United Colleges - Vox Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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Olie dlt u fc An elbow jostles, and a scowl demands a seat on a bus, And people scorn a laugh at a restaurant table, And a day is lost if the toast is cold at eight o’clock, And the evening too if the picture tube is weak . . . Yet, the fleeting glimpse of a smile in a crowd Is reflected on my face. Viewed from above, the pawns slide past As an escalator in a department store. The sides are steep and smooth, discouraging all but the few Who appear as dust of gold among grit of sand. Piercing voices echo over the dusty yard And the overturned garbage can. Yet, the western blush on the sky at night Fills me with unspoken joy. The pawns fo rget all but Self, their god, Working like drones to achieve the twenty-one inch screen, Or the two hundred dollar fur jacket. Individuality is the Big Sin; People must catch the same bus At the same time At the same corner To get to the same office To do the same things —’Til coffee break. Yet, a child chuckling over a baby spoon Makes the day slip by in peace. To slide to the bottom is so very easy: Where one is swept up in hate against a reformer or anyone who prods an inert conscience, Where a clean little shop is ignored because its proprietor’s English is not too good, Where a lovely orange jacket is only fifteen dollars, (And besides, all the other kids are wearing them.) Yet, the fleeting glimpse of a smile in a crowd Is reflected in my heart. —Keith Black 27

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rolling landscape. Pancho must have run nearly two miles. Johnny pulled him to a stumbling halt and slipped out of the saddle. Pancho stood puffing through dilated nostrils, head hanging, reins trailing in the dust. Sweat oozed out from under the saddle skirts, formed into little rivulets, ran down his heaving flanks and dripped to the ground. Johnny didn’t know what to do. He had lost a valuable horse through his foolishness and might have killed another in his panic. He remembered the lecture Uncle Ted had given him when George and he had been caught racing their horses one hot afternoon. “You shouldn’t expect any animal to run on a day like this, especially those two horses. They’re both soft and well-up in years,” he said. “You can’t feed a horse grass and then work him as though he got three gallons of oats every day.” Uncle Ted always became awfully angry when¬ ever he saw anyone mistreating an animal — or disobeying orders, thought Johnny. He was always fair, but it didn’t lessen the penalty any. Johnny got to his feet. He had to find Quicksand and get him back before he was missed. Even if he recovered the horse his uncle would punish him severely if he ever found out! There wasn’t really much reason to believe Quicksand had come in this direction. Johnny felt he had to look somewhere anyway. He just couldn’t give up. Tracking was impossible in this country. Twitch-grass, burned by the sun, and cement-like soil bore no imprint of those who passed along the way. So Johnny started out hopefully scanning the landscape for a sign of the missing horse. At first he stood in his stirrups for a better view at the top of each rise of ground. As the day became hotter and Pancho’s steps slowed, Johnny looked less and less. Pancho plodded on and on, chosing his own way through the broken country. Johnny closed his eyes and let him go without knowing or caring where he went. Johnny was conscious of the stifling heat of the sun as it moved slowly overhead and then commenced its gradual decline in the heavens. Towards late after¬ noon Johnny was roused. Pancho seemed to be walk¬ ing a little faster, Johnny thought. Later he broke into a jog-trot and neighed. As they crested a hill Johnny saw why. They were back at the Anderson’s. Pancho automatically turned in and trotted over to the watering trough beside the barn. George hurried out of the house when he heard the sound of horse hooves. “Hey, Johnny. Where’ve you been?” cried George as he ran across the yard to the barn. “Gee whiz, I’ve been looking out for you all day. I knew something was wrong when I found that palimino over here this morning and ...” “You found Quicksand,” said Johnny anxiously. “Sure. He was standing outside the barn when I came out to do the chores this morning. Figured that something must have happened, because you never let the horse out of your sight, so I hid him in the old chicken house till I was finished my chores and took him over to your place . . . say, why did you ride away when I saw you this morning?” But Johnny couldn’t answer George just then. He’d fainted. The strain of the day had been too much for one small boy with a big problem. —Phyllis N. Laking 26

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s. now The wind howled around the door today trying to enter; I didn’t let him have his way so in defiance he swirled the snow against the pane in tiny whirlwinds of white; he piled the snow up high by the barn and dressed the fences in damp white lumps of wet snow, and all the while he fought the pane trying to get in at me, trying to get in the cabin, but I out-foxed him — I burnt the cabin down. —Valerie Isaac He exists In a cardboard shack, With a broken window Stuffed with paper; Waiting for death. Here, In his narrow world He is free from everything. The people that despise him The taunting children And the world that passed him by. Not dangerous, Nor obnoxious. Only, A hired man Not worth hiring. —Dempsey Valgardson —Keith Black d Lost W)o IQovnovnbor Upon the ridge, the sun its fingers drew, At men who on this day were going to die; While in the valley, hidden still from view, The foe lay waiting for the battle cry. And as the sun continued ’cross the sky, Th’impartial earth lay waiting tense and still, And then the heavy shells began to fly, While man in ignorance dug in for the kill. Now years have passed, and on that very hill, The daisies grow where man once gave his life, And yearly now, the world remembers still And nurtures yet the hate that caused the strife. For man in all his strength has not yet learned To fight the cause, the effect of which is spurned. S, OCl !ety yninns O no Cramped On a metal cot His thin body Looks jagged and broken. His face, a time-worn map Of blotches and a thousand veins. Each blotch a drunken battle lost Each vein an empty bottle. He sleeps, And when he doesn’t He works, Just long enough For the price of one more drink. 28