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

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v - ' . .i. ,rv 9 I nw 1 The voice kept saying, Hate, hate, hate. Kill everyone that you see. After moving slowly to my bedroom I got my gun and went outside. The sight that met my eyes was unbelievable. Hundreds of people were out with guns, knives, clubs and broken glass killing each other. NVomen, children, and even men were screaming! I heard my best friend, Charlie, shout, black, it's a Russian trick. They cut in on the television programme and hypnotized the people. More than half of the people in the United States and Can- ada are hypnotized to kill . But his words had no meaning to me and I raised the gun toward him. He lunged, knocking me backward, and everything went black. VVhen I woke up I was lying on the floor of 1ny living room and Charlie stood over me laughing. He said that when he came in I was lying asleep on the chesteriield and he had pulled me off onto the floor. Sus- pensei' was no longer on and Mickey Mouse was in its place. It was apparent that I had had a nightmare. The next day the following advertise- ment appeared in the local paper: For Sale: One Television Set. Almost new. Apply to jack Tanner, Eden. .Iack Tanner, XIII. 101 My Favourite Magazine Cflest Serious Prosej f The National Geographic Magazine is the only magazine I know of which possesses such a happy blending of instruction, inter- est and pleasure. As far as I am concerned, a good many of to-dayis periodicals are just so much trash, simply because their con- tents are of only fleeting interest, and very often'give the impression of having been thrown together hurriedly with thought only for some fast-approaching deadline. On the other hand, the Geographic, with its dignified subjects accurately and frankly treated, its carefully lithographed pages, and its freedom from multitudinous soap advertisements, is worthy of being pored over. It is, indeed, the monthly report of a staid and well-established national institu- 58 , tion, and bears a look of preparation and permanence. VVhether you are confined to a wheel- chair with nothing to do but read, or are kept so busy that you have time only to glance at the pictures, you can probably glean more worthwhile information from a half-hour's perusal of the National Geo- graphic Magazine than you could ever get from a whole year's subscription to Pic, Look, Hush, or the Police Gazette. More- over, you can rely on Gilbert Grosvenor and his large editorial staff for accuracy in the execution of their stated purpose- the in- crease and diffusion of geographic know- ledge. Science, history, and politics, as well, find prominence in this world picture gallery. Colour photography is, no doubt, an out- standing factor in this magazineis wide popularity. XVhether it be the nearly-nude natives of Nigeria or a new variety of dis- ease-resistant apple, the society's camera work seems, to casual observers like myself who appreciate such art only for art's sake, to be flawless. A membership in the National Geographic Society usually means many pleasant sur- prises. As each month's yellow-edged copy arrives, one may expect any sort of report, from a trip to the north pole, to a visit to a drama festival in Siam, an archeological tour of the Holy Land, or the Mardi Gras in New Orleans. Finally, the National Geographic Maga- zine could be, I think, considered as a po- tential force for international good-will, for through its careful analyses of so many regions of the world, nations may come to know themselves and one another better. Richard Jones, XIII. dun rulfuu M..-f .fzfr Can,-1 Aww. gi Eu-5 t TC.J ini Ml f rv , ,Sf 1 ag ' - Q14 Q54 IP Hu wifi l'1u.vf?n.o Inu C,,.g,,,- Snnwuu Cusln-ug A Gum any Jim Lmenuo THE TATLER

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391052 ants jfittiun WHY I STICK T0 OVEREATING lFirst Prize Humorous Prosej I'm a glutton and I like it. Hand me an- other drumstick! You want to know why I stick to stuffing myself with excess vita- mins? VVell, foremost among my reasons for overeating is the fact that it relieves frus- tration. If I have a bad day at school I come home and munch consolingly on an apple, then a sandwich, and before I know it I'm so busy thinking of food I forget all about homework, moreover, my- ensuing stomach ache further relieves my mind of former cares. Now before you get the idea that I'm a frustrated neurotic let me hasten to add that I wouldn't stop overeating even if I didn't have a care in the world, simply be- cause overeating is habit-forming. The greater my myself in a fDon't show more food I consume the capacity becomes till I find vicious circle with no way out. me the waylj Do you cajole yourself into believing that extra piece of any harm, my friend? This pie won't do may be your fatal step to overeating. Why I can now handle tive square meals a day and still my mouth waters for more. My slightest demand for nourishment is instantly satisfied, for I come from a long line of gourmets who provide well the pantry. Who wouldn't overeat with too much food shoved at you in all directions? Grandma not only has apple pie for dessert but rice pudding as well and who am I to refuse either? Talk about Man shall not live by bread alone! I've still got two boxes of chocolates from my birthday which will serve nicely as a midnight lunch. In addition to this overabundance of food I stick to overeating because I happen to admire a great many fat people and as a disciple of the obese, feel that I should ad- here to their doctrine of gluttonizing. Con- sider for example Mr. Churchill. Since I can in no way hope to emulate his fame, at least I can overeat and achieve similarity in THE TATLER proportions. Or, look, if you will, at Caruso, and for that matter at most of the great opera singers. Obesity seems to be an attribute of this profession. Perhaps if I eat long enough and too much my voice will undergo a metamorphosis and I'll rise to fame as a singer. But I'd better restrain my soaring thoughts and Hnish this composition before midnight, because then, ah then, again I will sojourn to the pantry and as always-over- eat! Ann Dean, XIII. - MASS HYPNOTISM CFirst Prize Short Story! I could hardly hold my eyes open as I set- tled back on the chesterfield for another dull night of programmes on my new 1954 super deluxe television set. Through hazy eyes I saw on the screen the words Suspense',- my favourite radio and television show. As I watched I thought, This evening might prove to be interesting. I-Iow good it was to settle back, at home on furlough after Hghting in the German War for a year! I had been too young for the Korean VVar and had missed it, but the German crisis came just as I turned nine- teen. Now it, too, was over and, as in the Korean War, neither side had gained. Rus- sia and her satellites had been ousted by the United Nations Assembly although Russia still retained her seat on the Security Coun- cil. Now the world was on edge and ex- pecting World War III, but where would Russia strike? As I watched the screen, the picture faded out and a new unfamiliar face took its place. The owner of the face was by no standards handsome but he had the most persuasive eyes I had ever seen. He started to talkf at first slowly, then more rapidly while all the time his eye-lids opened and closed slowly. How strange and helpless I felt! I knew I was being hypnotized, but I could not seem to make myself turn off the set. - 57

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Forgive Them, For They Know Not What They Do VVeeping bitterly in despairing anguish, the little boy stumbles unseeingly up a fiight of littered, crumbling stairs and flings him- self into an equally squalid, airless room. Tender, compassionate arms reach out to him, and gentle, careworn hands smooth his crumpled, coal-black, hair. A soft, sweet voice croons meaningless, comforting sounds into his ear, and presently his shud- dering sobs begin to slacken. His tear- ravaged face lifts beseechingly to his mother, and he speaks: Why do the other boys call me a 'dirty Iap', my mother? Why do they throw stones and trip me and then laugh when l fall down? Why do they con- stantly threaten me with this horrible thing they call the Atom Bomb, and taunt me about a place called Hiro Shima? VVhat have I done to them?,' Wfhat indeed has this little Japanese boy done to his tormentor-s? His crime, appar- ently is in having been born the son of Japa- nese parents who fled from their native land to escape the idolatrous reign of Hirohito. Here, in the Land of the Free and the Brave , his father, wonderfully gifted in art, must crucify his sensitive hands in a laundry to purchase the meager rice needed to keep body and soul together. His mother, the daughter of a wealthy Tokyo lawyer, must scrub floors from morning to night to pay the rent on their miserable hovel. But the boy-his life is to be much differ- ent! He is to go to the big school, and learn how to be a good American, so that he will be their comfort and their strength in their old age. Yes, he will gain fame and wealth in this magnificent country where all are created equal . - So thought his mother and father as they spent laboriously boarded coins on text- books, and a new suit, and bravely sent their little son off to school. The little one, thrilled at the thought of the new friend- ships he would make with other boys, was at first surprised, and then bewildered, and hurt by their hostile attitude. The first few days he tried to ignore their brutal remarks and actions, but he soon grew to dread the THE TATLER morning light, for it meant another day at school must be stoically endured! Finally, unable to bear his shameful feel- ings of inferiority any longer, in silence, he seeks the solace of his mother. How will she comfort him? By what means can she show him that the bitter aftermath of war is responsible for the hate-filled jeers of his school-mates? In what possible way can she reassure him that his future is not so black as it now seems? VVhat possible ex- planation can she give of this ractial preju- dice that will be comprehended by a little boy who merely wants to be like other little boys? Jean Scrimgeour, XIIC. ? O -, Second Thought CSecond Prize Short Storyb The james house stood back from the highway, old, large, secluded. Here lived Alice James who so nobly sacrificed her own happiness to look after her uncle after an accident which left him a cripple. For ten long years now she had lived here caring for the man who was a virtual prisoner in this house. A light shone out from a second story window, cutting the gloom of night. Alice james sat alone in the library, her hands lying lax on the desk. Yes, she decided it was the only way. She had waited so long and sacrificed so much. She had given up her youth and ambitions to live in this musty old house with an invalid. Now she had grown tired. of waiting for her uncle to die. She wanted his fortune which he had willed to her in his gratitude for her unselfish act. She wanted the money now, while she was still young and could enjoy it. ln her mind she went over the plan again. lt was really ingenious, she thought. No one would ever know it was a cold deliber- ate murder. She could hear herself talking to the police now. Recently my uncle had begun to act rather queerly, and at times he was almost violent. Unexpectedly he had come at me with a knife. Briefly she tin- gered the knife she would later plant in her uncle's lifeless hand. She had been very A 59