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

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fortunate that she had been able to defend herself. She heard the familiar sound of her uncle's wheel chair coming down the hall. Quickly, quietly, she opened the desk drawer and her hand covered a small, cold, efficient automatic. The sound was nearer now. No one will ever know , she whispered to herself reassuringly. She swung the chair to face the door, her hand lying in the drawer, her slim lingers caressing the gun. Suddenly a picture rose before her, un- bidden. She saw her uncle's merry eyes, she heard his jolly laugh and happy chuckle which prevailed in spite of weary hours of pain, boredom and complete despair. She realized with a start that he continually en- tertained and cheered her. It was almost as though she, not he, were the invalid. Her hand clutched the gun convulsively. The door opened and a little old man with grey hair and snappy blue eyes pushed his wheel chair through it. I-Iastily the girl shut the drawer. She crossed the room to the old man, her face softening with a ten- der smile. Come, uncle dear, shall we have a glass of chocolate before retiring? And tomorrow we will see the doctor about going for a walk in the garden, or perhaps a drive in the car. Quietly and forever she closed the door of her mind on the initial thought. Silently she thanked the Power that gave her that second thought. M. R. French, XIIC. l...0i.-.. The Daily Routine fSecond Prize-Humorous Prosej Most young men like myself are not alto- gether fond of the idea of settling into a daily routine of clock-punching for clock- watching, as the case may bej. For us, there must be that adventurous life of reck- lessness, permeated by the happiness that can come only to those of no fixed society and no ultimate ambition. However, an end comes to the best of things. Thus, it was with considerable ill- feeling that I struggled forth from the warmth of the old four-poster one frigid January morning, faced with the somewhat dismal prospect of returning to the local in- stitute of learning. Even the knowledge that it was to a new modern classroom that I was returning failed to elate me. I shud- dered at the idea of another six months of the dull routine of reading books and writ- ing down the answers. Thus, the noose of school life had once more settled firmly about my neck. There are times that try men's souls, and to me, one of these is the early rising, hours before noon, to trudge off to school in the full fury of an Alaskan blizzard. Upon ar- rival at school, I sank limply onto, and into my bench, and attempted to catch the proverbial forty winks. However, some brazen pedagogue, full of knowledge, some- how managed to penetrate my foggy brain, and poured into it literally streams of literal lorel I am not one for such merry chit- chat, and it was with a glassy gaze that I observed the proceedings. But, as I inti- mated before, this outpouring did not last long. Aroused by a thunderous voice filled with righteous indignation, I sprang to the alert, only to discover that this voice, sounding like the Last Trumpet, and fairly dripping with momentous news, was merely part of an elaborate P.A. system designed to keep the less attentive students on their toes. School teachers, the mainsprings in the daily routine I now faced, are, more or less, admitted to be the curse of the human race. This unfortunate position arises from their failure to give the sleeping student his sporting chance of survival. I observed one such hapless specimen plucked from his seat by a hardened veteran of learning who, in this pose, assumed the expression of a vege- tarian fishing a caterpillar out of the salad. After his victory was assured, the conquer- or of lethargy regarded his class, and, it seemed, especially me, with an air of in- tense suspicion. I felt as though I had been caught robbing the baby's piggy bank on the eve of the big race! Now, I'm not much of a lad for the birds and the trees, together with the great open spaces, as a rule, so, instead of fleeing to the hills, I decided to remain in this crowded, but comfortable classroom. Thus, the olive branch was exchanged by pupil and peda- gogue, and the dove of peace once more hovered over our second home. Harvey Smith, XIIC. THE TATLER

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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

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