London South Collegiate Institute - Oracle Yearbook (London, Ontario Canada)

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L. S. C. I. ORACLI2 surrounded by various modern school buildings. But it was the ancient building that I came to admire. Or- iginally a Guild Hall, later the Town Hall, the building has been continu- ously used as a school-room since 1482-ten years before Columbus dis- covered this continent. Here came Shakespeare. creeping like snail nn- willingly lo school. Here hellearned his little Latin and less Greek. Open bookshelves fill the entire end behind the master's desk, which is elevated on a dais. A brass plate marks the conjectural location of the poet's own desk which has gone off to join the great majority of relics. They are very plain desks, consisting merely of a board laid across twoiron up- rights. I am told that an Ontario collegiate has adopted the design. Several boys sit together at each. But the glory of the place, apart from the half-timbered exterior, is the magnificent tie-beam roof of this schoolroom. The hammer-beam roof in Westminster Hall, London, is larger, loftier, more ornate, but not so characteristically medieval as this sturdy structure. Rafters, supports, beams are black with age but solid as ever. On one of the two sunny afternoons, I was lured to the river. From the many boathouses I selected the one next the memorial library. Have you a canvas-covered canoe? I asked the boatman. Just these, sir, he said, indicating some Peterborough Cedars fitted with two parallel keel-boards. That will be O.K, I returned in- cautiously. Another 'f-lush' American, thought the boatman. How much? I continued. Two shillings an hour, he replied promptly. See you again, I sighed,making for the boat-house at the Clopton Bridge where I knew the rate was one shilling. Massive Clopton Bridge with its many piers remains as it was when Shakespeare brought his eight-year-old son there to fish on a,f1ne day in April. A, fresh -breeze was driving through the arches and making navigation of a canoe with keel-boards a bit trouble- some. . But there was the blessed sun. No wonder the Britons worshipped E 23 him. Waterside Park on the right bank had attracted many a burgess to enjoy the fine afternoon from abench beside the Hower-beds, others, however, were punting on the river. Some even preferred a motor launch. I paddled by the New Memorial theatre, to be dedicated next April. On the opposite bank are the bowling and cricket greens with quiet meadows beyond, traversed by a footpath. -iiThe river glideth at his own sweet wi .' A few hundred yards along this quiet reach is Holy Trinity Church, whose tower and spire rise from the massed lime trees. A man and a maid from far-away India are seated on the churchyard wall revelling in this ex- quisite Warwickshire setting. I stroll through the churchyard and enter, by a long aisle of arched lime trees, this ancient sanctuary whose tower and transepts actually antedate those of Westminster Abbey. just within the vestibule is the old sanctuary knocker, one of the few remaining in England to remind us of the days when sanctu- ary meant security from pursuing enemies for thirty-seven days. A church which exhibits early English decorated Gothic and perpendicular architecture would, of itself, be in- teresting. In addition, its chancel is oddly deflected to the left of the line of the nave. It possesses one of the few chained Bibles, dated 1611. And it preserves the huge registers, like family Bibles, recording thep oet's baptism, April 26, 1564, and his burial, April 25, 1616. By the porch stands the font in which he was baptized, and yonder in the east, before the high altar, is the tablet which covers his mortal remains. The most stately epitaph in all this land of monuments and shrines is that of Sir Christopher Wren over the north transept entrance of St. Paul's: Si rnonnmenturn. reguiris circum- spice. The most moving epitaph is in the north cloister of Westminster Abbey: Jane, Lister, dear ehilde, 1688. , But there is something essentially fitting in these lives prepared by the great man to perpetuate the bond CContinued on Page 281

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24 L. S. C. I. ORACLE . .,,. M. A Y ,, , ,M - j e . 4- E. 1 Sp zwllfl . 5391 1 ' 0 55- ' KA 555, V 5:-I I Department Editor, K. MILLIGAN Eclitor's Comment The winners in the Short Story Con- test:-1, Annie Dodds, V B, 2, Norman Farrow, IV C, 3, Frank White, IV B. We wish to extend our congratula- tions to Annie Dodds, who has won the cash prize so kindly donated cy Trustee Mrs. John Rose. All who submitted stories did exceptionally good work and it is hoped that some of our future authors are to be found in this group. We deeply appreciate the fine judg- ing of Miss Clendenan, Miss Taylor and Mrs. Carr-Harris. Finally, we wish to thank everybody who helped in the work and to hope for even better stories next year. -BOB FORD, IV C. THE NEW DESTINY A Sequel to The Secret Sharer FIRST PRIZE STORY By ANNIE VALHALLA DoDDs IM cautiously swung the tiny, rude sail with the guy-rope and l waited. No wind! Notabreath in all the sleepy bay of indigo waters! Behind him the low shore, an abrupt, rising cape of Koh-ring, shut off the jungle-green of river delta, where he had launched the craft. How long had he been making her? Months, perhaps years, he could have said. Time was best meas- ured by his beard which had grown long and heavy since his landing on that broken beach. As he stretched himself carefully under the narrow palm-thatch and Short Stories, BOB FORD waited, Jim remembered the sharp ecstasy he had first felt in the warmth of sand beneath his feet after his weeks of enforced hiding aboard the Santo Lucia. How strange firm land had seemed that night, he had slipped from the sail-locker port and swum clear, leaving the fioppy panama hat to mark the place of parting. How had he controlled himself till the ship was gone before raising his voice against the dark rocks, shouting after those long brooding weeks of silence and whispered confidence in the young captain's quarters? jim dared to remember even farther back in that secret experience aboard the Santa Lucia. He remembered his Cap- tain of the Sephora who had come aboard looking for him, the escaped homicide. Well, that young captain had certainly put old Archibald off tack. Now, England was behind him forever. Nobody would..ever recog- nize him with his browned body, his beard and long hair matted about his shoulders. No one could ever con- vince a jury of tradesmen that this wild-looking native had ever been the smart first-mate of the Sephora on that terrible voyage. Still no breeze to stir the sail of rush- mat! Irritably Jim thrust his head out of the shelter. Beneath in the tinged crystal-bright, fish winn.owed ceaselessly, great red and gold beauties, others purple blotched with quick- silver sides, some with grotesque round bodies and horrid mouths. There were shoals of yellow ones. Oh! was there no escape from memory? Jim pulled his head out of the sunlight.