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

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O GLORIOUS DEAD 0Glorious Dead. Rest in peace. and know that we, the tiring, Pledge our strength and honour to the cause. For which your blood has been so-freely shed. O God of .lIight. Grant Thy peace to these Thyfallen sons, ll'ho.for Thy cause olpeace and right. hare giren Their lices to bring this dark world to Thy light. -KEN SMITH, 12C. FOR LIBERTY Out of the deepening dusk they came, Propellors lashing the smoky air. Searching Londonfs deserted streets For women and children hiding there. As blast after blast shook down. the walls, Qf many a -hue and humble home, No cry of distress chilled the shuddering sky. No .sound but the planes' infernal drone. l'l YllPll bombers had left the smouldering town, From crowded shelters the people came, Ready and willing to carry on In. a. manner befitting Britainfs fame. -jouu SU1,1.1vAN. TO ENGLANDS GREATN ESS Though others may at times your strength defy. A nd slrire by force of arms to overcome Your ancient might, and eren may become So strong that in their power they can try By dropping mighty bombs down from the sky. Your cities to destroy. Yet though they come With planes and tanks and guns, and though from some Qf these you sutlfer loss, you never die. For in the face of all these mighty foes Is set a power which upon this earth Has nerer met its equal. Nor shall it cease To be, while yet there breathes one man who knows Oar true ideals, which lead to honest worth And liberty and never-ending peace. -BOB HUTCHINSON. AT DUNKIRIQ Their wireless signals raked the skies- No time lo lose. ll 'e'll hold the breach. .A-lndliritons rallied-from all sides To snatch an armyfrom the beach. .tln Empire wa its with hated breath Asfurlher news comes o'er the air- ll'e'll uerer yield to aught sare death God gire us strength to do our share . -NIARILYN B.xRN1is, 12A. EVENING The golden sun al last has found its place, I ts flaming locks flow softly o'er its shoulders. -ind lie upon the rugged clouds like lace, Ur beaten foam on some unyielding boulders. The cool breeze gently rocks the .fields of wheat. ,rind softly stirs the crowded meadow jloor: I l rustles yonder reeds where frogs pipe sweet. Then goes uuhooking leares which swoop and soar. .Vow as the radiant spendour starts to die. And all is hushed but the crickets' gossiping calls From meadows shining pale. the cows .lite by: A nightingale sings out: and even ing falls. -just AICLEAN. Em1oR's NllTPQIY-'ThE Oracle staff is deeply indebted to Prof. George XY. McCracken of the lfniversity of Western Ontario for consenting to judge the poems submitted in the poetry contest. Prof. McCracken is the head of the new School of journalism at the University. Prof. McCracken made the following comment on his standard for judging the poems: I have made my selec- tions on the theory that young poets should not be penal- ized too heavily because their critical sense lags behind their inspiration. He has awarded first prize to The XVqlf Hunt by Tom Abel because it is vivid, contemporary language, so ar- ranged that its impact is many times greater than a prose description of the same event would be. He states that among his reasons for awarding second prize to Winter by Mary Rollo are the skilful management of the adjectives bold , bluff and free and the excellence of the line strong binder of the brook and brake . Honourable Mention is made of the following: The Storm by Lan- don Mackenzie, Modern Art by May Smith, At Dun- kirk by Marilyn Barnes, The Seamstressu by Josephine Barrett, Oh Glorious Dead by Ken Smith. The Oracle is also publishing several poems written by former students during the years of VVorld VVar II. While these poems are not eligible for prizes, they are of interest ais refflzecting the thoughts of students during those years 0 stri e. 33

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ESSAY? AYIIXIG been requested quite forcibly to write an essay, 1 am sure the only proper thing to do is to write a very excellent, whimsical piece of work, comparable, say, to Stephen I-eacock's Aly Financial Career , or blames 'l'hurhcr's XYake Up and Live, Eh? The thought, of course, enters my mind that these essays were written by experts who have been in the game a long time. Ah, yes! But I'm human the same as they are, and surely I'm capable of handling an essay with the same masterful touch as the experts. XVhat's more, I go to school. So, convinced that I am capable of at least equalling the best writers, I shall begin lo look about for material with which to work. lt seems the first thing I should do is to choose a topic tsometimes I'm actually brilliantb, but how am l to write a personal essay on such sug- gested topics as Deep Sea Fish of the St. Law- rence Rive-r , or Eskimo Ladies' Fashions of Yesterday and Today ? The answer is quite obvious, in spite of my ability I can not do it. This means I must unearth a topic much more personal. The one that comes to mind is some- thing which has been, unfortunately, a heavy burden on my mind for some time, namely, My Faults According to My Parents . Immediately a difficulty comes to light, should I list these faults alphabetically or chronologi- cally? It seems that the laws of development would demand the latter, so I shall commence to catalogue my faults. This advancement sees another obstacle looming ahead, that of transi- tion. Transition, I have been told, is the linking of the thoughtsg however, in order to be abso- lutely sure, I shall check with the dictionary. But what's this? Transition is A passing from one subject to another l Does this necessitate a change of subject to perhaps Onion Growing in Ontario ? XVell, I have considerable faith in Noah. But if we continue with the history of Onion Growing in Ontario , in no time at all we shall be relating the life history of lNlr. lllit- chell Hepburn. Is this transition? A bridge across the gap of thought? IVho ever heard of an onion bridge? I'm sure lXlr. Hepburn hasn't. So resolutely I will return to the subject at hand, My Faults According to My Parents . Now what do I do? Surely it is not enough merely to make a list. Yet, what more is there to say? The last word seems to have been said. Un the other hand, how can I make a complete list? This is an essay l'm writing, not a book. For some helpful advice let's refer to 'fVVake Up and Live, Eh? Here Mr. Thurber has a list, not unlike the one I have prepared, which has each part numbered and arranged in a logical order. But that is not all! Those parts are punctuated with paragraphs having no relation to the rest of the essay, which are undoubtedly transitional paragraphs. I must certainly, then, Continued on Page 50 34 ALONG THE CLIFF PATH T was an ideal night for suicide. Driven by a cold east wind, the fog swirled across the har- bour and high over the rocks at the entrance. The waves dashed unceasingly against the rugged shore and the distant moon had finally vanished completely behind sullen clouds. Slowly a man ascended the steep path to the cliffs and stood looking with contempt at the feeble glow cast by the lighthouse as it attempted to cut through the dense fog. He was a striking- looking man. If his face had been less gannt and his back less stooped he would have been ex- tremely handsome. He stood peering down, his grey eyes half-blinded by the biting wind, his fingers clutching nervously at the flapping fold of his grimy oilskin. For an instant he glanced back over his shoulder-but only for an instant. His lips curled in a cynical smile. There was no turning back now. Faintly at first, but gradually increasing in volume, came the sound of someone whistling. Again the man turned, his gaze trying to pene- trate the fog. Someone else was climbing the cliff path. Stones, loosened by the tread of heavy shoes, went careening down the side of the cliff to be swallowed by the waves below. The whistling stopped and a rich baritone took up the refrain. A second tall hgure appeared from out of the mist and stopped abruptly. Sharp blue eyes met steady grey ones. A strong hand rose un- consciously to brush a shock of blonde hair from a high intelligent forehead. VVhy, hello! I didn't expect to meet anyone else up here on a night like this. It's a wonderful spot though-one of my favourites. See the way the rock juts out over thelw He was rudely interrupted. If I had been planning to come here for the purpose of enjoying the view, I certainly would not have chosen this night for it. Oh! I beg your pardon. Might I ask for what purpose you are here? I have no means of preventing your talking. Thus rebuffed, the young man was silent. Presently he shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his well-worn jacket, turned his back on his companion and very softly resumed his whistling. He strolled to the edge of the cliff and stood idly watching the giant waves as they crashed against the unyielding rocks below. Stubbornly they stood there, each refusing to make an attempt either at departure or at con- versation. Finally, as if stirred by a sudden impulse, the younger man approached the stoop- ed figure standing a few feet away from him and gently placed a firm hand on the trembling shoulder. Are you sure you don't want to talk to me? Half an hour later a cheery whistle was heard. Someone descended the path. Stones, loosened Continued on Page 75