St Johns Ravenscourt School - Eagle Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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t (e ' jBfiwf Fog, like a grey wall, covered the ocean. There were huge green waves, the height of a three storey building, rolling in on to the brown sands. On such a bleak day in the year 1971, the light-ship Nantucket II” was patrolling an area from Boston to Cape Cod. Light¬ ships, as some people know, give warning to any lost ships far out at sea. The crew must be brave, sharp- eyed and alert, for any moment a ship could be lost in the fog and drift aimlessly around. It was four bells and the watch on the Nantucket II” peered through the mystifying fog. Due to difficulties from the storm, their intercom was out of order, caus¬ ing them to miss the warning — Warships heading for the vicinity of Boston and Cape Cod area. Any ships in area clear the way. Ships are loaded with compound for new warheads. Repeat, if hit by other ship liable to go off. ” The huge waves and biting wind told the watch that bad weather was ahead. Shuddering, the captain of the watch shouted through the intercom, Four bells, next watch!” Just then a huge wave blew over the port side, sending a spray of water completely over the ship, knocking down the new watch. Captain, sir, I don’t see the other ships anywhere. It looks as if they all took to their heels for some reason,” said the first mate. Nansense, my lad, you just can’t see them in the storm”, but the captain himself was a bit uneasy. Sud¬ denly a fog-horn bawled over the gale. What in tarnation is that?” yelled the captain, for not half a mile away were the ships loaded with the high compounds for the warheads. Seeing their mistake, the men in the light-ship tried frantically to get their ship out of the way. Hard right rudder, quick!” screamed the comman¬ der. But it was too late. The oncoming ships would run right over them, crushing the boat like an eggshell and upsetting the high compounds causing a nuclear explo¬ sion on the entire east coast of the United States. Some men ran about; some jumped overboard and some prayed. But what could men do when, in their last moments, they become puppets on the strings of terror. No one on the U.S.S. Oceanview, the mother ship of the fleet, even saw the tiny boat. On and on the ships came, defying all others, on and on, to their and their country’s death. Finally, when the ships collided, the whole of the eastern seaboard from Newfoundland to the Gulf of Mexico was engulfed in a spasm of nuclear explosions. The boarder of Quebec to the port of Detroit was in¬ stantly vaporized, along with the Great Lakes. From Chicago to Los Angeles millions of people were killed from radiation. The land which was once the United States of America was now completely demolished. Satellites from the moon reported Atomic explosion on east coast of United States caused damage near and in Canada. Tidal waves swamping west coast of England, France and Spain. Russia damaged from American missiles based at Hawaii, Guam, Mideay, Puerto Rico and Vietnam; these were fired at Russia because the U.S. thought they did it. Destruction complete.” So, one tiny ship, which had been completely disin¬ tegrated, failed to have its intercom Fixed, and thus caused the countries of U.S.A., Mexico, and Canada to be destroyed. In that moment, when the crew saw the blast, felt the tingling and disintegrated, then, only then, Democracy died. Communism ruled. Kevin Annett, Grade 6. thuM nM V(M Rejoice! Rejoice! It’s Christmas time; Parcels to open and bells which chime; Parties to go to, Parties to make. Rejoice! Rejoice! for goodness sake. Trees! Trees! It’s Christmas time Decorate them now and have a good time Trees to cut, Trees to trim. Trees! Trees! Trees to win. Christmas! Christmas! Christmas time! Candy for children; adults have wine; Carols at night, Church at morn. Christmas! Christmas! Christ is born. Jimmy Hjartarson, Grade 6. 77

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A Svmd A th ' TauMiw I had been given a note for a certain Eric Muller which I was to deliver within the hour. From the mom¬ ent I heard the name, my brain conjured up a picture of what he would be like. A short middle-aged man, I had decided, with a blank expression on his face. He would have a grey beard and a mumbling voice. In fact, I would have felt a great deal happier if I had been going the other way, my mission completed. Such were my thoughts about Mr. Eric Muller. As I walked along the green avenue, I could scarcely help noticing how beautiful everything around me was. It was mid-summer and all the flowers were in full bloom. The leafy, overhanging boughs of the trees al¬ most touched their equivalents on the other side of the path. Thus it was that I walked through a dark green tunnel rather than on a path through the trees. The forest stopped abruptly, suddenly and surpris¬ ingly, and there, before my astonished eyes, was an ocean of fields, stretching away into the distance as far as the horizon. There was a shabby, little, unpainted farm house which bore such a sad and mournful ex¬ pression that one actually had compassion for it. There, in the middle of all this, was Eric Muller — at least it must have been he, for I knew that he lived alone. But how unlike the picture I had of him. Here indeed was a throw-back of earlier ages. His bearing alone told me that he was no ordinary man. He stood about six feet-three and was as straight as a pine tree. He was chopping firewood when I arrived and though his axe was by no means sharp, he sliced through the logs as though he were using a huge razor blade. As for his features he resembled an ancient Greek statue, for no one could mistake the straight nose and entirely symmetrical features that marked that old civilization. Then he noticed me. What would you like?” he in¬ quired, and from that moment on I decided that if I was anywhere near Mr. Muller I would be safe from anything. Below a bare waning bulb lay a strong figure of about thirty years of age. His pale but stern fullmoon face telling the tale of a decade of strict confinement. His dark hazelnut eyes were sad and forlorn in their solitude. The accompanying brown hair was cropped into practical nonexistence by the prison barber. The name of this destitute figure was Sam Bradly, once a proud and arrogant Halifax gangster, now only a lowly inmate of Kingston Penitentiary, sentenced to eighteen years for his misdemeanors. His lot was a sorry one, up at eight, to bed at ten. I, his attorney, pushed my way through the stale air towards my for¬ saken client. His chamber was a bleak cell in row thirty-four on the second floor. The cracked ceiling showed up very well its 1911 vintage. In one corner of the roof a leak in the overhead pipes was positioned. This tormentor had haunted Sam for the first two years. The bed dated from World War II. The only window was barred and was six feet above the concrete floor. The cell had a single cold water sink which, on cold December morn¬ ings, was covered by a single layer of ice. The heating was far from adequate and on cold January nights the icy knives of cold stabbed through the inmate’s flesh to slash his vertebrae. As it was, in mid July, the cell was like a hot oven and it baked its tenant to unbear¬ able degrees of anguish. Often when water was sorely needed it was non-existent. I marvelled how such a free-spirited creature could bear such regularity and compulsion. His strong back and sharp mind were becoming useless through idle¬ ness in an institution of this nature. Few sounds carried down the hallway, the clatter of time trays. Smells, there were many of them; the stench of the sulphur refinery, the unappetizing aroma of mass-produced meals, the rancid odour of ammonia and disinfectant. Life wasn’t always bad. At Christmas and Thanks¬ giving the joyous air was filled with the fragrance of turkey plus all the trimmings. The prison at Yuletide was filled with joy. As I closed the heavy iron door my mind was filled with his tale and the plea, Please, oh please, get me out of here!” Stuart Guest, Grade 7EW. 76

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Kui j fidm mi tk %KjU Swod After last year’s masterful performance of Tom Sawyer” the Lower School set about producing a play of even greater challenge. It was well worth the effort. Written by Keith M. Engar, King Arthur and the Ma¬ gic Sword” has proved to be more than successful. The play is one of supernatural, wonder and mystery which was sixth century England; however, behind this romantic atmosphere lies a definite theme: the victory of justice over the forces of evil. Having chosen the play in September, casting took place the first week of school. Parts were assigned and rehearsing began after four as well as at lunch. By the time the Christmas Holidays came around all was fairly well set: the performance was to be early in the next term. Meanwhile, directing was not the only aspect of the production which was underway. Mrs. Stewart and Mrs. Jackson were busy with fittings for costumes. Lighting and sound effects were arranged by Mr. Beare and Mr. Cowie. Mr. Bevis had designed and was in the process of painting the sets. With the return of school in January, rehearsals be¬ came frantic in an effort to make the production by the eighteenth and the nineteenth of the month. Finally the night came. As the curtain opened before the dazzling of Merlin’s magic, all was ready. The play followed through without a flaw leaving a great impression on all who saw it. Many congratulations must be given to Mr. Shepherd. It was through his long and tedious hours that the play was such a success. Recognition must also be extended to Mrs. Barrett, the prompter, Mrs. Stewart and Mrs. Jackson with costumes, Mr. Beare and Mr. Cowie with lighting and sound effects, Mr. Bevis with sets and all who co-operated and assisted. 78