Pickering College - Voyageur Yearbook (Newmarket, Ontario Canada)

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'TH E VOYAGE UR 0 POETRY 0 Who Am I? ' by E. IDNYSCIIUK Think back through History's cycles And see how the world has changed: Think of the Romans, and the Spartans, And the wars that they have waged. We call them ancient, barbaric: They killed with sword and spear, But what of our modern armies That kill with fire: from fear. The men of our modern armies Havent a chance for their lives, They leave behind in apparent safety Their children, their homes, and their But there is no safety now, From the terror of war and of strifeg For, as soon as your back is turned, You may fall down dead, from a knife A knife in your back, or a bullet Will send you to your glory, And you may lie in your grave While others just read your story. Different as the night is from day, For this man that died in glory, Died like a rat, at bay. And what of the men that lead us? Not in the front, but from behind: They stay back, in warmth and safety, While we fight, for we are blind. The Bible says that the evil must die, But 'tis the righteous that perish: For they are ones who save the evil, To stumble, to fight, and kill to the fi But who am I in the sea of humanity 7 wive But the story that's written is different' 1 nish. 0 To write of the world and its blunders. Who am I to love and to cherish- Only a bubble that waits and wonders.

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26 'THE VOTAGEUR gave Isaac a note from Sonja. It said, briefly, that they were going away to live in Germany, and that, as Sonja's father depended on Hitler's favour in order to keep his position, he could not allow his daughter to marry a jew. Isaac sobbed in despair at the last sentence. All was over and Hnished. There was no use going on. Everything was ruined. A hideous misery gripped his tortured soul. His castle of dreams was destroyed. His fiancee and best friend were gone. He saw his future persecutions under the Nazis. Completely brokenfhearted, he went home and spent an unhappy but thoughtful evening. Suddenly he made up his mind what to do. Worry and despair left him. He saw the way out. At once he went and purchased a revolver. On the way back he read of the persecutions of Jews, already begun. He went up to his room and wrote two letters. He started as he heard the front door open. A gruif voice inquired if Rosemeyer, the jew, was at home. Soon afterwards, the tread and Clank of armed men could be heard on the stairs. A brutal voice shouted, Come, the scum's down here. Lets drag the rat out of his hole. Before Isaac flitted the vision of that single day begun so happily and with such good omen and concluded amid such despair and unhappiness. This morning Isaac would no more have taken his life than change his religion. Now, it was the only thing to do. 0 A SHORT, SHORT STORY 0 The Cllllrtih ill the Nigllf by ll0GEll s'rll0UsE HE CoLoUREo wmoows faded gradually out: only a twilight blue was left beneath the roof: and that died too. Then, only double rows of candlefflames gave light, pointing and floating above the shadows of the floor and the shadows of benches and the shadowed faces of old men and youths. Hushed prayer echoed, and the long rolling organfwaves rose and fell, half' drowning the singing and setting it free again. All was muffled. I sat there motionless and virtually unconscious, neither kneeling nor standing with the others, but leaning rigidly back. After the service was over the congregation emerged into the night and were swallowed up in the mist. White surprising faces glimmered and van' ished under the street lights. It was this kind of a night that I too was walk' ing inealone. Perhaps I deserved no better fate. My big brownstone house loomed formlessly in the dense sky, picked out by dimlyflit windows, and forlorn gate lamps. There were two figures standing there silently. As I approached they turned towards me but before either of them spoke I said, All right, l'll go quietly.

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28 THE VOYAGE UR 0 SHORT STORY 0 The Intruder by ALBERT INIBLANII OR TNVO DAYS a terrific gale had been lashing the North Atlantic, sweep- ing down from the north to the Straits of Belle Isle. In the distance a great Arctic owl flew heavily along, worn out from flying since he had been blown out to sea the day before, hundreds of miles to the northward. For an instant he seemed to glide motionless, as though his energy was spent and he was going to sink down into the icy waters below, then recovering he quickened his pace, as if for the first time he had discerned the barren coast of Labrador, far away on his right. It was nearly dusk when he finally winged his way over the shore and alighted in a large cedar, a little way inland. Tired out he fell asleep. It was night when the great snowy visitor awakened and viewed his unfamiliar surroundings through famished eyes. He stared around for some time at the strange green world, unable to comprehend the change that had come over his snowy home. Then realizing his hunger, he glided down from the cedar and seized an unsuspecting mouse in his talons. One mouse, how' ever, was hardly sufficient for the huge owl, and only served to whet his appetite to a dangerous degreeg hence, mounting on snowy pinions, he glided over the silent woods. Suddenly a great bundle of sticks in a treeftop attracted his attention and he wheeled around and glided over to it. It proved to be a nest and sitting on some eggs was a large bird with a long, snakey neck and spearflike bill. The heron, for so it proved to be, uttered a hoarse cry and before the owl realized it, that spearflike bill pierced his shoulder and ploughed through the downy feathers to the bone. Mad with pain and hunger the owl mounted into the air and drove at the heron with talons outspread. The heron was quick and lunged out with her snakey neck but the owl, quicker yet, swerved aside and dug his talons into the heron's neck, cutting through the bird's jugular vein. Then, with great rending strokes of his hooked beak, the great owl began to devour the luckless bird. Gorging himself on female heron, the Arctic owl failed to keep a sharp look out and did not see the heron's mate, flying with neck outstretched to the nest. The owl did not turn till he heard a rush of wings and an angry hiss as the male heron rushed at him to avenge the death of his mate. Too late he raised his dangerous hooked beak. Before he could spring into the air, the heron's bill caught him and struck deep through his breast to his heart. He fell back into the nest-dead, with the blood fast dyeing his snowy plumage. His body grew cold, cold like the Arctic, and the wind ruffled his feathers like a flurry of snow. The intruder was gone.