Saskatoon Technical Collegiate Institute - Techalogue Yearbook (Saskatoon, Saskatchewan)

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Ju1te,1946 THE TECHALOGUE 17 him and try to console him, but his eyes fill with unshed tears, and he is the picture of deepest misery. So I lay my head on his soft furry back and we cry together, his howls getting the better of mine. We wander the fields together. His nose, so short for a collie's, burrows into every hole. We jump, run, chase each other and fight play-battles, his barks and my laughs intermingling. Later we lie side by side, quietly watching the sun go down. I love my dog and we have learned this secret of true love between an animal and a person. I do not think he is dumb just be- cause he cannot speak my language. He is smarter than humans in his own way. We speak to each other not only by his bark and my words, but by moods and actions too. I think that if they had a cup for the most courageous, understanding, loving, intelligent dog, mine would surely win it. Yes, he's just a dog, but he's more than that to me, he's my friend. -CAROL KESTER, lH. l-,Gm MODE OF LIFE They Walked thru' the park together, And neither said a word, But listened to the music, That faintly could be heard. For them no speech was needed. All talking had been done- He thought of a home in the country And the beautiful girl he'd won. She was radiant and happy, And proud of the man at her side. She too, thought of a quaint cottage. And a husband in whom to confide. The honeymoon now is long over And Age, its shadow has cast, But this dear old-fashioned couple Still live as they did in the past. True to their sacred promise, - Doing some deed each day, To lighten each other's burden, As they travel on life's busy Way.. -JACK FUNK, 4B. .mil THE CONCERT PIANIST To be a concert pianist-to play like Chopin, Mozart or Beethoven -to thrill audiences all over the world, to play with famous orchestras -that is a goal worth striving for. Music is an art which requires the study of harmonics and a depth of culture and rare emotion. It demands a temperamental self- ishness, a submergence of all other life to the creation of music. The rewards are great but they are not given for work undone. To attain them it is necessary to study hard. The pianist must be

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if LHEEQ-QEY LEST WE FORGET Lest we forget a year ago. A year ago today When banners flew and bells rang loud And ships sailed into bay, The people cheered and sang and laughed The world seemed full of grace. And some there were who bravely smiled While tears stole down their face. Lest we forget a year ago, A year ago today The boys who high upheld the torch, And gaily marched away. Dear Lord, may we when peace is won Remember those who fell, And consecrate our own days here To strive and serve as well. And may our country ever be A land where freedom dwells, Where war's grim shadow shall not fall To still our c0untry's bells: Where people live in happiness At home and 'cross the sea Where wars have joined the darksome past We pray. O God, to Thee. -JEAN E. HAIGHT, 2C. 1.--k IUST A DOG Across the field he comes bounding, his tail waving, his muscles rippling his shaggy coat. He jumps on me, his paws leaving muddy prints on my slacks and blouse. But do I care? Oh no, not I, for this is my dog. He licks my hands, my face and even my bare, dirty feet. His eyes meet mine, and in their trusting brown depths shine love, courage, strength and intelligence. His beautiful golden brown fur is burr-filled and mud-bespattered. Away he dashes, picks up a stick, comes playfully back and drops it at my feet, his eyes begging me to chase him. How could anyone refuse those pleading eyes? I bend down to pick up the stick but he snatches it from my hand and runs away. I chase him, finally catch him, only to have him lunge at my ankles and knock me down. I look up and meet his eyes twinkling mischievously at me. Sometimes when he is eating his dinner, an old hen will take one of his choicest pieces of meat. He snaps at her and sometimes pulls out some of her tail feathers. He is spanked but not by me. I sit beside

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18 THE TECHALOGUE June,1946 possessed of infinite patience. Ten to twelve hours of practice a day is no unusual task for those who wish to hear the plaudits of the crowds for their performances. Having chosen the career of a concert pianist, you start from the smallest stepping-stone and' as you step forth, you see the rushing stream of the wtorld which, in your dreams, you are about to conquer. It may seem too vast and swift, you will want to turn back, but in this life there is no turning back, you must go on, moving closer to the ideal you have set before you. As has been said, you cannot gain great rewards if you have not worked for them. Therefore, you set your mind to music and practise -practise for all you are worth. As you play, you imagine you are on a great stage. It is in London and the London Symphony Orchestra is seated around, tuning up for your number. The conductor is calling for attention. This is the moment-the big moment of your life. Your fingers begin to feel stiff, they feel damp and cold, you are scared, scared to your very depths. Beyond the insistent glare of lights, is a sea of faces-faces which are doubtful and asking, 'Can you do it? You begin to feel unsure, but, before you know it, you have struck the first note and there is no time to back out now. You live a lifetime in the few scant minutes of your performance. It seems as if there were no end, as if you would go on forever-but you hear a deafening Crescendo of applause and calls for more and more. You then realize you have won-you are a success, and they are asking for more. Yes, you are going to play another selection, for is that not the tapping of the conductor's baton? No! Wait! Suddenly you awaken-it is not the conductor, it is the teacher. He has a knowing smile-it reassures you and tells you that the arts are the hardest of all masters. They demand hours of labor and sac- rifice from the many and bestow rewards on but a few. Yet the humblest craftsman on a medieval cathedral and the most incon- spicuous performer in a modern orchestra, if they do their work with art as their ideal, are one in a joy of certain knowledge that 'tart alone endures. -Jo ANN PACE 2CB lf? RAIN Down the street and up the lane, Children are playing in the rain. Robins are searching for Worm and grub. The wind is swaying each tree and shrub. Up the lane and down the street, Shuffle and tramp of busy feet. But still is heard the patter of rain, Falling on roof and window pane. Now the children are tucked in bed, With toy and book beside their head. But even when they are asleep, There's still the pa-tter on the street. -Gi-:RTY MEIER, 2CB.