Lord Selkirk School - Maroon and Grey Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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LITERARY [Continued] had seen It burned in the streets. They had been taught to slander its name and to utterly disregard Its great message to the brotherhood of man. They had seen Its min¬ isters, some of whom bravely spoke against these abuses wrongfully persecuted and im¬ prisoned. They were Nazi youth. They had been taught to give It an hon¬ ored place in their homes and in their lives. It was sometimes well worn from long and devoted usage. In their childhood they had learned to pay It respect and reverence. They had listened to Its ministers openly speak of Its glowing message of hope and love. They spoke of the day when Its teach¬ ings will be in the hearts of man every¬ where and of the day when all men will be brothers regardless of race, color or creed. They were Christian youth. It was the Bible. —John Turnbull, Room XI-4. Third Prize in Essay Contest. Annabelle Annabelle was a very superior cat. Her very manner was that of a sophisticated aristocrat. Whether she was smoothing her glistening ebony fur, or re¬ clining in my favorite after-dinner chair, she regarded me with a gleam of contempt and defiance. Well she knew that her only salvation was the wrath of my sister, her mistress, who believed that Annabelle could do no harm. This cat had developed a special knack of placing her tail or feet in the most convenient places for me to step on. I believe she did it on purpose just to see me become the victim of unjust accu¬ sations. I have weathered the storm for a month now but I wonder if I’ll ever see the day when I can say that “Annie doesn’t live here any more.” —Joe Marchant, Room X-17. A Book It takes the thought of great, wise brains, The toil of men, sufferings and pains, To make—A Book. And poetry, the work of hours, It takes the blooming of beautiful flowers, The creations of God, the power of sight, To give the writer the urge to write A Book. It takes the patience of carpenter’s tools, To build the homes, churches and schools, About which writers try to express Their feelings of longing or happiness; And if anyone will stop to look. They’ll find it takes everyone to make A Book. The lone farmer ploughing the soil May not know his hours of toil Are seen by the ever-watchful eye, Or just noticed by the passer-by, Who gets the inspiration tq compose A description, in verse or prose, That all goes, to make A Book. There arq stories and there are poems Of churches, trees, shrubs and homes. Men of every occupation and race, Each hold in a book an important place; And even the fly, the bee, the snake, Go together and help to make A Book. So, in a book, I’m sure you’ll find Thoughts of every manner and kind; So, trace them back through the years And find whose thought, or toil, or tears, Or wisdom, or creation it took Tc make things written of in A Book. —Beverley Gayner, Room IX-2. The Three Little Fishes One afternoon there were three little fishes, They ate all their dinner then had to do dishes, They were done in a hurry and their results were The dishes they finished were done very poor, When supper time came their mother then said, That the dishes weren’t done right and they were sent to bed. —Peanie Jaques, Room VII-12. • 27

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LITERARY lContinued pecting him, as he had telegraphed her. Sara was a wonderful woman. She never complained and she never nagged. They had been married for twenty-seven years and he had never remembered anniversar¬ ies nor birthdays, yet Sara always seemed to understand. Mr. McTavish rounded the corner and walked up Wellington Street. The sun was shining brightly, and seemed to lend a special glow to his home street. The houses were all set neatly back, with lawns and hedges that were spic and span, and flowers that blazed forth their brilliant colors. Mr. McTavish was especially proud of his own home of white stucco with quaintly de¬ signed shutters, its neat lawn, blossoming cherry trees and beautiful flowers. He always walked on the other side of the street to get a better look at it. Next door to Mr. McTavish’s home was another house exactly like it. Perhaps not as carefully kept, for it had been uninhabit¬ ed for some time. New neighbours had been expected, but the house had been empty the last time that Mr. McTavish had been home. As the little man came opposite his home, his glance strayed to the supposedly vacant house. It was then he caught his first glimpse of new neighbours. A plump lady with fading yellow locks was sweep¬ ing the walk. A hefty man was sitting in a rocker on the porch, reading the newspaper. Mr. McTavish crossed and went into his own yard. He was met at the door by Sara, who fussed over him and exclaimed how tired he looked. He inquired about the new neighbours, and was told that their name was Mahoney, and that they had arrived a week ago from Willowbrook. He was also informed that his lawn mower, hose and rake had been borrowed a week ago. Mr. McTavish was not in the habit of lending his implements, and this did not exactly please him. In the afternoon, he went to the shed and took out his trowel and gloves. He went to loosen the earth about the roots of his favorite Begonias. To his dismay the heads were gone! Yes, the blossoms of his most cherished flowers were gone. He called for Sara. He pointed to his flowers and stam¬ mered incoherently. Sara did her best to soothe him. She told him that Mr. Mahoney kept rabbits, and the dear little things, after escaping from their hutches, had tak¬ en a fancy to the prize Begonias. Mr. McTavish was seething. Flowers were not all; lettuce, cabbage, and the bark about one of the cherry trees had gone to make up the meal of these furry rodents. Gone were Mr. McTavish’s ideas of friendship. He marched over to the Mahoney residence, determined to give them a piece of his mind. He pounded on the door, and the man he had seen earlier in the day filled the doorway. Mr. McTavish wasted no time nor words, and Mr. Mahoney, in defence of his pets, put up his fists. The tempers of both were up. They slowly advanced and circled to the back of the Mahoney house. There Mr. McTavish saw his lawn mower lying carelessly in the grass covered with an even coating of rust. Beside it lay the rake, and the hose was cut in an intricate pattern, made, no doubt, by sharp gnawing teeth. Mr. McTavish set up a howl of rage, and a hot argument followed, Mr. Mahoney waving his arms, and Mr. McTavish hop¬ ping up and down like a wet hen. Sara watched from the window. She had never seen her husband so excited before. Remembering the doctor’s precautions con¬ cerning her husband’s blood pressure, she quickly ran to the phone. The doctor was out, so she called the police. In about fifteen minutes, the patrol car came and the two peace-disturbers were taken away. In the morning Sara went to the jail where the two culprits were set free. They were indignant at first, but by the time they reached home, the ice was broken, and they agreed to bury the hatchet. Today the excitement has all blown over, and Aylesbury has forgotten the in¬ cident. The Begonias have budded anew, and the large white doe has had a new litter of rabbits, but the good neighbour policy between the two steadfast friends has not faded. Let us hope that it never will. —Frances Shastky, Room X-17. Third Prize in Short Story Contest. t had been force¬ fully cast out of their lives. They had been trained to despise It. In their childhood they had watched It being ridiculed and • 26

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LITERARY IContinuedj The judges considered the following three poems of equal merit. Therefore, they award them each a prize of equal value. “Spring” Spring is made of many things: The first shy robin as it sings; A purple crocus fresh and gay, The caressing wind that greets the day. The same soft dawn that breaks anew Clothes April with a filmy hue. A new-born lamb, all downy white, The purple cloak that’s cast by night. Velvet earth ’neath upturned furrow, A silvery streamlet bubbles down An emerald slope to a ’wakening town. An apple blossom petal pink; A merry maid, her saucy wink, Soft willows of a pearly hue, Spring is here, her beauty, too. —Roma Sysak, X-17. “Snow” Twirling, swirling, whitely whirling, How the snow comes down! Soft flakes hurling; slow unfurling, Like a fairy’s gown. Sliding, riding, gently chiding Sn w in shining drifts; • Hiding, biding, slowly gliding, Through the air it sifts. Shyly clinging, swiftly flinging. ’Fore the north wind’s blasts Snow aringing, silver singing, Love it while it lasts! Fast the snow in triumph flies, Fleeing on against the skies; Mantling a sleeping earth, Vanishing at sweet spring’s birth. —Vera Jennings, VIII-15. “Wanderlust” I’d like to be a sailor lad And sail the world around; To seek my fortune, good or bad, In lands that are renowned. The coral islands, bright and gay, Australia below. New Zealand next, and then a stay In far North Borneo. A stop at mighty Singapore Where rubber trees abound. Then, India is right next door, A land with beauty crowned. The spicy port of Zanzibar, And Cape Town ’neath the mound, The ever-shining Southern Star The port that Diaz found. The wild Atlantic, fohd of storms, The islands, wild and bare. The lands that the equator warms, West Indies—jewels rare. And then the port of my last call When I have crossed the foam, The one that I love best of all, That port will be my home. —Kenneth Carlstrom, XI-10. If you in the morning throw minutes away,. You can’t pick them up in the course of the day. You may hurry and scurry, and flurry and worry, You’ve lost them forever, forever and Aye. — Anonymous. • 28