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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A Rude Awakening tlelonourable Mention, Short Storyj I was twenty years old and my name was Anne Matthews. I had just graduated from XYoodlark College for Young Ladies and this was the night of the Graduation Ball. My escort, Tommy Landers, was to call for me at nine. All through that day I kept peek- ing into the closet at the beautiful blue vel- vet gown that hung there. After a- flurry of excitement to get ready for the great occasion I was all decked out for a heavenly time. Sharp at nine Tommy's Cadillac convert- ible drew up in front of the house and with my gardenia corsage pinned to my coat, Tommy and I were off to a gala evening. VVe arrived at the ball-room at the same time as a throng of other gaily-dressed socialites entered. The crowd was brilliant with gowns of all hues set against a back- ground of black and white tuxedoes. I went immediately to the powder room and after giving the final touch to my hair, pinning the corsage to my dress and exchanging ex- clamations of delight and excitement with the other girls, I proceeded toward the dance-floor. The imported orchestra played waltzes and then out of nowhere Mel Torme appeared and sang low and softly so that Tommy and I danced on a cloud till inter- mission. We helped ourselves from the punch bowl and to dainty little sandwiches and cakes. just as I reached for a little cake with pink icing I heard a startling noise- -Ianel jane! Get up! It's seven o'clock and you don't want to miss your bus! It was my mother calling me for breakfast, calling me out of the world of fantasy back into the mundane routine of school and books. My name was no longer Anne Matthews. I was just jane Martin. It was seven a.m., not midnight. It was the day of the At-Home and there I was with my year-old pink formal instead of my dream creation. I was seventeen not twenty, and Tommy Lan- ders was just the boy next door. I knew that the convertible would be a '40 Chev. and that the only man in tails at the Hop would be our jazzy French teacher. Consequently I settled back into reality and went off to school in a happy frame of mind at the prospect of the delightful time I would have at the Hop. ' Lucy Rokeby, XIB. 62 SHI Vnrr 72 TN: 013 ' Sgung, -H E- Ili! . my J L i 57. P-A. svn-en Lur .' A Iiltklill. Cycling Sorrows VVhen, after years of coveting such a prize, my sisters and I finally acquired a second-hand bicycle, our excitement had no parallel in family history. I was one of the shareholders in this won- derful new property, but, alas! I had never learned to ride. Worse still, I had never even summoned enough courage to mount the terrifying modern machine, colloquially known as a bike , ' My two sisters, both younger than I, as- sured me that there was nothing to it. You just get on, take hold of the handle bars, pedal with both legs, and when the bike be- gins to move, you're all right. You can't fall . Without being deliberately mislead- ing, my informants omitted a number of important details. Beth and Perry had been coursing about the countryside on borrowed machines, for five years at least. I-Iow different from their lean, timorous sister who, at seven- teen, had never yet clutched the clammy handle bars of a bike! My sisters were very noble about my handicap. If you can't learn, gurgled Beth, we'll refund your money. This patronizing kindness from a child four years my junior, was too much to suffer in silence. Come what may, I would master the intricacies of cycling, and by my own efforts. Two sisters tag- ging alone, exchanging quips at my expense, would only discourage and impede progress. Now determined, I donned an old jersey and a pair of faded slacks which could be rolled up, if necessary. With tattered and terrified locks braided into pigtails, I was ready for the struggle. I timed my first lesson to coincide with one of those rare occasions when the two potential hecklers THE TATLER