Toronto Teachers College - Yearbook (Toronto, Ontario Canada)

Page 28 text:

The Old Schoolhouse In a city so very large there stands a memory That has even in time become impossible to bury Its red bricks now crumbling with age and wear Were once crimson and proud in the clear air. But now all has changed except for the sound of feet As where once children sat, now teachers meet And squeaky little voices have finally echoed away To let horse laughs and giggles have their day.- While I sat here alone among lines of old iron desks My mind wondered back to the time of the chiIdren's tasks When in these very seats they thought and worked Dipped their pens in the inkwells and wrote, Ever mindful of the stern teacher leaning on a stick Ready to shout and swing oh so very quick For she was master and always in command And twenty-three heads heeded the ruling hand. But boys with frogs in their pockets and fishing-poles at the door Pulled girls' pigtails and even threw apple-cores Until the quick swish ofthe lightening ruler Ended all thoughts of trying to fool her. Still there was time for laughter and song And learning in spite ofthe eagerly awaited gong. When young minds rushed to a waiting world Of adventure as they explored Nature's splendour. But somehow the years came and went And childrens' children replaced their parents Even the ruler become unsteady and slid away While the bright floor now is ash-white with age. Still the haunt ofa time gone-by seizes me As I sit here, my fingers upon a name, a memory. JOHN M C VESTERS I f A-if-.,, Q , ,fa f -, 5 gf W cj 'ENE 9 iigsl I I I E ' xc y I Q I, fl, 'Xt -I Z' IZ I , f 'E 4i 4 1 I n'! I x if 1 is JY' Page I6

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Page I5 Dawn Blue opolescentgup, stor-dusted, shelters with infinite peace the slumbering earth. Night on grey wings hovers, hesitotes - a time-suspension: o night-change, pensive in its all - knowledge, exquisite in its ethereal beauty. Whispered softly in the breath ot dawn, dimly perceived in the silence of growing things, eternity. To eastward, o'er the rim ot night, o rivulet of burnished gold spreads gently outwards, drawing in its wake the new morning. SUSAN COMER, Form I3

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First Prize: 0' Canada 1967 'f T dear land, we do not deserve you. smitten with some absurd inferiority complex, we murmer, mutter, mumble your name. wearing ethnocentric blinkers, we broke your first race, now work hard to partition the others. bullied by progress, we tarnish your silver rivers, sully your air, scar your face with concrete congregations. butdear land, we love you, and in our quiet way we have told you so. we have replaced your bright rivers with silver rails. we have thickened your bristle of pine and cedar, your dapple of maple and birch. we have long ago ceased to think the grass greener onthe south side of the fence, though we cluster thick at your border, we whisper in poetry the wild flowered summers of your scented north . . . aca nada kanata canada dear land thatwe love, happy birthday. HEATHER PATTERSON rf - i ,V lg tt x.- , is , X - . x ,N ' x K 25 X 4, X i A T 'fl'7xW pf -. X T .,, . R T X ...ti E. Mun 1 'z ' - gg - .251 1 if ' s gs yi i t 'Me - iw F' wc? X V P X5 x gil. :QL xi I QNX: A lfx V S 6 Ne 4 rex 'ar Z XR X if ',x -. it XX. R X :yy X, X E 'TA X Y ' K lpi.x 'X -' H xy ilil l il ,l tg p-E ' +A f f l7HTT'El1'2-if' ba- N all 4 Page l7 Fwe I saw a little boy go Jolting down the street ln o great lumbering wagon Pumped by a wee foot. I saw the wagon turn And rumble up the driveway Steered by a tiny fist. Iwatched him scoop its cargo - A crumpled bag of cookies A spotted red bandana A box of battered cars - And climb the three stone steps. He paused . . . and lsaw him smile A flicker of a smile, Standing there, lost in an ear-flopped cap, His arms full of treasures. He set them down - Stretched - And crashed the knocker, The door opened and Iwatched him place His little ormload lust inside, I saw him turn, I saw his hands climb In his pockets, standing small with all his forty inches I saw him gaze with tender pride At his great grime-scarred wagon, at his world - and walk inside. HEATHER PATTERSON