Tillsonburg District High School - Tatler Yearbook (Tillsonburg, Ontario Canada)

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A Country Store One bright Saturday morning I arose in good spirits. The thought of being con- fronted with the four grey walls of school was far from my mind, but I was soon to be forced into view of a still more drab struc- ture than school, for a small village west of Tillsonburg is unique in having on its only corner a structure as old as the tiny village itself. I hopefully strode under the upheld re- mains of the once-massive veranda, and pulled the door off its hinges as I hurried into the entry-way. There are two doors through which a persevering customer has to enter. The dilapidated storm door opens in, and has no window to warn you of an on- coming pedestrian: whereas, the heavy main door opens out. There is scarcely enough room through this needle eye, for a dozen Grade A eggs in the hands of a be- wildered person occupied in manipulating the uncommon door system to avoid be- coming a dozen cracked eggs. After having overcome this obstacle I ventured into the dismal interior of the store. This mid-Victorian structure se1'ves as a grocery, paint, hardware, shoe, and dry- goods store, post office and butcher shop, as well as a town hall and business centre. The ceiling presents an appearance not unlike that of a war ship with its dark grey paint. The once adhesive plaster is now draped halfway to the floor and the strands of paper are spattered where over-anxious cans of tomatoes have fermented ploded. - and ex- My eyes stealthily followed the lines of interwoven electrical wiring, left exposed on the ceiling, to the back of the store where two by the post office twhich measures fourj is situated. The former owner, now retired, still retains his job as post-master and hides in this den throughout the day. The Christmas rush of parcels and cards is quite a challenge to his ailing eye, and feeble hand. To preserve the ancient at- mosphere a sign near the post office reads, For a Merry Christmas, mail early. but, after all, the overloaded display window is still hung with red and green decorations and contains two cards of sun glasses. At the rear of the store, generally looked upon as the hardware section, hang seven dusty brooms from the old-fashioned rack nailed.to the ceiling. Also from this rack hang stable forks and manure brooms, not to mention the fly sprayers and coal-oil lanterns. Around the stove are placed four or five chairs, which have seen better days, for the benefit of the man who used to chase buf- falo out on the prairie, the one who shot the big buck up north last year, and any others who have nothing to do but spend an educa- tional afternoon around a hot stove. The tinny clank of the clock struggling desperately to strike ten o'clock startled me out of my stupor and I walked up to be waited upon. The store seemed unusually crowded with customers. I counted them. There were seventeen, but only three clerks who were doing everything humanly pos- sible to get us out of the way. Pushing my way through the rows of farmers who had been ordered by their wives to purchase the necessary domestic supplies for the coming week,'I served myself to a loaf of bread and squeezed out of this amazing structure, a country store. Bud Iietchabaw, XIII. Editorial tfontinued from I'age 181 spirit at all times and let it serve as an ex- ample to us in our studies as well as our sports, our extra-curricular activities and our daily life: let us try hard, be good sports, and above all, play fairly. For the memories, the school spirit, the fine example, we are grateful and for them we say, as we take our last farewell, Good- bye, old T.H.S.! goodbye and-thanks! , JUNGLE PHENOMENON . ' T -I v . A In A '. ., , if I' A . ' Papa Criss, Mama Cross, and Baby Criss-Cross THE TATLER . . -B. Grey, X ll 43

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A Glimpse of Vancouver VVhile perusing my joumal de voyages which I kept during my trip out west last summer, I came upon my written impres- sions of Vancouver, and this prompted me to write a short article on my visit there. Vancouver, the Gateway to the Orient, harbours within itself a little Chinese col- ony. There, in the older section of the city, the musty Oriental shops offer such bizarre items as bean paste, syrupy ginger and jas- mine tea, all considered great delicacies by the Chinese. Herbs are also imported from China and what through my eyes was a bunch of limp weeds was sold for tonics and medicine. Gullible tourists payrthirty cents for min- ute, crumbling plaster figurines of coolies, rickshaws and pagodas and I imagine the Chinese proprietors smile to themselves as did our forefathers when selling beads to the Indians. Cleanliness didn't seem to be a prominent aspect of Chinatown and I was quite reliev- ed to leave that rickety old section of the city and delighted to learn that I was to have supper in Stanley Park and later see a stage production in the outdoor theatre there. Stanley Park, spreading over eight hun- dred acres combines a Marine Drive along the Pacific with magnificent flower beds, totem poles, bridle paths and a zoo. A host ofgardeners care for the spacious beds of various flowers. VVhen we praised the carnations to the caretaker he gracious- ly picked one for each of us, commenting that he knew a hint when he heard one. Taking advantage of the fellow's generosity I snatched a shiny holly leaf from a nearby bush and dropped it twice as quickly when I felt the sharp edges cutting my hand. After a lengthy tour of the park we arriv- ed at the Theatre under the Stars where plays and musicals have been presented for the last ten years. The citizens of Van- couver who own and operate the Theatre through-a Board of Park Commissioners have reason to be proud of the success of this unique Canadian venture. We took our seats out in the open and listened to the Pacific rolling in on the shore as the evening darkened and Bloom- er Girl began. Such minor disturbances as the peacocks quarrelling or the park cannon loudly resounding I only vaguely remember 42 as part of that very fascinating night. We left Vancouver by the Fraser River Canyon the next day and as we jolted along the steep mountainside I was still scribbling Vancouver's praise in my diary. Ann Dean, XII. A Nightmare-Its Cause and Effect I was extremely hungry that night and my raid on the ice-box yielded a luscious treasure-cold chicken, dill pickles, salami, and cherry preserve! After I had glutton- ously stuffed myself until my tightening waistband warned me that it was time I terminated my feast, off I toddled to bed. Sometime during the night I found myself precipitated into the midst of a horrifying nightmare. Huge dill pickles marched be- fore my eyes, leering at me and continually bobbing up and down in some fantastically primitive rhythm! Limbless chickens with dismal, dismembered visages, accused me, in spectral tones, of devouring their legs! Bunches of succulent cherries dangled tan- talizingly in front of my nose, just out of reach! Cherries, cherries everywhere, and not a bit to bite! just when I felt myself to be on the brink of insanity, terrified by these hallucinations the pickles became reinspired into even greater animation! I lunged forward to attack them! The frightening repercus- sion, caused by the bed-springs giving way, startled me into wakefulness and I knew that the whole horror had been just a dream. Now some people may surmise that my midnight snack was the cause of my night- mare. Fortunately I am not cursed with such credulity, because I happen to know that the only food which makes me dream is limburger cheese! I don't even have to eat it. The odour is enough! Besides, no dill pickle has ever turned traitor on me, except when I had the mumps! jean Scrimgeour, XIII. jx- K ir, --ll-i I Miss McIntosh freading from Romeo and Julietj: 'XVhat's in a name? That which we call a rose. By any other name would smell as sweet.' Richard, paraphrase this. Richard Jones: NVhy are names impor- tant? This play by any other title would be as bad. THE TATLER

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An Eloquent Waste-Paper Basket Oh, shades of Abraham Lincoln! The end of another exhausting day finally brings peace and tranquility to the 'worn-out waste-paper baskets now lined up in a mili- tant row to have their boiler-room baths! Their superior officer, the janitor, is very particular that they should be as sparkling as the driven snow before being put back in their respective class-room corners every morning. Now, however, their day's toil done, they can relax and let their hair down, so to speak, while the janitor eliminates the tor- nado-swept appearance of the school's upper regions with his indefatigable broom. All is serene for a space, but, as the gentle warmth gradually permeates their metal bodies, they begin to give voice in recount- ing the various experiences of their waste- paper day. Now lVIurgatroid, the Grade Thirteen waste-paper basket, is extremely voluble, so much so that her colleagues often refer to her in private as the babbling lip ! To- night, for instance, she is just about fed up with the weight of foolscap she has had to endure all day without so much as a by- your-leave! just to show you how exasper- ated she really is, let's listen in on the waste-paper-basket confabulation, I tell you those fifth-formers have abso- lutely no regard whatsoever for my delicate constitution, storms Murgatroid. All morning and all afternoon I've had to bear the brunt of a foolscap avalanche just be- cause they have an English examination to- morrow, and have to write out the meaning of words on literally miles of beaten pulp! I swear that Ken VVebster scribbled ro- tund until his fingers dropped off, and he has only to look in the mirror to find the meaning! Now when I was down in one of Grade Ten's class-rooms I will admit I had to be the receptacle for a good deal of gypsy bubble-gum, but at least it wasn't as soul- crushing as foolscap! Also the pupils, and very considerately too, always wrapped the sticky stuff in a piece of paper and carefully dropped it into my interior. Fifth-formers fire gum-wads from the back of the room, and half of the time either hit me a terrific whack or miss altogether. That is another thing I cannot abide-having a mound of messy rubbish cluttering up my corner ! 44 Oh, Murgatroidf' stammers timid Mor- timer from Grade Nine VA, I-l should think you would be proud to have the hon- our of gathering up fifthyformfs trash. Proud! Honour! ejaculates Murga- troid. VVhy the weight of that superior refuse so exhausts me that I can scarcely articulate at the end of the day! An honour K Oh, I think l'm going to faint ! Oh, shrieks Twelve. Thus the rest of the gallant waste-paper rally to the aid of their eloquent she thinks she's going to faint! copycat Hortense from Grade baskets comrade, who, for two whole blessed min- utes, is completely wordless! Jean Scrimgeour, Xlll. l-i-0--- fi, X A THE PRISONER Dedicated to Bill Mackie The door crashed shut behind him and the Prisoner stood alone. Fear squeezed strength from his body as he faced the awful throne Where sat his stern judge, as stern and as inscrutable as stone, But eyes that gleamed with pity, not with hate. The Prisoner's hands were clammy and were clutched in desperate dread, But his heart grew calm and penitentg he sadly bowed his head. He heard but hollow echoes, as the judge's voice then said What torment was to be his penal fate. The Prisoner sat alone, within his dark and dismal cell. From far distant came the ringing of ai cheery-sounding bell, Free laughter of free people in the silence seemed to swell And fill vast, empty shadows darkness cast. Eternal condemnation! Alas, wilt thou never emi? Oh, imprisonment unending! Have I not a single friend? Some simple aid, a comforting word, to this confine to send? Tlae door swung open . . . he was free at ast! K And since our subject's Mackie, I hardly need to mention That this was not the only time he was found in like detention! G. Miller. XII. THE TATLER