Miles Macdonell Collegiate - Macadonian Yearbook (East Kildonan, Manitoba Canada)

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THE PATH TO THE LAKE It was only a narrow path cut through the lush green vegetation of the Florida swamp and it showed up about as much as a fine long scar on a hairy arm. To Ostwald and Priscilla, a team of archeologists from Lansing, Michigan, it was their own private super highway, from their secluded base camp to the emerald green lake from where they received their monthly supplies. They were the only people for miles around and the only people who used the path but even so, they kept the path free of the leach-like vegetation which constantly tried to choke it. On this path, they transported supplies from the lake to the camp. Ostwald had been gone for a long time, in fact he was due back half an hour ago. Priscilla set out along the path to find him. Halfway to the Lake she found him. Her blood-curdling cry pierced the torrid jungle air. There, on the path lay Ostwald. He was not alone. A huge snake was wrapped about him, squeezing him tighter and tighter, like a person drawing the two ends of a shoe lace together. She shrank in sheer terror, her hands clutching her hair as she heard Ostwald’s ribs snapping like pencils, his eyes bulging from their sockets like two peeled grapes as his last agonizing moan was crushed from his lungs along with his life. A missionary found Priscilla several days later, lying on the beach in a state of shock, mumbling about a path. Yes, the path had been their life line and then some. —Bill Harper XII-A SNOW A vast wind-blown ocean of whiteness stretched for endless miles upon the barren plains. Ivory- topped mountains could be distinguished on the distant horizon. All form of life was invisible save the solitary track of a horse knifing directly across the terrain. Gleaming points of light produced by the illumination of the brilliant moon dazzled the eyes of horse and rider. No tree or shrub was to be seen. The immense ceiling of black, with the stars of the universe, the endless prairie, created an atmosphere of unmerciful loneliness. The movement of life was painfully slow. Hot breath solidified in the frozen air. At last the figure in red dismounted, ever so slowly, his stiff legs almost collapsing as he touched the hard-packed snow. The sweat of previous flight had frozen on the horse’s black body, and shudders ran intermittently through his ri ppling muscles. His breathing was hoarse, and came in short, quick, excruciating pants. “Lungs frost-bitten’’ muttered the hard man, the fearless man who had experienced stark tragedy, the man who now choked on tears. “Pneumonia has set in, boy. I know you can’t take it any longer” he said, patting the horse’s muzzle fondly, as memories of unselfish service raced through his mind. The man loosened the saddle and let it slip to the frozen snow. He placed the blanket roll on the ground and led the horse about one hundred yards from the campsite. Then he undid his holster flap and eased out the revolver, the cold black metal searing his bare hand. A sharp report shattered the still air, and silence again smothered the prairie. The man sat on the saddle pondering for many minutes before he brought himself back to reality. He scooped out a shallow depression in the snow and built a small fire. With a few stones he set up a heat reflector and then rolled up in his blanket. “A few hours may do me some good” he thought as he slowly drifted into slumber. The bright sun awoke the solitary figure. Soft flakes fluttered down like feathers as he sat up shivering in the brisk air. He had had only about two hours rest, but it made him feel a little more like continuing. A harsh wind began to brew in the northern skies. He could not remain still any longer. He devoured some of his rations, then strapped on his snowshoes and knapsack, and slung his Winchester over his shoulder. By noon a barrier of snow confronted the travel¬ ler. Visibility was down to a minimum. He struggled on through the deep drifts as stiff gusts smashed sharp ice-particles into his unprotected face. He placed his hand to his cheek, but all sensibility had disappeared. He began wishing that he was not here, that he was back at the R.C.M.P. port per¬ forming daily routine. But to him it had become disgustingly dull, and he had joined the detachment for excitement, the same trite old motive that carried many to enter, some to regret their decision. Due to his own request, and because he was a good man, he was ordered to take a supply of small pox vaccine to a disease-stricken Eskimo village on the Melville Peninsula. He had been flown in as far as possible, then was to take his horse, which he had brought with him, to a port where he would obtain a dog team. The mounty’s thoughts went back to his detach¬ ment at the small village of McMann in Northern Manitoba, and to the happiness and good times he had shared with the townsfolk. “They were very kind” he remembered. “Sometimes I . . .” the grind of flesh against stone,. . . an ear-sickening thud . . . the human form lay ever so still as death at the bottom of a deep crevasse. One leg was pinned beneath him. An hour passed. The mountie awoke. He could not move. He was on his back, the contents of his pack smashed and frozen. The endless curtain of snow drifted upon him. He could hear the chilling howls of wolves nearby. He could feel his blood begin to thicken, his circulation to dwindle, his body become lifeless as the bitter cold stabbed through his clothing. Still the snow fell about him. It was not hard and cruel snow, but moving so softly—so slowly. It was that pure light velvety snow that creates an atmosphere of peace, of wonder in nature, as it floats from a black sky. The mountie did not care now. All he wanted to do was rest. After all he was exhausted from his trek and desired a long sleep. His eyes closed. He felt a profound peace of 49

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ON BEING SMALL I am small—extremely small. To be exact I occupy a space of not more than one cubic inch. I am a stone. Born a citizen of the United States, I moved in the summer of 1959, to Canada. You have undoubtedly heard of the famous red rocks of Colorado. These are my relatives. You must have heard the famous quotation “Thar’s gold in them thar hills.” “Them thar hills” are my brothers. I was born in the Painted Desert of Arizona with a rather sandy texture, and a very reddish color. When the American government began to build a highway through the desert, I was unearthed by a bulldozer and left by the roadside. This was my first look at the desert. It stretched out before me like a large sheet. Often I would spend my time watching cars go by, noticing the various license plates of the vacationers. One day a ’55 Chev. with a Manitoba license pulled up alongside the road. Three people got out and began to look around. They examined the bigger rocks first, and then one approached me, and picked me up. He liked my small size and so called the others. The three of them scratched me, hammered me, and tried to split me in two. Then, because I was small, they threw me into the car. Obviously, I had been given some kind of test and had passed it. But now what was to become of me? Where were they taking me? Why were they taking me? I sadly looked around for a last view of all my friends. As the car began to move, I realized that a new part of my life had just begun. We covered four hundred miles that day. Our travels brought into my view the Grand Canyon, Hoover Dam, and Las Vegas. I can still remember hearing the Las Vegas weather report: “Mostly clear skies today with moderate winds 13-18 m.p.h. low 68, high 106. Yesterday high—105; Forecast for to¬ morrow—warmer.” The next day we left for Los Angeles. By now I had been forgotten by my travellers and, being small, was left to enjoy all the sights of Southern California, through the rear window. I remember speeding down the Santa Anna Freeway; looking with awe at the great Mt. Wilson Observatory, shinning like a great mirror in the bright sun; and finding myself thrilled at the magnificent homes in Beverly Hills. And, I will never forget that memorable trip to Disneyland. All to soon, however, it was over. I was rudely shoved into a boy’s pocket and enveloped in complete darkness. My holiday was over. A few days later, still in darkness, I could vaguely hear the sharp voice of a customs officer. I was at the border! Soon after, I was brought out of my solitary confinement for my first glimpse of Canada, Manitoba, and Win¬ nipeg. I have now retired. The family placed me in what they called a rock collection. Being small of course, I again readily adapted myself to my new surroundings and have already made friends with all the other stones in the collection. Thus, have I moved from the United States to Canada—over four thousand miles, mostly because of my convenient size. As a footnote to this true story, I might add that, a few weeks ago, while the lady of the house was cleaning up, several larger stones were thrown out. I was allowed to stay, again proving that there are great advantages on being small. —Denis Hlynka XII-A CANADA (SUNG TO TUNE OF DELAWARE) What did VAN-COUVER When he heard you GASPE What did VAN-COUVER Tell me do, I ask? It looked like it was THE PAS Of his LABRADOR dog, KICKING HORSE had killed him Now he’s got no dog. At last YU-KON CAL-GARY Tell him right away That OTTA-WAnts to see him When he comes this way, He can bring his CAR-MAN Cause PETERBOROUGHed mine and TOR-ON-TO the highway Leaving no TRAIL behind. —Bill Galbecka XII-C POEM From Canada to lands unknown God spreads His covering of white As though to hide man’s dreadful fears, His sins, regrets, profane delights. A tranquil, shimmering world unfolds Beneath a luminous moon, And carries us back to ages when The wolf and Indian ruled this land And Peace was King. Alas Horizons! Flow you’ve changed No more naked white terrain, But gigantic towers bleached grey-white Pierce the blackness of the night And Confusion reigns. —Sonia Smerchansky XII-B 48

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mind, his frozen mouth forming a satisfied smile. Then darkness spread over him. Only he could see the brilliant point of light A commingling of voices drifted over the top of the crevasse. A child had wandered from the port and discovered the man covered with the innocent snow. His friends had come to rescue him; but the mountie did not know . —Hugh Andrew XIIA SNOW Snow is uncomfortable, wet, cold, and in the cities, dirty. But more people find more fun in snow than in any other of nature’s products. If one dis¬ regards icy snow drifted over sidewalks and roads, dead batteries and that popular illness, the cold, one can receive a great deal of enjoyment from snow. Just because it cost you $5.00 to be towed from a ditch and into garage, don’t despair! Think of the fun you’ll have this weekend. You won’t have fun? Oh, I see. While a temporary pedestrian, you fell on the ice and broke your hip. The children enjoy the winter anyway, skating, sledding, running in front of cars. It’s a joy to watch them. You may have the pleasure of taking them skating. There you are, standing at the side of the rink watching your breath freeze and feeling your feet go numb. You must admonish Johnny many times to turn his ankles out like Daddy does. What more could one ask from life? The possessor of young children or none at all usually finds pleasure in the national sport of snow shovelling. The competition is hot and furious. The object of the game is, of course, to see who can shovel a navigable path in the shortest time. The satisfaction is boundless. There is no greater feeling than to watch your paunchy neighbour enboring over a hot snow shovel while you relax in front of your picture window. All must agree that no other substance can bring out man’s love of the fireside as snow does. —Maureen Beaman XIIA with the piercing of my skin and I lie back defeated, once again, by my enemy, the dentist. —Williard Homiak XIIB APPOINTMENT It is just about time! Soon Johnny will step con¬ fidently into the busy street, his bright blue eyes fixed on that red and white rubber ball. The driver of that big black sedan will be speeding down the street, cursing to himself because the heavy traffic is keeping him from his all-important meeting. He won’t see Johnny, until it is too late. In a split second it will all be over. Johnny’s small body will be lying on the slick wet pavement, while his life giving blood trickles from the gash in the side of his head. The crowd will gather. They will see the ambulance careen down the narrow street and come to a screeching halt. The doctor will rush forward and kneel beside Johnny’s lifeless little body while his deftly trained hands do their intricate work. He will look at Johnny’s tousled blond hair and the innocent face of a child and he will know that I have come. We have met many times. I, Death, am no stranger to him. Yes, everyone is waiting. The police—the ambulance—driver—the doctor. They’re all waiting for that driver. They all know him only too well. He is the driver whose mind is occupied with everything but his driving. He is the killer. —Bill Harper XIIA MY ENEMY He’s behind me now and I can hear a faint gurgling sound. His aide in white seizes my arm and I can sense a brutal attack on the region between my parched throat and the last bi-cuspid on the lower left-hand side of my fear-paralyzed mouth. I grip the sides of my death trap and mutter un¬ intelligibly as the heady smell of disinfectant causes my stomach to flip. With a swift movement he s suddenly in front of me and his long, menacing needle glints in the over-lighted room. His hand makes a motion—the blood drains from my face— he draws back to talk to someone passing in the hall. He comes at me again, eyes gleaming, smiling cynic¬ ally, hairy hand shaking. The last convulsion comes 50