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

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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

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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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20 THE TECHALOGUE June,1946 came the sweet scent of the lilac and the rose. The golden hues of the sun sinking slowly into the west increased and deepened until its rim dipped beneath the horizon. The visual splendor was gone but the memory still remained-a picture that no artist could ever paint. -BERNARD HALLAM, 4A. if,- EASTER REPORTS They gave me my report today, Gee, I wonder what it will say, Will it count those times late? And what average will I rate? My curious heart it jumps about, My mind is harboring many a doubtg Slowly I open it up Waiting for the world to erupt. With fear I take a shuddering look, From ice-cold hands I drop my book, I faint. this is the last. Because, my goodness, I passed! -CAROL KESTER, IH. -if-T THE CREEK I miss the winding creek at home, In storms the Wavelets dance with foam. In sunshine trees and waving grass Shadow nature's looking glass. I miss the times we used to skate, The times when I would come home late From swimming: and in autumn bare, The boat I used to paddle there. All that is changed, and with despair, I long for fresh, cool country air Beside that ever winding stream Where happiness lies in a dream. --ELENORA ANTON, 2C. 1-pl PAPER MONEY The night was dreary-a real Manhattan nightg this was a night that brings to mind Frankenstein horrors. The rain had no humility but rudely interrupted the pleasure-seekers pushing, pushing um- brellas discourteously through the evening crowds. Breezes whipped harbour-front and downtown alike. Neon signs winked and blinked down the streets in technicolor disparagement of coastal weather. Rain! Rain! Rain! It beat down mercilessly on the Manhattan pan- orama below. On a busy corner was a busy boy: the kind only Manhattan can show and every city slum copies: the paper boy. The life was miser- ableg the profit nearly nil. His was an unenviable existence. No one