Montreal High School - Magazine Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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52 THE HIGH SCHOOL MAGAZINE A HORSE-RACE HORSE-RACE! The word fills us with excitement and enthusiasm which seems to course through every vein in the body. Imagine that it is the day of the great Derby. The race is scheduled to start at three o 'clock, but very early in the morning, we feel the effects of the stress and strain of hearts desirous of seeing the grand spectacle. It is a bright, crisp, sunshiny, summer day. Not a cloud obscures the calm serenity of the sky, the trees sway to and fro in the gentle breeze. Towards noon the crowd begins to pour in from the outlying districts and suburbs. Tramcars, automobiles, coaches, huge buses- all carry their load of happy, high-spirited enthusiasts to the great track. The spectators are crowding together with the deafening shout- ing common to them on such occasions, and which seems so tumultuous, so insane, and so unintelligible to others. Very soon the stands are filled to capacity--full of such a bevy of fashionable loveliness as has never before been gathered together to view such a spectacle. Banners fluttering in the breeze, flags unfurling in long, rolling folds from the top of the lofty poles, a large, oval, green field, bordered by a track of hard brown clay----this is the scene that is unfolded before our eyes. The time for the race seems to approach so slowly, so very slowly. Such is the excitement of that huge, tense, expectant crowd. At last, the bugles blare forth loud and clear. Then commences the march-past of the competing of brilliant colour vies horses and riders, clothed in silks or sombre hue. The richness of the with that displayed in the stands. After the horses, the cynosure of all eyes, pass the appreci- ative throng, they line up at the wire, prancing and dancing--keyed-up to a high pitch- 'waiting for the barrier to be dropped. They're off! Immediately, the shouts of the crowd echo and re-echo throughout the stands and surrounding booths. Every eye is eagerly fixed upon its favourite horse, as it launches out with a long machine-like stride. The first turn is rounded, then the second. The favourite is leading by a slim margin, giving his best in every stride he takes, faithfully striving to fulfil the confidence placed in him by his many admirers. At the third turn, he still leads, feeling, however, the hot breath of his rival upon his flanks. The crowd have great difficulty in restraining their emotions-hats, newspapers, pcnnants, every- thing is flying through the air. The home stretch is reached. The favourite' has successfully re- tained his small lead. Now, at the critical moment, the jockey with a touch of his whip- the first--urges the horse on to greater endeav- ours. With one final, supreme, crowning effort, the noble beast responds and tears on at great speed to pass the judge's stand-winner by a length. WILLIAM CARMICHAEL, VI-A. TROUT FISHING H WHO can describe the pleasures of trout-fishing, its expectations and dis- appointments, its thrills and excitement, its joys and fears? Depending on the personal viewpoint it is the pleasantest or most dis- appointing of sports g the most exciting or the dullest. I do not refer to fishing for lake-trout- this is dull and prosaic, to sit idly dozing in a boat by the hour until you get a bite-but to fishing for the sporty, speckled brook trout which abound in all the streams and creeks throughout the province of Quebec. We got up in the early dawn of a fine July day. The sun was just rising and the grass sparkled with dew. Everything seemed fresh and clean and cool--the trees, the grass, the flowers- as if during the night the wilted earth had been revived and given a new lease of life. A deep stillness pervaded the air, broken only by the singing of the birds and the rustling of the wind in the trees, for it was too early in the morning for many people to be about, disturbing the quietness of nature with the discordant noises of everyday life. There was much to be done before we could set out. Our tackle had to be inspected and repaired, bait had to be sought, a lunch had to be prepared. At last everything was ready, and, gulping down a hasty breakfast, we set out on our bicycles for the trout stream, eight miles away. Everything pointed to a happy day, and, in our early-morning optimism, we felt certain that we were bound to make a record catch. Our ardour was somewhat dampened, however, by the sound of a loud report. One of us had had a blowout! We were delayed for half an hour while he repaired it, but what cared we, for did

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THE HIGH SCHOOL MAGAZINE can imagine what a crushing blow this was to Adolphus, but he remembered the story of King Bruce and the spider, and resolved to try again. For the next six months he ruled with a rod of iron. He taught, and taught, and taught g and his pupils gained so much knowledge that when they graduated from his class they were able to skip the next three grades. Again he donned his disguise and wandered among them, but again he learned that he was not a perfect teacher. Now he was a slave driver, a bully, thinking of nothing but knowledge, lead- ing his class a terrible life. Poor Adolphus! He worked month after month, year after year, but with no success. First he took too little interest in his pupils, then too much, now he was too interesting, then too boring, and so forth and so on, until he began to fear that he, who wished to be the most perfect, was the worst of all school teachers. Years came and years went, but regularly every six months Adolphus Bilph went among his pupils and learned his faults. Presently he became too old to do this, but even that did not deter him. He engaged a detective and went on his way, ever trying, ever losing, but never giving up. Finally in his hundred and eleventh year he learned of one Professor Knowital, a man of wonderful genius, Who, it was said, could answer any question put to him. Eagerly Adolphus seized a piece of paper and a pen and wrote to Professor Knowital, telling him every- thing and asking the 'question which was preying upon his mind: What, oh what, can I do to become a perfect teacher ? For a long time he waited in vain, but at last on the afternoon of his hundred and eleventh birthday the answer came to him. Ripping open the envelope and snatching out the letter he read: Dear Sir: You can do absolutely nothing to become a perfect teacher. A pupil does not want a perfect teacher. He wants one whom he can criticise and complain of. He wants to moan over his faults, not praise his virtues. For this reason there never was, and never will be, a perfect school teacher. Yours, etc., R. G. Knowitalf' For a long time Adolphus remained stunned, his last illusion gone, then suddenly he looked at the clock. Three-forty-five! At that precise moment one hundred years before he had made his great resolution-the resolution which he had tried all his life against countless difficulties to carry out. And he had failed. Life was not worth living. With one last long sigh of misery, Adolphus Bilph sank back into his chair. There is no such thing as a perfect school teacher. There never was. There never will be. One hundred years wasted in trying for an impos- sibility. And he would have made such a wonderful janitor! UNA PARSONS, 10-2-A INDIVIDUAL SWIMMING CHAMPIONS Helena Lawrence: Lillian Athernley

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THE HIGH SCHOOL MAGAZINE 53 we not have the whole day ahead of us for fishing? At last we arrived at the stream. Then what a rush there was to get our rods connected and see who would have the first cast in that promising-looking pool over there, where the brook runs under the bridge! In my haste I seemed to be all thumbs, but finally my rod was fixed and, standing on the bridge, I cast my line into the pool. A second later one of my friends cast his line in from the other side of the bridge. Soon he called out, I have a bite! I had one too and prepared to pull it in. But what was this? It would not come! I pulled harder but still it would not budge. My friend, too, seemed to be having difficulty in landing his fish. Suddenly it dawned upon us what had happened. The current had carried his line underneath the bridge and entagled' it with mine. We had been having a tug of war with each other! One of us had to wade underneath the bridge to dis- entangle our lines, and, in the ensuing com- motion, all hope of catching any trout in the pool was lost. For some time after that we waded upstream, fishing as we went, but there were not many good pools at that part of the stream, and we got few good bites-trout bites, I mean, for we got more bites than we wanted from the black flies which were hovering around us in swarms. The morning passed uneventfully. One of my friends leaned too far forward when stand- ing on an unstable rock in mid-stream and fell in, but whatls a wetting? Thatls half the fun of trout-fishing-from the point of view of the observers, anyway! By noon we were all ravenously hungry so we decided to have lunch. My enjoyment of the meal, however, was somewhat impaired by the fact that I sat on an ant-hill. I spent a painful Eve minutes and, by the time that I was sufficiently composed to take an interest in eating again, I found that my friends had eaten most of the sandwiches-the greedy fellows! and very little was left for mc. In the afternoon we fished some more, with varied fortune, and the time passed so quickly and enjoyably that, before we realized it, the sun was setting. As we pedalled wearily home- wards a beautiful panorama stretched before us. Across the St. Lawrence River we could see the darkblue mountains of the North Shore. Behind them the sun was setting, a very red ball, tinting the clouds with beautiful shades of gold and orange. It's reflection could be seen in the calm water-a long line of yellow stretch- ing from shore to shore. We arrived home at eight in the evening, tired, but happy and ravenously hungry. We had each caught about two dozen trout. We fried some of these, and never have I enjoyed a meal so much. Right after supper we went to bed, tired out by our dayfs exertions, but supremely happy. ALLISON A. WALSH, VI-A. MUDDY SPRING N THE spring a young manls fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love, artists get busy, and poets get very busy. Spring is the poetfs season. There are some fine works on the purity of snow, some on autumn's russet leaves, and quite a few on June roses, but those on Spring outnumber them all. Poets seem to find something especially inspirational in Spring. Now Spring is a wonderful season, as are all the rest , but poets will not bc practical. I've read many odes to, essays on, and descriptions of, Spring, and I have come to the conclusion that the writers must have been country lads: they could never have Written like that, if they had been city chaps. Throughout these literary gems, we especially find mention of fresh green grass, budding Bowers, sprouting trees, 'fblue skies, Htwittering swallows,'l rippling streams, and the like, but oh! how I search and all in vain for mention of two words, 'fmuddy water. How could any description of spring be complete without mention of muddy water? Of course muddy water is not very poetic, and I suppose if a fellow were gushing over cheerful robins and shy violets, he wouldn't wish to add muddy water--bad combination. But it's there4I mean the muddy water. Every year when the snow melts and gougrs up the soil, there is not only muddy water but real slimy mud. When in the morning I alight from the car and my foot encounters something soft beneath it, I think a second Sir Walter Raleigh is in our midst, but I find to my disgust that it is mud. Mud-mud-mud in all around I see,--a big yielding pool of Stuff that chal-