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

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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-

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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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54 THE HIGH SCHOOL MAGAZINE lenges me to jump it. I risk it, land safely on solid ground, and just as I congratulate myself on my athletic prowess, a motor lorry rumbles up, splashing me from head to foot. Then, my vanity all spotted with the dirty liquid, I start my upward and last lap of the journey, from St. Catherine Street to the Alma Mater. Guarding against any further catas- trophe, I choose my footing with the greatest of precision. But, alas! Life's pathway is full of slippery places, and so is University Street. My high-blown pride at last breaks under me,', and down I fall, but not like Lucifer, for I manage to rise again. Weary and sore I pursue my way. I suddenly step back to avoid the crazy manoeuvrings of a car and sink ankle- deep in mud, mud again, and still more mud. Yet the presence of it does not make Spring the less desirable. Spring is Spring in spite of slushy snow, slippery places, and even muddy water. And when poets start to describe the beauties of Spring, thatls just the way they feel, and all those pastoral scenes are pictures of their inward joy. As for me, splashing along in the gutter is just as thrilling as watching a birdie build his nest. But oh! how I yearn to hear a rebellious outburst from some young poetess against her bespattered silk hose, and from some young poet against his bespattered spats. JUANITA DESHIELD, 9-2-B. WHY MY PARENTS ARE PROUD OF ME T SEEMS too bad to ask a modest kid to tell why his parents are 'proud of him, but to please the master,-here goes. I think their pride started, when I first made my appearance on the scene, and the proud it,s a boy feeling gave me a start in the right direction. This pride is not so great with the second and third editions, I know, because of my rabbit and guinea-pig families. The first arrivals get it all. Of my school success, I hardly like to speak. But don't you think that any boy who knows so much Latin that at the end of the year he needn't go on, is one to be proud of? As one master says, most of my work in Latin is just Hasinine piHie. I am sure that they must be proud of my keen, inquiring mind. It must be good fOr dad to feel, that in order to satisfy my thirst for knowledge, that he is supposed to know about everything under the sun-on a dull day. Even the latest definitions and ways of working algebra must be known, and that, of course, is where I am in a position to teach him. My parents are kept so busy answering my questions, that they haven't time to ask me any, and thus find out how little I know myself. Then too, I don't see why they shou1dn't be proud of my orderly habits. I clean my father's workshop so that he might be proud to show it to anybody. I-Ie waxes mad, however, when he can't find that darned tool anywhere. I know that they are proud of the noble example I set my young brothers, and of the way I bring them up. It's not every oldest son, who will find work for his brothers on Saturdays to keep them out of mischief. You can imagine their pride when I brought in my first pay check, which was fifteen sous an hour as electrician's chief assistant in a power house construction job. They might be less proud if they learned that I was mistaken for form-work and had concrete poured over me. Nor if they were told the answer to this question on a history test paper-- Who was the Black Prince ? -my answer- The son of Old King Coal. I really can't go on any further because no real fellow likes to talk so much about himself. N.B.'-The only fly in the ointment is an occasional school report-which goes off with a bang! EDWARD WAYMOUTH REID, III-2E. TO- CWith humble apologies to Wordsworthj My heart leaps up when I behold Exams are drawing nigh: So was it when in Public School, So is it now I am in High, So shall it be through all my course, I heave a sigh! Exams are Fathers of Dismay, And I could wish exams to be Bound each to each and ne'er set free. ADA MAYERS, 11-1.