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

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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.

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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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POETRY— Continued NORMAL SCHOOL MUSERS (Parody on The Solitary Reaper — William Wordsworth.) Behold us, poring o ' er our books, We do not see the printed page! Musing and dreaming to ourselves, Our thoughts flow to a bygone age. Alone, we wander back, perchance, To cock our heads, and look askance At pranks we used to play in school To test the teacher ' s temper cool. No Normal School did ever hear More lusty cries from straining throats Of thousands, as our teams we cheer To Victory 1 We still have hopes! A book so chilling ne ' er was read, As Pioneers went to our heads; We sketched and wrote from morn till night, And still ten marks were out of sight! Will someone tell us what to say? Perhaps our wand ' ring mind ' s at sea; We long to take those cruises gay, Where wafting breezes be. Or are we destined more to raise Our voices in a one-roomed school, And simply dream of those fair days — A Master in a Normal School. Whate ' er the theme of our school year, We bend our heads in solemn vow; We ' ll always love you, Mater, dear, Smce you have ably shown us how To live above the Golden Rule, And always keep our tempers cool; Your counsel in our hearts we ' ll store Long after we ' ve passed through the door. —ESTHER LAIDLAW. A TEACHER ' S PRAYER There goes my last small problem out the door! The room is strangely silent now, at four; I need no desert place to kneel and pray, The Master Teacher can ' t be far away — Yet keep I must my little ones from harm Until a mother ' s tender, loving arm Encircles each small wanderer with joy And closely hugs a rumpled girl or boy. And now, dear Lord, forgiveness I implore For harsh and bitter words I spoke before I thought how soon blue eyes can fill with tears, And rosy, little cheeks can pale with fears. Oh, teach me kindly patience! Help me keep Imprisoned words that cause a child to weep. Tomorrow, help me teach instead with smiles, And, Master, walk with me down narrow aisles Through years of service, ' till life ' s clock strikes four And, homeward bound, a teacher shuts the door And hurries gladly tow ' rd the joy to be — Led by a little child, at last, to Thee. ■ — MARY HOLLAND. MEMBERS OF THE Empress Avenue School: Mr. R. G. Fowler, B.A. Miss Isobel Cooke Miss Eva Darch Miss Margaret Grieve Mr. S. G. Munro, B.A. Lady Beck School: Mr. Mark Garrett Miss Elva Armitage Miss Jessie McWilliam Lome Avenue School: Miss Hazel Henderson Victoria School: Miss Gertrude Bapty Rural Schools: Miss M. McLean, B.A. Mrs. Helen Paterson . Miss M. Penhale Mr. W. G. Rigney Governor Simcoe School: Mr. F. H. Galpin, B.A. Miss Mable Buckle Miss Iva Graham Miss Lily Hoffman Miss Muriel Lancaster Miss Isobel McLeish Miss Vera Tisdale [27] CRITIC STAFF Lord Roberts School: Miss Margaret Belton Tecumseh Avenue School: Miss Gladys Morris Wortley Road School: Miss Annie Davidson COLLEGIATE STAFF South Collegiate: Mr. R. S. H. Graham, M.A. Mr. A. F. McKillop, B.A. Mr. Roy Allen, B.A. Mr. W. T. Armstrong, B.A. Mr. J. F. Calvert, M.A. Mr. H. B. Dinsmore, B.A. Miss Bessie McCamus, B.A. Sir Adam Beck Collegiate: Mr. W. C. Johnson, B.A. Mr. W. H. Adamson, B.A. Miss Mary Cameron, B.A. Miss Jessie Day, B.A. Mr. W. M. Herron, M.A. Mr. W. E. Shales, M.A., B.Paed. Mr. D. H. Strangways, B.A. Miss Agnes Vrooman, B.A.