United Colleges - Vox Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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THE TEA PARTY By Wilda Reynolds Mrs. Chester-Smythe brought out the Morehouse tea set and her Tree of Cashmir cups and saucers when the Fiskes came to tea. Since there were so few white people in the colony these little social rituals were of supreme importance. It kept the ties still strong with home. All morning while the servants made diamond and crescent-shaped sand¬ wiches, chopped peel for the macaroons and the pound cake (Mrs. Chester-Smythe was famous for her pound cake) and polished the heirloom teaspoons, Mrs. Chester-Smythe wandered in the garden. It was a lovely spot with neat shell-lined paths and roses everywhere, completely surrounding the garden in a wall of fragrance. It was so beautfiul that Mr. Chester-Smythe suggested that they have tea in the garden, knowing how his wife loved it. When the Fiskes arrived they were enchanted. “This is charming, just like home,” said Mrs. Fiske as she squeezed a twist of lemon peel into her tea. “A macaroon? Yes, I believe I will.” Mrs. Chester-Smythe smiled pleasantly as she poured out the tea. “It was so hard to get roses to grow in this climate,” she said, adding two lumps of sugar to Mr. Fiske’s cup. “This is the first year they have been any good at all. We got a new gardener, someone from the hills who seems to have bewitched them into blooming.” Belinda and Caroline, the Chester-Smythe’s two rosy young daughters, finished their tea quickly and began teasing Mimi, Mrs. Fiske’s Pekinese. Sharp barking interrupted the conversation. “Run along, girls,” said Mr. Chester-Smythe in¬ dulgently. “You can play by the fountain.” “Such happy children,” said Mrs. Fiske, watching them run along the smooth lawn. “Here, Mimi, here darling. Come and have a bite of Mama’s macaroon.” “I can’t bear to think of them ever growing up and leaving me,” said Mrs. Chester-Smythe, sipping her steaming tea slowly. “Its too bad your Peter couldn’t come.” Mrs. Fiske waved her dainty hand in a gesture of annoyance. “Really, I don’t know what has hap¬ pened to that boy since he returned from Cambridge. He’s always going up to the hills and worrying around in one of those filthy native quarters.” “Isn’t that strange,” said Mrs. Chester-Smythe, passing a dish of bon foons to her guests. “Now girls, don’t worry your pretty heads about things like that,” said Mr. Fiske. “Peter will be all right as soon as he gets the proper perspective. Here, Sam, try one of my cigars. My brother-in-law is in the importing business and sends them out to me all the time.” “Thanks, George, don’t mind if I do,” said Mr. Chester-Smythe. “You can’t buy anything decent at the local shops.” Too soon the golden afternoon was over, and Peter was honking the horn of the jeep. The Chester- Smythes walked down the path with the Fiskes to the wrought iron gate. “Oh, dear, Peter’s got the rifle with him again,” said Mrs. Fiske. “He’s always fussing about native uprisings and silly things like that.” “Its been a delightful afternoon,” mused Mrs. Chester-Smythe as she and her husband walked back into the garden. The girls came running to meet them, their hands full of roses. “Why, look at those roses,” she cried. “They’re all drooping. Do you suppose they have the blight or something?” Mr. Chester-Smythe glanced at them casually. “Get the gardener to spray them with insecticide tomorrow. We don ' t want anything to harm the roses.” The U Alumni Association When you graduate Keep in touch with College and University through the Alumni Journal published by the Manitoba Alumni Association ROOM 114, U.M.S.U. BLDG. FORT GARRY Winnipeg, Man. Phone 44-9233 15

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“He dead I guess?” Joe nodded; he could remember the Kid just be¬ fore it happened and the look on his face before he passed out. The ’Breed was big, and there was no white man around any more. He would be the boss now, not Joe. “It was accident. You saw that. It was accident, eh ” His voice didn’t change. Joe looked up at him. There was no-one to oppose him now, the Kid was gone. It was no use fighting. He had tried it and failed. Anyway it was too late to fight. And he remembered the white men at the trading post laughing in his face because he was no longer a man in their eyes. He rose slowly and coughed. He leaned against the side of the sleigh and looked at the ’Breed. “Yeah,” he said, “Yeah, it was an accident. These things happen.” Something that approached a smile flickered on the ’Breed’s face, then he turned and walked toward the cat. ASYLUM By Marianne Forsyth The only difference Between the patient and the staff Is the keys. The jangle of a mind insane The jangle of keys To lock it away from me. “Hey nurse, can I go out? just for a minute?” “Not just now Later.” In a year or ten years, Or they will carry you up from the basement And wash you, and pad you, and ship you out In a box. You’ll get out, later. I lock my brother in. I am my brother’s keeper, His gaoler. He could not live in this world we made, So by himself he made another. He is a strange Thing now, Different, and frightening. What could I do but lock him away? I will hide from the judgement Of my being that he is — By locking him away. And I would stumble Through the nightmare he fled from And hurt myself on the broken edges And take my soul in the street and fight To get away from him, Only for this — It’s dark in the nightmare And empty and without meaning And I’m not sure where I am And which way is away. Am I over there? 14

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THE FABLE OF THE NARWHAL By Alex Spalding, XII We had reached the little river Massive cliffs walled either side She’s a twisting turning river That in summer drives her tide Down the barren, rock-strewn tundra Through the sombre Arctic shore, Into the ice-gorged Felly, Where the “kid-lit” grind and roar. But how silent and oppressive Was that misty muffled day! Where through the bleached surrounding void Two travellers inched their way. Beneath the towering canyon heights A shadow like a pall Fell on us, and no speck of light Broke through the canyon wall. “It was here they say she vanished That’s how the legend speaks.” My guide Tagorngnak muttered As the frost fell from his cheeks. “ ’Twas long ago and summer When the Ka-yuk makes his nest And soars above his eyrie High on the canyon crest. His dark eyes held enquiry As we stood there in the cold. But I held his gaze and waited For the story to unfold. “You know our ancient custom When a lad and lass are wed How they’re promised to each other ’Fore babyhood has fled. So ’t chanced this certain maiden, When time, its course, had run Was taken by her hunter To his land this side of the sun. But little did she know him Nor could she guess her fate His evil ways and stony heart No warmth could penetrate. Amongst his kinsmen hunters He soon aroused distrust And after violent quarrels From their commune he was thrust. Thus lost her eyes their starlight Thus ceased her heart to sing A gentle flower too early bloomed To brave the frost of spring. Their trouble gained and magnified His cruelty, her pain. For as the days passed slowly on He grew the more insane. She sent word to her kinsmen Which told of her distress In hope that they’d relieve her And offer her redress. But his cunning had escaped them Of their path he kept aside And among these rocky gorges He’d found a den to hide. No kindly word nor loving hand Could fall upon her now. All hope was gone and so alone She made a desperate vow. Then one dark mom, he left her To vanish in the fog Leaving her sole companion A mangy, half-starved dog. She shivered crouching slowly Upon her bundle bed And stared into the “k’od-lerk” fire And wished that she were dead. Her heart was gall and torment Her mind, a demon tore As she broke the binding ribband, Loosed her tresses to the floor. And in this ebon raiment She climbed the mountain side While far below, returning The madman she espied. “Where are you going?” he slavered, Why don’t you come inside?” “I go to gather ‘paung-rait’ from the hills’ She quickly lied. But she forced her pace much faster And without another look She reached the highest pinnacle Which jutted o’er the brook. “Come back to me” he pleaded “I shall love you as before” “You never loved me — ever. I shall come to you no more!” And gazing o’er the water Down its murky depths of green. She plunged into the canyon As some nymph-l.ike fairy queen. When the misty spray had lifted, And the foam had melted ’way, Not a lifeless hulk he visioned But a form of pearl and gray. No waving tresses floating Nor a visage cold and pale, But a tusk of spirall’d ivory And a flashing, leaping tail. The narwhal grew and prospered And so our fathers say That this is how he got his tusk, His coat of dappled gray. Though many years have seen him play About his briny grave He seems to pause and listen yet For the voice above the wave. 16