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

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kCrndk The two men sat and talked in the little tavern. The time was late in the afternoon and the musty smell of sweat and tobacco smoke filled the crowded room. The room was not very spacious; huge old cedar timbers supported the low ceiling and acted as pillars. The table at which the men sat was of the same wood, burned on the top many times by lighted cigarettes being carelessly dropped on it. The two men were conversing in loud, slurred tones: both had been drinking steadily since noon. They seemed caught up in the intensity of their argument and paid no attention to the heavy din of laughter and chattering which filled the tavern. There jes’ can’t be such things or else, by now, we would have proof. Them scientists would find a way to prove it, sure as Hell.” The funny thing is, John, lots o people says there ain’t no such things as Ghosts, but veryfew ever would go to a place that was s’posed to be haunted by them¬ selves.” I would go alone”, said John. And I’d be willin’ to bet ten pounds ye wouldn’t”, Harvey replied after a pause. Aw right! It’s a bet. But how are ye going to test me. There ain’t no haunted houses or the like ’round here,” said John. He was certain he hadjust made him¬ self ten pounds. Do ye know the cemetery on Westminster Boule¬ vard?”, continued Harvey. ' Tes” I happen to know of an old burial vault on the right side of the entrance to the cemetery.” So” In that vault there is a candle. It’s been there for years. If ye go in there tonight and bring me the candle I’ll pay ye ten pounds.” Done” There was an autumn chill in the air. John did up the buttons on his old checkered jacket as he walked down the deserted road leading to the cemetery. Small gusts of wind stirred the dry autumn leaves into minia¬ ture whirlpools at his feet. As he walked he stared at his feet and thought about what he must do. It was close to midnight. The bare trees on either side of the road cast their shadows on the cracked pavement. The only sound was that of the scurrying leaves and somewhere in the distant fields a cricket would sound off. John suddenly felt very alone. He had not been aware of the feeling before and he shivered. As he neared the cemetery his sense of uneasiness grew until his heart began to beat quite heavily. He cursed himself for his feeling of apprehension and went on. He stopped at the entrance to the cemetery and got out his flashlight. The small beam of the flashlight pene¬ trated the darkness and finally came to rest on the door of the vault. Yes, he thought to himself, that was it for sure. The small burial vault was almost hidden by vines and overgrowth whose long thin fingers seemed to strangle the poor little building. The entrance to the crypt was a great iron door whose outside was rusted with years of misuse. When John reached the door he was surprised to find it swung open almost by itself. The sick, heavy smell of stagnant air filled his nostrils. He felt very tense. He had only one thought: to get the candle and leave. He was impatient and nervous. He would not have believed he could feel this way but there was something about the burial vault he very much disliked. Finally he spotted the candle through the murky darkness and quickly moved to get it. Outside there was a gust of wind which whipped the trees and just as John reached for the candle he suddenly felt something pull him backwards by his jacket. Constable McPheters did not like his job as police sergeant. He was bored. The tiresome job of writing a report of the death of one John Dempsey had been given to him. He did not like writing reports. Dampsey had been found dead three days previous in a burial vault in the cemetery of Westminster Boulevard. The autopsy had declared the cause of death to be a sudden heart attack and the time of death close to midnight, Tuesday. When McPheters had arrived on the scene Dempsey’s body was lying prostrate on the ground with one arm outstretched as if Dempsey had tried to reach for something. McPheters had noticed Dempsey’s checkered overcoat was caught in the vault door. But many questions still remained unanswered. Why was Dempsey in the vault? Why at such a late hour? What was he looking for there? McPheters had not noticed the candle. Mark Stethem Form VI The fire flared before me, As David before Goliath, As I sat in the midst of interminable woes And contemplated our transitory lives. I thought first of emotion, That unseen despot, Hidden by the emotional As the hypocrite hides hypocrisy. 86

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JmmiCodMl In Canada there has lately been talk of increasing the restrictions upon the handling and ownership of small arms. Already the laws governing handguns are very strict and even lately there was a piece of legislation mak¬ ing the existing firearms control laws even more rigid. This is due to several things. The increase in the num¬ ber of maniacs who have turned sniper, and a tendency to follow the ideas of the United States are the most important of the causes. The U.S. is also discussing this idea. Playing a smaller part are the numbers of armed robberies, murders, and accidental shootings. Usually firearms are used for self defence, hunting plinking, and serious target shooting. I doubt if many of those people c rying for more firearms control have ever knowingly got any enjoyment out of shooting. A- side from military purposes, the number of normal, le¬ gal uses for firearms seem to be few. If the critics would look a little farther, or think a little more, they might see things a little differently. Besides providing fun and enjoyment for thousands of people, men and women, shooting also has a prac¬ tical side. In some areas there is not enough food to support the entire wildlife population during the winter, and unless they are thinned out, many animals starve. The government usually sets a game limit with this in view so that the number of animals will be kept reason¬ able. The money that the hunter pays for his licence to shoot ducks or deers goes to set up parks and preserves and pays for wildlife conservation programs. The use of firearms by thepublic may have some bad effects which need correcting, but the rigid controlling of firearms is not the way to do it. Strict gun laws would make shooting difficult and sometimes impossible for the honest sportsman, while doing little to hamper anyone wanting a firearm who is going to break the law. It would be unlikely to decrease the crime rate which is also partially aided by the easy availability of knives, clubs, poison, and many other things. In all likelihood it would increase the illegal handling and smuggling of arms and would promote ignorance of proper shooting and gun handling, due to lack of familiarity. The gun laws so far have not hampered shooting seriously except in some cases, and so far only apply to handguns and machineguns. But if they progress, all shooting could be jeopardized. Are strict gun laws really necessary? It would seem more sensible to restrict all cars that travel more than seventy-five miles per hour. There is really little need for them, but their accident rate dwarfs the civilian toll taken by firearms. — John Anderson VI He sits in the room with the gun on his knee, And the bright blue barrel is cold on his hand, And it shakes when he lifts it, but soon he will see It obey his unthinking and daring command. He moves to the window and peers at the throng. There are some dressed in white for the weather is hot. They are laughing and jostling like nothing was wrong. He’s the only one there with his stomach in knots. The murmer grows loud and a big car appears He is standing up straight as he smiles and waves, And the air is quite friendly, for he sees and he hears. Only those who determine how a big crowd behaves. His hand leaps to action and opens the bolt, And it clicks once again as the bright yellow brass Disappears, and he crouches and tightens his hold, So the muzzle won’t move as he glares through the glass. The delicate hairs are imposed on the chest. His finger is slippery with oil and sweat, As it tightens. Who in the crowd could guess He is going to do something they will never forget. At the deafening crash his heart skips a beat, And the rifle jumps as the sharp pointed spitzer Goes humming and spinning and tearing through meat And muscle. It enters one side and escapes through the other. His hand moves like lightening, there’s thunder once more, And the second one strikes as the clattering case From the first is sent dancing over the floor. The tall figure crumples with pain on his face. He abandons the rifle and bolts for the door. He has shown them all something they’ll never forget, But now as he runs he is hurt to the core, ’Cause now all his feelings are fear and regret. — John Anderson VI 85

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The world seemed a conflicting quagmire Of mixed emotions; Black was not back, nor was white white, But all feelings were veneered, and gave the world Tints of grey. Emotions of love and hate then came, Dressed in cloth of black and white, Which is which. Indefinable, yet infinite, Definite, yet intangible, But ever present and omnipotent, Ruling all under an obscure power Which controls the rulers of the land of transition. A vision of justice came to me, In a perfect symphony, Exhibiting the perfect harmony en masse Because the solos were flawless within themselves. All the solos were moulded Into a sound which fit. The fire was beginning to flicker When I caught a glimpse of truth; But only a glimpse, mind you, Because truth goes not hand in hand With emotion or justice, For the truth is undefined. The glimpse I saw, on that heavenly night, Was one of angels floating in fire, But the vision soon left me; It was above earthly ideals. The fire died slowly, And brought me away from these Heavenly thoughts, And back into alleged reality. The death of the fire Ended my sympotic flight, And made me gaze at the world Which we think real, But which is, in fact, A world of dreams and ideals. — Sandy ShandroVI ' ijk State, CkMmhf Sometimes as I look out my window, Staring into the cold whiteness which surrounds the night, I hear the wind hovering above, Seemingly endlessly swirling the snow into semi¬ madness. And I wonder what the wind will do After it has finished its work here tonight. Will it stay for a while And start again on tomorrow’s eve? Or will it move to some other inhabited isle, And make confusion rule in nature for a night or so, Whether the rebels be snow, sand, or sea. But how does he know when his labours are done? When the ship is sunk and the crew tossed? When the land is barren and the field lost? When the sand is the surface and the dwellings are no more? Or when the snow blankets the ground and man stirreth not? Is he guided by some mysterious light that maybe I have missed? So I look again and search the scene before me. And Behold! There to the north shines a faint glow Of some distant star which man has forgot, Which all this time has had in its plot, To undo all that man has done. And so be it with the existence of man. Where is his star, no matter how blurred, To guide him on his journey through life, And tell him when to stop and when to move on? Yet ’tis true: man had his light many years ago, But he himself put it out. And its reflection has grown very dim; Soon there will be darkness again. Who will help man then? — Charles Andison VI 87