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

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Lord Kitchener Lashing tail, Dapper feet, On the trail Of living meat. Homeward bound, Licks his chops, Tummy round, ' ..., ' Barely hops. Rubs the glass With his head, A furry mass .. L' .,,, .. ,f ..f Almost red. 5 Purrs a song As if to say, Come along, l ' ..-. I want to play. Dish of milk, fHe'll split a seamj All his ilk Are fond of cream. 'n-'tmuiiilili Completed meal, :T ' Arches back, Like pliant steel, in Without a crack. x 'r,.iL Quirks his tail, Stretches toes, Meows a hail, W L M Off he goes. .n..., .--3-, . ....-... .. -Gordon Jeffery, V A. Autumn Down from the trees the leaves are falling, The crow from the pine tree is noisily calling, The leaves are shaded red, yellow and green It is a sight not often seen. The squirrels are scampering to and fro, Rustling leaves as they go, Gathering nuts before the snow Covers them up, and the cold winds blow. -Bill Walch Perpetual Motion It wags and wags from dawn till dark, It seems to work at both ends toog It never knows when it should stop, Sometimes I wish it would, donit you? What is the That magnifies a hundredfold, no fifteen hour week? as soon as its been told. object of despair That knows I t's news So, heed when next you tell a tale To some dictaphone-like maid If you don't want it repeated It is better never said. ,b.:0w Skiing I fly like a bird o'er the glistening snow, Quick! turn to the right, As swiftly I glide t'wards a gully below It fades out of sight. Still faster I go and the trees speed pastg the biting winds sting, The bottom is near and I slow down at last. Pd trade with no king One instant of joy as my swift flight I start And round a long bend. I seem for a moment from earth apart, Too soon it will end. -Robert Calvert, V A. I

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Ramjee's Revenge By Christian Jensen VB. AS RAMIEE was a native Indian, a profes- sional tiger hunter and a dead shot. Only yesterday his employer, the Watson sahib of the American Movies Co., had called him a dog and threatened to whip him for trying to steal one of his horses. The Indians anger had been aroused: he was intent on vengeance. This night the moon flooded the sandy plain with its cold, frosty light. Ras Ramjee's lithe, stooping form glided noiselessly among the sparse shrubbery, the moonlight glinting on his heavy hunting rifle. At last he came to a large grey rock completely surrounded by small plants and bushes. There he stopped and waited. He knew well the habits of the Englishman. lt was Watson's custom to take a short walk through the surrounding fields just before turning in for the night. Tonight he would be sure to come in order to admire the moonlit plain. Piamjee, his nerves tense but his brain cool, could already dimly discern the figure of his master. Once more he examined the chamber of his gun to make sure there could be no mishap. Then, satisfied that all was Well, he slid the black barrel noiselessly over the rock and waited. By this time Watson's tall white-clad figure stood out clearly against the moonlit background. When he was only 200 yards away the lndian took careful aim, a smile of triumph on his lips. At this distance, a man of his profession could front sight stood boldly in the centre of his vic- tim's white jacket he fired. There was a flash of flame and a report like the crack of a whip. The tall figure stumbled, fell, and lay lifeless on the sand. Exultantly Ramjee slipped back to the house of which he now was the only occupant. Pleased with his success, he soon went to sleep and did not waken till late the next morning. Almost as soon as he was up he was surprised by a loud knocking at the front door. He opened it and there confronting him was a man in the uniform of the lndian Police. His astonishment was great when this man arrested him for the murder of Watson, and took him to the railway station where they boarded a train bound for Karachi, where the divisional headquarters of the police was situated. All night he sat in his cell and thought. He was sure that they could not find him guilty for had he not been clever enough to empty the chamber of his gun and clean it? He was also certain that they could not find the bullet, which would leave no trace in the sand. At the same time, two officers were having a lively conversation in a nearby office. They were the superintendent of that section and the man who had arrested Ramiee. l don't see how we can possibly prove any- thing on this felloW, said the former. We have no evidence of any kind. tContinued on page Stll A Captive Eagle I would that I could soar the sky - Upon un ettered pinions. - yyx A A ' That keeps me from dominions 5 T if 'V O'er which I've reignedg from which, obtained V My daily toll, my living. . I 5 Though I was chained, my soul remained -I 'A ',-'T Where I was born. The craving Us I . si I would defy the only tie 'K 5.43 '1 To sail on high before I die, not miss such a target. When the bead of his :Llc X i f 1 X N To hunt once in the forest, I don't denyg I Want to fly Till reap'd in Nature's Harvest. N -Robert Calvert, V A. 19

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Literary England By Jean Jarmain, VB. Editoids Note: Jean was the recipient of the Imperial Order of the Da.zighte'rs of the Empi're's schola,'rsh.ip for the Overseas Education League Tour. TRIP through England is ideal for anyone with literary interests. just as there are geo- graphical divisions there, so there are literary ones. Each district is named after the particular famous writer or poet who came from that part. The country south of Edinburgh, near the bor- der-line, is called the Scott country. Scott used to roam about the peaceful countryside near Abbotsford, Dryburgh and Melrose Abbeys: later on he built a beautiful mansion at Abbotsford. He is buried in a part of Dryburgh Abbey which is now a ruin. There is quite a story connected with Melrose Abbey. The wizard in Scott's The Lay of 'The Lost Minstrel', who could move moun- tains and perform all sorts of miracles, is said to be buried there at the foot of one of the stained glass windows. There is just the outline of a cross in the window now, but originally it was sur- rounded by blood-red glass. They claim that if you were to walk along the aisle under the vault- ed roof on a moonlight night, a red cross could be seen on the grave, signifying that the power of the wizard still endured. As we were driving from the border country on down to Wales, we passed through the English Lake district where William Wordsworth lived. For a long time his home was at Grasmere and he is buried there in the churchyard behind the quaint old beam church that he used to attend. Words- worth used to spend his holidays in the Wye valley near Tintern Abbey in Wales, and one can quite realize, on seeing it, why he was moved to write the poem Lines Composed above Tin- tern. The country round about there was beauti- ful and continually reminded me of the setting in Wordsworth's poem Michael, I think these few lines describe it perfectly- Around that boisterous brook The mountains have all opened out them- selves, And made a hidden valley of their own. No habitation can be seen: but they 1VIan's Best Friend Who journey thither find themselves alone With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites That overhead are sailing in the sky. It is, in truth, an utter solitude. Afterwards, we visited Stratford-upon-Avon, whose charm lies in its association with Shake- speare. Right in Stratford is Shakespeare's birth- place, and nearby the Grammar School he used to attend. His home is an old beam-ceilinged place and still contains a lot of old furniture and pictures that belonged to his father. Shakespeare's heavy carved walnut chair and dilapidated desk are still there, and his neatly-kept accounts. In the country outside of Stratford was Anne Hathe- ways cottage: it was just the dream haven that it is pictured. Here Shakespeare would come to court his lady love. In the drawing-room was a wall settee by the open fireplace around which were hung various utensils and over which, on the mantel, were all sorts of earthenware and pewter dishes. Shakespeare is buried in the Parish Church in front of the high altar. There is only a very plain flat stone with a simple memo- rial, but his works are his monument. We saw two of his plays while we were there, at the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre, Troilus and Cressiclaf' and Twelfth Night. Troilus and Cressida was very interesting, for it was about Agamemnon, Achilles and all the other famed Greeks and Trojans of that period. But I think I enjoyed Twelfth Night more for I had studied it. The fool of Twelfth Night was the hero in Toi- lus and Cressida, and he played these two parts, which are so vastly different, marvellously. The acting throughout the entire performcmce was wonderful, and when you consider that there is scarcely any scenery whatever used, it seems even more wonderful. Although we visited only three of the many spots in England made famous by renowned writers, we found that our interest in them was intensified, and We were left with the desire to go back to visit the haunts of Browning, Dickens, Hardy, Tennyson, and others. England may well be called Literary England! There is a natural understanding between man and dog, as is proven by the way the dog came voluntarily to man for protection, to become one of the family. A lover of dogs would be lost without the faithful creature to greet him when returning from the day's work, and to guard his home and belongings. Don't be ashamed of your love for a dog, be kind to him because kindness runs strong in the dog's nature. He will show it by being loyal and faithful to his master or mist- ress. Different dogs are noted for different quali- ties such as speed, staying power, strength and gentleness. Intelligence and ability to receive instruction have made dogs the friends of man. Boys and girls who possess dogs know that there is no better companionship than that of these dumb friends. Also, there are times when our dogs seem to understand and love us as much as, of more than, our human friends. -Ted Duplan, I B. 21