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

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L. S. C. I. ORACLE f . Af ...e f if v- L Tx 'X r ' lf A. 31 a'- l I t T..,-..- ref X tr l' HEREDITY By FRANK WIHITE Peter was an architect, that is, he drew plans, good plans too, of houses and churches and all sorts of magnifi- cent places, but the most wonderful plan he ever conceived never material- ized--his son's future. Still, in the end he felt no disappointment. Peter Brown loved several things---he loved his wife, his work, perhaps he loved himself Cit'sa common diseaseD but especially he loved the game of rugby. He had played, his father had played, both had graduated Hartwell College, and it was his fondest hope to have a son who should carry on. Then there was Norwood g for gen- erations it had sheltered the successive little Peter Browns and seen them be- come fine men and great rugby players. There was a barn too-a barn which had kept stride with the times to the extent of becoming a garageg behind it lay a long stretch of turf sacred to the memory of many bruised arms and scraped shins. This plot had been nominally for the exercise of the Brown horses, deceased, but had later served in a more glorious capacity for the exercise of the Brown boys. Here Peter, as had his father before him, acquired the uncanny drop- kicking skill by sending them with various degrees of success through the hay-loft door. This door was closely flankediby two small windows and the possibility of their breakage proved a far greater mental hazard than any distant goal posts were ever to be. Thus you see it was into an atmos- phere thoroughly permeated with the manly game of rugby that the stork chose to deliver a brand new Brown. Peter was told that she was just as sweet as ever she could be. Dreams .crushed-boys had so long been a Brown tradition, that the pos- sibility of an error in allotment seemed never to have entered Peter's head. However, he lived his disappointment down and resolved that Lysbeth Qfor so she was namedj should be every bit as much a lady as little Peter was to have been a man From a very lovable bit of a baby she became an exquisite littQe girl. Now on her nineteenth birthday, she was a charming, none the less exquisite, and certainly a very lovable young lady. Every one said so, but more especially did Garry Hunter. That Garry had falQen very much in love with Lysbeth was as evident as it was inevitable and as inevitable as if the fact that Lysbeth had came to Hartwell. Garry, on the other hand, was just right, Lysbeth said. He was tall but not too tall. Solid, but not too solid. His hair was blond and wavy, but not too blond nor too wavy. His jaw was square, but nicely so. And above all this young man on whom the gods so smiled was this year predicted to be a very large part of the Hartwell team. Why rugby team, of course. No, Lysbeth we don't blame at al'l, rather we offer our congratulations. ' The prediction became a reality and

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30 dinarily carried cargo, and had only four state-rooms for the accommodation of passengers, but was now fitted to take 1,200 troops instead of freight. The men were quartered below decks in the cargo-holds and were entirely devoid of creature comforts. Because of the danger of subs no smoking was allowed above decks after dark and towards the end of the journey Ctwelve daysj, even the men were not allowed above decks after dusk. A temporary emergency hospital had been built on the main deck and we had four poor fellows there with pneumonia when, one night, a rolling sea came right over the top of this superstructure and nearly drowned the men in their beds. On this voyage, too, we had one of the most exciting races imaginable. It happened that in the same convoy we had the sister-ship to the Tireseus, the Reseus, and the crews of both ships were eager for a race for it was the hrst time they had ever been together. When we arrived off Dover Qwe were bound for Londonj, the convoy was broken up and as each ship took on a pilot it was allowed to go on its own. The Reseus was the second ship to take on a pilot and we were the fourth so that our rival had a lead of several miles by the time we cleared away for the run round the Foreland and up the Estuary of the Thames to Gravesend. Immediately we could feel the throb of the great engine with its huge piston and the vibration of the single propellor and it was not long before the normal speed of eleven knots had been pushed up to fifteen. Both ships were manned by Chinese crews and the men would keep coming up on deck between periods in the stoke-hold, to see how the race was going. You can imagine their L. s. c. 1. ORACLE excitement, demonstrated in both voice and gesture, as we began to overhaul the other ship which, in contrast to our 1,200 Canadians, had on board 1,200 Sammies. As we drew into the narrow and tortuous channel of the Thames we began to draw alongside the Reseus and no school yells could equal the cheers of the men on the two ships. This was kept up for miles and it looked, sometimes, as though one or other of the ships would surely fail to take one of the sharp bends or else would run into some other ship trying to come down the river. Gradually, however, we pulled ahead and we had the distinc- tion of being the first of the convoy of six ships to drop anchor at Gravesend, late in the evening of twenty-fourth of May. My return voyage on this trip was on the Olympic, one of the greatest of all ships. This vessel, called Trans- port 2810 during the war, was manned entirely by naval men and carried four six-inch guns. Her duties as troopship took her to many ports, American, Canadian, and even to some of the Mediterranean, and in this service she carried more than 200,000 men. It was my privilege to sail on this ship again when she brought her last company of Canadian soldiers home from England. Before we left South- ampton we were given a Civic farewell by the Mayor and Aldermen of the City, who were all attired in their gorgeous civic robes. I shall never forget the cheers of the 5,400 men on board, nor the sight of the solid mass of khaki as the men climbed to every vantage point to wave Goodbye to Blighty. TO THE MOTHERLAND The land I love to dream of And cherish above others, Is like an Emerald paradise Where all men are as brothers. ' I want to see its rocky coasts, Dear mountain glens, I knew, And pluck a handful of shamrock A Out of -its breast anew. For in the night and when the rain The foaming river gills, I fancy that I see again My old home in the hills. O land of which I dream, Fair Ireland, Emerald Isle, I 'm going back to thee again 1 And may I stay awhile. -Agnes Swanton. U J

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32 the finished schedule found Hartwell and Churcher College tied for the lead. Garry had in all truth pulled a rather mediocre team through most of the season. The game to break the dead- lock was arranged for Thanksgiving Day. At Peter's suggestion Lysbeth invited Garry down to Norwood for the week- end preceding the game. They drove the sixty odd miles on Friday afternoon, and arrived just in time for dinner. Table talk that evening was confined mostly to rugby. Time flew, and before they were aware that the evening had gone, eleven o'clock rang softly through the house. Garry had just started to undress. That is he had kicked and wiggled one unoffensive shoe until it had gone flying across the room. A rap on the door was followed by: Garry, do you mind if I come in a second, and then by Peter. Say, young fellow --and the closing door muffled their voices. There must have been, however, some connection between Say, young fellow and the fact that the following morning found both Garry and Peter engaged in what might be termed a spirited kicking duel in the paddock. Garry kicked well, but couldn't equal Peter's great 60-yard punts. However surprised Garry was at this, the greatest shock, however, came just before they returned to the barn. Peter drew his attention to the open hay-loft door, some fifty yards distant. Then with no apparent effort dropped the ball cleanly through the open door. To say that Peter was surprised is all too mild. Upon my soul! Can you do that every time? asked Garry. Oh, no, not every time, said Peter. I missed it several times this year, once last spring. Forgot to allow quite enough for the wind. Garry failed to see the laughter in Peter's eyes. Breakfast was over. Peter had gone into town, and Lysbeth and Garry on a tour of inspection found themselves standing in the locality of what Peter had that morning called the stadium. Garry had just told Lysbeth how great a rugby player her father was, and Lys- beth with feigned pique had said: Of course I know. Whose father is he? You say he can drop-kick, Garry. I L. S. C. I. ORACLE shall tell-no, show you a secret. She ran back across the lawn and into the barn, from where she emerged several seconds later with a football under her arm. Approaching Garry, she said to him, From where we stand to that door is ,fifty yards, turned about and re- peated her father's feat with even less effort it seemed. It was too much for Garry. He sat down quite abruptly, and in a weak irreverent voice said, 'fLord. 'You must promise never to tell any- one, especially Dad, Lysbeth told him. Thursday brought the game. The air was cool, although the sun shone brightly, and a rising breeze promised to give zest to the kicking. Half-time found the score six-two. Garry had kicked the six points, and played a splendid game. The second half had scarcely begun when with bewildering rapidity, two near tragedies changed the whole outlook. First Garry emerged from a scrimmage with a badly torn ligament. His absence seemed to un- nerve the entire team, and a series of bad plays was climaxed by a fumble behind the line. A Churcher ball-hero fell on it, and the convert made the score now six-eight. The quarter ended with a drive by Hartwell that brought them to midfield. Up in the stand in section C the ushers were paging Miss Brown. The time-board showed but two minutes to play, when from the Hartwell bench two players arose and hurried toward the play. One limped badly-it was Garry. The crowd,sensing the un- usual, cheered. The other player evi- dently a substitute, seemed very slight beside Garry, and several people in the closer seats noticed the boy wore only an ordinary pair of brogues, small ones at that. The huddle resolved itself into a con- ference. Second down. A kick. The little chap was taking it -bully for him! Why it looks--why it isadrop. High, still higher, it floated now, the wind is carrying it, but carrying it straight through the fifty yards distance goal! arms. . ,The siren screams: The game is over. Hartwell 9, Churcher 8. ,