Toronto Teachers College - Yearbook (Toronto, Ontario Canada)

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Night Sounds Sounds of the night, The shrill hoot of a distant whistle sharp Against the lesser sound of the rumbling train ln the background of resounding silence. The cricket close at hand Ticking his mournful call to the wind That slowly moving lends breath to the blades Of waving grass, so they whisper and Wave to one another. The road's dark dusty surface lies shattered Broken by the bright beams of the street- light That beside the Maple stands, silhouetting the branches, Giving the road its leafy shapes in light and dark. The chortling brook gurgling in clear tones As rounded stones disturb its path Makes complete the symphony of night x F' , I Q1 ll Flower A flower is like a thought sounds. Of beauty, bound and caught A ln fragrance for an hour B' RGWE A thought is like a flower The slightest flower seems More read than thoughts and dreams Which are but trifles less Than airy nothingness. And yet our thoughts contain I What power for ioy or pain , f Space has not the extent ' to hold their increment . Thoughts fly yet have no wings And outlast solid things ' A thought of love maybe Man's Immortality ' My love is yet a whole I Unfoldment of a soul. l fr THE WEST INDIAN if l ,, , . . If X I l I T Spring Lyric xx I! 'X ' Vernal melodies sweetly strumming, I Cn the pussy-willow's lyre, Soft breezes round the windows humming, ' And the spring sun's growing fire. f K X Magic freshness, sudden greening, N , ! y Grass like colours never seen, l ' Marks old winter's hidden landscape, y With blades that n'er before were see B. ROWE f x ix. i X N 39

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Docendo Discimus Come - let us learn to teach, The walls of ignoranceg the bars of bias breach. Come - let us take young hands And guide young minds thru' distant lands And nearg ioin in wonder of Spring's bursting green Surprised anew by secret stars unseen. Rejoice with them o'er a new found word, Swing from the classroom with the studied birdg Swim with newly widened eyes the teeming brook, Untold vast vistas from one small book. Give eyes and ears an ever-growing reach, And delight in the daring of new-discovered speech When Music soothes - speak soft and sing Softly - so skipping notes their own sweet magic bring Stride the still warm trails our settlers blazed Fleeing Evil whose greed whole cities razed. Walk the ancient paths where Holiness trod, And lift enlightened souls to touch the face of God Join us then to set young hearts to yearning For this Way of Wonder - This gay Adventure - Learning

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Dawn B. ROWE The wood thrush throstled a wispy thin plaintive melody off in the pale grey darkness, and the chimper- ing squirrels chipped busy little work signals at one another, while the pale eerie tree phantoms of the forest stood their guard in mist-wrapped silence. A crow squawked harshly, sharply, once. Faintly in the distance, a loon laughed, fresh from diving, a fox barked quickly as he pursued his breakfast hunt. The forest was awakening to another day. Standing blinkey-eyed and grinning, the youngsters stood on a rock at the lake's edge, expectant of the new day. Shivering in the chill dew, they plunged quickly in rotation to the haven of the warm waters of the sullen blue lake beneath - four morning-fresh sil- vered bodies darting downward through the crisp morning air. Splashingly they paddled, laughing, and sprayed each other with their hands, treading water the while. Refreshed, they drew themselves up slither- ingly to the rough rock at the water line, to watch the red glow in the east grow across the dead-washed cloudiness of the sky. Their talk was idle chatter - the response of young health to life. Busier lives might let it pass. Let's listen. Winter Lake How'd ya like that keen otter cub we saw yesterday, eh? Did I ever get a kick out of it, when his ma pad- dled him! A freckled tow-head replied, throwing the sopping hair back from his face: Yeah, but could he ever swim fast. Boy, first they'd be at one bank, and in nothing flat you'd see them come up over at the other. That was a pretty nice trout the mother got, too. Over a foot, l'd say . . Just then a third member of the group suddenly pushed him, and he found himself half-hurtling, half- diving back into the morning waters. Wetly regaining speech, he spluttered, Hey, watcha think you're doin', you, Sandy ,... Wait till I get you . . In the slippery struggle that followed, conversation was a few sharply emitted grunts as the exertion sent all four with rhythmed loud kerplunks, back into the tempting element, the last being pulled from a pre- carious footing by the last effort of his not-to-be-out- done wrestling mate. A hastily suggested race hurtled them along to a huge rock face some fifteen yards down shore and back, and sent them panting to find their towels where they had flung them at the bank. Six gliding gulls the winter lake outgleam, While hundreds more slate blue and silver white, Proud throng an ice ringed bar not far from land. Bold old squaws call and dive. Long gone are they, Before their cries greet surface once again. Where mallards plunge sleek heads and safely tip, To sport squat orange legs on bosoms gray. Beyond the prideful gulls, the patient waves Slide in, and bring wet gleanings to the land, Where sharp, ice filled, the waves have scoured the step Of flooded golden sand. And pebbles iet, Pale blue and red, form broad adjacent band. Here lie soaked logs, strange shapes bereft of bark, Lake beasts are they ashore? Snared wicker writhes And wails wind-torn, loud pleading to be free, From cruel entrapping ice and lake debris. The cold wind grows, the brave ducks sail away, And dark becomes the sky as seagulls fly. The logs, more sure as falls the eerie night, Seem beasts that wail, and lonely mourn the light. 40 GEORGE RUTHERFORD