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

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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

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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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June,1946 THE TECHALOGUE 21 knew how he could live. People rushed by, not more than one in five hundred buying a paper. The rainy night was no detraction from the lad's misery, it was one of his many. Backed up against the dull brick wall, he tried to cover his paper bag and the sadly little depleted bundle of papers. One sheet he sacrificed as a sampler and held it high to passersby with accompanying slogan verbatim: Evening paper! Get it here! The boy was meanly dressed: tatters and rags were his. Drizzle- beaded cap low over brow, his grey eyes peered out into the rain like the necessity-craving slums kid that he was. Forsaken, forlorn, uncared-for, his was a miserable lot. Unkempt and uncut hair hung miserably over the ragged collar of his weather-worn jacket. Baggy pants reminded one of a sample of Holland just emerged from a soaking in canal waters. He couldnlt afford rubbers. Below rolled-up trousers, were turned-up and badly worn boots. Shoe-laces were un- tied and dragged endlessly in the mud of the rain-soaked Manhattan streets. Clancey was the boy's only comfort. Clancey was the beat copy he'd known Mike Itano since he first entered schoolg he knew this kid through and through. Clancey had broken up fights with Mike and other kids. He'd watched him play hookey from hated school lessons. Yet he had advised Mike on the ills of crime and had shown the kid that life in honesty was worth its effort. In fact, it was Clancey who, that frightful day five years ago, had picked up this forlorn boy when a speeding auto hit and ran. No one ever knew who did it. Clancey it was who had quieted Mike's fitful screams and dissuaded his moaning. Clancey had immediately summoned a prowler car, and an ambulance wheeled the casualty to the quiet corridors of the city hospital. He was only a lad of twelve then, but he pulled through .... enough to spend his days as a cripple. This only added to the grimness of Mike Itano, Manhattan paper boy. Most people think this is an ordinary game: this making a living. No one would ever have thought this an unusual night: this stormy nightg least of all Clancey. So it was that the burly policeman thought nothing of the black sedan that pulled to the curb silently a block behind him. He did not see the sneaking eyes, the dull steel flash in drizzle-framed street- light as the Manhattan underworld went on night shift. He did not see the tall, city-born-and-bred young man slip out of the car. Wind and rain whipped at this figure. He pulled his collar up, hat brim down, took a last drag on the characteristic fag and tossed it into a nearby puddle. Scanning the streets, he was suddenly lost in the downtown crowd, Bells clanged on street cars, autos rushed by, people rushed madly. No one thought strange of this young man buying a paper from the corner paper boy. Yet .... the underworld was working. No one thought strange of this young man with the paper as he shoved with the crowd, and re-entered the waiting auto.