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

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THE Cll1llllLDRlELN9S ltlOlUR By MARGARET KIRK, V A.- OBBY stood in front of the if 4, radio, trying very hard to swallow a queer, choky lump in , A T f' T his throat and blinking his eye- lids very fast to keep the tears from brimming over. He clenched his fists and threw up his head. Men of the advanced age of eight years never cry. He'd learned that at the orphanage, where anything of that nature was dubbed sniHling, and the offender a baby. The orphanage! Just that afternoon he had left it forever and had come to live with his new parents, the Bensons, in 'their lovely apartment. For two weeks it was to be their homeg then they would go to Mexico, where Daddy Benson worked. . Ordinarily he would have loved to listen to the radio. Back at the Orphanage he had been the leader of an improvised orchestra. Betty had been the artist who danced and sang. Sometimes they had pretended to broadcast their programmes. He had often wondered what an orchestra -a real one-sounded like over the radio. Now he had the chance, but he wasn't a bit interested. Somebody's orchestra from somewhere played on, unheeded by small Bobby as he walked to the other end of the room and disconsolately watched the cars in the street below. And Betty-there lay the whole trouble. When you are about to lose your only sister you are not interested in orchestras and radios. It had been rather awful when the French lady had taken Betty along with her on her vacation, to be her com- panion, and to help Betty with her music. But always there had been the comfort that in the fall she would be back, and he would be there to welcome her. Then Mother and Daddy Benson had come and had wanted to adopt Betty and Bobby. But Betty and her guardian could not be located. He could still hear Matron's casually regretful words as she and mother and daddy had discussed the problem that afternoon. So sorry l she had said. We just can't seem to get in touch with Betty and her guardian. They are travelling, you know. SOUTH C. I. If we do hear anything before you leave. we shall let you knowf' But in two weeks. perhaps any day now. the call would come, and they would have to go. Betty would come back to the orphanage, but Bobby would be in Mexico. He just couldn't stand it. Perhaps he could do something himself. If only he could remember that French ladyis name. St. . . St. . . it wasn't St. Nicholas was it? But no. Why couldnit people have sensible names which a small boy might remember. Then from the other end of the room he heard the station announcer's voice: Now we have the children's hour. To- day we have a special treat. After the story, a little guest-artist is going to sing two songs for you. Bobby punched a pillow. How he hated smug radio announcers, who always sound- ed so happy. Children's hours were not meant for the likes of him or Betty. From the despised instrument there sounded the opening notes of a song he had known and loved at the orphanage. He whirled about. Betty had often sung that song, and always she had whistled the chorus. Out upon the absolute stillness of the room, high, clear, joyous as that of a bird. floated a childish voice. There just wasn't any other voice like it. It must be Betty. Breathlessly he listened to the verse. A pause-then a lilting whistle. It was Betty! Mother! Mother! come quick. lts Betty . . . singing over the radio I The astonished woman was dragged into the living room, where she heard the clos- ing verse of the song to the accompaniment of a joyous war-dance from Bobby. Into the midst of this confusion came Mr. Benson. Daddy! Daddy! here she is. Don't you hear her? Oh, can't we get her? Bobby rushed up shouting. Bobby didn't listen to the low-voiced con- versation between Mr. and Mrs. Benson. Ktemz. to page 92,1 page twenty-seven

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ON BIZIXG BORED By Ross ANDERSON, IV A. NOTICED in the paper last evening that a young man had 1 ii, been arrested and tried for rob- xifijj' H - bery. The judge and jury were amaied when he pleaded guilty, for he came of a respectable family, and could not possibly have needed the money. He was asked why he had stooped to such a crime. His reply was, I was bored and wanted a thrill. Boredom is now a universal affliction of civilized people. No one is too rich or too poor to have fits of this distressing con- dition. It stops at no international boun- dary and rears its unwanted head even at places thronged by seekers of pleasure. What makes us bored? Is boredom a disease? Is it a sign of weakness of the mind? Or is it merely an unavoidable state of mind? As a student of history, my answer would be that boredom shows a weakness of mind. Can you imagine Themistocles going about robbing a poor Athenian trader merely because he could iind no other amusement? Oh, no. That crafty ancient was always too busy tricking his fellow Greeks into winning a battle for themselves or cooking up a scheme to hdouble-cross the Spartans until Athens had her walls rebuilt. Or try to conceive of Julius Caesar as being bored. His active brain was always taking advantage of every little morsel of luck the Goddess of Fortune threw to him, leaving him no time for boredom. Or, to take a more modern great man, can you conceive of Napoleon as bored? His plans for conquering the world left him no time for such a thing as boredom. So, from history, I would be forced to conclude that boredom is merely a sign of a weak mind. But how often I have felt bored myself! My personal experi- ence makes me dubious about the conclu- sion drawn from history. For instance, I put off the writing of this essay because I am always terribly bored when begin- ning a composition. I make innumerable false starts, change from topic to topic, and, when I finally do get started, I usually write a poor essay. page twenty-six Thus, though the learning of the ages C?J whispers to me that there is no reason for me to ever be bored, the flesh is Weak, so to speak, and I feel slightly bored right now. This essay began With an anecdote about a bored young man. I will try to end it on the same theme because that is, I have heard, a good thing to do. What happened to the youth? He was sent to the penitentiary, and he Wasn't bored while there-he Worked too hard for that. CAS TOFFS They fade in lonely places, That once were gay in their pride- The lost, soft-'whispering leaves, Chill Autzmtn has cast astcle. Pale 'enteralcl in the Springtime, In Surnrner, a cool green shacleg Latly of fzrarrn reel rub-ies A crown for her they rnacle. N ou' Autunzfn, fickle rhatalen, Scarce cherishzfng them a clay, Grozrn careless of so much beauty, Has flung them all away. -JEAN PHILLIPS, VA. I I r fxxlis fs-A I l '- I 1? -P5 QUATRAIN Tho' time has passed, sweet onenzorles Thine eyes yet haunt, thy voice. Still those thoughts, those trw,portunfittes,' In recollection still I can rejoice. -OLIVER INGAMELLS, II B. THE ORACLE

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THE EFFECT UF MTlelliE PURPLE EYlElL.ASll-ily' By BETTY LEE, III B. ISH and chips. said the Lginjf duchess, who had hitherto T taken no part in the conversa- fe-fgyffws tion. is my favorite dish. A scream rang through the crowded room. and suddenly- Oh. hang the duchess! With these words, a dishevelled and perspiring young man angrily Hung the beginning of the last chapter of The Purple Eyelash into the wastebasket. Then, grabbing his coat, he went out to seek the peace and quiet of the great outdoors. He was young, just about eighteen, with dark hair and blue eyes. He was a great reader of paper-backed novels, thinking and speaking like the heroes in the same. Looking around as he strode manfully on. his eye gfanced upward, and, to his consternation, he perceived a lily- white hand waving frantically from an upper window, while a pair of appealing eye: gazed hopelessly down. The young man. who could never leave anyone or anything in distress, dashed heroically into the building where the lovely lady was imprisoned. Down the halls he ran. the centre of all eyes. Up the stairs he scrambled, fall- ing over the house dog, pushing past everyone he met. On and on he went until he hnally reached the room from which he thought the appeal for help had come. A middle-aged man sat in the room, Quietly enjoying his afternoon glass. and reading with frown. chuckles, and fre- quent grunts, the latest political news. At the sudden and bounding entrance of the young man he dropped his glass, and, opening his mouth, forgot to close it. Seeing his mistake, the young man sprang backwards through the door and onward, in search of the appealing and tragic eyes. Back in the room, the middle-aged gentleman, suddenly remembering the ulnclosed state of his mouth, shut it cau- t10llSl5'- and swore never to touch intoxi- cating drinks again. Meanwhile our hero pressed on, fol- lowed by a curious crowd who were under Page twenty-eight the impression that he was not mentally sound. Into another room and out again he barged with startling rapidity, the door slamming viciously behind him. Breathing a hasty prayer, he plunged into another room. Ah! he breathed. There in front of him was the one whom he sought, still leaning from the window. Grasping her gallantly round the middle he pulled her in. bumping her head. but feeling never- theless the cause was just. Dofling his hat, he bowed. Madam, your servant. The lady did not seem to appreciat.e his gallantry, for she turned on him with an expression which was far from mild. What,s the great idea, big boy, she demanded. Can't a lady wave good-bye to her husband without a crowd col- lCcting? With these words she propelled him rapidlv to the door, slamming it fiercely behind him. The young man walked dis- censolately away, but, remembering some- thing. he hurried back and knocked sharply on the door. Madam, he said when she opened it, I made a very sad and most regrettable mistake. and I offer you my most sincere and humble apologies. Clapping his hat on his head firmly, he strode off, swinging his father's cane iauntily. That evening after consuming a hearty meal. he again sat down at his desk, and. drawing a sheet of paper towards him, he began to write rapidly. Fish and chips, said the duchess, who had hitherto taken no part in the conver- sation, is my favorite dish. A scream ran through the crowded room, and suddenly .... I nmzlcl Zire like an elf izuhere the wild grapes cliizg, If would chase the fhwfslz from the red rose-l1er1'1'e.s. All the day long I zwould laugh and sing With. the black choke-cher7'ies. -Marjorie Piclcthall. THE ORACLE