United Colleges - Vox Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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thoughts drifted as its smoke. He saw himself effortlessly making conversation with a beau¬ tiful young lady who smiled and nodded and listened. He saw himself laughing and talking with a group of the fellows, and being asked things. “Anything for ya?” The Greek, polishing a glass, broke in on his reverie. “A cup of coffee, please,” said Henry, and wished he could ask how business was or what the Greek thought about this Darrow fellow, and the teaching of evolution in schools. He wished people would speak to him about anything. He wished he could get a job he really liked. He wished he wasn’t so alone, and he wondered why he was. ❖ One of the men at the head of the line stepped out and sauntered across the sidewalk. “No more listings up today?” he shouted back to the men lined along the wall. “May as well go home!” Movement away from the door con¬ firmed him and gradually the little knots of men straggled off, leaving Henry sitting against the wall. His sallow cheeks sucked a last draw from his cigarette and he spun it into the gutter. He didn’t want to go back to his stuffy box of a room and he was tired of walking around. What was a depression anyway, he wondered, that it could knock the world around? It had sure knocked him around. He was thirty-two and felt sixty. He was unmarried, and flat broke. I probably never will get married, mused Henry. Somehow that struck him as funny and he grinned. Never will. .. never been in danger of it, is more to the point . . . except for Helen . . . but that was long over with. If he could have held a job . . . and then this damned de¬ pression. He comforted himself with the know¬ ledge that he was used to being unemployed. He was used, also, to stuffy little box-like rooms and being alone. Especially of being alone. He rose stiffly and strolled up the avenue, pausing occasionally to gaze intently into store win¬ dows. He was alone but he didn’t particularly care. The evening bus from Windsor looped into the depot and squeezed itself into its stall. The knot of people waiting mingled noisily with the passengers arriving. There were gasped greet¬ ings and clumsy, luggage-hindered embraces. Henry stepped down through the door, and eased alongside to the luggage compartment. There were fewer people about when the driver pulled forth his lusty pack. A trio of young girls stared at him with curiosity as he deftly slung its bulk to his shoulders. He didn’t notice. Henry was forty-six but he looked younger. His dark eyes misted dreamily as he strode up Yonge Street. It felt good to get back to “T.O.” The fruit season was profitable and the peninsula beautiful but he missed the asphalt and the streetcars. Should be lots of work around now. Lots of construction going on. Brown and Hartsford would take him on if they needed anybody. He was a good worker. Henry loved the city. He delighted in white expanses of pavement and the flowing curves of driveways. His pulses stirred to the provoca¬ tive twinkle of neons, winking against the dark tresses of night. The throaty night-voice of the streets with inflexions of traffic and the under¬ tone of passers-by sang softly in his heart. The windows of the Young street bric-brac shops reached golden arms across the sidewalk. Henry unslung his pack in the glow of a window and gazed intently at guitars and statuettes. McCURDY SUPPLY CO. LTD. BUILDERS ' SUPPLIES AND COAL READY MIXED CONCRETE Phone 37 251 SARGENT AND ERIN WINNIPEG, MAN. Page Eleven

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Pattern for Henry Don Rodgers A BOY kicked the soccer ball up the field and ■someone else raced him for it. The knot of boys by the fence gradually peeled away in loud pursuit and Henry was left lying in the dirt. A thin hand wiped tears from frightened dark eyes, smearing them across a sallow face which looked older than its twelve years. Slowly he got to his feet, slowly pushed through the gate and slowly headed for home. Henry didn’t mind being beaten up. He was used to it. Nearly every boy in the class had had a poke at Henry. Not because he was offensive but because he was not offensive at all. He was “Poky” and “Dreamer,” and easy to beat up. A block from the schoolyard he had forgotten his defeat entirely and stopped to watch a gang of men patching the asphalt. From them he dawdled up the avenue, gazing in¬ tently into store windows he had gazed into the night before, and the night before that, and every night of the school week. The dark eyes seemed to expand as they fell on guitars and statuettes, on cabbages and oranges, on watches and rings and on platters of fish. At intersec¬ tions his little figure halted, hands behind back and feet apart, to watch with nervous excite¬ ment the streams of square black cars and throbbing trucks. Along a chalk-mosaiced side¬ walk he kicked a wad of newspaper. He kicked a piece of board. He kicked a tin can. He went home, alone. Nobody asked Henry why he was so late com¬ ing home. Nobody asked him anything. His mother, large and flushed, was jiggling steam¬ ing pots about the gas stove. His father, stretch¬ ed out on the worn couch, shirtless and shoe¬ less, was engrossed in a newspaper. Betty, with smiles and grimaces, was combing her long hair before the living room mirror. George was tickling and pinching Henry’s young brother John. George was fifteen and had a steady job. George was a man and Henry was a boy. He walked into the other room and looked out the window by Betty. Nobody asked him anything. He was lonely and he didn’t know why. i’fi sjs One of the young men swung down from his stool and walked towards the door. “I’m going up to the Arcade,” he said at the door. “Any¬ body coming?” The knot of bell - bottomed, shiny - haired young fellows at the counter gradually filed noisily out into the night and Henry was left sitting there. He deliberated following after them but decided against it. He felt out of place in the midst of their noisy boisterousness and preferred his own company. He was “Dreamy”, and he was used to it. Be¬ sides, he had things to think about. He had lost another job today. He rubbed the palms of his thin hands against the cold marble of the counter and wondered why he didn’t find a job that interested him. He always got along fine the first few weeks and then when the novelty wore off he either quit or began to daydream and was fired. It would be different if he was one of those guys who made friends easily. If he could talk freely with the people he worked with and not have to dream to make the time fly. Henry gazed at the cream pies and biscuits lined up against the big mirror. He gazed at his own thin, sallow face and large, dark eyes. He was twenty-Two and looked older. He lit a cigarette and his

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The Question By Joe Fry “TT7HAT the hell do we do now?” This ex- » ’ pression of a fourth year art student seemed to sum up the attitude of a group who were discussing their plans for the future. In a few weeks the university would close shop for another year but for many in that group the doors would be permanently closed. They were rather stunned by the realization that this was the end of their formal education. What had happened during the four years? What was it to mean for them in the future? I think most of them realized that their real education was only now to begin, but on what basis did they have to build? None of those in the group regretted taking an arts course but many of them, for the first time, were really wondering about the meaning of such an education. Many have pondered this question, many more shall do so in a few months when the university’s doors are closed per¬ manently for them. What is the purpose of a university educa¬ tion? Surely we have the right to ask this per¬ tinent question? Sir Richard Livingstone, Vice- Chancellor of Oxford, had this to say at the 1916 University Conference, “What the world most needs and most lacks today is a clear and worthy view of life. . . . What do we do to give the under-graduate such a view? I think we must reply, ‘Little or Nothing’.” Has the university lost its real purpose while it still tenaciously clings to straw ideals? Any institution which pretends to give what it can¬ not is false and demoralized. There is often a yawning chasm between the ideals to which the university traditionally professes allegiance, and for which it still supposes itself to stand, and the actual motives which govern it. The Idea of the university can perish with the in¬ stitution, it can regenerate it, or it can move on and find a truer expression in a new form. In what ways are the academic pursuits of our university courses related to the vital ques¬ tions of life? If education seeks to bring into life greater richness and greater intensity, to make life more sensitive, to make it more alive, then it must ask the vital questions and seek to establish a basis on which they can be answered. The great store of rich literature, born out of the depths of human experience, must again be made to speak to our human experience. The words of the philosophers must be critically examined and their insights into reality related to the process of living instead of being veiled in academic unreality. The social sciences, in their endeavour to understand the “how and why” of human behavior, must never lose sight of man as a total person. The human person¬ ality is more than the sum total of glands. The behavior of man can never be fully explained by regarding him as a lump of protoplasm that reacts to the prods of his environment. Does history reveal any purpose in the existence of man? Dates, events, names, more dates, new events, different names, the endless cycle of purposelessness and the “caravan reaches the nothingness it set out from.” What do our universities have to say to the basic question—What is the nature of man and his place in the universe? The modern uni¬ versity is betraying its students if it ignores this vital question, a question which cannot be answered in the traditional academic attitude of a spectator. Of no universities had the intel¬ lectual prestige been higher than the German universities of the last century and yet it was from these same universities that Hitler recruit¬ ed much of the “talent” to carry out his mon¬ strous plans. The philosophies of the classroom were too academic and unreal. In the traffic of the busy market place something new was happening which shattered the syllogistic forms and solutions of the schools. The basic questions of life must be raised and a basis laid by which they can be answered. To be so objective that we adhere to nothing is mere liberal sentimen¬ talism. The prevailing temper of pseudo-ob¬ jectivity or false impartiality is often unwit¬ tingly mistaken for fairness by both staff and student. There can be no more tacit conspiracy of silence. Are the modern universities in a position to tackle this tremendous task? Is our own college Page Twelve