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

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LITERARY SECTID1V DN WDLF FIRST PRIZE HISTLES in various sizes, shapes and colors have all made their priceless contribution to mankind. The practice of whistling while working can boast some enthusiastic advocates, including all seven dwarfs. There are the utilitarian type whistles chiefly employed for calling dogs who are blissfully engrossed in minding their own business. This type of whistle gradually achieves a climax of great volume and pene¬ trating energy which contrasts with its finale — a sudden pianissimo, a few well-chosen words, and a slammed door. There is the whistle at its piercing best from the whistler ensconced on a bicycle seat. There is the offhand whistle which attempts nonchalance, and of course there are the dazzling, inevitable talent-show- whistlers whose specialty is “The Flight-of the Bumble Bee.” However, there is one whistle which, although it can’t be said to contribute much to mankind, for womankind its record isn’t quite so bleak. It could be none other than the provocative wolf whistle. No other sound can convey so much, so conspicuously, and yet with so varied a degree of nuancing and shading. After all, whether one agrees with the general principle be¬ hind the wolf whistle or not, when a man whistles at you, you must at least congratulate him on his impec¬ cable taste. It is the spring, when a young man’s fancy is sup¬ posed to turn from thoughts of the Body by Fisher to the contemplation of the symmetry and design of a somewhat different type construction, that the wolf whistle achieves its greatest piquancy. The invigorat¬ ing spring air seems to lend liveliness and flamboyance to tired whistles. Intimacy is not a quality of the wolf whistle. Rather, the object of the whistle is publicity. Of what use is SPRINGTIME AT SECOND PRIZE SAT UP in bed and hugged my pillow in sheer joy and delight. It was Spring and I was at Grand¬ mother’s — in the pretty green and white bedroom I loved so well! Just outside the fluffy curtains and on through the window pane was an old maple tree. It was WHISTLES beauty if no one notices it? The discriminating woman is well aware, of course, that for the finest in wolf whistles one must go to the French. The fullness of phrasing, the sheer delight in delicacy of tone can be found nowhere else but in the Gallic whistle. The wolf whistle evokes most strikingly the feline elements of a woman’s character. It provokes curiosity. There is the disarmingly naive young thing who knows perfectly well Aunt Hetty’s Law: “Thou shalt not look in the direction from which the whistle comes”, but she turns and smiles sweetly anyhow. There are the coquettes who do not consider themselves well dressed unless they collect a set of wolf whistles on the way to work. And then, of course, there is the strikingly attractive mature woman who hastily assures her in¬ dulgent friends every time she tells the story, “Of course I’m past the age for whistles, but . . .” It is with these thoughts in mind that I leap to the defence of the wolf whistle in the face of the following jibe: “A wolf-whistle in Manchester, England, was found to have come from a gas meter with a mechanical defect. Over here those wolf sounds generally come from gas bags with mental defects.” Obviously, the writer of this cynical, pessimistic comment must have been a frustrated whistler. Un¬ doubtedly his wife has recently enlightened him on the dangers of indiscreet whistles and he is merely taking out his ill temper on those persons still free to appre¬ ciate the symmetry of the feminine form. Let us hope so anyway. After all, in this age when the art of conversation, and above all, the art of the compliment, have been signed over to radio and television, the wolf whistle is one of the few devices remaining for the average man to communicate his appreciation of feminine pulchri- tude - —SHEILA OSTRANDER, XII-12. GRANDMOTHER S as grand and fresh looking as ever, even though it had been there when Grandpa was a small boy. Through the dazzling sunbeams I spied a robin, perched on a green twig. He looked at me as if to say, “Get up sleepy head.” Just for a while I wished I could “grow” tiny and go out and talk to him and let him show me around his little house. I’m sure it would be fun to hop along 27

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1ST PRIZE—“Abandoned” by—Lillian Twerdochlib 12-12 2ND PRIZE—“The Peaceful Stream” by—Lillian Landrega

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Springtime At Grandmother’s (Tout ' d.) a slender twig, dance in and out of fresh green leaves on a stout branch or play tag with the merry sunbeams and breezes. It would be exciting to watch Mrs. Robin feed a nest of hungry babies. Then as suddenly as he had come he disappeared, bringing me back to reality with a start. I looked at my watch and was surprised to find it was only shortly after eight. Jumping up, I splashed some cold water on my face and then decided to explore the woods on the east side of the creek. It was a beautiful bright Spring day. My feet moved easily on the soft, winding path surrounded by fresh, green grass with dozens of crocuses and buttercups peeping through. A proud white rooster strutted across my path and in the distance I could hear the tinkle of a cow bell. The sky was a deep blue with an occasional fluffy cloud. I became more excited as I drew nearer the woods. From where I was standing I was surrounded by trees — trees, trees, all fresh and bursting with the joy of Spring. The tall, stately pines held out their branch¬ es laden with millions of sticky needles. The poplar trees’ leaves seemed to be hanging from a slender cord. The slightest breeze made them rustle like a t affeta gown. But of all the trees I could see, I loved the birch trees the best. Peeling a small curl off the beautiful white bark I marveled at its fragility. The Designer had done a most exquisite piece of art. Coming out of the bush, I ran down the small bank which hid the sparkling creek. It was always deeper in Spring. It was such fun to pester the crabs and make them come out from under the rocks. I also loved to sit on a big boulder and hold my hand under the water to watch the silvery minnows nip at my fingers. But I could never manage to catch one. I moved farther downstream to look at the falls. They were so fascinat¬ ing this time of year. The water fell from a distance of about four or five feet and then swirled furiously in and out of the bleached rocks. A big weeping-willow tree made the scene complete. That evening sitting on the veranda, watching the stars come out one by one, I felt sorry for people who lived in a country where they were too busy to enjoy Spring. As twilight melted into darkness and I turned to go inside I could hear in the distance, “Whippoorwill, Whippoorwill!” —SHARON SHUNK, X-4. THE PEACEFUL FOREST THIRD PRIZE EEP in the northern forests of Manitoba a peace¬ ful silence hung over a sleepy section of the dense woods. The tall, stately pines, with their deep green needles looking like spears ready to keep away any disturbance that might intrude upon their heavenly realm, stood out against the clear blue sky above the other trees. Below them, on the rich carpet of dead brown pine needles, played many small bush rabbits. These timid creatures, with their soft brown and gray fur and bobbing tails, felt perfectly safe from their menacing enemies. High above them, swaying in the softly rustling poplar trees, were the forest sentinels, the black crows. These riotous birds kept watch from their towers, and if danger came near, soon let all the tiny creatures below know about it, so they might scurry to safety. Near to the rabbits’ playground, a narrow forest stream scrambled noisily over its stony bed. Shallow rapids caused it to fall and send out showers of clear, rainbow-filled spray over the rocks. Drooping willows with faded colours, like tired old men, hung from the banks over the stream, as if trying to see their re¬ flections in the churning waters. Smooth, rounded stones lay at their roots, having been worn down by the rushing waters and tossed onto the crumbling banks of the stream. Kingfishers, perched in near-by bushes, sat in readiness to swoop down and catch any tiny fish that might be travelling down-stream with the current. During the warmest part of the afternoon, a very slight movement, like a shadow, could be seen through the bushes. A beautiful, nimble-footed doe and her two speckled fawns were coming to the stream for a drink. The doe was a tan-brown colour with large dreamy eyes which kept constant watch over her two small sons. The fawns, like all other young deer, were suitably adapted to their environment, as the many brown and white spots on their sides blended with the dancing shadows of the willows near them. A beauti¬ ful picture was formed as the three dainty creatures stepped to the water’s edge. This movement completed the tranquility of the forest afternoon. —THELMA FONAGER, X-8. THIRD PRIZE: Fish Story Arlene White, XI-10 HONOURABLE MENTION: Abandoned Farm -..Bill Tait, XI-10 28