United Colleges - Vox Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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THEN The snow swirls — Cold and swift and low. And the sting of it on my cheek Is as the sting of long-forgotten tears. Who was I then That I weep now? Once there were arms to reach through the snow And warm me, And teach me to find it beautiful. And they were strong, And safe, And very, very dear. But the snow swirls And I cannot remember their touch. And there was a voice to call through the snow And help me to find the storm gentle. But I cannot remember the words For the snow beats . . . Cold and swift and low, And the land is lonely. The snow swirls, And the sting of it on my cheek Is as the sting of long-forgotten tears. Why can I not remember those tears? Or if there were eyes that watched my fear And loved me for being weak? And the beckoning pulse of the storm shudders across the waste. And I cover my face. For 1 know not how to follow. Once there were cold forests about me. And from their shelter I watched a city burn. And there were arms to reach out of the dark And comfort me. And a voice to still my weeping. But the jealous stars that watched us go Ordained that the tears I had not wept Shoidd fall now. Who was I then? How many centuries have I wept for the insati¬ able stars? And the snow swirls and beats Cold and swift and low, Freezing the half-forgotten tears upon my face. I would I had wept then and gone uncomforted That I might find strong arms and a gentle voice now. Donna O. Munroe. ON THE DEATH OF HER HUSBAND You will know by now that Hugh Is no longer with us. We were so busy doing Everything that we could — His death was like a sudden death. That night he asked me If he would really get well. I shed a few tears, and he patted my head. 1 knew that would be enough For the time being. Friday we held a little Communion service, The minister, two elders, and he and I. Just two brief prayers, And the bread And the wine We shared. They called to me when I had stolen out, To make a little lunch. I put my left hand Over his And my right hand On his forehead. He took a long, last breath. He always wanted to put oil heat in To make it easy for me In case Something should happen. But the spring is here And the summer coming, It is a more cheerful time Of the year Than autumn or winter Would have been. James H. Dow COMPLIMENTS OF . . . CRESCENT CREAMERY COMPANY LTD. Dealers in Quality Guarded Dairy Products for over 45 years. MILK - CREAM - BUTTER - ICE CREAM Phone 37 101 Page Twenty-one

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VI. In Exile. Chorus: Lucy, Lucy of Rancho Grande, I bought a pound of cyanide, Here is a letter from your Old auntie, I baked a cake today, “Leave the saloon and give up likker, Ah, lonely will my life be now, And you’ll get to heaven and daddy much That Lucy’s gone away, quicker.” VII. Shipwreck. O Lucy on the burning deck, Forget you not your duty, Climb up upon the flaming boards, And shout your rooty-tooty. Oh, harden not your tender heart, Get women and children off, Cheer up the sailors’ hearts, my dear, And do not stop to cough. What if the boat is burning bright, Its decks are sinking lower, It is a warming death, my dear, And drowning is much slower. VIII. To the Lost Lucy. I took the train to Lyonesse, My Lucy for to woo, But oh, alas, she was not there, Nor was her suitcase, too. I went to see my Lucy sweet, I had a rose to give her, Alas, ah me, she was not there, They sold her down the river. IX. In Memoriam. Lucy is dead and I am sad, For she was my daughter and I her dad, But her mother is rather glad. X. Ring Out Ring Out (A Sbng). Ring, ring, ye bells, Lucy is dead, Because she ate Some hot, fresh bread. Ring out, wild bells, And toll our doom! Lucy is dead. We can rent her room! XI. Requiescat (To the Unknown Lover) They’ve showered her with roses, But never a word from you, I don’t know you from Moses, Ah, would that she did too. They’ve feted her in dozens And everyone was there, Her friends, her foes, her cousins, But from you, not one stare. Strew on her roses, roses, But never a spray of yew, In peace your heart reposes, Ah, would that mine did too. XII. Lament. The green grass is growing o’er the grave where Lucy lies, Oh, nevermore my love I’ll see, her gold hair and her eyes, I never knew what sorrow was, till Lucy’s soul had fled, And now my heart is squeezing out sad tears of deepest red. Oh woe is me, oh misery, oh dearest heart laid down Amid the dank and chilly sods, what profit in the ground? The little birds are singing o’er the spot where Lucy is laid, In all the earth will ne’er be found a purer, sweeter maid. Her goodness shone from out her eyes, her soul was there to see, How long, how long have I to wait, till I am there with thee? My bitter sobs, my soul-rack’t sighs, alas, to no avail, For she has gone ahead of me down that long, awesome trail. Page Twenty

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Eulogy to the New Yorker By Lorne Wallace rFHE New Yorker is a magazine printed in N.Y. for N.Y.’ers, and only a limited num¬ ber of copies are available in less civilized re¬ gions. That it should be discussed in Vox is per¬ haps questionable, but our editors are some¬ what short of material. On second thought, if you read this I shall be very much surprised. As to the general quality of the New Yorker — why, it is pretty fine (for an American maga¬ zine, of course). The cartoons are excellent, and there are satirical comments on LIFE, and some articles and short stories and reviews to satisfy the less healthy readers. Every other page or so, there are little drawings by the editor’s seven-year-old, which lend a sophisti¬ cated atmosphere. And just about as much ad¬ vertising as you can read is included in every issue. For those Winnipeggers who follow the national habit in berating their own lot, a calen¬ Your Bank Book is the mirror of your future THE ROYAL BANK OF CANADA dar of goings-on in New York (where night¬ clubs are open on Sunday) can be found each week. Probably the best-known features of the New Yorker is the humorous article, and James Thurber is its leading exponent. His work has a delicacy of touch, a satirical shrewdness — well, anybody who saw the movie The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, starring Danny Kaye, knows what I mean. Indeed one critic has ex¬ citedly compared Thubber to Stephen Leacock. Hmm. However, since Mr. Thurber seems to write only under personal financial pressure, his place is usually filled by several shadows who are paid less per article. Talk of the Town, a department whose middle-brow replica s are labelled Pot-Pourri or In the Editors’ Confidence, contains observa¬ tions upon current affairs, written in a style which is light-hearted and witty. Unless one happens to be greatly concerned about N.Y.’s heavy snowfall or the city’s water shortage, however, it is apt to prove rather heavy going, and somewhat dry. The same criticism, that they are limited in appeal, can be applied to several of the regular columns, including sports by the talented John Lardner, who should know better. Four of the New Yorker’s feature reviews are well worth the price of the magazine, which, for you literally minded, is twenty-five cents. And probably the reviewers receive even more than thau Wolcott Gibbs, theatrical critic, though often flirting with downright flippancy, is customarily refreshing. Crowded by adver¬ tising into a couple of columns, John McCarten is frank and discerning in his criticism of films, and constitutes a welcome relief for anyone accustomed to Frank Morriss’s effeminacy or Gilmour’s brand of the aside. For CBC listen¬ ers to the Met and the Philharmonic, Winthrop Sargeant holds some interest, though one often receives the impression that New York is as musically barren as Winnipeg seems to have been in that dark pre-Symphony age. Various Page Twenty-two