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

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The Outcast By Gordon Kidd E did not start when he heard his sentence pro- nounced. He only stood, staring in front of him out of unseeing eyes. He did not see the elders slowly file out past him through the pillared porch. His senses were numb. He only knew that he was no longer a Spartan, but only a workman, a serf, an outcast. Outside the east wall of the city, that evening the pale new moon found him in the same be- numbed state. He had wandered about for hours, paying no attention to what he saw, heeding not the jeering cries of the city children and the con- temptuous glances of his fellow Spartans. lt was growing dark and he began to wonder where he would spend the night. He couldn't return to the barracks again. What would he do? He would find work on some farm, he supposed, and each morning the sun would find him labouring- labouring to provide food for the soldiers who were fighting-the thing he longed to be doing. He was aroused from his stupour by the sound of voices. He would have paid no attention to them, but he heard his name mentioned. Yes, there they were over behind that clump of bushes, three of them. ln the shadow he could not recog- nize the faces of two, but the third! Whv it was Demetrius, his boyhood friend, who had grown so strange and distant of late. He hadn't been able to understand. Yes, Demetrius was saying. He's the only man that could ever have suspected a thing. And now he's out of the way, the plan can't fail to work. Oh! A plot against the state! His best friend guilty of treason to Sparta-his best friend! He couldn't betray him. But, as he was a true Spar- tan, the state came first in his estimation. He must prevent it somehow. A strange voice said, Tomorrow night, after the second watch goes on duty, you will open the west gate for us. Then leave the rest to me. All is arranged. Each man knows his orders. Fires can be started-hostages released-runners despatched to our army encamped not a day's march away. The soldiers who are not killed will be easily overcome. And Sparta will no longer be. No longer be! Sparta will no longer be! The words kept running over in his mind. Treason to 22 the state! Demetrius, his dearest friend! It could not be done! The following night, just after the second watch had gone on duty, a figure could have been seen stealing toward the west gate. Some paces from the gate, another figure advanced to meet it. There were a few whispered sentences, then the clash of steel. One man fell. A guard came running out of the shadows and, after a short struggle, smote the other man to the ground. On the morning of the third day the rising sun found the walls and battlements of the great city in their customary impregnable condition. The daily life of Sparta went on just the same, the strict military discipline, the rigorous training. But there was just a note of sadness. A soldier had died: one Demetrius, who had always conducted him- self nobly and honorably. He was given a fitting burial. There was another unpleasant duty to perform. A serf had been killed and had to be removed. He was flung by some of the servants on a level spot beyond the city walls-an outcast. 9 t

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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

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The Brook It rippled o'er' the pebbles smooth, Among the tiny stones did play, It glistened 'neath the sun's bright beams, 4 1 X 1 W As, through the woods, it made its way. It laughed and gurgled with delight And, as it ran along, it played A simple, merry little tune- w A soft, sweet murmiring sound it made. The graceful ferns which gently swayed, The blue bells small with heads low bent, The great, tall trees far overhead- All watched the brook as on it went. But soon this joyous life must end, The waters must no longer be A little brook so wild and gay, So full of life and joy, and free, For it must join the briny sea, And reach its destination wide To mingle with the Waters, and Be lost forever in the tide. Helen Gilmour, II A. Freedom What greedy fools are men That think of nought But gold: Cold misers in their den Men's lives have bought And sold. They think not of the joy That they might bring To all, Of vice they could destroy. Each noble thing, Tho' small, Is marked down for your life In someone's mind. So we Should end this anxious strife For gold, and find I Men free. -Bob Calvert, VA. In Memoriam To My Boots Oh, dilapidated trotter cases! Oh, horribly mutilated footwear! I pity you the thousand traces Of the cruel treatment which you bear. I ground on country roads, your soul to dust, As, plodding on some Weary hike, I kicked At every stone I passed. Your old toe may Detest me, for the mud holes which it licked To break the ice on many a wintry day. But still you brought it on yourself As you sat so shiny on the shelf. So, without remorse, I let your ruined style Reign supreme atop the rubbish pile. ' -Bill Nichols, III C. 23