Toronto Teachers College - Yearbook (Toronto, Ontario Canada)

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Shadows Deep in the dusk of trees, Or by the river slow, Dwell graceful shadows, Forever shaping a world of their own, Mingling and intermingling with each other, Lurking in the breeze, Creating, distorting, taunting, Until they meet each other and night falls. JACQUELINE CONEN

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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

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Homecoming From far away in the dark continent's deepest clime, Lodged for seeming ages of slowing, passing time, Engaged in work to serve their Lord sublime, The Dirkses come. Bathed in sunlight all year round, Sucking succulent citrus fruits pound after pound, Languishing under breezy palms, breathing whispering sound, The Dirkses slave. Spreading the gospel to and fro, Teaching the natives swift and slow, Sending tracts the jungle fields to sow, The Dirkses print. Winging north to Europe's temperate clime, Breezing swiftly over mountain, lake in swiftly passing time, Flying over Atlantic's blue-draped orb sublime, The Dirkses come. B. ROWE