Saltus Grammar School - Yearbook (Hamilton, Bermuda)

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THE FACE IN MY DREAMS Here it comes again — that hard mean face, That comes at night, when my thoughts are in space. No matter how pleasant, my dream starts out, That cold hard face, wakes me up with a shout. Will it come again? — yes, any minute now, With deep sunken eyes and a frown on his brow. Never a smile on his thin spiteful lips, And his great bulbous nose, just drips, drips, drips! Now it ' s come again — to give me such a fright, A face thats pale and ghostly, with hair that ' s dirty white. His expression ' s an evil one — I wonder what it means, As it comes to scare me in my nightly dreams. R. Stubbs, lb Aged, by M. Aubrey, 4k DISCIPLE His head is large, his eyes are small; On top is naught, below is all. The melting man I ' ve heard them say, A stalactite in full array. For his broad brow shines with the sun His beard slides down, a slithering snake. With age his cheeks have oft been damned The crisscross stitch-marks this portrays. For wrinkled is this old man ' s face, Weathered, tanned, rough. Long ago his massive brain, Forced out the few hairs that still remained. And swelled his brow to a size quite huge, ' til only the hair on his chin survived. And his tiny eyes which are sunk so deep, Could be barely viewed through those bushy brows. Yet, to the look he is but rough. But in his head is wisdom and kindness, The inside gentle contrasts his actions For although he is good he is zealous. J.P. Skinner, lb Hallowe ' en, by P. Clift, 1b FACES Across the street In the shadows of the tavern Lies a torso held in linear synthesis Face like a twisted branch on a beach Rippled out eaten smooth by the rollers of time. His eyes shake the soul As a madman shakes a dead rose. His nose is melting into oblivion As sharp to cut into your innermost thought His hair sways as a skeleton Stiff and white. Mouth like a rag with creases Of youth and happiness And later of age and depression. Ears ever-listening for a reassuring gurgle His soul slowly dying Creeping out of windows of life. S. Davidson, lb LOST LOVE Your wish for love is strong, How profoundly it must be felt, Reflected in your red-rimmed glassy eyes are The last moments of the past — Never to return. The grey sagging skin, Furrowed by dark lines, Expresses the fate of the love that you once knew. The deep frown on your brow, And strong sharp nose, Remind us of your determined but memorable life. Framing these expressions are silver strands of hair, That wisp across your sad countenance. Suggesting days gone by. C. Luthi, lb A SMILE Let others cheer the winning man There ' s one I hold worthwhile. It ' s the one who does the best he can; Then loses with a smile, Beaten he is but not to stay Among the rank and file That man will win some other day; Who loses with a smile. Grant Brandson. lb

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and Poet ' s corner . . , Artist ' s gallery . . . THE PROPHET The cares of the world lie heavy on his brow. His sad eyes reflect the troubles of man. With penetrating eyes that can uncover man ' s soul, He sees both the good and the bad. His troubled face is tired and worn. The skin on his head is taut and colourless. He has a hook-like nose and wrinkled skin. Timeless, he is neither age nor youth. His eyes look out from beneath craggy brows. His hair and beard fall soft upon his shoulders. He looks with compassion over a frantic, unfeeling world. All his teachings can never change it. P. Clift, lb Crucifixion (from Salvador Dali), by M. Aubrey, 4k Dying, by M. Aubrey, 4k THOUGHTS OF CHUCK WEPNER I ' ve got to beat him, Yes, I ' ve got to beat him, I ' ve come all the way and a chance to be top But, I ' m not very good and probably not the best But I ' ve got to fight as though I mean business. I know I ' ll probably lose But before I go I ' m gonna give him a hell of a good fight. I ' ve trained day and night Jogged, woke up early, light breakfast Light lunch and supper. Look at Joe Frazier, He beat him. Do you see, Chuck, you fool, he can be beaten. So what if you lost your last fight? Who cares, you know that the higher he climbs, The harder he will fall. On the other hand, though, if you just Make all the rounds you ' re doing fine, But if you beat him, Wowee, that ' ll be perfect. You can beat him Chuck Yes, you can beat him. A. Van Beelen, lb

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THE BOXER There he sits defeated and disowned His hopes and dreams are smashed Sweat pours off his body and face His eyes fixed far away Every scar is visible His hair sticks together Looks like rats tails His pride is down He knows he ' s past it His nose is stubbed By fights gone by Every pore is present Like an orange His eyes are deep set He knows he ' ll never Fight again. M. Turner, lb A DESCRIPTION OF A PERSON She was a tall, hard-featured lady, but by no means ill- looking. There was an inflexibility in her face; but her features were rather handsome than otherwise, though unbending austere. I particularly noticed that she had a very quick, bright eye. Her hair, which was grey, was arranged in two plain divisions, under what I believe would be called a mop-cap: I mean a cap, much more common then than now, with side-pieces fastening under the chin. Her dress was of a lavender colour, and perfectly neat — but scantily made, as if she desired to be as little encumbered as possible. I thought it in form more like a riding-habit, with the superfluous skirt cut off, than anything else. She wore at her side a gentleman ' s gold watch (if I might judge from its size and make) with an appropriate chain and seals. She had some linen at her throat not unlike a shirt-collar, and things at her wrists like little shirt wristbands. 1 called her the dreamer, for it seemed that in the back of her mind, she was thinking about once more becoming a child, if that was possible! She used to dream of things she ' d do When grown to be a woman, Beguiling childhood years away With many an idle plan. And now, when grown to be a woman, She knew no greater joy Than dreaming of the things she ' d do If still she were a girl. Mrs. Meant-to has a comrade And his name is Didn ' t-do; Have you ever chanced to meet them? Did they ever call on you? These two people live together In the house of Never-in And I ' m told that it ' s haunted By the ghost of Might-have-been. Grant Brandson, lb Gather round - I ' ll tell ' ee ci telle . . . MITTY VISITS S.G.S. Eric P. Mitty straightened his red and blue tie, arching his back painfully as his slender body was propelled by the enormous power of the twin 6,000 h.p. engines. With re- markable dexterity, he forced the streamlined vehicle into a crisp, neat slide, carefully avoiding the lions as they snapped at his bronzed thighs. He bit his lower lip as his alert eyes caught sight of the oil derrick edging nearer. Preparing for the impact, he thrust his head between his knees and his hymn-book tumbled noisily to the floor . . . Mitty! shouted an enraged Mr. Stephenson, his face showing wrinkles akin to a compressed accordion. Report to my office immediately after this assembly! Mitty ' s gaze drifted from the livid silhouette thirty feet in front of his row as he shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. He maintained his indifference by remaining absolutely limp throughout the hymn, ignoring the frantic spasms emanating from Dr. Duncan ' s piano. A little later, he found himself whistling quietly as his feet paved a route along the top corridor, ending abruptly on the office doormat. As he rapped on the painted wood, he felt his whole body undergoing a sudden transformation. He fought wildly to keep his head from being dragged underwater, and he pounded his fists against the flat nose Survival, by M. Aubrey, 4k