Trinity College School - Record Yearbook (Port Hope, Ontario Canada)

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TRINITS COLLIQCE SCHOOL RECORD 13 Above all, this autumn will surely remain fixed in our memory. For this September, Hitler let slip the dogs of war, and we are again fighting for our very existence against a tyrannous and oppressive people, who, neverthe- less, recognise autumn as der tag. Oh God of our far- flung battle-line, grant that we may once again tread the uplands and look down upon the farmer gathering in nature's bountiful store, secure in the knowledge that the Angel of Peace has once again spread his wings over the land. -J.D.J. VALE I dreamed a dream . . . and in my dream I seemed to be walking, alone, in a huge, sandy valley, bordered on all sides by purple hills. Nothing stirred in the whole length and breadth of this vast plain. The sun was torrid and I sat down to rest awhile. Something moved as I sat, and I perceived to my horror that I was sitting on the hali- buried skull of a man. As I looked, a thin, reedy voice seemed to issue from the iieshless jaws and cracked teeth, and the dark shadows of the empty eye-sockets seemed to fix me with eyes long dead. The thin, high voice, like the sound of the wind Whistling over a bleak moor, addressed me: Look on me, O Earthling, and take heed. Many aeons ago I, too, lived, laughed and loved. I gave no thought to the passing of the years, and here I lie, buried in this silent valley of the dead, doomed to lie all Eternity in this dread canyon of no return. The voice trailed off, and I realised with sheer, stark horror that I was listening to my own ghost. I HJ.D.J.

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12 TRINITY COLLEGE SCHOOL RECORD LATE SEPTEMBER Late September, that month of mists and mellow fruitfulnessn, has never failed to charm me. Men may speak of the delights of early spring, of the joy of mid- summer, or the beauty of winter, but for me the sweet o' the year is still the autumn. I have seen Canadian auturnns, the glorious red and gold tints in the trees, the fresh nip in the air, and I have seen English autumns, the grey mists, the early morning cub-hunting, and the agri- cultural shows, and it has left me satisfied. Autumn is the season of plenty, the season of content. The farmer has gathered in his crops and is free to stroll the uplands with dog and gun. The Man-about-Town , released at last from the giddy whirl of the London season ,can turn again to his horses and hounds. Each and every one of us feels a new sense of wellbeing stealing over us as we watch the leaves slowly turning. Not for me the uncertain, and oftentimes rainy and cold, months of April and June. When Nature is awaken- ing and beginning to pulse with life, such a time is not for lazy and slothful souls like myself. The sultry and oppres- sive days of midsummer find me prostrated in the nearest armchair, eagerly lapping up liquid refreshment. Surely no life for a man! The bleak days of winter seem too desolate and bare of beauty to find a champion, yet sundry persons of my acquaintance have lifted up their voices and declared that it is indeed the best part of the whole year, old chap. It is not until the first mists and showers of autumn alight on the parched land that I begin to expand. Moreover. do not the all-wise beings who govern us choose autumn as the best time to make war? As soon as the last sheaf has been carried in, the war drums begin to beat in the land. In Africa the raiding season is after the crops have been gathered, when the warriors, full-fed. grow restive and prideful in their native villages. Is it not likewise with us, the children of a noble race?

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14 TRINITY COLLEGE SCHOOL RECORD NO MORE TOMATOES The contestants in the Magee Cup Race, on October 9, were given added cause to offer thanks when the course of this race was altered at the last minute to frustrate the would-be tomato-throwers, who were lining the route of the procession, equipped with plenty of putrescent vege- table matter. Praise be that these villains are at last foiled! When or why this barbarous custom originated is a mystery, but it seems to go on from year to year with cumulative fury, each generation of rogues offering as his sole excuse, I got it in my new boy year. To this we reply vehemently, Phooey! It is no justification for in- terfering with a School sporting event. If they must interfere with such events, why not go out any day of any week and throw fruit at the football team, or if the victims must be new boys, why not get after them when they are all together in the gym., as they are every evening? The answer would seem to be simple. Either the team en masse, or Mr. Batt, would administer their just desserts. If this is so apparently so, then is it not an act of cowardice to bully the new boys when they are incapable of retaliation? One of these offenders, somewhat irked by having received the proverbial lemon, actually submitted an article for publication in the Record . He bristled with indig- nation at having been so unfairly treated. With many arguments he defended the practice as the natural and just thing to do. What could inspire such a sentiment? Why should the new boys suffer again the sufferings of their predecessors? Thank goodness that even that shadow of extenuation has this year been removed. It is to be hoped that this is the last year in which the notion will be even so much as conceived. However, it does seem rather a pity that it should die out before the