Northrop Collegiate School - Tatler Yearbook (Minneapolis, MN)

Page 8 text:

 This Is Our School . . . These arc our ivied walls. These arc our ragged notebooks Inscribed with a host of sacred names, Boy names, of course. These arc our stairways. Steps curved to the trample of many feet Through many days, many years. Here we have walked in sadness, slowly shuffling Here we have run in times of greatest joy. Here we have stood and talked of Everything, Here fell our tears and here our laughter rang, Here grew our hearts through healthful suffering, Here lie the hours which we together shared. The precious hours in which we hoped and dared And traded thoughts and spoke our wanderings; Even when we arc not. these shall have b:cn. Here are the elm trees which have shaded us Spattering spots of dark on the cool damp grass Beckoning restless eyes away from books When Spring came at last. These arc our classrooms Full of the millions of thoughts which here were formed Full of the echoes of words we spoke and heard The thousand words on which our minds were fed Till at last we learned. This is our chapel, A patch of sunlight shimmering on the floor, CO

Page 7 text:

There is someone In the life of every one of us Who has been our keeper Our comforter Our teacher And our friend . . . Someone who patched scraped knees And mended hurt prides . . . Someone who scolded us — But never too harshly — Who reminded us of our manners And saw that we remembered our gloves When we went to Sunday School . . . Someone who treasured every gilt — No matter how small or shabby — Because it was of us ... Someone who loved tine things But saw first that they were ours ... Someone who could forever understand And sympathize And make the world once more a golden ball . . Someone who taught us love And goodness And fair play And honesty And hundreds of little things That are now so much a part of everyday life .. Someone who gave us hopes And dreams for the future — Her hopes Her dreams . . . Someone who gave us all But asked nothing in return ... Whose love and tenderness Played on our paths As sunlight flickers upon the earth Beneath an overhanging bough. She is a mother — Your mother, my mother — And to our mothers this book is lovingly dedicated .

Page 9 text:

Sweet music swelling, voices merging in prayer. Sight of blue sky, ,i bird’s bold fluttering flight And the great and golden day’s brilliant beginning. Here, in this calm, in this place. This is our school. Here is our hockey field Loud with vociferous enthusiasm, Sharp clap of hockey sticks. Blue and white pom-poms, brownies, candy, noise. These were our Fridays — Swiftly mounting excitement, a bell, temporary insanity. These were our Mondays — Slow awakenings of half-shut lids From week-end exhaustion. These, our exams — terrified tremors. Last-minute cramming, moans of despair. Doom’s Day, Then freedom, release — Parties and skiing, black and blue jubilance. This is our life, and these our memories. Hundreds of days brim-full of busy living, And each of these is Northrop, every one. And Northrop all of these, and Northrop us. Our forks and knives were always different patterns; The consistency was that every one was bent. The drinking fountain wept an erratic trickle. There were numerous strange mosaics of cracked cement. We looked at it all through ebony-colored glasses; To beauty in it we generally were blind. But looking back on every loose-held minute We see what a wealth of beauty we leave behind. Green of ivy, red of brick, blue of sky White of the apple blossoms on the hockey field. Orange of the sumac on the hill. Yellow of sun and the first bold dandelions — These were the brilliant colors of our world. Books dropping, feet running, showers splashing. Tinkle of jacks, clear voices of children at play, Toll of cathedral bells in the still afternoon — These the remcml ered sounds of our everyday. This is our sch x l. Here in this place, in these brief golden hours Our separate lives have crossed, our minds have touched And each of them is different for the touching; None can now lie quite separate from the rest. For part of each of us has molded Northrop And part of it has molded each of us ... This is our school. And sometimes it was sad and sometimes gay And sometimes it was dull and sometimes fun And sometimes it was loved and sometimes hated But always it was Northrop, and our own. C5]