making potentialities are repressed by the worthy masters. But our true worth has been recognized by one corporation — the London Street Railway Company. In spite of all the nurses and doctors studying at Victoria Hospital, there is no Hospital Bus, and even our illustrious university has given its name to only one bus, but we have two — Normal and Normal South. And do the Normalites appreciate this! Just watch them swarming on the buses about three o ' clock some Friday afternoon! You can ' t miss them — watch for the unmistakable black book, and the air of hilarity decorously restrained in accordance with all the best principles of etiquette. Or, perchance, they have been visiting a factory and each carries his breakfast in a neat green package tucked under his arm. The personnel changes from year to year, but the bus still flaunts our banner on high, proclaim- ing to the unbelieving citizens of London that we are — Normal. MARY CAMPBELL. Heard on the Bus LOUISE: What was your lesson like, Anne? ANNE: Oh, not too bad. Miss Smithson said it was a nice lesson, whatever that means, but that I might have distributed my questions better. JOAN: Well, that isn ' t the worst mistake one could make. Hear me and weep. Do you remember all the trouble I took in trying to find illustrative material on Social Life in Green- land? TESS: Do we remember? There was a good deal of our time and energy involved, too. . . . You used the pictures too soon, or too late, I suppose? JOAN: Worse than that. I had concluded my lesson with an inward sigh of satisfaction, feeling that all had run smoothly — with ne ' er a Master to disturb the waters of contentment. But my contentment was rudely disturbed when Miss Richard- son, in her criticism, sweetly asked, Don ' t you think you might have used some illustrative material in your lesson? . . . Believe it or no, I had entirely forgotten to show a single picture! DENISE: Which was pedagogically unsound, of course. . . . LOUISE: Cheer up, Joan! You probably received credit for having made the children exercise their imagination. JOAN: Joking about another ' s plight, are you? But you ' ll not find me forgetting the next time, if I ' ll have to set an alarm clock to remind me! JACK: Bravo, Joan! You might also try having a pupil in the rear of the classroom hold up your material during the lesson — to keep you reminded, and to keep him actively engaged. DENISE: I ' m sure the Masters would commend such a display of resourcefulness. What ' s that you have wrapped in newspaper, Jack? JACK: A log. DENISE: Answer in a complete statement and so that all can hear you. JACK: I — have — a — log. TESS: Surely you didn ' t teach your lesson sitting on that log! JACK: I did not teach my lesson sitting on that log. Since I had to teach, Telling the ages of trees, I figured I ' d show the class the real thing — Reality, reasoning and research, you know. ... At the same time, I saved doing some black- board sketching. DENISE: How clever! JACK: Thank you, Miss Teacher-to-be! Encouraging good work is fine classroom management. . . . Let ' s hear from you. Bill. BILL: Here goes! Scene: Kindergarten class; Hero: Yours truly ; Audience: Four and twenty Chickadees looking straight at me. You needn ' t snicker, Jack. They were looking at me and listening attentively too, while I depicted the adven- tures of Johnnie Woodpecker, remembering to do so in a clear, pleasant, non-nasal voice. JACK: What about the rumbling quality? BILL: ... I paused for effect at a dramatic part, when a little fellow ' s hand shot up with, My bwudder has a neck tie like yours. JACK: Observation, expression and reaction on the pan of the pupil. . . . DALE: As for me, Miss Allison suggested ever so tact- fully, that phrases and words such as analagous colors, constructing an interior, speak distinctly and optional were somewhat above the language level of Grade One. BILL: You must have been sitting on a rainbow of analagous colors when you used those terms, I ' ll warrant. DALE: What ' s your new lesson, Gladys? GLADYS: One on adverbial clauses. I ' ll have to look up some spotting exercises. LOUISE: There ' s a good book in the library which you might try to spot. It was a great help to me last week. BETTY: Well, Teachers-to-be, you ' ve exhausted all de- vices to keep me interested any longer. Here ' s my corner. Good-bye until tonight, when we ' ll be gaining some new socializing experiences in the basketball game. Let ' s remember to be resourceful, driving ahead with a set plan so as to attain the aims set forth. BILL: Aye, aye, Sir — that is, yes indeed! And we ' ll have to remember our number combinations so as to keep record of our score. . . . SISTER GRACE. [22]

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And the Show Goes On K OST people know little about the teaching profession. They imagine it to be a strenu- ous ordeal, physically and emotionally; standing on or off a dias for long intervals is nerve-knotting. They are unaware of the real hardships, of the real accomplishments and of the equally real adven- tures which offset these. It matters little whether one teaches the younglings or the older children, the experiences are the same. It may be argued, however, that teaching the former is more interesting than teaching the latter. This is probably true, but it does not alter the nature of the work — teaching is teaching. The technique remains the same no matter how the stage is set. The trials are the same and the triumphs are the same. The hours and the duties are identical. So, too, are the joys and disappoint- ments. A teacher ' s days are long ones and her week has five of them in it. She has Sundays and the legal holidays and her summer vacation. Other- wise she is on the dias. She assumes her stand at a moment in the morning when the mothers are still deciding what clothes the youngsters are to wear. For half an hour before they arrive, she prepares the blackboards, arranges her books and takes commands from a principal who happens to feel like issuing orders. Then the bell goes, the doors open, and those little people who have been waiting outside come trooping through the halls. The stage is set and the show goes on. . . . Miss, mother said for you to read this note. Miss, I can ' t undo the buttons on my coat. Miss, my pencil has no point. Miss, I can ' t reach the peg. Miss, will we have a story today? ' It is Miss, Miss, Miss until it becomes a refrain, but not an unpleasant one. There is something appealing about it — something that would play on the heartstrings of any Miss. Besides, patience is a virtue of special value to the teacher. Endurance is another. . . . The signal is given and the work begins in earnest. A sort of rhythm is set up, a kind of steady hum of combined effort and conversation is heard. And lol the thermometer of learning rises and falls, jolts and quivers, registering con- stants, doubtfuls, variables and plausibles as the case may be. There is even time to draw a breath between scenes, to interchange ideas with co-workers, to exchange notes, to chat. . . . Day after day speeds by. The curtain goes up with the bell every morning and comes down with the bell at night. In between, there have been whole years of struggle, wonder triumphs — years of enhancing other lives, years of tireless zest in the endeavour of pouring knowledge into the receptive and unreceptive vacancies. The Number One seat does not make for honour but it makes for understanding and wisdom and a certain enviable PEACE. It is rough reality, venture laden reality, but it is reality. And the show goes on. . . . SISTER IRMA. Not Forgotten OHE glared at me with hate-filled eyes. I had wronged her, treated her cruelly. What a brute I was! Those eyes which had once given me such glances of devotion as only she, my beautiful one, could show, now turned angrily away. Our friendship which I had valued so dearly was gone forever. Never again could I place my hands on her head and caress it as I had so often done in the past. For days I went about my new work sadly with head bent. It grieved me more than I thought possible, to part from my dearest friend, that friend who had been so much to me. But time, the great healer of all wounds, came to my aid. As the weeks passed and I saw less of my Marie I did not miss her quite so much. My heart was cheered considerably by my chang- ing fortune. If the thought of our quarrel now came into my mind it was dismissed casually. Once as I caught sight of her passing by, gaily caparisoned and accompanied by her new escort, my memory was dragged back to the past, and I again felt dejected. However, I was raised from my despondent mood with the hope that one day 11 might be for given and I would be restored in her favour. But I had made my plans without consulting Marie, We met the next evening at dusk beside the lake where our camp had been pitched. Now was my chance to plead for her friendship. Hope- fully, I turned toward her. The next minute, as I was swinging through the air with the dark blue water of the lake beneath me, and her trunk about my waist, I remembered, too late, the old saying, An elephant never forgets. BETTY FROSDICK. The Puddle THERE once was a puddle at the side of the road. The poor puddle felt very sad. It said, I am such a stupid, dirty thing! What use am I? Immediately, a thirsty robin flew by. He spied the puddle and exclaimed, How lucky I am to find this lovely puddle! Swooping down, he sip- ped a long drink. Now, he could sing his merry notes. lust then, a man plodded by. He was very- sad and mournful. He turned towards the robin who was singing his happy melody. Gradually, the robin ' s beautiful song drove all his sadness away and, with it, went the sadness from the heart of the puddle. ABIGAIL LEES. [24]