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

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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

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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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SPORTS