Riverbend School for Girls - Vox Fluminis Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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Vox Fluminis 21 E l l.li63-VO fy THE PLOWMAN Lonely and tired at close of day, His footsteps halting and slow, The ploughman treads his homeward way Through the glorious sunset's glow. His eyes are dimm'dg his hair is white, His clothes are tattered and torn, He wanders home in the deepening night, And he toils in the early morn. He has no riches, he has no gain, His cottage is far from grand. He finds his gold in the golden grain, His joy-in ploughing the land. For what cares he, if his clothes are worn, If his only wealth is his land? All he asks is a sunlit morn, And the feel of the plough in his hand. He finds his strength in growing things, He gives what he has to God, His spirit Hnds joy in the life that springs From the heart of the rich brown sod. He spends his hours in endless toil, He fears not trouble or strife, For out of the earth comes his only mirth, Out of the soil-his life. Lonely and tired at close of day, His footsteps halting and slow, The ploughman treads his homeward way Through the glorious sunset's glow. And he kneels in the dust of his rich brown sod, And he raises a gnarled old hand, As he offers his thanks to his Maker, God, Who has given him life-and his land! MARIE BoND, Grade IX, Garry Hall. NORTH MAIN FIVE o'clock! The horn tooted twice, and the St. George bus rolled away from the depot. Rita Morin sank back into the comfortable padded seat, and the nicest thoughts passed through her mind, one after the other, in a dreamy way. School was over for the term, ex- ams done, and now-going home,-and Easter only four days away! Every- thing was just wonderful . . . She looked out of the window, wish- ing that they would soon be out of the maze of city traffic and on to the high- way, where they could proceed at greater speed. Everything was wonder- ful-except the weather-and its eHects on crowded Main Street did not make it seem any better. Yesterday there had been a heavy thaw, after which the night had brought frost, and now the roads and sidewalks were a sheet of dirty ice. The sky was clouded, and the tuneless moan of a rising wind pre- dicted snow. The bus lurched slowly along the icy road, among the congestion of auto- mobiles, street-cars and people. What a dirty, noisy street North Main was- and especially when there was no sun to make a pretence of a glitter on its dirty windows and walls! Oh, if they could only go faster! Rita was really becoming annoyed-how quickly good humours disappear! Oh well, no use fretting! She leaned back again, and resumed her study of the street. They were passing a tall, red brick building,

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Vox Fluminis n illivmnriam Zlnlm Barham LORD TWEEDSMUIR JOHN BU'CHAN was born at Perth, Scotland, on August 26th, 1875. During the World War he served on the staff of British Headquarters and later under Lloyd George. In 1927 he was made a member of par- liament for the Scottish Universities. In 1935 he was appointed Governor-General of Canada and was cre- ated a baron taking the title of Lord Tweedsrnuir. He died at Ottawa on February 11, 1940, as the result of a fall. O Thou to whom man's heart is known, Grant me my morning orison. Grant me the rover's path-to see The dawn arise, the daylight flee, Grant me the happy moorland peace That ancient land of heath and sky, Where the old rhymes and stories fall In kindly soothing pastoral. There in the hills grave silence lies And death himself wears friendly guiseg There be my lot, my twilight stage Dear city of my pilgrimage. --JOHN BUCHAN.

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22 Vox Fluminis the second story windows of which bore a gaudy gold inscription: Aren- novitch and Sieberling-Mortgages- Real Estatef' Rita wondered dreamily what was going on up there . . . PF PF Dk P14 In the offices of I. M. Arennovitch, of Arennovitch and Sieberling, two men stood face to face. One was tall, black- haired, and olive-skinned, his erect bearing giving him almost a military appearance. The other was shabby and dirty, his shoulders were slightly stooped, and his eyes bloodshot. I know I can't keep up the payments on the house, he said, his voice full of weary discouragement. But if I could only find work . . . You mean, if you could only keep work when you got it, Arennovitch cut in sharply. He was tired of this shift- less, dissolute Bill Cavers, with his everlasting whine. The man's hands were so unsteady as a result of his ex- cessive drinking that he could keep no kind of a job! For two years he had been trying to make the last payments on his little cottage, and now it seemed that he would have to give up. If you're intimating that my work isn't as good as yours, or anyone else's . . . . growled the dissolute, his eyes kindling with a hot light. Im not intimlating anything, Cavers, interposed the other coolly, except that your last payment was to have been made two years ago, and this firm has, since then, held the legal right to lay claim to your property. You mean . . . Cavers started as if he had received an electric shock. The sullen defiance of his last words melted away, and his voice almost trembled. Exactly, said Mr. Arennovitch drily. But . . . how can a man live with no work and no home, when he's got a wife and six kids-and two of 'em sick and . . . Cavers was whimpering now-his words came in a querulous rush. 'Tm sorry, Cavers. Somehow, he hated to say it-that whining voice and weary, lined face disturbed him. Arennovitch was young-he had never known poverty, and was not ursed to dealing with haggard, discouraged men like the one before him now. But Cav- ers deserved it-he usually thought more of his billiards than of his work and family . . . I'm sorry, he said again, and his voice held that note of finality which signalled a close. lk Pk 'lf wk Past the brick building went the bus -slower than ever, to Rita's disgust. They were passing a long row of one- storey shops, all of which looked Very much the same. Rita noticed that one of them had a sign on the window: Sheet Music, Records, Allyour favor- ite songs. A musi-c store--nothing in particular could happen there . . . Ik lk Ik Il' It was a dark, dusty, low-ceilinged little place. On entering, one would have thought it entirely deserted, but back in the corner, where an ancient grand piano stood, an elderly man was rummaging through a pile of tattered music. A shaft of gray light shot into the store as the door opened, and a little girl, of about eleven years of age, en- tered. She was small, quite plump, and black, curly hair framed her round, pink cheeks and fell over her shoulders, its color matching velvety, intensely black eyes. Hello, Grandpa! she carolled, run- ning to the old man. Why Gnydia Hirscholot! returned the grandfather, with pseudo-severity, you're zo late, I thought you weren't coming! 'iOh, I stayed at school to-to clean the blackboards! she smiled, her eyes twinkling mischieviously. You mean, to finish your arithmetic -liddle zlow poke-but what will you zing for me today? The old man seat- ed himself at the piano, his hands rest- ing expectantly on the keys.