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

Page 32 text:

J4appine££ JSeedb 3ollow Qoodneb Mr. Jones, John is back. We might just as well have dinner now. You know John, he ' s quite a man. Mercy, one never knows when a body will have dinner. As usual, Mrs. Peterson had issued her decree followed by numerous comments and exclama : tions. Usually, John found them humorous and sincere in the earnest way in which she made them. Previously Mrs. Peterson always acted as a buoy to his spirits, but to-night things were different. Does she have to blabber on like that? came the subdued answer from Mr. Jones. Such feelings and expressions of impatience as these were quite unusual for Jones. He usu- ally accepted things more calmly, extracting the best, the humour, from everything and enjoying the various experiences of life to a maximum. But to-night things were different. He really couldn ' t understand himself, his attitude towards Mrs. Peterson and his obvious anxiety. Not wishing Mrs. Peterson to be greatly disturbed, as surely she would be if he didn ' t appear for dinner, Jones reluctantly went for his evening meal. Other days the evening meal was a delight- ful experience to Jones after his tedious day ' s work. Formerly the frank sincerity of Mrs. Peterson, who insisted on advancing her sometimes indiscreet opinion about various people, amused him, although he tactfully developed a taciturn attitude when such discussions arose. Then, he realized that in her simple but imprudent manner, she was innocent of deliberate harm. On the other hand, at the evening meals he sometimes received good advice from the master of the house (if he could be so called, as his good wife had no intention of fixing such a title upon him), John Peterson — by name. John, a middle-aged, hard-working farmer, had in his own quiet way helped Jone s along a few rough spots in his profession, in spite of the fact that John himself had never passed eighth grade. From John, Jones realized that wisdom fuses from something more than sheer knowledge. This evening, however, Jones was not in the mood for the man ' s advice, much less for the unintelligent discussion of people as a whole. He disregarded all good habits of health, which he was always so concerned about, by allowing himself to be perturbed throughout the meal. For some time Mrs. Peterson offered a few items of gossip as topics of conversation. She ceased when she noticed that Jones was quite disgusted with the conversation. After a few platitudes suggested by John concerning the weather and wood-cutting the meal was continued in absolute silence. A con- strained atmosphere hung over the room. Jones, having quickly swallowed the last mouthful of tea, excused himself and left the room. Well — whatever has come over him? sighed Mrs. Peterson. ' It must be that those terrible Tillson children are finally upsetting the man ' s nerves. I told you that . . . . Now, Martha, cut in John, sure enough something is troubling him, but we can ' s go jumping to conclusions. But I ' ll bet my bottom plate that I know just what it is. Every one of them young fellows who come here their first year have the same trouble. I ' ll have to talk with the young lad. Maybe I can get him straightened out a bit. Martha eyed him questioningly and was just about to interrogate him when the telephone rang. Conversation ceased and they waited to interpret the code which the bell was sounding. The bell rang five distinct times — three times long, and two times short. That was the Petersons ' ring. To some people unaccustomed to party lines the interpretation of the rings has always been con- fusing, but to the Petersons no great difficulty arose. To Martha they were advantageous. She received much information from them. She excused herself from the condemning looks of her husband resulting from her conduct, by the convincing, if not rational statement: After all, a body can be a help to people only when they know what ' s going on. To John such excuses were debatable. However, he did not concern himself with them, real- izing the utter lack of malice in his wife ' s deportment. Yes, Mr. Jones is in. With this answer Martha went to call Jones, muttering to the effect that she could hardly hear the other party (whose name she had already guessed), due to the unlim- ited amount of people who were listening in desiring to know everybody ' s business. John smiled, but said nothing, realizing the air of contradiction in Martha ' swords. Yes, this is Mr. Jones. Oh, the Christmas tree; your husband might bring it in to-morrow afternoon, if he likes. . . . Yes, Betty has a part in the concert. . . . Now Mrs. Smith, just what- ever you think, really; it doesn ' t matter what she wears as we have costumes prepared. Yes, Mrs. Smith, she would look lovely with a long white dress and a red ribbon in her hair but I hardly think that the costume is appropriate for the part. . . . What was that again, please? Oh yes, you might put her hair in curlers. Your son from the city is coming home. Oh, that ' s fine. Yes, Mrs. Smith, six-thirty will be early enough for her to come. . . . Yes, it will be quite warm in the school. . . . Page Thirty i

Page 31 text:

Poetry, THE YOUNG SCHOOL TEACHER (First Prize) Here in the quiet classroom, where the air, Perfumed with chalk-dust passes out the window broad, There takes its place a cleaner atmosphere, Bearing the bell-clear tones of children playing on rain-drenched sod. Here sits the teacher, eager with youthful visions, Not warped and scarred by struggles down the line Of years of seeing the spoken word, the selfless deed unheeded, Eager to give unfashioned minds some truth divine. Hers to mould the pliant growing soul, To shape a race of men ready to borrow A page from the record of Paradise, That they may be participants in a godlier, more brotherly to-morrow. JUNE LAUGHTON, Form II A NORMALITE WRITES HOM1 (Se cond Prize) My dear Mama, I write to say I thought of something odd today — A something which essentially Must added to my wardrobe be ! I thought today: What makes me feel Happy instead of down at heel? What gives me poise, self-confidence And sense to use my common sense? What makes me gay, what gives me grace, Aplomb, sangfroid, in any place? What lifts my spirits from the dirt? Darling, my ballerina skirt! I never thought that such a thing Could lift me up and make me sing! I never realized at all Till now, that what I need this fall Is just another swing-and-sway Ballerina whirl-away! You ' d never dream the good of it — That little waist so snugly fit — Those gracious flares so airily swirled! Nothing, Mama, in all the world Could make me feel more confident When out a-teaching I am sent. So darling, p lease consider this My current, urgent, dearest wish. That I might face just any squirt , Send me a ballerina skirt! A ballerina skirt, I pray, Just to replace my dingy gray. Advise me soon, dear, if you can. Your ever loving daughter Fran. FRANCES CLARKE, Form I THE DANCING SAND (Third Prize) The shifting sands, the swirling dunes Together, dance beneath the moon. The biting wind, he keeps the pace Now slow, now fast, now halt, now race. Each silvery particle with abandoned care Joins in the battle with the air. The whirling, swirling dance goes on O ' er Bedouin hut and Arab tent Till finally, its power gone, It slowly stops; its forces spent. The dunes now settle in their place, The scurlish wind flies to the east; The wan moon then retreats in haste And all in silence waits Phoebus ' face. GERALD ENGLAND, Form I Page Twenty-nine

Page 33 text:

P-ige Thirty-one