Pickering College - Voyageur Yearbook (Newmarket, Ontario Canada)

Page 26 text:

The Voyageur it landed with a little splash in the water. He took no notice, but came over to the table beside M. Cignac and sat down. He pulled the Soleil from his raincoat and read the back page. 'This was the man: black rain- coat, blue tie, back page, cork tipped cigarette, M. Gignac felt sick inside. He was not sure, this was always the most alarming moment-the most difficult decision. Was the man the Englishman, or was he a spy? Every- thing was as it should be, he would have to take the risk. He reached into his pocket for the maps. But--where was the boutonniere? The red carnation? He should have known it from the start, the Gestapo. The man was waiting, there was the sergeant, waiting for the signal, waiting for M. Cignac to pull out the maps. M. Gignac was afraid, he was nearer death now than he had ever been before. He rose from his place and entered the cafe. He whispered something to an oflicer. Like a good French citizen he had reported enemy activity. They would have the pleasure of catching their own spy. M. Gi nac walked out into the ni ht, the man's ci arette was still burn- . . g 0 g g ing ln the ash tray: his paper was trampled on the wet pavement. And breaking the smooth reflection of the water under the lamp was a red carnationl gm by J. E. STRUTHERS THE WIND in the tall trees sounded like the long sigh of a woman, the rugged oaks on the knoll were like grotesque old men, weatherbeaten and stooped by the force of the winds of many years. l looked back over the valley that I had just left. The village could not be seen, but the river wound its way to the lake, which looked like a pool of mercury shimmer- ing in the pale moonlight. King stood beside me and sniffed at the air, his head high, his body motionless. It was comforting to know that you had at least one friend that would never let you down. A dog always understands. We turned off the main road onto a narrow, gravel side-road. The grass was growing in the centre and it appeared to be little used. l felt the keen spirit of the night, and the youthful lust for adventure made my blood surge through my whole body. l ran, only because l felt like it, and King trotted along with me. We must have gone for nearly a mile at this steady pace, and still l was not tired. Then the road turned, and there before me was an old stone house. It gave me a slight start at first, the sight of a house was so unexpected in a place like this. Letis go in, Kinglw The dog sauntered up the stone path ahead of me making his own per- sonal inspection. T 24

Page 25 text:

The Voyageur - - - - uThat,s Dr. Forsythe, the world famous surgeon, said the President at his annual ball, as Johnny strolled by. The hum grew louder still. A headline proclaimed: Torsythe, greatest lawyer of our day, appointed to Senatel' 6'Forsythe plans bridge to span Atlantic! i p,. 'Torsythe revolutionizes the world of mathematicsf' The hum became much sharper and strongerg slowly Johnny realized that a bell had been ringing. He opened his eyes to find the classroom deserted. Picking up his books he sauntered out of the door. . usome dayf, thought Johnny, as he strolled down the street, hsome day I'm going to be a great manf, ' pm .- f. Tudor-Hart . GIGNAC WAITED. He stared down the Boulevard expectantly. examining each passing face with an eye trained to observe without being con- spicuous. Of little interest to M. Gignac were most of the passers-byg the booted ones, who seemed to make a continuous effort to appear natural, with tilted forage caps and loud conversation that shocked the cold and empty streets of the dead city. M. Gignac was an island of mufti amid the green uniforms that surged about the cafe-those uniforms that strove to ignore the terrible loneliness of the invader in the land of the ffait aeconiplif M. Gignac lazily followed with his eyes each of those whose footsteps were heard approaching down the lane of trees. He was very interested. but very nervous. Although he had been in this game for months, these jobs always made him nervous. The risk was great. He always felt stagey and strained when the time cameg everyone's eyes would be on him. He feared that something would go wrong . . . that someone might be caught . . . that someone would talk. Looking about him he found little reassurance in his surroundings. That sergeant over there, leaning against that tree: what was he doing? Waiting for something? Or someone? Perhaps the same man. Nl. Gignar was impatient. Why wouldnit the man come and get it over with? He wished he could leave the horrible job. Perhaps this would be the last one. But he had hoped that last time . . . and the time before . . . and the time before that. He was an oldish man now: he simply hadn't the nerveg he couldnit stand the strain. He had to stop this worrying. It was dark nowg the soldiers passed under the streetlamp and entered the cafe to drink away their loneliness. They would notice how nervous he was if he didn't pull himself together. There was someone now. He was pausing under the lamp to light his cigarette. M. Gignac was nervous as a catg he started when the match spluttered as it was thrown into a puddle. The man dropped something and 23

Page 27 text:

The Voyageur It was an old, Victorian structure with a long verandah along the front and intricate carvings on the eaves and gables, probably built by some old retired farmer in the days when they had large families and a great deal of money. We went in. I walked over to the ancient piano and sat on the stool. Everything seemed as if it had been left the day before, except for the layer of dust that covered every piece of furniture in the place. Suddenly the door blew shut with a teriflic slam. A picture left its mooring and crashed to the floor. King growled. Then we both listened, there was a soft padding of feet in the room beyond the archway. I turned sick at my stomach. Then I heard the same soft padding on the stairway. I felt something touch my foot. I leaped for thc door, but became entangled with King. He charged under the piano and losing my balance, I toppled upon the keyboard. lt was like the climax of a great symphony! The tones roared in my ears and became overtones, scores of ghosts danced in my imagination. Regaining my senses, I dashed through the doorway and King followed. In his mouth was a huge rat! . We walked back along the old road. The spirit of the night was no longer present. I had lost all that zest for adventure. It was cold anyway. As King trotted along beside me again, I could see something in that canine face that almost suggested a grin. . aqaue We a eaanhq? E ARE OFTEN TOLD that Canada is not a country, but a heterogeneous combination of provinces with separate aims, separate desires, and separate interests, and to a certain extent this is true. In religion the French Canadian is very different from the sturdy Protestant of Ontario, and in politics he is 'very apt to act in a different way. ln business affairs the interests of the New Brunswicker or Nova Scotian have different connec- tions from those of the Manitoban or the British Columbian. All this is true and these divergences are great difficulties in the path of those who aim at building up a distinct and living nationality in this northern part of North America, but it seems possible that common hopes, common thoughts, common aspirations may yet unite Ontario and Quebec, Nova Scotia and British Columbia, Catholic and Protestant, East and West into one common harmonious national life. It is a common saying that no nation is ever thoroughly welded together until it has had its own baptism of blood and fire. Are we getting ours now? Certainly the sight of men from all the different provinces fighting bravely side by side, and laying down their lives on the distant prairie so that law and order may prevail, and the Government to which we all owe allegiance may hold its sway. cannot but do much to join us together and make us feel that we are all fellow citizens and brothers, subjects of the one Government, Citizens of the one country. -From the College Cabinet, a manuscript newspaper read to the students of Pickering College in the Spring Term, 1885. It is reprinted here as a matter of interest. 25