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

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Literary My Paradise My paradise unfolds before me As I remember my childhood days My dreams, my fears, my desires — They were so real. And now, I stand on the brink of the future — Shall my strength fail me or shall I succeed? Is He there watching me, strength- ening me As I take each wavering step? A smile, a touch, I must go on, For life is more than breath alone. All water lies not in a stagnant pool, The river flows deep and wide And on the other side stands the pinnacle That every man dreams of: The pinnacle I dream of — My paradise. IRENE BUSZKIEWICZ, Form II. Keep Hoping There are times when many things go wrong And the world goes drifting by; There are times when nothing goes our way — Then we hesitate or sigh. It ' s when many, many hardships come That we never should give in, For we never know when things will change, For we sometimes have to win. These are times when we may doubt or groan Or say: Well, I don ' t care! These are times when tears are near the eyes And our burdens we scarce can bear. Then along comes Hope with her shin- ing ray And the scene once more is bright. Then we find our faith and our joy, and peace, And our ever constant Light . SHERRY WHITING, Form VII, No. 132B. Cyclic Seasons From southlands far, the birds return to bring The songs that, in their sweetness say, ' Tis Spring. Small leaves unfold, and crocuses appear From beds beneath the snow, where, since last year. They ' ve slept. With summer, come long days and hazy heat, And blue skies guard the fields of golden wheat. The farmer cuts his grain and binds the sheaves. The warm and sunny breezes stir the leaves Of green. Then comes September, and we know that soon The summer, with its sunshine, will be gone. The leaves, one day, will burn with red and gold; The next, their color faded, brown and old. They ' ll die. The beauty of the winter ' s sparkling snow Creates breath-taking fantasies. We know Jack Frost ' s at work. This all will pass, and when March winds have gone their way, then, once again, It ' s Spring. BARBARA EBY, Form 2.

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THE SPECTRUM STAFF 1952-53 Bill Scaldwell Editor-in-Chief Mr. Ralph Devereux Staff Advisor Elaine Bocking Literary Eileen Boyce Art and Humour Harold Catling Men ' s Sports Rosemary Forden Secretary Lome Groves B ii sin ess Ma wager Catherine MacDougall Class Reports 44 Jane Nichols Women ' s Sports. Lorraine Shipley Social E rents Gerry Turner Advertising Manager Ruth Holditch Associate Editor Rosemary Collins Literary Elma McKessock Interest Groups Marlene WrigW .1 a sic

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Literary (poems, etc.) The Psychopathic Normalite ThE chalk quivers in my hand as I stroke off another day. Twenty-seven weeks one hour and seven minutes gone by, only eleven more weeks and I ' ll be out, free at last. But I must watch myself at this stage of the year. I can feel their eyes searing my flesh, looking for signs, but I won ' t give myself away. I know they ' re watching me, but I won ' t let them know I know. Not me, Louis Napoleon Fish. You are wondering, no doubt, why I write in this fashion. Well, I ' ll start at the begin- ning. Oh, the sweet beginning — it was a beautiful day in September as I approached the Normal School. Being fresh from High School, I was very naive as to the ways of the world and was full of expectancy. I walked up the big cement steps and through the impressive plate doors into the dark Normal School. Immediately a shroud of gloom fell over me, but, being young, I shrugged it off and waited while my eyes accustomed themselves to the darkness (something about a budget). When I did pierce the gloom, there were others stand- ing, shivering, shrinking in the twilight. Sud- denly a light flashed on above us and, like moths, we all went to this light — only to find ourselves in a big auditorium with unsmil- ing statues on little stands around it. In the light I saw the majority of people were girls. Suddenly we were separated; there were a few cries as loved ones were torn apart. We, the men, then were herded into a small room and were terrified by our Principal. What secrets were behind that congenial voice, what mysteries were back of that friendly smile? Then, I didn ' t know — and now I still don ' t. I guess there aren ' t any. After we were separated into forms, time went much faster. We had gay, mad, excit- ing parties in which we played dodge-ball and soccer-base, and other games eight- year-olds would be liable to play. Then came that fateful day, my first lesson — my nerves tense, my muscles quivering. As I got up to speak, my vocal chords contracted — voiceless, I stared. They laughed . . . they laughed at me . . . Louis Napoleon Fish! How could they? I hated them, but what could I do? I rushed out of class, hurling the critic teacher aside (she was about 75), (pensions were too low to retire). I was grieved by my mark, a neg ative ex- cellent. What could I do? My next four single lessons went fine, and then came another hideous day. My week in the rural school (five days make one weak). The teacher, a woman, was 6 ' 3 in her socks; she was very healthy — 217 pounds of health. She managed the 63 brats with an iron hand. It came my turn: she prodded me to the front with her steel pointer. My voice did not fail me, but my discipline did. They drove me out of the school while she sat back and laughed . . . laughed at me . . . Louis Napoleon Fish! I ran the 44 miles back to town and lay down on my bed (a mattress on the floor) and sobbed — chest- racking sobs. I played sick for my first urban week, escaping them, and then came two weeks straight urban. The kids were big, t oo big for me . . . each day, to prove my superiority, I had to go ten rounds with the school champ. I, beaten to pulp each day, finally survived the two weeks to come back to normal. Now I stutter and have a bad nervous twitch. I hear their laughter again. I must escape quick to Miss Emery ' s room. The window is open . . . I ' ll leave, I ' ll show them that laughter, that hideous laughter; I, I, I . . . who woke me up? Oh, it ' s you, Madame Landlady. I didn ' t mean to talk in my sleep — don ' t hit me again, please! please!! IOHN FRASER (FISH), Form 3. Why Don ' t Women Propose? H, what a life! Women have taken our money, they have taken their share of the voting, they have taken over the political scene, they have taken over our homes and our free time, they have taken over our jobs, they have taken the spotlight in television ' s grunt ' n ' groan antics, they have taken over the teaching profession, and now they stand in line to conquer the one remaining male privilege — the right to propose. As if it makes much difference! Half the women propose regardless, while the other half needle the antagonized male into submis- sion, forcing him to propose and sink his life and heritage into a dismal, never-end- ing chasm filled with violent abuse, over- ruling criticism, and a life with tin hair curlers and soggy mud packs, which vainly attempt to restore lost beauty.