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

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The Garden of My Heart WE are all familiar with the beautiful ballad In the Garden of My Heart, written by Caro Roma. The words of that song have brought us peace, love and hope. Now, instead of a sweet, mythical garden, I bring you a picture of my own garden of last summer — a long, heart-shaped plot surrounded by a driveway. It was a place of peace and sweet content, ever abounding in gracious memories, alive with hope and promise — the tall larkspur that seemed smiling through the faint blue atmosphere of the summer sky; the gorgeous poppies, whose glowing colours warmed the hearts of those who walked and talked there; the delicate shades of phlox, where myriads of little fairies seemed to abide; and still holding its first coy sweetness for me — the fair-faced lily, the self-same flower the angels carry. Youth — elemental, bold and inspiring — was in my garden. Little chickens trod the paths between gay African daisies which seemed to dance in the morning sun; pinks sweet as fairy breath; bright, golden marigolds, strong and glorious, among whose swaying stalks flitted the wee humming birds; and then rows of joyous asters; gladioli, that made a rainbow of stately queens in them- selves; Sweet Williams, zinnias, dahlias, and frag- rant sweet peas, all of which flourished and grew in such abundance one could fairly hear them plea to be gathered in clusters of sweetness to cheer the bedside of the sick. Did you ever in fancy feel the soft touch of baby fingers when pressing the sweet pansies to your cheeks? I always do, and in their blossoms I seem to see little baby faces, there seems such a depth of innocent expression in their soft petals. Venerable age was there in my garden. Trees that have endured through a century — brooding, sure — stand guard, and in the stillness of evening murmur a benediction. Up and down those smooth paths echoed well-loved footsteps. Memories made a shrine of my garden, which at times seemed strange and mysterious, with all sorts of tiny seeds sleeping and then awakening into life of flowers and fruit. We live again in those beautiful lines of Caro Roma ' s lyric: We never miss the singing until the birds have flown; We never miss the blossoms until the spring has gone; We never miss our joyousness till sorrow bid us wake; We never know we have a heart till it begins to break. Friends may come and go, yet nothing of beauty is ever lost. In the beauty of the garden we find joy; in its steadfastness, courage; in its purpose, faith in the Resurrection. In the quiet of the evening shadows, when the day is done, the flowers seem slumbering; the song birds are sleeping, each and all having brought their beauty to the day. Then comes peace, for eternal life is in my garden, in yours, in our hearts. CHARLOTTE F ARRIS. A Bit of Nature THERE is a nook in a wood, far from unsympa- thetic eyes, which is especially lovely on an early spring morning. Everything is fragrant and shining. It radiates an atmosphere of life, fresh and unmarred. A slender stream winds in a small ox-bow among giant maples, isolating a circular area of grass. The leafy arms of the stately old trees meet to form a natural canopy through which the sunlight filters to cast strange patterns of light and dark on the velvety grass below. A few glistening drops of dew gleam on the buds of the hepaticas which nestle among the mossy roots of the maples. Nature ' s children begin the day with the first rays of the sun. A sleek, black squirrel leaps gracefully from tree to tree. The robin runs along the grass; he stops; he cocks his head and listens. His head bobs down, then up, and he flies away to his little brood with a precious morsel in his beak. Another robin perches on the top-most branch singing his cheeriest song. At intervals these melodious notes are inter- rupted by the rude cawing of a glossy crow which flies high in the sunlight. The water of the stream washes quietly over the smoothed stones. By the edge, a frog suns himself on a waxy lily-pad. As a trout darts to the surface, concentric ripples expand until they reach the banks. This charming bit of nature reflects peace and contentment. May it always remain unmolested. MARY MacVICAR. IN TRAINING — Continued from page 21 succeeds. Stealthily, we manoeuver around the room, completely disintegrating the ranks of the pupils. But upon turning our backs, the drone in the air is plain to us as the hum of conversation increases; they are advancing beyond our control! Desperately, an SOS flashes to our aid as the clock signals for us to cease fire (the real fireworks begin when the critic teacher tells us why we lost the battle). We are given a one-day leave of absence and asked to deliver valuable sealed information to the chief commander. These minor attacks occur weekly, but a com- munique reports from a reliable source that a major drive on all fronts may be expected in the spring. The result of the year ' s campaign may leave many feelings crushed or wounded on the field of experience but the fame of the heroes shall be spread throughout the province. DAVID HALL. [25 ]

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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]

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» P O E TO THE WIND Oh Wanton Wind, that sings o ' er lea and moor, But bring to me a draught of that perfume, That leakage from the clover-scented store When sun is hot and pixies dance at noon; Oh Wanton Wind, that races o ' er the brow Of mountains looming ' gainst the dawn ' s pale light, Just bring for me sweet scented balsam bough When you come home at night. Oh Soothing Wind, that lulls the world to rest, Throughout the velvet black of night just keep A single glistening dewdrop, that I ' m blessed When Eastern Sun arises from his sleep. And if, oh Wind, throughout this day you find A wandering thought of pure, sweet ecstacy, Be faithful, oh you Fluttering, Lilting Wind, And bring it safely home to ' bide with me. — AGNES WILKINSON. ENIGMA (With the Poet ' s? apologies for the license taken in the last line.) When first I came to Normal School, A motto strange I saw; In scarlet hue upon the crest Beneath the lamp of knowledge rest, A phrase which filled with awe, And set my feeble mind to race; (It showed quite plainly on my face And drooping lower jaw). I turned both left and right for help, (No Latin did I know) But everywhere I met with woe; Can no one tell me whence it came, And set me free from sorry shame? Discimus Docendo. —ALBERT HARDING. • • A SEA SONG Have you ever slipped out when the moon is high To keep a tryst with the sea? The breeze brings a message, a whispering sigh, As it murmurs wistfully. Have you ever stood by a silver bay Bathed in the moon ' s pale beams As the trees behind you softly say, Come, board your ship of dreams? Oh try it, friend, when the tide runs high, When the sea croons a song of love, And the breeze brings a message, a whispering sigh, While you wait ' neath the moon above. —MARGARET BLACK. [26 TRY « MY CASTLES IN SPAIN I crossed o ' er the threshold and stood by the door Of a little red school that bright morn; A student out teaching for practice a week, I felt rather lost and forlorn. The children came shyly Good Morning to say, I watched them the day ' s work begin; An alien outside of this family, I felt, And I longed to be taken within. At recess all gathered their teacher around, She shared in the stories they told; I crept shyly up and about me soon felt Their circle of friendship enfold. The days sped by swiftly on wings of content; I learned much of school-life and rule, And beside this I quickly learned also to love Teacher, pupils, and little red school. I crossed o ' er the threshold and stood on the step — I turned to gaze back just once more; The thought I was leaving brought tears to my eyes And cut my pained heart to the core. But Normal School summoned and answer I must, The path of my duty lay clear, But I stood there and built up my Castles in Spain — My hopes for my work of next year. And this was the castle I built as I stood, My heart full of pleasure and pain, A little red school by the side of the road — Yes, that was my Castle in Spain. A little red schoolhouse, some pupils to love, With the joys and the sorrows Life brings, What more could I ask but the guidance of Him Who grants us such wonderful things. —ELLEN M. JAMIESON. EVENTIDE For an hour or two in the evening There comes a lull and a rest, When all the twittering robins Have quietly slipped to their nest; The ducks are contentedly quacking. There ' s no worry of field or grain; Then we sit in a quaint old rocking-chair Building our Castles in Spain. Oh yes! There ' s a lull in the evening, When the sun ' s rays have almost gone, When dishes have ceased to rattle, And all the men are at home; When a soft wind is gently rocking, And the broad-faced moon is agleam, Ah! ' Tis then we can sit in that quaint old chair, And drowsily think and dream. —AGNES WILKINSON.