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Page 49 text:
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RICK McCARTEN 9F GRADE 12 JERRY McCROHAN 13A MURAL OF OSHAWA - Grade 12 i Erikni 1 mS : 1 ; j I8| ■ jjjgg | P l - m -ja » ' 1 1 HC.-fel f | 1 DONNA LIBBY 13B PAM BEHM 13A BARRY KORY 13B
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Page 50 text:
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THEY CAME RECOLLECTIONS OF THAT REACTIONARY It was deathly silent. The silence reminded her, as she sat alone in the huge room, of a tomb, grey and pale. She looked toward the door, knowing well what lay beyond it. She knew they were waiting. It would be open in ten minutes, and then they would enter. The room was large, empty; it frighte ned her. Her hands were knotted with fear, as she gripped her tiny, wet handkerchief. She grit her teeth, and knew that she could not leave this room now. Thoughts rolled over her mind -- thoughts of when she was just a little girl, of when she graduated from high school, of when she had entered her profession. Now she was alone in this room, and in five minutes that door would be opened. The window was open at the back, and the cool breeze, bringing with it the sights and sounds of September, awoke her mind and brought it back to reality. Four minutes left now. She looked at the door. The sweat dropped off the tip of her nose and formed little pools on the desk in front of her. She knew they were beginning to gather outside the door, the only barrier between her and them. The chattering noises seeped through the door. Very soon this room would be full of them, full of curious eyes looking up at her. How would she handle them? How had others before her handled them? This she wouldn ' t find out, until the door was opened. One minute! The noises were everywhere now, louder, clearer. The door opened, and in they came, filling every empty space. She looked at them. The chattering stopped now. She rose slowly, and thirty pairs of eyes followed her across the front of the room. She tried to control her speech, Good morning, class. I am your new teacher, Miss —Ralph Martens 13A The sceptic ' s always with us, bitter clown. Scorning and laughing, he destroys our joy; He ' s wrecked tradition ' s charm, our broken toy; By him, our ancient customs tumble down: Of silv ' ry moon upon the Christmas pine, Of crackling fire with its rosy glow, Of stockings stuffed like puppets in a row. In this, in everything we are out of line. Our customs die. Oh God! I ' d rather be A toddler sucking on a wornout doll. So might I not from all our customs flee But simply, from the window in the hall, Have sight of Santa rising ' bove the tree, Or hear old Rudolf give his jingled call. Mary Henkelman 13B A MEASURE OF TIME A lonely, autumn breeze swept across the melan- choly expanses of rain-drenched cobblestone as the portly, old, London gentleman with bent knee and stooped back slowly trudged down the lane. A fine mist swirled across the damp ground clutching at the old man ' s legs, obscuring the uneven contour of the road, making every step troublesome. Like a blotter the grey night absorbed all the common noises of life and the steady click of his shoes echoed vaguely down the empty street. And when he had passed, the breeze again s wept by and all was as if he had not been there at all. Douglas Dobney 10A WICKED WEDNESDAY, MARCH 24, 1965 m Br : l fim JuPf w9 WM — MjPp r ft • ;, The boys of Ten C and Ten A had been told. The girls also had been told, but, I imagine they didn ' t mind the emminent disaster. Never before in my whole, fourteen years of joyful life, have I ever been faced with such an experience. I would hide in my new un-defective locker, but it ' s too small, even jump into one of those fresh cement foundations at the north, but they are full up with my classmates. As a last resort, I could jump out a third floor window, or electrocute myself in electric shop. But, a brave, strong p upil of grade ten has to face reality and dance with the girls in Phys. Ed. Jerry Smith IOC 46
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