United College Collegiate - Tric Tics Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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Back row, left to right: George Botchett, Jackie Garson, A. D. Longman, Shirley Grosser, Dave Sharpe, Bruce Dawson. Front row: Jim Smith, Chris Dafoe, Gerry Musker. Collegiate iteligious Studies Committee Throughout the past session the Religious Studies Committee has endeavored to keep the various sections of the Collegiate Department informed about the religious activities carried on within the College. The various class representatives have tried to keep the students familiar with the time-tables of the S.C.M. and I.V.C.F., so that students might attend those Bible Study groups or social gatherings which best suited their hour-budget. We also, with the help of faculty members and interested students, have tried to en¬ courage attendance at morning chapel Which is con¬ ducted each day of the week just after the first class. After the New Year, five regular class periods in Grade XII were assigned to a general study of the Old and New Testaments under the general heading, “Basic Principles ' of Christianity”. These classes were conducted by Professors George E. Taylor, Charles R. Newcomfoe, and H. Gordon Harland, of the Theological Department of the College. In Grade XI a similar number of classes were given by the Professor of Psychology, Mr. Clifford J. Robson, the subject being “The Sermon on the Mount.” The attendance at the classes was recorded by the Religious Studies representatives. Those students who attended the required number of classes will receive at graduation Christian Leadership Education Certifi¬ cates, in each case from the particular church to which he or she may belong. More than two hundred stu¬ dents will receive these certificates from United, Anglican, Baptist, Presbyterian and Canadian Council of Churches. Your committee wishes to thank Professors G. ' .Z. Taylor, C. E. Newcombe, H. G. Harland, C. J. Robson, and Dean Halstead who helped to make this activity such a success. KEN RENTZ, Chairman LESLIE ANDERSON, Secretary Page Thirty-eight

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Section . . . GOD’S SNOWFLAKE A little snowflake is something odd, It partly forms the grace of God Floating down from high aibove As graceful as a Morning Dove. And as it lights upon the earth To slowly form the Winter’s birth, It brings with it a touch of grace Upon its tiny, sparkling face, To show that we are children of The One to bless from Heaven above. And when it lands—I know not where For it is not for me to care. For I am only one mortal of The Lord Almighty’s Hand of Love. M. GIROUX. THE EXPOSE OF THE FAREBOX RACKET T HE following is a true confession of one cf the most notorious enemies of the people — bus I am speaking to you from the interrogation cham¬ bers of this city’s prison. I was invited six months ago to come and answer a “few” questions. I am still here. I wouldn’t be here now if a well-known reporter hadn’t decided to live on forty dollars a month. It seems that he was going to become a bus driver in order to expose us, but he had a cha nge of plans. He said something about being afraid that he would end up like Captain Queeg. It all started March 12, 1930, when I graduated from driving school to the streets, gutters, and occa¬ sionally the sidewalks of this metropolis. This was the beginning of my infamous career as a bus driver. I’ll never forget my first day behind the wheel. I took my weapon out of the garr.ge and headed down town. It was raining, and the rain looked for all the world like champagne flowing into a cocktail glass. I approached a stop where a large group of people were waiting, huddled in a shelter. I slowed down invitingly and as they surged out onto the sidewalks into the rain, I swerved to the curb, sending a wall of dirty water showering over them. That was quite a thrill for me, happening on my first day. Not many drivers can boast of this on their first day. Another of my favorite tricks occurs when the bus is jammed to overflowing. I stop at the next stop and patiently wait as the crowds attempt to push into the already packed bus. When the last man is halfway in I shut the door without mercy, trying always for the neck. I’ll never forget the fun I had last winter. For no discernible reason, I opened the front and rear doors and travelled thus for about seventeen blocks. I was quite secure in my little nook, but the passengers would have done better to rent a frozen food locker. Suddenly I shut the doors tight, cutting off all venti¬ lation, and then turned on the heaters, shutting them off only when a passenger’s celluloid collar burst into flames. One of my personal favorites is directed towards out-of-town people. These are the type that trust¬ ingly ask you to let them off at a particular street. I usually smile pleasantly, assuring them that I will do so. As I pass the street in question, I mumble something that sounds like Wasamininechiorthj and say no more until the passenger begins to suspect that all is not well. When he or she timidly inquires as to the location of the stop, I loudly scold her for not listening and let her off in some distant suburb. One way to solve the problem of having the pas¬ sengers move to the rear of the bus is to step on the accelerator until the bus is doing about fifty and then, as you slam on the brakes, call sweetly, “Move to the rear of the bus, please.” My crowning glory came last fall—it was the talk of the depot for weeks. I was waiting at a heavy traffic corner when a man, halfway down the inter¬ section spotted me. He swung into a clumsy gallop, hoping to reach the bus before I drove away. I opened the doors invitingly and pumped the airbrakes impatiently in order to spur him on. Just as he came helter-skelter to the door with everyone eagerly watching (I prefer to play to the crowd), I slammed the doors at the exact instant that he reached them, simultaneously the bus lurched forward crunching his upper plates. These have been my true confessions, the shocking story of the “Bus Driver”. I have an invitation to “What’s My Line”, so I must go. Loosen the chains, men! I am free—free to drive my bus. AL BIRTLE. Editor’s Note: Any similarity between the character in the above article and a real bus driver is purely intentional. Page Forty