United Colleges - Vox Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

Page 24 text:

POEMS By Deby Miller ftsdikoat (RswsUusl It has become the latest style To have your skirt stand out a mile. Add bows to underslips, and lace And they will give you poise and grace. I saw the rows of petticoats Hang stiffly and so feminine In pink and blue and virgin white. —And fingered stiffened, ruffled lace —And closed my eyes and pictured grace And poise in a petticoat of latest style That makes your skirt stand out a mile. And then my eyes were open wide Enough to see the lady from Relief With firm belief That a reddish-black dress could suffice And long sleeves would look very nice On a little girl of five or so, —But that was fifteen years ago. Petticoats — lacy, frothy and light In pink and blue and virgin white Have now become the latest style. They make your skirts stand out — A Mile! OhibblsHu amt (DhoocUsn ON MY CREATIVITY . . . A word—a scribble—a dash—and a dot Maybe it’s poetry—but then—maybe it’s not . . . ON POPULARITY IN A CHURCH COLLEGE . . . Oh! to be a wheel—not a cog I’ll have to become a theolog! ON POETIC LICENCE . . . God chastizes One who plagarizes, For He knows this Satan Isn’t really creat’n . . . ON AN UNNAMED PROFESSOR . . . Some people think he’s intellectually haughty Others say he’s downright snotty. Oft’ he raises an eyebrow with utter disdain And elicits a most familiar refrain On a topic that vexes —Such as sex is .. . MsdoAodoXJLj. Christmas, With oppressive spirit Of affected love and friendship. Blaring, Of “Silent Night To a heedless and hurrying people. Glaring, Of tinselled Star And gaudy green, red-ribboned parcels. Sweet, Saccharined wishes On lips and fifteen-cent greeting cards. Christmas, With hampers and meaningless platitudes. Pardon me God—my unorthodox attitudes. GfyiiauL Bw didtwtL When as a child—I was enfettered, And knelt to toil, and bowed to serve. But now—I am become a Man! The head that bowed for centuries No longer bows—I hold it high! I heeded meekly, ’til the fire Of inward soul inspired me To waken, rise, protest and call Your loving God —-to damn you all! fiotfkctio iA. ml £aojul-(B hsMldm (With profuse apologies to Ogden Nash) High marks are fine. But look at mine . . . OdsL — CL (jJindbaq Like a kettle—sputtering A student—muttering This thought to me will bring — That the little knowledge One learns at college Can prove to be a dangerous thing . . . 22

Page 23 text:

JhjL ChdliJi andihsL QdoL By Pat Sinclair The King’s ball was a huge success. Everyone of any importance was there, the occasion being the unveiling of the King’s new portrait. And when the silken curtains were drawn back from the jewel- encrusted frame, all the great of the land stood before it and marvelled at the genius of the young Artist who had captured the King’s likeness in canvas. But the Artist was far too happy to notice their admit ation. He had been dancing all evening with the King’s daughter and had fallen in love with her. How lightly she danced on her silver-sandelled feet, and how softly the crystal lights turned her cheek to ivory. Her tender body was clasped in fair linens, and passion flowers bound her blue-black hair. Her mouth was a tremulous rose, redder than the pome¬ granate, and like the flaming convolvulus. “Will you love me forever?” cried the Artist, “And even when time has furrowed my brow, when I am bent and feeble, and my hand shakes with palsy?” “Even then will I love you,” said the King’s daughter, and she plucked a flower from her gar¬ land and put it next to his heart. But the next evening the King’s daughter danced with another, and the Artist wandered alone in the palace garden. “She said she would love me forever,” cried the Artist to a sympathetic nightingale. “Surely love is more beautiful than diamonds and more to be desired than emeralds; love burns more brightly than the glowing ruby, and is more alluring than pure amethysts. It is greater than Wisdom and surpasses Truth. But love is gone as the passing of a leaf; therefore I will devote my life to creating ‘THE BEAUTY THAT ENDURETH FOREVER’.” And so it came to pass that the young Artist travelled to the furthest corners of the Earth, pur¬ chasing the costliest of gems and the most precious and beautiful materials. Then he locked himself COMPLIMENTS OF . . . FORT CARRY Dyers and Cleaners Ltd. PHONE SUnset 3-7061 324 YOUNG in his studio for so long that the world thought him dead. The nightingale sang no more at his window for he was deaf to her song; nor did the gladsome roses bloom about his windowsill and shake their scarlet petals in the playful breezes, for he was blind to their beauty. And as he worked he fashioned a beautiful image. The face was that of an Angel and the marvellous body that of Adonis. His own Youth flushed the cold marble cheeks of the statue, and the gold of his hair stained the wonderful head. And when it was done he gave a great cry and fell adoring at the feet of the thing he had made; and as he lay there the Spirit of Death passed over the place. Now it so happened that day that the King and his followers, who were walking nearby, heard the strange cry, and upon entering the Artist’s room beheld a strange sight. Before them they beheld the statue of a young man of rare and wonderful beauty, and adoringly prostrate at his feet an old man of wrinkled and loathsome visage. And carved upon the marble pedestal was this inscription: “The Beauty That Endureth Forever.” Cries of admiration broke from the painted lips of the fashionable young men of the King’s court, for never before had they seen such a dazzling creature. “Truly, it is beautiful,” said the King, “but it has not the expression of true Art. It is not as precise as Science nor as lasting as Knowledge. It has not the depths of Wisdom nor the purity of Truth.” And he and his young followers left. Late that night Robbers crept into the silent rooms and stole the glowing jewels from the statue and made away with the tissued golden robes. And as the years passed by, the body and idol decayed together, for none would bury him who worshipped a foreign God. The Business College of Tomorrow— TODAY! In the Centre of Downtown Winnipeg DAY and EVENING CLASSES in CONTINUOUS SESSION Manitoba Commercial College 21

Page 25 text:

How to (x)u l J’histndlL. awL Qn kwiOL Jh obqA. By Carol Palmer It’s quite an experience, being a woman theolog. It means invading what has been traditionally a man’s field, and that always takes a certain amount of audacity. I first encountered the stern realities of the situ¬ ation when I entered United College for second year Arts. Now, whether one is male or female, to become a candidate for the ministry means that one must appear for examination before a committee of Pres¬ bytery. After I had been greeted with almost em¬ barrassing warmth by the chairman, and after some of the committee members had made polite inquiries as to the location of my mission fields of 1951 and 1952, one of the gentlemen felt it incumbent upon him to inject a serious note into the discussion. Had I really considered the serious nature of what, as a woman, I was about to undertake? Did I realize the difficulties I must face from possibly anti-feminist congregations? Somewhat subdued, I retreated fol¬ lowing the brief interview, only to find a dear old gentleman of the committee hurrying after me. I was to pay no attention to the last speaker: he, the dear old gentleman, was sure I would get along very well! Shortly afterwards came what the theologs call their annual “retreat,” which is a day when all those itending to spend their lives in the ministry go out in the country somewhere and indulge in such tomfoolery as soft-ball, rugby, and a theological (in the sense of being participated in by theologs) sing¬ song, which is like no other sing-song on earth. That particular “retreat” it rained (I can only recall one such occasion when it didn’t), but rugby went on just the same. Not being athletic, I stood around watching until someone suggested a game of catch. Three of the likewise rugby-disinclined joined me in an exciting game of catch, using a volley ball. I rubbed aching muscles for days afterwards. I pass lightly over my Arts days, not because they were uneventful or unimportant, but because there were plenty of other women there. Except in the Greek class! In Greek IA there were three of us, but two decided that one year of Greek was enough. In Grek II, I knew the men of the class so well that I didn’t mind being the only woman. One always has to bear in mind that men are, despite occasional evidence to the contrary, human. I didn’t even mind when they made a few jokes at my expense. And how did it happen that when it was my turn to trans¬ late I found myself reading, “But beware of men . . . ”? One doesn’t like to be thought of as a liability in a theological class, but there are times when it is so, nevertheless. It is good to have as a professor a man who tells jokes in class, but it is intriguing, not to say frustrating, to be told that he used to tell much better jokes when there were no women present. In order to be a successful woman theolog, it is well to be humble, quiet and inconspicuous. One ought to remember that the men of the class will hardly forgive one the heinous crime of reading a book from one of our book lists. It is even a bit suspect to have essays and assignments done on time. If one commits these grievous errors, one is not really a member of the fellowship. But please don’t take me too seriously! I love being a woman theolog. And when discussion in our classes gets down to the deep things of God and the Christian religion, I don’t have to pretend to humil¬ ity. I know how small and inadequate I am, and I know that I am privileged to be a part of a theo¬ logical class. Despite the shortcomings and human weaknesses of my classmates, I feel, somehow, that the future of the Church is safe. God can, and will, use such men in the building of His kingdom. I can laugh at them, I can criticize them, I can disagree with them, but underneath it all, I have a good healthy respect for them. AH, WINNIPEG! By S. G. I Spring has sprung, The grass has riz, I wonder where My hip-boots is. II In Winnipeg in summertime There’s lots and lots of weeds The lawn is filled with dandelions And dogs of various breeds. There’s dvwt on all my furniture, Dust in what I eat. And Queen Victoria in her chair Wishes like h - she weren’t there And complains she’s beat by heat. III Autumn in Winnipeg! Rouse the town crier! The mayor is roasting On a leaf-pyre. IV I think that I shall never see A winter that appeals to me. A winter when the busses go And aren’t-stopped-with-the-left- rear-wheel-stuck-in-a-spoonful- of-snow. A winter when the birds don’t fly Followed, in thought, by little I. Snow is shoveled by fools like thee . . . MY walk is ten feet under ME. 23