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Page 28 text:
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Life (With apologies to the tune of It Comes Naturally ) Here we are at Normal School With hardly any learning, Still we ' re happy as can be As any fool can plainly see. Life was d ull before we came, With Trig, and French and Latin, Now we ' re sure to spend our time Acting out a nursery rhyme. We learn everything from A to Z, Including how to read in the Primary; It all seems silly but we have got to learn Because our living we ' ve got to earn— That ' s necessity. Our parents call us children. But what a change they ' ll see When we come home at Christmas Filled with psychology. Our masters keep our evenings filled With plans and projects plenty. This is the end of our little rhyme ' Cause we ' re running out time. -JEAN LITTLE, DONNA LAMONT, SHIRLEY HAWKINS, NOLA KRUEGER. Again Over and over again, No matter which way I turn, I always find in the Book of Life Some lesson that I must learn. I must take my turn at the mill, I must grind out the golden grain, I must work at my task with a resolute wil Over and over again. — M. M. If the threads in the pattern of life Just now seem tangled and queer, To the Master Weaver who planned it The design is perfectly clear. For as He assembles the colours He must also choose some that are gray To make brighter the blue and the golden Of a happier, sunnier day. -M. J. MOYNES. St Thomas? Here is a poem dedicated to the Flower Ciry, St. Thomas O, St. Thomas, I love you For your Fere Marquette, But you haven ' t the fame That I ' d like for you, yet .... O, St. Thomas, I love you For your Michigan Central, But these small, two-bit roadc— Well, they ' re just incidental .... O I know you ' ve got the Wabash And the N. Y. C, The Canadian National and the Old C. P. But you ' ll never really know Your greatest fame Until some mighty railroad Bears your name. St. Thomas must grow up, Be strong, be manly- Let ' s call it the London-St. Thomas-and-Port Stanley. -BERT MILLER, No. 26, Form I. Page Twenty-six
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Page 29 text:
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London Normal School When forests were thick and homes were logs And corduroy roads were laid, Some time before this century, Then surely I was made. With towering steeple full of bats, And creaking wooden stair, The students ' dreaded monument Of future long gray hair. The rundown prison of this town, To those who enter here, You scorn and laugh, deride me, I have my moments dear. At Hallowe ' en and Christmas-time My halls are bright and gay With laughter, fun and frolic — You ' ll recall some future day. -LOIS LE FAVE, Form III. My paradise is a garden small That grows behind a wee white wall. It ' s filled with flowers of every hue- Stop in some time; there ' s one for you. The pansy, rose and daffodil For colours rare, I ' ll always till Some phlox, verbena, columbine, Morning glory and trumpet vine. Blue and neat in my wee plot Grows the sweet forget-me-not; The gladiolus blossoms proud, And zinnias bloom with colours loud. In closing now please let me say, When I ' m alone, if by chance I may, To have you come and sit a spell. To chat with me when all is well. -BETTY J. COWELL. Class Of ' 47 The Immortal Artist Yonder grows the full-blown rose And yonder strolls the cattle; ' Neath our feet the green grass grows And overhead birds prattle. Dame Nature has before us spread, In resplendent red and yellow, A carpet that is Nature ' s bed Of colours soft and mellow. No artist could create So beautiful a picture, Nor could he clearly duplicate Regardless of his mixture. -G. A. BROAD. There ' s a harrowing tale that we have been told Of student teachers in days of old, Glued to one spot or dashing about Annoying critics by forgetting to shout. But this year ' s crop is not like that; They teach a lesson at the drop of a hat. Intriguing materials, concrete and fact In arms and in head no doubt are packed. By London Street Railway or L. P.S. (The destination of which you can easily guess), On Wednesday, or Thursday, or Friday morn. The students of London Normal are borne. To practice schools where from wall to wall The critic teachers their praises call. As for criticisms, they receive but few. I wonder just whom I am kidding— you? -ETHEL KING, Form III. Page Twenty-seven i
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