Toronto Teachers College - Yearbook (Toronto, Ontario Canada)

Page 30 text:

She was alone took- except for grandfather, Very soon, there They exch Prize Story E V E N I N G S T A R A. Strickland Rosemary stood playing in the dusk as she had every evening since she could remember. Under her skilled little hands, the violin wailed and sobbed. Grandfather would be asleep in a moment or two. He always fell asleep after an hour or so of Rosemarys playing. He was nodding now. There was one lock of white hair tumbling over his forehead. It might waken him. Rosemary trailed her music to a conclusion. She tip-toed across the roomg lifted that lock of hair gin- gerly and smoothed it back. Then she scampered madly over the rocks to the sea. Silhouetted against a sky of Chinese blue, towered one lone rock. .Xbove it. gleanied the evening star. Even when the sky was lit with thousands of tiny stars, like the sparks of a giant sky rocket, Rose- mary always knew the evening star. It was dull gold. The others were glittering silver. Rosemary perched on the rock with the waves dashing into spray at her feet. The evening star twinkled far up in the blue. Rosemary loved it best. She was sure it was lonely all by itself in the great blue sky. The others came out in twos and threes. it was always alone. wouldnt even be grandfather, for Rosemary was twelve now. She was In be sent away to High School. Every one in the village predicted that no good could come of it. But it could make little difference. for Rosemary had always been queer. She would sit by the hour on that rock, her chin cupped in her hands, her eyes staring far out to sea. She invented the wildest games and strangest stories for the village children. But as they grew older, the children became wary of her make-believe. To-day, with the sea roaring about her, the child felt that in all the world only she and the evening star had always been alone. Three weeks later, Rosemary sat in the Collegiate schoolroom, her chin cupped in her hands. The class was massacring Macbeth after the usual fashion of Literature classesvall except the girl who was Lady Macbeth. She had chestnut hair and slanted blue eyes, which even at thirteen displayed a good deal of the cynic. She whipped forth the lines Inform of purpose give me the dagger! The sleeping and the dead are but as pictures. 'Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil. Page Twerziy-six The class listened with a shiver of genuine admiration. Rosemary thoughtg HI believe she'd do it too . Rosemary grew to idolize jane. She watched her till she could tell exactly how she would laugh, shrug or arch those wicked little eyebrows. Janes conversation scintillated. Her answers came like the crack of a whip. She was never without an answer. One evening, she and Rosemary walked home together. It was not the way that Rosemary should have gone home: but she went miles out of her way weekly to be with Jane. It was raining a fine silver spray: but, neither of them cared for that. When Jane left, Rosemary leaned against the little bridge at the top of the hill and watched her out of sight. It was thus Rosemary remembered her years afterwards- in her green tam and slicker, her chestnut curls flying in the wind and rain. Jane never looked back. Then, followed four years. For four years, they hiked together in Spring for May Bowers: they hung over the bridge by the brook and exchanged confidencesg they sat in the moonlight on the old porch with their hrst dates. And at the end of the four years they parted. anged books on the last day. Rosemary inscribed her gift sentimentally, 'fOnce a friend always a friend, or, what is life for? jane, thinking of Rosemarys worship laughed a little cynically as she scribbled ffAnd in me there dwells no greatness save perhaps it be that far-off touch of greatness to know well I am not great. Jane promised to write. Rosemary gazing at the evening star, knew she never would. She never did. 'lf Pk His bk They both became rather famous. Rosemary read of Janes stories and hunted out her old relics and snaps. After an hour or so of mem- ories she would sigh and put them away. Once again, Rosemary like the evening star was alone. jane used everyone for her own ends till they ceased to be of use. Then, she forgot them. She was alone, too, but she explained it half-bitterly- Down to Gehenna or up to the throne, he travels fastest who travels alone. One night, she read that Rosemary had become engaged to Peter L-. Jane laughed a little wryly for Peter was next on her list of necessary conquests. She need- ed him for background. Continued on page 88.

Page 29 text:

0 lnX M5177 Zeb - . K 'ro P.oN'ro NQRMAL s cl-loql,-ylsggz Boo Sprilzg Literary Exefzzffife Front Row-j. Parkinson, G. Ferguson lYiCe-Presb, M. Willis CSGQJ. Mr. Whyte, IC. Sparling 1Prcf.l, Miss Young, .-X. Tziylor 4Trcuf.m D. McDuff. M. Cranston. Bark Row-A. M.. MacKinnon, H. Scott, E. Wren, B. Coker, F. Emmerson, H. Holmes. .-lbserzt-Mr. Kendrick. Puga Tizcclzffx'-'fi1'C

Page 31 text:

PRIZE POETRY Prize Poem Was if a 'vision or a waking dream? Fled in that music ..... I often have this strange disturbing dream- Of half-forgotten things of some dim past, Some distant bourn .... A time remote from this I once felt Life . . . Once I knew those eager faces Searching mine for recognition, Silently They steal into the dim recesses of my mind. Behind them lurk a thousand shadowy memories Of joys once felt, of dreams once dreamt .... 0h days of sudden yearnings, reaches of the heart, Come back to me! Once more to cast away the trammels and go free Amongst an endless ocean of to-morrows: To leave all space and time And walk among the infinite margins of the universe .... Be still, you ghosts! Be hidden by a song, a smile. These silver tapers lighting up the dark Are thoughts that lie too deep for words or tears. The Land oi Poetry No greater joy in anything Than hearing how the poets sing Of gladness, sorrow, and renown, Of warrior, statesmen. king and clownf For once we feel the breath of life. Away from all this noisy strife: And sheltered in some quiet nook We find sweet solace in a book. They take us far from our dearihomes just by the magic of their poemsi And lead us into Mystery-Land Far to a dim and unknown strand. The beauty of another world Is in our wondering eyes unfurled. And to our gaze there comes to View A galaxy of marvels newg Glorious visions of days gone by They flash before the inward eye . Then back to the familiar shore-A-A But something greater than before . . An empty life this one would be Without the Land of Poetry. fllariau Peters Page Twczziy-sewzz