Vermilion School of Agriculture - Yearbook (Vermilion, Alberta Canada)

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Life in the West Wing T JL HE pleasant May day is drawing to a close. You have finished the last round and shut down the tractor for the night. Home to supper, then a quick change, and you are in the old fliver on your way to the dance, with the only girl in the world telling you what a perfectly w o o n nderful driver you are. A bell rings faintly far off. and you wonder idly what it is. After a considerable time you arrive at the dance, and presently you are floating across the floor to the dreamy strains of a waltz. Suddenly you feel a jab in the ribs, and someone yells, “Hey! snap out of it, yuh big stiff, the bell went twenty minutes ago.’’ You awake to the grim reality of ten short minutes before break¬ fast, and the awful realization that the door will be locked two minutes after Grace is said. You break all existing speed records getting dressed, and as you grab for your shaving kit you mentally resolve to get an alarm clock before another day catches you late for breakfast. A mad rush to the wash-room, where you see ten boys using eight basins and ten more waiting. By the time you get a basin you have thirty minutes to go, so you leave the shaving until after breakfast and, believe it or not, you generally get there on time. Indeed, it can truthfully be said that there is a greater display of real speed in the five minutes preceding breakfast than at any other time during the day. After breakfast the gang congregate in the smoking room. Dark rumors are afloat. It seems that our doughty hand-spring expert and his good natured assistant from Irma are going to lead a punitive ex¬ pedition against certain refractory students, with the fell purpose of giving them some first hand information on initiation. The proposed victims catch the rumor and retire to confer among themselves. The gang slowly disperses. Suddenly a rubber band snaps and a pellet hits the wall, or possibly someone’s face gets in the way. The unfortunate owner of the face reaches for his weapon and ammunition as he dives for the doubtful protection of a chair back, and the air grows thick with flying bits of paper, orange peel, or anything else which comes handy. The warning bell brings this to an abrupt close, for fifty cents buys a ticket to the show just as easily as it pays a fine for being late for class besides giving much more satisfaction to the owner of the afore¬ said fifty cents. Generally someone forgets a book, and comes tip¬ toeing back into the wing to be speeded on his way by the housekeeper, should she happen to see him. When noon comes there is a scramble for the post office. The un¬ fortunates whose boxes are empty return in disorder, loudly declaring that they’ll never write another letter. With this off their chests, they sit down and start one or two before dinner. If this happens to be Wednesday, there is great speculation as to whom you will have to eat your meals with for the next week. When the bell rings there is a scramble, quiet but none the less desperate, for clothes pins and for the seats farthest away from the server’s place. A subdued tustle is noticed at one table where the lad with the fan on top of his head refuses to take his turn at serving. This has an interesting sequel after dinner when the obdurate Scotty is shoved under a shower without the usual formality of removing his clothes. If there happens to be pie for dinner, a few of the best long distance eaters will be seen waiting outside the door on the boys’ side after the meal is over. After a nerve-racking wait, the staff rises and departs. While the door is still closing after them, there is a rush from the west side, the fastest sprinter getting most of the left-over pie. At least, that is the theory. We strongly suspect that the little kitchen girl with the big smile has a soft place in her heart for some of the sprinters, judging by the fact that the last comer often departs with the biggest piece of pie. Of course, tumbling is hard work, and probably necessitates extra nourishment. At one-thirty the boys depart for Carpentry or Blacksmithing as the powers-that-be have decreed, or perchance, it is to rack their weary brains (if any) over chemical equations which refuse to be balanced, or to speculate on the best way to hang a person by means of pulley and lever until the awesome “Parallelogram of Forces’ is sprung on them, at which they quietly swoon away. There are generally a few brief skirmishes in the corridors before supper, but the boys are too fatigued by the heavy day’s work to do more than lie on the bed and wait for supper. When the bell rings, fatigue is forgotten in the rush to the dining room. After supper, there is a general trek to the gym to watch the would-be champs, battle for the basketball cup, or possibly to watch Bob demon¬ strate hand springs, fore and aft, for the benefit of his troupe of aspiring converts, who comment on how easy it looks, then try it for themselves and generally succeed in landing on that portion of their anatomy upon which they are accustomed to sit, while the lights dance the heel and toe before their astonished eyes. (If you don’t believe this, try it once.) Not all, we hasten to add, attend to watch the performance. You may verify this by glancing up in the balcony any evening. However, the balconyites appear to enjoy themsleves, so that is that. They are there, by the way, because intimate parking in front of the radio is frowned on by the matron, as some of the boys and girls have discovered. Study hour comes all too soon, and one of the staff appears on the scene to herd the crowd out of .he gym. There is a slow and reluctant dispersal to the various rooms, not forgetting the smoking rooms. The term “Study Hour’’ is a misnomer in most cases, though, of course, various pillow fights must be carried on more or less quietly. The fact that these scrimmages are against the rules adds a gust which would otherwise be lacking. The lid is off at 10 p.m. and almost anything is apt to happen to the unwary one who walks boldly through a door with¬ out reconnoitring to locate any sniper who happens to be hiding around the corner, sling shot in hand. The fun reaches its greatest height about the time the “Lights Out’’ bell gees, and it passes unnoticed. It is surprising, though, how the sound of a hard heel on the stairs will dis¬ perse a howling mob who failed to hear a bell that would wake the dead. When the door opens, the corridor is empty, and all is quiet on the western front. And so it goes. In the immortal words of Shakespeare, or some¬ body, “ It’s a great life, if you don’t weaken.’’ R.L. [ Page twenty-six ]

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ThanlV ' fiir the Buggy UuLe { Page twenty-five ]

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CECIL WARNER, Vermilion Come greet this lad of silver tongue, He dearly loves his chickens; More of his prowess might be sung. But he’d give me the dickens. HELEN HECKO, Clover Bar This diminutive damsel named Helen, 1 could whisper. But that would be tellin’ Cn the basketball floor, She keeps all in a roar, With stampin’, and cheerin’, and yellin’. WASSILY HLJDZ, Sexsmith Heie’s another Northern wight, though not a giant in stature. He works away, both night and day; to do so is his nature. Now choose for me a rhyme with Hudz; make it both apt and funny; A jolly lad, he’ s ne’er in ruts, he’ll toss you for your money. (read across) HAROLD HAMMOND, Westlcck Vermilion claims the V.S.A. Wes dock is proud of Harold ’s deeds. He spends his summers making hay, His winters over grains and weeds. ANNIE LITWEN, Eldorena Annie Litwen from near Eldorena Is the last word in cooks, have you seen her- At making bread raise She’s beyond common praise. So her hubby will never get leaner. MYRCN LATAM, Bremner Myron Latam of Clover Bar Came to school and will go far; He has such a tender heart That every girl secures a part. (read down) l Page twenty-seven ]