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

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BLUE AND WHITE Second Prize in the Art Contest—Beatrice Wilkinson. 9H. Scratch W ork. et despite all these complications. They manage to carry on, Still taking off marks for talking. (jum-chewing or crossing the lawn. Though underneath they are human. Keen they must have gone to school once; Where now they have their B.A.’s, Perhaps , long ago. they were a dunce. So a feeling of mute affection Exists ’tween teacher and student. Though they never would admit it— It seemingly wouldn’t he prudent. And thus their lives are wended. I hese mortals whose standards are high; These beleaguered men and women. The teachers of W.C.I. HERE SCHOFIEEI). I2H MIDNIGHT LAKE If one were to view Midnight Lake in the sunlight of broad daytime, one would be completely mystified as to the origin ol its name: for the sun penetrates its translucent depths in broad bands of gold to play gaily on the white rock bottom. Sandy white shores reflect the light with blinding brilliance, and the surrounding vegetation strewn with beautiful flowers, bears no resemblance to the blackness or midnight. In fact, one can search for hours amid beautiful surroundings and find no suggestion of nocturnal qualities. It is only in the midnight stillness that one begins to realize the peculiar aptness of the name, for midnight is an hour of darkness and mystery. When T first entered the vicinity of the lake, all was darkness—nothing could be seen. Then out of the night shrilled the eerie, terrifying cry of the loon, and a white haze, followed by the rim of a great silver ball, appeared in the east. As the moon sailed slowly over the tad spear-like tops of darkly silhouetted pines, a silver path reached out of the blackness and extended across the pol¬ ished ebony surface of the lake. Little waves rippled in regular patterns over the otherwise dead-calm surface, causing it to glimmer in the light of the silver Pajre Thirty-Eight

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BLUE AND WHITE placed in a large, dimly lighted room. Robert did not know that Laura had been brought along with Acme, so you can imagine his surprise when he walked in, Laura pleaded with Robert for their release, but Robert was not going to he cheated of revenge on the one person who was in the way of his happiness. At last, in desperation, Laura begged him to let Acme go, and kill her. When Robert heard this a change immediately took place in him. Laura was risking her life for the man she loved. He would show his love for her by risking his. Untying them quickly he told them to leave. As soon as the back door closed the gang walked in, Robert tried to hold them off till Laura and Acme got away. Fie suc¬ ceeded. but was killed in the attempt. And thus ends the story of a man who lived in tragedy and died in tragedy, a man who was a victim of life. FRANK KRAMIETCH, 9K WINNERS OF THE BLUE AND WHITE POETRY CONTEST First Prize FLIGHT The airscrew whirls, the engine coughs, and whines, Then hursts into a roaring sea of sound. Yearning the prison earth to leave—all signs Of bonds to lose. Forward, inch by inch it crawls at first— Faster,—the stick pushed forward— ' tail is up— Faster, the ground shoots by-—for flight I thirst-— I’m off the ground ! The craft gains height in leaps and hounds, and flies, A thing of grace, a bird set free to seek Ether ell freedom in the windy skies. To live again ! Soaring up and up through heavenly blue Of timeless, boundless, weightless space. all mine. I ' m free to fly, forgetting grief 1 knew When hound to earth. Flying high, so high above the earth Immune from all the cares I knew below Untouched by strife Lve known since birth. ' Tis then ! live! RILL ORO, 13B Second Prize THE LONELY PINE On a high and rocky mountain Stands a tall and gnarled pine—- Her branches of green, many sights have seen As she grows on the mountain alone. Her friends one by one have fallen Beneath the blow of the axe. But alone now she stands And guards her lands Like a sentinel at a gate. The winds have slashed at her branches. The storms have torn at her sides. Rut she stands and laughs at their mighty staffs As she grows on the mountain alone. In the quiet cool of the evening The birds come to rest on her boughs. And she lulls them to sleep In the quiet deep Of evening, when all is at rest, ANNE SMUTCH, IIA Third Prize ODE TO OUR TEACHERS Their ' s is a job most tiresome, One that ' s fatiguing and hard. They have to battle the jokers. Those guvs w ho are quite a card. They try to control their tempers. But alas, quite often they don ' t, W hen opposed by some dumb student. Who seemingly can ' t or won ' t Do all the homework assigned him ; He gives some flabby excuse. Like forgetting to take his book home, Or living away out in Puce. Page Thirty-Seven

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BLUE AND WHITE path that seemed to beckon the observer to step out onto the jewelled trail. In the air was an atmosphere of tenseness. Sparkling pinpoints of light reflected from tiny stars, stared up from the deep water like thousands of sentinel eyes watching for the one who dared intrude upon this scene of perfect solitude. Then, suddenly, the moon dipped out of sight and darkness enveloped all. Xo vestige of former beauty remained — nothing but inkv blackness. T.W.O. ORPHEUS He had nothing to be afraid of; that was certain. Certainly, no one could dis¬ cover his crime until long after he had left. Vet the feeling clung to him, as it had many times before, that somewhere, somehow he had made a mistake—a mis¬ take that might cause him to lose his life. True, he should have been hardened against such ideas, but he had never been me ant to lead such a life as he was lead¬ ing. Yet. he was glad to do such things, because it meant keeping “her She had married him with the impres¬ sion that he was moderately wealthy, but soon found otherwise, to her discontent. Since he could not have borne to have her leave him, he went out that first night to gain money any way in which he could; and the quickest, easiest way to wealth is crime! At first the pitiful convulsions of his victims’ dying bodies had sickened him somewhat, but when he arrived home and saw the happiness in “her” eyes when she saw the money in his hand, he decided anything was worth going through to gain her love and content. He soon found himself climbing a familiar flight of stairs, walking down a familiar hall and entering a small, homely apartment. He opened the door noisily and stood on the threshold waiting for a salutation from his wife but none came. He called—no answer! He listened—ttn- mistakeably he heard a faint cry of des¬ pair. It was she; he knew it. Only “her” voice could sound so much like the tink¬ ling of silver bells, only “her” ruby lips could have emitted a cry so full of pain and remorse, lie raced from room to room, vainly searching, until at last he hit upon the idea of searching her closet. He rushed to the wardrobe and pulled open the door. A wave of oppressive heat met his chest, volumes of choking smoke met his nostrils and a brilliant red light met his eyes. He coughed and gasped and gazed with watery eyes into the interior of the closet. There in the floor, as though a trapdoor had been lifted from it. was a flight of stone stairs from which poured forth the smoke and glare. Again he heard “her” voice, but not crying now, laughing a horrible, maniacal laugh, and another voice laughed with hers. That other voice seemed to harness all the evil of the universe in its inane roars. A de¬ sire to have “her” back burned in him. He descended the stairs. There at the bottom of the stairs “she” stood with her real husband, with the boiling brimstone bubbling at their feet. ROY ASTON, 12A CARRY ON! Beyond the wide, vast, open sea, Brave men fought and fell: They fought for you. they fought for me. They died in living Hell. And on the sea itself they fought. And on the sea they fell. The flag of freedom waves aloft. Battle days are done. We must carry on where they left off Although the war we won. Take up the torch and raise it high— We have not yet begun. BUD JACKSON. 13B A PRAYER Thank you, O Lord, for this domain. Which stretches from the Hast to West, From mountains garnished with purple hues. To harbours calm, our steamers’ rest. For golden wheat, and furrowed fields. Page Thirtv-Ninc