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

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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.

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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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June,1946 THE TECHALOGUE 19 LATE FOR SCHOOL?? When I was preparing for school this morning. everything went wrong. First of all, I slept past the alarm. I jumped out of bed, grabbed my towel and washcloth and dashed for the bathroom. But could I get in? No! My big brother was there before me, shaving. Of course my sister had to be at the kitchen sink. So I fumed around for perhaps ten minutes when Alf came sauntering out of the bath- room. Upon seeing me he said, Oh, I didn't know you wanted in. As if he hadn't heard me making all that noise! Then, when I was combing my hair, the comb broke. I wasted more time hunting for another one. When I finally got down to breakfast, you know what, it wasn't even ready. I happened to glance at the clock. It was only fifteen to eight! Hey, Mom, that clock is half an hour slow. No, that's the right time. That started me thinking. I noticed no one else was hurrying. Just then Donna walked in with an impish grin on her face. I realized what had happened. O.K. Donna, I wonder who the little girl was that set my clock ahead. And I started chasing her. She began laughing and I couldn't stay mad at her. But now I will always make sure the clock is set right before I go to sleep. -DAISY J. ERICKSON, 3CA. -.,.-Af...- THE HAND OF FATE She was serenely happy, He the poor boy was lost, She had him in her power He hadr1't counted the cost. There on his knees before her: The rattle of his bones was heard, The die is cast, he whispered As he breathlessly awaited her word. At last the suspense was over, He sighed, I've made it, by heaven, For there on his knees before her He had rolled a lucky seven. -JACK FUNK, 4B. ,..1k-...- SUNSET ON THE PRAIRIE As I sat on the large rock by the gate post at the front of our house I could not help looking far across the prairie into the sunset. The golden beams of the sun were piercing the fleecy clouds which seemed to be a soft blanket into which it was slowly settling. The air was stillg the trees were silent. From the clumps of bushes, from the rolling prairie and from the lowland meadows came the inter- mingled notes of our friends, the birds. They seemed to have caught the beauty of the evening and to be chorusing their praises to God at the end of a perfect day. From the flower garden bathed in gold