Walkerville Collegiate Institute - Blue and White Yearbook (Windsor, Ontario Canada)

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BLUE AND WHITE But others have had it worse so we mustn’t complain. Our Vicar had been inducted the Sunday before and was glad that the school opposite was not bomb¬ ed, because there two to three hundred homeless people were sheltering” Her brother Fred has recently been ordained, now he works hard all day and night doing A.R.P. work. Now let me tell you what they do with some of the money. At work there is a Red Cross Fund and also a Spitfire Fund. At home they put so much away each week hoping that one day their church will be rebuilt. Also they have Safety First Money. To save waste paper many English people now use their envelopes more than once. Winnie has received a letter end of the shelter down if the door gets blocked. We are hoping to have bunks put in our Anderson and perhaps we may be lucky enough to have it concret¬ ed out as well. The letter goes one, “I am now go¬ ing to get a few minutes sleep as I only had three and three-quarter hours yes¬ terday and I do not want to be a mess in the morning, for that would please Hitler, and I’d hate to do that. We over here in this safe country should be glad that we do not have to put up with the merciless bombings that our bulldog friends do, but we should help them with every ounce of energy we possess. Nancy Dayus, XI-B with the envelope thicker than the letter itself—that particular envelope had been used ten time. Then Will joined “His Majesty’s Ser¬ vice” and he was married shortly after. I even received a sample of the mater¬ ial the dresses were to be made from and later a picture of the wedding group Then her letters about air raids. She wrote one letter in the corner of her garden, her feet resting on their Ander¬ son on which vegetables grow. She has often been awakened during the night, has dressed quickly by candle¬ light, gathered their gas masks, scram¬ bled hurriedly for the shelters. The men remain outside until gun firing is heard because they have to be very careful of the limited supply of air. Here is a plan of their shelter. I quote: “At the front there is a huge tank of water, then nearer to the shel¬ ter is an anti-splinter blockade. A wet blanket is right in front of the door just in case there is a gas attack. The And¬ erson is entered by a small pair of steps. On the floor is a mattress on which the MY HOBBY - STAR GAZING No, I wasn’t dropped on my head when a baby, at least, I don’t think so. Nor did I at an early age dsplay remark¬ ed precocity. No, star-gazing is my hob¬ by, not because of some hidden mutual quirk, but because I like it. Because I like it—why? Because I find in my hobby relaxation, pleasure, opportunities for thought, study and dis¬ covery. When you first trace out the outline of Taurus you feel what Colum¬ bus felt so many years ago—the pride of discovery. When you realize the im¬ mensity of the universe, when you learn that it takes hundreds of years, yes— years, for the lght from many stars to reach our world and contrast this know¬ ledge wi ' th your own insignificance, your egotism flattens out like a pancake, and a very thin pancake, at that. Star-gazing is like saving pennies in a piggy bank—the more you put in, the more you get out. The more you read astronomy books, the more you study those “diamonds sparkling on the black velvet of the night”, the more enjoy- lady from next door and her baby are ment you will get out of this hobby. Un¬ sleeping. There are two forms on oneSii like many pastimes, astronomy for the side on which we are resting and oppos-Li-Jkamateur is not expensive; a library book ite these are small stools. Around theMMof star-charts, a flashlight, a flexible side of the shelter are very brightly col-HQneck (for craning backwards) and a oured rubber covers. We can push one great deal of patience—these are the re- Page Thirty-two

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BLUE AND WHITE BRITISH GUESTS Front Row: Beryl Robinson, Betty Ramsay, Maureen Lonsdale, Barbara Hughes. Back Row: John Lee, Margaret Pike, Noel Carew, Peter Daniels, Dorothy Burdall. “LETTERS FROM HOME” I started corresponding with Winni- fred Allam during the summer of 1937. Winnie is an average girl from an average English home, living n the ever splendd city of London. Although she has just turned seventeen her services have been required by the government for war purposes. She has two brothers and one sister. Many letters have crossed the ocean. Then the war came and with it letters that I feel are worth repeating to you. Her own words can describe her feel¬ ings much better than I can. I quote: “We have been rushed home from school to give notes to our parents about a meeting to-night. In case of war we shall be sent to a place, which our parents will not even know, and we shall not be able to write.” Then she was evacuated! Again I quote: “It’s surprising how I miss my home. The arguments we have had all seem so silly now I wonder why I was so ‘wild’ at things they said. I appreci¬ ate the love and tenderness I then took for granted. I pine for my home, my Lovely home!” In England the women and girls knit a great deal, supplying their own wool. Winnie was very surprised to hear that we don’t buy ours. After a time Winnie went back to London, stopped school, but continued with a night course and then she went to work. At noon she would walk around the tower of London. Often she has met some of our Canadian soldiers. In the same letter I heard that her sister’s boy friend had been killed in ac¬ tion. The next letter goes on: “Our home is still intact although there are some places near that have been affected by bombs and land mines. The only thing that has happened to us is that a balloon broke loose and gave us a fright when we suddenly saw a great silvery thing tapping at our win¬ dow about 12 o’clock one night—a few tiles and bricks came down with the bal¬ loon but that isn’t much to worry about. “Our church was bombed, and the ground underneath our shelter shook. Page Thirty one j

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BLUE AND WHITE quirements for exploration into another world—into other worlds, worlds of de¬ light. Look, do you see the Big Dipper? Well, take a toboggan-slide of its hand¬ le and there—do you see that bright, orange-red star? That is Arcturus. Slide off the handle of the Big Dipper? Don’t bother to say it—I know what you’re thinking: She must have been dropped on her head when a baby. Eva McGuire, 13A. A Visit to Camp Borden The Sunday I visited my father at Camp Borden was clear and sunny. A paved road wound through perfectly beautiful groves of evergreens, some of them planted by boy scouts as a re-for- estation project. It was a pleasant sur¬ prise, as I had imagined the place bar¬ ren and sandy. The barriers were up as Sunday is visitors’ day and many soldiers with their wives or girls were wandering a- round. We drove past rows of huts, some large, some small, with each reg iment designated by name. Rows of tanks, grim, forbidding, but comforting, too, squatted in front of their hangars, waiting for Monday’s round of training. The rifle ranges are some distance from the living quarters. On the day of my visit the snow was melting and it looked extremely wet. The “Sally Ann” canteen, run by the Salvation Army, the Y.M.C.A., and the K of C canteens were very popular. We were told that the boys could have their pick of three movies free, on almost any night. Sunday afternoons, however pleasant, don’t last forever, and so Dad took me into the Armoured Corps Headquarters mess and gave me tea. As seven-thirty is the dead-line for lady visitors in camp we returned to Barrie, the trees and the snow looking even lovelier in the soft twilight. Barbara Sales. Tom Twitch, Grave Digger If one had known him intimately, one might hav e healized that his ap¬ parent bad humour was the result of what was meant to be a kindness on the part of a friend. Hitherto, Mr. Twitch had had a cheery word for all. His round, rosy face and straightforward blue eyes were topped with a shock of carroty-brown hair. He was known to most men, and though his slight lameness kept him from taking a very active part in their activities, sometimes his friends would join him in digging his graves. This was the reason for his change in character, for Tom had had a busy week, digging about six graves. In cemeteries, in England, a grave belongs to the family and, as it is deep, holds five or six coffins. In Tom’s sixth grave, he had had an accident. His pick had gone through the coffin below. A few minutes afterwards, it became nec¬ essary for Tom to fetch some tools. Meanwhile, a friend appeared, and not seeing Tom, but noting his unfinished work, and noting also that it was nearly dark, hopped down to give tom a hand. He completed the grave and was just climbing out when he heard an uneven tread. Tom’s friend popped his head out and innocently said “Boo!”. Down went the tools, off shot Tom, oyer graves, over tombstones, wall and highway. His friend, seeing this, did likewise, in the opposite direction. Tom was never the same again. He had dug his last grave. I suppose that hole was preying on his mind, and he thought, in the darkness, that his friend was a ghost. Anyway, by the next morning, sur- mounting Tom’s nervous blue eyes and pale face, was a shock of snow-white hair. From then on Tom jumped when spoken to, shrieked at the least provoc¬ ation, shuffled along rapidly instead of wolking, and most of his waking hours were spent in the Black Swan. Helen Clegg. Page Thirty three