St Johns High School - Torch Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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LITERARY FIRST PRIZE THE ORDEAL He showed great courage that time. It was the kind of courage somebmes displayed by the front line soldier. But, then again, perhaps it wasn’t courage. Perhaps it was fear. One cannot be certain in such a case. It all began the first week in December, when he was given that small, seemingly innocent, slip of paper. THEY had given it to him. THEY, who had already tormented him more than enough, and still were nidt satisfied. When he had first seen it, he had been overcome by its devastating possibilities and could merely stare at it vaguely. Then, ponderously, his benumbed brain had begun to work. If only he could destroy it! If only-—-No, that was what they were waiting for. Some foolish mistake and they would fall on him like vultures on their prey. One week passed, a week of forgetful days and fearful nights. Meanwhile THEY were becoming impatient. THEY would soon issue an ultimatum and he would be forced to act. Suddenly, he realized that there was only one sure solution to his dilemma. He picked up the scrap of paper, already disfigured by incessant twisting, and walked, like a condemned man, out of the room. Eventually, he reached the back parlor, darkened by early winter gloom. His father was sitting there, little imagining what he was soon to witness. He walked up to his father’s chair and stood there. Then, im¬ patiently, he thrust the paper onto the arm of the chair. It remained there, while his father, somewhat startled, stared at the boy’s pain-ridden features. Then, abruptly becoming aware of the paper, he picked it up. Almost immediately a per¬ plexed scowl darkened his face. His voice broke the tension in the room. “We’ll have to do something about this,” he said slowly, with great effort. He had just seen his son’s report card. Tom Peterson, X—31. Page Seventy-eight

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SECOND PRIZE THE WANDERLUST Who of us has not sat bored and dreaming in a class room, without turning his eyes to¬ wards a map on the wall and feeling that un¬ controllable urge to jump up and run and run and run, until he comes to those far places with their fascinating, foreign allure. Their very distance makes them only the more tantalizing. We can only yearn hopelessly over their beauty and our own impotence. And as we gaze at the map we inevitably decide where we would go, and what we would see if we had the time or the money or the op- tunity. Let us cross the Atlantic, then be off to London on a foggy day, to visit the Tower of London and hear the tolling of Big Ben. We see the changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace and take a tour through Hampton Court. We see the English countryside and all the quaint inns and cottages that have become so beloved. Then we hasten across a wind-tossed channel to Calais and from there to the idol of every traveller’s heart—Paris, the queen of cities, forever young and forever beckoning to old and young alike. We are awed by all the old, old places, the noly beauty of Notre Dame and the soaring primness of the Eiffel Tower. At Versailles, where a triumphant monarch raised an undying monument to his own incredible vanity, we catch glimpses of the ghosts who have lived and breathed in its overpowering splendor. What memories are revived! The names marked on railroad stations are names that have adorned French history for ages. They trip so lightly on our tongues, Orleans, Toulouse. Perpignan, Avignon, Carcassonne. We can see all the ancient glory of France in these ancient Chateaux and cathedrals with their proud beauty softened by the dust of centuries. We can see Spain, hot, dazzling, and Gibraltar, ban¬ ner of an empire in the south. Across the rim of Africa loom Tangier, Oran, Algiers. Our romantic dreams, born, of the Arabian Nights, gain their first fulfillment here. But there is so much to see, so much we can never hope to understand! Ancient lands, barely crusted with the veneer of modernism brought by the New World. Old lands, where there are yet people whose manner of living has not changed in centuries. Persia, Turkey, India, the far, far, ever-mystic East. Our fascinated eyes gaze at it spellbound. What could be more romantic than the beauty of its minarets, temples and gardens? Suddenly somewhere we hear a bell ring. The sound of moving feet rises to our ears. We stumble, our minds dazed, out of a class room, leaving behind us a map that still hangs on a wall, to us the essence of romance in our own prosaic world. Ruby R. Freedman, XI-38. HP’ Page Seventy-nine