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

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BLUE AND WHITE Lost in a Fog Have you ever been lost in a fog, com¬ pletely lost without any idea which way is which ? Last summer I had such an experience. One night near the end of August we went over to visit some fidends about half a mile across the lake from our cottage. When we left about eight o’clock, there was a light mist beginning to settle over the lake. It gave the shore an almost unearthly look; the pine and cedar showed a pale grey through the filmy curtain in the fading light. Several hours passed; it was time to go home. The mist was no longer, but instead, a heavy black fog had enveloped everything. With an ordinary flash-light we could see hard¬ ly three feet. Knowing it was only half a mile, and thinking we knew the way as well as we knew our own names, we started out. The powerful searchlight on our launch was almost useless as it penetrated the inky blackness on¬ ly about ten yards. As we went along we felt as if we were going in a straight line but when my brother looked at the wake we real¬ ized that we had been going in circles and that we had no idea of where we were. We were only about a hundred yai ' ds from the shore in almost every direction, but we might as well have been a hundred miles. It was absolutely still; if we stopped the motor, we could hear the swells fi ' om our boat car¬ essing the shore; if we called, we could hear the echoes resounding from all sides three or four times. It was ridiculous. Here we were lost in a fog in a part of the lake we had known all our lives. When we called, the echoes seemed to mock us and laugh at us. It was worse than writing an examination and mixing up every¬ thing you know because we knew the way home better than almost any examination. After an hour and a half, through the dark¬ ness we saw a light. Still we could not find ourselves. One or two mor ' e lights appeared. The fog was lifting! A little while later, ahead of us, loomed a tall dark object. It was the island we had left almost two hours before! Now that we had our bearings and now that the fog was lifting, we were able to find our way home. We were not frightened by our adventure, but it made us realize how easily ocean-going vessels could be lost, in a fog. Margaret Bartlet, 11 A. One; Well, at least I’ve passed in Latin. Other; Honestly? One: Don’t be inquisitive. “What were you doing after the accid¬ ent?” “Oh, scraping up an old acquaintance.” Page Thirty-four Dictator’s Slave—Poland, 1941 I am a slave; my beople all At sound of war answered our country’s call; I helped them, too. We fought against a tyrant black, Who ravaged, burned and slew; When we began the fight we knew Revenge would not be slack. I am a slave; I yield myself before their might, Yet they wo do the deeds they know not right Are greater slaves than I. Ground now beneath the heel of their oppressor, My people are but dumb; Yet was a day when they used faculties That now seem numb; That day will come again; Some day there’ll be a world of men all free— A present hint of true democracy Shall grow and grow. And though it now be small, yet it shall cover all, And everyone shall have real liberty. Martha Vance, 12A. GLORY Three battleships, three cruisers stood Before proud Tarento; The flower of Italian pride Was ranged to make a show— Before the evening sun went down, That pride had lost its glow. For British airmen flew from Crete To cripple her “great” power, And proved how feeble was her fleet, All in a single hour. Proud Italy, lament your loss. It shows how strong your foe. Oh Britain, and firm little Greece, With honest pride you glow. Martha Vance, 72A. THE WONDERFUL HORSE O horse, you are a wonderful thing, No buttons to push, no horn to honk; You start yourself, no clutch to slip, No spark to miss, no gears to strip; No license buying every year, With plates to screw on front and rear; No gas bills climbing up each day, Stealing the joy of life away; No speed cops chugging in your rear, Yelling summons in your ear. Your inner tubes are all o.k. And thank the Lord they stay that way; Your spark plugs never miss and fuss; Your motor never makes us cuss. Your frame is good for many a mile; Your body never changes style. Your wants are few and easy met; You’ve something on the auto yet.

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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

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BLUE AND WHITE POETRY “Dawn Interlude” Anne King The wild wind tossed the waves up high, The mighty tempest roared; A seagull r ose with a startled cry, A tiny speck ’gainst the battered sky, Passing the struggling ship’s mast by, As to the land it soared. The shoremen gazed through the gath’ring gloom With strained and anxious eyes To where the ship, ’midst the breakers’ boom, Fought hard to save from a dreaded doom. Her men, while the sea, a wat’ry tomb Tried hard to claim its prize. Aboard the ship no hand was still— But night was almost through; The helmsman, fighting with all his skill Felt the faithful ship bend to his will; Seaward she turned, and a thankful thrill Ran through her gallant crew. A rosy glow’ from eastward came To drive away the storm; The sea, now wearied by her game, Was lying quiet, dormant, tame; The sun turned the distant sails to flame— Another day was born. Skies Defiled Mary Jane Luxford Enchanted lake, I saw thee there, Caught up in scarves of mist so thin; So soft and sweet the morning air. No wrinkle marred thy flawless skin. The ink of sky was not yet dry, For there, up in the guileless blue. Death wrote with blood, in letters high, Stark terror wrought by bombs, too true. 0 bird! I saw thee surge along On brave strong winds—and then You poured your liquid lilting song; Your message was of love to men. In other lands the birds come down, Demented creatures of the night, In flocks that blot a quiet town And leave it crumpled, crushed, alight. Great man made birds, how dare you fly To burn, destroy? What fools we be! Why can’t we see, God meant the sky For birds that sing to you and me? The Little Brass Tag on the Banks of the Rhine Graham Armstrong All that is left of her wonderful son Is a little brass tag; All of her baby that shouldered a gun Is a little brass tag. He that so proudly marched off in the line, Clear-eyed and smiling, and splendid and fine, Is home once again on the Banks of the Rhine, Just a little brass tag. He with the eyes that were friendly and blue Is a little brass tag; He with the shoulders so square and so true Is a little brass tag. He that came forward to fall with the flag; To ride with a sabre, or march with a Krag; You’ll find him wnth thousands shipped home in a bag, Just a little brass tag. Page Thirty-five