Saint Laurent High School - Milestone Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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searing rays on the Roman village below. In the narrow main street between the bakery and the fruit market, a little woman struggled through the jostling crowds. She suddenly cried out as a stream of boys charged out of the adjacent gymnasium and engulfed her. Damn brats! Don ' t they have any respect for their elders anymore? I think I spotted that Greek boy among the others. He must be the bad influence on all the rest. She trudged along, muttering about the decadence of youth and how the world was never like this in her day. Suddenly she heard the rumble of a chariot behind her and leaped aside. She had been relieved of her groceries by a kinky haird youth who had guffawed in glee at this, his latest, prank. Ides of March driver , she cursed aloud as the lumbering vehicle disappeared down the road and around the corner. Passing the amphithreatre she saw a mass of toga- clad youths. Some were chanting songs, some carried Get out of South Judea banners. She walked by in silent disgust thinking. Why should they bother caring about those heathens? In my generation we certainly wouldn ' t think of . . . She opened the door of her split-level villa and stepped into the centre of the atrium which drooled marble and Greek Provincial furniture. From the im- maculate condition of her home she could tell the children weren ' t home yet. Poor Flavivs was having so much trouble with that New Math ! She would have to inquire about a tutor. As usual there would be a fight tonight with the older boy over the purchase of his own chariot. However they kept telling him that in their day no one drove until they were at least fifty years old and so that would automatically apply to him too. Well, she and Gaius were going to the Catullus wedding so the children would have to fix their own sup- per and there certainly would be no time for arguments tonight. She opened her closet door and selected her gar- ments for the evening affair. Carefully she slipped into the beaded toga she had bought at Saxus of Quinque Avenue. Did that nosey neighbour of hers, Shirley, ever turn palatine purple when she found out where she had bought it and what unmitigated nerve she showed buying the same thing the following week! She sighed and wrapped her worn coat about her shoulders. Other men buy their wives huge coats of bear and fox, she mutter- ed, all he can get me is this little mink rag . He was downstairs yelling at her. How long does it take you women to get dressed? I ' ve been waiting down here for an hour . She appeared at the top of the stairs and glared down upon him. Don ' t you rush me, she scowled. He shrunk back into the shadows in fear. Is this what I married he murmured, citing a phrase that men would continually ask themselves for centuries to come. He followed her into the cool night air and they slipped into their four-door chariot and sped away. JUNIOR POETRY FIRST PRIZE THE FLY I gazed up from my bed at the light Caught in the shade was a fly, Fighting for freedom from its doom. I lay there staring Too lazy to try save it, Too lazy even to turn away my head. Frances Hoiubek SECOND PRIZE NOVEMBER I like November And do you know why? Because trees lose their leaves, And the birds fly by. Flowers grow wilted, The trees are bare; And the wind whistles by Without even a care. The days grow colder Light snow may fall. The road beckons southward As if starting to call: Come hither, come hither, The south welcomes you. If you ' ve nowhere to go, Come down to Peru. But magic is also In the fall air; Darkness comes early And streets will be bare. I like November For it is the sign That winter is coming — A favorite of mine! Carolyn Kate re

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Modern man, though he has discarded the old ideas of Gods, has not discarded religion. Though now we do not have an easily visible God like Apollo, most people still believe there is a God. The mysteries of the universe, at the moment, can only be explained by presupposing an all-powerful being — in other words, a god. One great mystery is the formation of the universe. There is not satisfactory solution backed by facts. Some- one will say that it started with a big bang and God had nothing to do with it. But that does not explain the origins of the bang . There must have been something before the bang , since matter cannot be created be created out of nothing. If a God is included, then it is possible. Another argument is that the universe has been here forever, and God had nothing to do with it. This could be accepted but for one small item. Human beings are unable to grasp the idea of time stretching into infinity, and so turn to God as a reasonable alternative. This also does not explain where the galaxies that are moving away, started from. Their movement implies a big bang , which does not follow the timeless theory. As man looks at the universe, he is overwhelmed by the insignificance of himself and his planet. It is the overpowering feeling that gives him the sense of God ' s presence. This feeling will continue as long as there are humans to sense it, and man will continue to worship God. John Sutherland SENIOR DESCRIPTION FIRST PRIZE EVENING VISTA A summer evening casts a spell on the wilderness, changing lakes to shimmering gems, forests to thick deep- green carpets, and streams to silver lace. The only sound that fills the air is the musical tinkling of water as my canoe glides across the glassy surface of a moun- tain lake. A delicate, wraith-like mist is beginning to form along the shore, while a shimmering path of light leads across the water and into the rich, gold-red mass of molten sun on the horizon. The evening sky, an immense blue-black vault, surrounds the treasured sunset. As if enchanted, the deep forest silently drifts by, giving way to more forest, and more forest. From within the wall of sleek evergreens lining the watery thoroughfare comes the muffled boom of a distant waterfall. A mountain, rising amidst the woods, proudly bears its green vest- ments. Like a sorcerey ' s crystal ball, the lake contains an exact image of the mountain submerged in its un- fathomable depths. As my canoe takes me closer to the cottage perched on the shore, the signs of civilization begin to pollute those of the wilderness: the water, beginning to smell of outboard motor oil, is now pockmarked by discarded papers and rusty beer cans. The bottom of the canoe grates on the stones of the dirty, murky shoreline. Bright, garish electric light irritates my eyes as I walk toward the cottage. Nearby a small group of people cluster about a bonfire, burning paper and other trash. A blaring transistor radio interrupts my thoughts, and I notice the strong reek of gasoline, probably used to start the fire. Do I feel sad as I look back the way I came? I can see neither the mountain nor the stately trees nor the tranquil lake, for the distance has been shrouded by night. Still that evanescent memory haunts me. Jeff Wiseman SENIOR NARRATIVE FIRST PRIZE RE-AWAKENING The glare sent a sensation throbbing through his head. A creased lid opened, slowly, cautiously . . . the viewer testing a set. But it was all familiar . . . rows of paperbacks . . . peeling walls . . . and the cat. The green slits shot back at his stare. He did not stir. Coffee odour wafted through the doorcrack. His muscles contracted then, like those of the feline, stretched languidly through is frame. It all came back. Passing through on the reel of his mind, he was again transported to the scene. The words ... ' it was slaughter ... it was slaughter ' , tossed on the crests of his thoughts . . . then drowned . . . drowned in the urge to forget, the desire to run. And so he escaped. Uninvolved ... he saw nothing ... he knew nothing. The trite voice drilled — ' The man was worthless — devaluation due to default of color — a half-man ' . But satisfaction would not come, and he prowled the alleys and perched on the barstools, roaming until memory faded. He felt his body swing towards the cat, but as sanity caught him by a jagged fragment of his conscious- ness he collapsed on the bed. The animal spit a glare of apprehension, then returned to its slumber. Aloud he muttered, ' Someday I ' ll trade you for a stone lion ' . He received no reply. The cat arched at the doorslam, but was soon reclaimed by its apathetic drowse. Roslyn Heitner FIRST PRIZE — SENIOR HUMOUR THE FLAWLESS PERFECTION OF THE GOOD OLD DAYS The sun climbed higher into the sky and then seemed to linger aimlessly when it reachd its meridian casting 47

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JUNIOR ESSAY FIRST PRIZE THE LEGAL RIGHTS OF THE POOR On the Arkansas State Prison Farm, recently, bodies of prisoners have been discovered, buried in the ground. It has been testified that these prisoners were killed by the guards on accidental pretences, and the ambiguous records pertaining to the deaths strengthen this theory. It makes one wonder to what extent the law really protects poor people in Canada and the United States. First of all, the poor, about twenty five to thirty per cent of the population, don ' t make the laws. They merely vote for the legislators, who must depend finan- cially on big business and industry for their campaign funds. These industrialists are fairly well representative of the wants of the middle and upper classes. The poor are given a choice of lawmakers, who rarely represent them, and, furthermore, whose policies are generally an- tagonistic towards them. The result is that most of the laws are directed towards the protection of the property rights of the middle and upper classes, while exploitation of the poor is ignored. Secondly, how can the poor use even these laws? Lawyers, and indeed justice, do not operate without money. If, by some isolated chance, a poor person manages to obtain a decent lawyer, he finds that the courts are controlled by the privileged class so that when it comes to a case of his being exploited by that same class, he stands no chance of winning. For example: al- most any store in a slum district will feature poor quality articles, of which some are second hand but sold as firsthand. Drastically high prices, well above what a normal store would feature, and salesmen who are ex- perts at manipulating slumdwellers to win money from them, are unethical, yet legal . Poor people, because of their unawareness of these things and lack of money, can do nothing. Certain organizations have been formed to provide free legal assistance to the poor but these are inadequate for the great number of poor people who need aid. These organizations are also unsuccessful for other rea- sons, such as in this incident which occurred in New York City. Thomas Grapski was arrested for selling narcotics to a police undercover agent. He could not afford to pay for a lawyer so he was given one by the Legal Aid Society, in whom, he repeatedly told the trial judge, he had no confidence. He denied committing the crime, but his lawyer, without fully discussing the case with him, told him to plead guilty. He tried unsuccessfully to change lawyers, but ended up pleading guilty, and was sentenced to two-and-a-half to three-and-a-half years in jail. We find, then, that poor people are in a position of helplessness, and that justice is unavailable to them, when it is needed. Now let us look back at the deaths in the Arkansas prison. Poor people are subject to the law, but are not protected by it, even from murder. And nothing as yet has been done about these murders. Is this the splendid democracy, where there is equal opportunity for all, and where justice is indifferent to all barriers of race, colour, creed, or economic status? Sidney Bailin SECOND PRIZE THE BEAUTY OF LADY LUCK I found a four-leaf clover today. Lady Luck was with me all the way. It was a cool spring morning, and the gentle breeze was blowing through the swaying trees. Far off in the distance the billowing valleys were calling and I knew I must answer. Threading my way through the deep wild grass, I neared my destination. Exhausted from the running, I lay down and gently leaned my head against an oak tree and rested. The sun was growing warmer and it rested on my arm, making it warm as toast. I read from my book of poems, a lovely sonnet, and as I did I played with the clover in the grass. Never before had I seen so many clovers altogether, like brothers and sisters they were fighting for room to breathe. I plucked on out of the soft earth and, for the first time, I saw before me one of the rare four-leaf clovers! Emerald green was its colour and delicate was its body. It was beautiful yet so simple. How could a clover bring me luck? That question I could not answer but I wanted to know just the same. I began once more to walk through the grass. It had been crisply warmed by the sun now. I couid feel it on my legs. Up the mountainside I climbed; the valley below was now miniature in size. Then, at the top, I could see all over the countryside. How gorgeous it was! The many lakes sparkled and reflected the afternoon light. The gently rolling hills shadowed the tiny log cabins that were now abandoned. It was then that I realized why I had been given that fourleaf clover. To me, it symbolized the luck of man and his great fortune to have a place in this world. How lucky we are to be blessed with the nature that surrounds us, but too often we forget what it is! How lucky e are to be living together with brothers and sisters, as the clovers were. Fighting for air, while we are reaching for it, we discover ourselves. How lucky I am to be living, knowing that somehere and sometime another person will discover Lady Luck! Lesley McSoldrick 49