United Colleges - Vox Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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LITERARY Judges PROF. H. S. CROWE PROF. G. BLAKE PROF. R. STINGLE The VOX Award for 1955-56 has been awarded to DAVID YOUNG 9

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COMPLIMENTS OF S. STALL AND SON BIMBO’S Restaurant ' LTD. Snacks and Full Course Meals Manufacturers of fine clothing for Ladies and Misses QUICK SERVICE WINNIPEG CANADA FRIENDLY ATMOSPHERE LIKE A HORSE AND oT|jw CARRIAGE A helpful hint . . . The YMCA and YOUTH Call by Number go naturally together and the Y has been a gathering place for You save time on out-of-town calls when you give the Long Distance operator the young people for five generations. number you want. Why not make it your downtown Write down the out-of-town numbers you already know. If there ' s a new number club? You will be glad you joined. you don ' t have — or an old one you ' ve forgotten — be sure to add it to your list when the operator gives it to you. CENTRAL YMCA MANITOBA 301 Vaughan Phone 92-8157 TELEPHONE SYSTEM HERE NOW TOASTMASTER The Sport Centre ATHLETIC UNIFORMS, SPORTSWEAR, CRESTS Canada Bread Co. Ltd. A Complete Line of Sports Equipment PHONE SUnset 3-7144 510 Portage Ave. 8

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The sun was cold and beautiful on the snow and the red roofs of the buildings. It’s always more beautiful back north when it’s cold, especially in the mornings. The trading post and the outbuildings had low, flattish gables and white walls. They huddled together in the sparkling sunshine, back a little from the edge of the lake and behind them the trees were dark green, almost black. Smoke curled up from the rusty stove pipes of the native shacks into the blue, frosty air. Even the snow was blue from the shadows of the low sun. Here and there a native padded from one shack to another over the twisting trails of the village. A tractor train was pulled up in front of one of the buildings. Smoke puffed lazily from its exhaust. There were three sleighs loaded with freight and a caboose behind. They seemed far too big and bulky for the chunky little diesel in front of them. It stood hardly higher than the shoulders of the men beside it. There were two of them, and another came out from the building and joined them. There was the Kid. He was a big kid, about twenty maybe, with thick blond hair which needed cutting, and when he talked he had a Swedish accent. He was a strong boy with happy little wrinkles around his eyes. He was the boss; for the first time he was in charge of his cat-swing. He was a very big kid, almost a man. And then there was Joe. He wasn’t so big. He swore a filthy, grease-stained parka with a ragged sleeve and moccassins with the beads coming off. He was second man on the swing and he didn’t like it. The Kid was too young to be boss, and the ice was inore than likely poor. Besides, it was too cold. It was alnjost always too cold. And a hundred and eighty miles is a long, long way when the weather is cold and you have to ride a tractor. He coughed half¬ heartedly and spat into the snow. It left a little yellow patch with red dots. He tramped on it with his moccassin and looked to see if either of the others had noticed. He had been a white man once. And there was the ’Breed too, but he didn’t matter. They were taking him because they couldn’t find any¬ body else for third driver. He was big too, bigger than the Kid because he was fatter. He had a dull, sullen face split by a scar which traced itself down an oily, half-bearded cheek and lost itself under his collar. His parka hood was down, flapping around his shoulders. “Put the fire on in the caboose,” the Kid said. The ’Breed nodded his head at the smoke which rose from the chimney. He said nothing. The Kid shrugged. He didn’t like the ’Breed and he was a little afraid of him. He didn’t understand him. One year of living with them wasn’t enough. “Is everything ready to go, Joe?” “Yeah, everything’s ready. I guess everything’s ready to go.” He always repeated everything now. “Let’s go then.” He hoped that Joe and the ’Breed couldn’t see that he was nervous. The ’Breed watched, his face was expressionless. The Kid climbed into the swingbox, the little open- topped canvas cab on the cat. He would have liked to take the swingbox himself when they left the village. It isn’t often that a halfbreed rides the swing- box. But he said nothing and followed Joe back to the caboose. Before they were inside, the last sleigh lurched into motion, the diesel stink of the cat drifted back, and the runners squealed and creaked in the frosty snow. They moved out onto the lake where the drifted snow was blue and marked with black patches and streaks of bare ice. A cat is an ugly machine. This one was small, small enough to travel on the ice and big enough to pull the sleighs through the snow on the lake or a river. It wasn’t quite big enough to pull them when they had to leave the lakes and cross by way of rough portages to another water shed or go around rapids and poor ice. There was never quite enough power then. Even its movements were ugly. When it turned, it turned abruptly with its steel tracks squealing in the snow. It started with a jerk and a heave, and when it stopped, it stopped fast. Grease-stained canvas shielded it from the radiator to the drawbar to hold a little of the heat of the engine around the driver. The cab was open at the top. When a cat breaks through the ice it breaks through quickly, not like a truck or a snowmobile, and the driver has no time to open any doors. And sometimes there isn’t even time to jump. 10