R S McLaughlin Collegiate and Vocational Institute - Haggis Yearbook (Oshawa, Ontario Canada)

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Whit ' s a Haggis? The Scots believe it is the national Scottish dish. They make it with calves ' and sheep ' s livers and hearts, oatmeal and lard, (an ' mony ither interestin ' things). It is seasoned with onions, salt and pepper, and delicious Scottish spices. But we all know that Haggis is our yearbook. Haggis because we put so many peculiar things into it: Mr. Smialek ' s cartoon, Tom ' s punchcard, a new flag, Lloyd ' s can, etc. (A raither gran ' show in all.) We hope the salty humour ' s better mixed this year. How ' s a Haggis prepared? The food is chopped and mixed and packed in a sheep ' s stomach and boiled and served whilst pipin ' hot. Our book is planned and arranged and drawn and photographed and pasted and . . . and finally packed in big brown envelopes and sent to the printer (whiles a bit ower late). It ' s served to us bound in a guidly cover. Scots always enjoy munchin ' Haggis. And you ' ve enjoyed digesting this one. You ' ve already read the pictures and found your friends. You ' ve read the jokes - the anes ye ' ye come o ' er. The grads ' biographies are better seasoned, you have found. And having kept the best till last, you ' re finishing off with editorial. (Ye ' d better gang to a haid doctor if ye ' re readin ' this afore the rest.) Dinna have any indigestion, and let this keep yer appetite till next St. Andrew ' s Day. itf tpL -»-v-rt For some weeks now I have been brooding over an incident in which I was unfortunate enough to be involved. My antagon- ists struck without warning or mercy. Men, do not let this pass as an entertaining tale, but take it to heart and beware. I had just left a chemistry class and was proceeding with a dignity befitting a senior toward the library, when suddenly a grade nine girl dropped at my feet one of those curious pencil-cases which so many frosh carry. In an instant, every eye in the crowded hall was upon the situation. The frosh looked up at me in awe. I looked down at the pencil-case. Now at this moment any boy reading this will no doubt sympathize with me, knowing what was about to happen. On the other hand, any girl reading this will be gloating from sheer delight at my predicament. What could I do? Bending down graciously, I reached for the case. The frosh dove for it. I stood up without it. She stood up without it. Embarrassed, I reached down again, slightly less graciously. Again she grabbed for it, retrieving the case and giving me the most withering of stares, as if I had tried to steal the precious pencil-case. It seemed that by now the whole hall was quaking with freshman laughter. Red-faced, I threw back my shoulders and strode purposefully toward the library. Never had I been so humiliated! If you are a boy entering Grade 13, beware! Courtesy has no place between senior and frosh, for the treacherous young things will never lose an encounter. •£yOZ ca jiQ rriJz - ' 40

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THIS, TOO, SHALL PASS Johnny Crow lay, face down in the dry, dusty street, his bloody form unconscious to all reality sur- rounding him. Cruel, probing faces stared down at him, mockingly. Johnny, born on a small farm in Kansas, of a white father and an Indian mother, had suffered persecu- tion and humiliation all his life. White men had killed his parents; white men had murdered his infant son; and now, white men had derided him and forced him to his knees in the dirt at their feet, because he had failed to staisfy the ego of the town ' s Big Man. Git up, you filthy Indian half-breed! Scared? the tall, lanky man yelled, glaring down at the broken form at his feet. Git up! He kicked him again and again in the side with his heavy, leather boot, until the man at his feet doubled up in pain. From up the street, a dark shadow, hair flying in the stinging wind, came running towards the jeering mob. The tall, slender woman, her long ebony braids falling over her shoulders, pushed the laughing people aside, and fell on her knees beside her husband. Her bronze arms lifted his battered head gently, and her black eyes clouded and blurred. She cleaned the caked dirt from his mouth and stroked his fore- head with long, slender fingers. Ha! Look! Here ' s his filthy squaw! the big man sneered, throwing his head back, and waving his arms. Need ' s a red squaw to protect him! Can ' t even do that much hisself! Everyone screamed with hysterical laughter again and moved in for a closer look. The young woman, her face distorted with anger, lifted her head. Her eyes blazing with contempt, met the big man ' s slowly. The laughter and derision cease. Silence thundered over the crowd - Who do you think you are? her voice echoed through the stillness, shaken with rage and fear and frustration. You who go to church and pray to your God to forgive your sins and answer your prayers. You, who tell your children to love one another. You are hypocrites! Hypocrites in the most terrible way! What has the Indian ever done to deserve such treatment? We are not dogs. We are human beings. Like you - or are you human beings?! There was not a sound nor a murmur, the mob remained silent, transfixed by the Indian woman, kneel- ing in the dirt, speaking. You have taken our lands, killed our meat, destroyed our homes, and now, now because this - man she pointed stiffl y at the startled figure above her, this man has decided he does not like half-breeds, you would follow him to destroy my husband and your respect! We are not the filth - you are! Shocked surprise stood out on the face of every man, woman, and child. The Indian girl ' s eyes glared at each one contemptuously, her gaze ripping through them like a knife. Shame filled their bodies - and their souls. The rustling of the wind through the trees was the only sound - Silently, one by one, the mob dispersed, until only the tall, swaying figure of the Big Man remained. Little Star turned her proud head and scanned the down-cast face. Slowly, the figure moved, and stumbling over a dusty hat dropped in the commotion, disappeared behind a building. Immediately, Little Star began to rock back and forth, with her husband ' s head cradled between her knees. His eyes opened painfully and he lifted his head from his wife ' s lap. The woman rose from her knees. Come my husband, we will return to our home now. All is over. Unable to speak, the beaten, broken man pulled on his wife ' s strength and managed to drag himself to his feet. With his arm about his woman ' s neck, he stumbled towards their horses. Johnny Crow leaned against the side of their wagon and washed his bruised face, and soothed his aching throat with cool water from their canteen. When he had finished, he turned to his wife. She stared at him, with love and discouragement in her dark eyes. He pulled her close and observed the deserted town, which had marked them Outcasts ; the lonely buildings, the quiet trees, the forsaken streets; a bare, barren wilderness. Someday, my Little Star , he whispered, we will be accepted into the white man ' s world. Someday. Someday. Dey Brownlee 10A