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

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BLUE AND WHITE 1947 25 ♦ » SECOND PRIZE DRAWING—TIE—LOIS CULLEN A HYMN OF THE HOMEWORK (Willi apologies lo Sir Arthur Sullivan) My homework, my homework. I wish I ne ' er was born; All night I’ve worked on homework till hours of early morn. Mon fraiKais est terrible. Math fills my heart with fear. I ' m scared to think of Easter, to which we ' re drawing near. My homewor k, my homework, at home I ' ve got to stay; I cannot go out skating. I have no time for play. My science is not finished. I ' m slipping it appears. When I think of Miss Bergoitie. my eyes are filled with tears. For those who give the homework, have gone their happy way To shows or the arena: they ' ve lots of time for play. I hope their ears are burning: no sleep come to their eyes: (lod make them homework conscious and home¬ work minimize. - KV AXt ' .KI.IX K DARKER. lUA. LINGUAL EXPERIENCES Until that fateful fall of ' 43. I had as much desire to speak French or quote Latin as to meet an Australian Bushman. Necessity and “villains.” namely, the teachers of Walkervillc Collegiate Institute, changed these conditions. Till this time, my French vocabulary consisted of a few glib phrases such as: Parlez-vous I ' ran- cais?” and touche! The meanings, however, were not contained therein. The first day at W.C.I. a Mr. Waddell burst into noire classe de francais with the words: “Bonjour, la classe. X’eedless to say. little hearts went fluttering and minds were set busy devis¬ ing translations for such a difficult passage. We progressed, and it was not too long before we could converse in tortured French on some everyday subjects. As I look back I realize that we must have sounded like this: How goes she to-day?” I go to the house of the school and am busy standing up straight all around the morning ' The book 1 begged you to myself lend, he came, and to you I thank much but truly are you not out put?” Xo more of it talk: never talk again. It was nothing yet. It to me makes much happiness it to do for you. After this, our class was not the same. In us was born that lust for higher l earning. We received some with Mr. Klinek. To our vocabu¬ lary were added such sentiments as: la ferine ile nous. ah! ces ponies! , and la belle cam- pagne de Roseland. However, another gloom appeared on the horizon—Latin! Perhaps it was inevitable that such teachers as had taught a living language as if it were dead, should now teach a dead language as if it were buried. From a simple start, the work piled up—de¬ clensions. conjugations, comparatives, passives. I.ivy. Xepos. subjunctives, miscellaneous indirect forms and sequence of tenses—until the weary soul cried out. “Xo more!! Yet who am I to talk—a lowly fourth-former still not able to tell an indirect command from a purpose clause! I must struggle on with the rest: I too must grope for the daylight. Per¬ haps. in later years. I may be able to look back on this as one of the happiest times of my life. To me it seems appropriate that over the main entrance of alma mater there should be a si m saying: Through these portals pass some of the hardest-working students in the country and the luckiest for it. —1( MIX BAR! iEX. I2B. Windsor Public Library

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24 BLUE AX l WHITE 1947 THIRD PRIZE THE LETTER WAS NEVER FINISHED My clearest l’at: I love you . . The pen stopped scratching as Jim paused for a moments reflection. He stirred the ink in the bottle be¬ fore him. and was about to resume his letter when he became aware of the approach of his long-legged, heavily-footed room-mate. lie stuffed his writing paper under a notebook, and. assuming as innocent an expression as possible, smiled up at the solidly-built voting man who bad just entered. What are you up to. Jim? Nothing but a bit of philosophy. Hill. Say. didn’t Mrs. Martin ask you to pick up her new suit on the way home? Curse every hair in the prophet’s beard! Hill exclaimed, lie threw his books into an empty arm-chair, and hurried out of the room. Jim started again: I must see you this week¬ end. Every moment which is not graced by your sweet lips, your lovely hair, your gracious gaze, is like an eternity upon a burning, drought-dried desert. Let me but taste of the sugared cup of reciprocate love, and I. poor beggar, fired with royal wine, shall on to immortality . . . The paper fairly leapt to a place of concealment as a quiet rap at the study door announced a visitor. Precious Patricia! he moaned. It’s the pro¬ fessor. and I haven’t worked out those statistics for him yet. A quarter of tin hour later Jim was alone again. The pen scratched on and on. His rather plain face reddened with a passion of a definitely exothermic nature. Sincerity’s sweet sweat never stood out so noticeably on a busy brow. His eves glowed as his love took to paper like the pro¬ verbial duck to water. A light touch on the shoulder accompanied the words. What fools we mortals be! Jim jumped to bis feet and turned to face a short, confident-looking fellow who had been standing over him. grinning from ear to ear. Sorry to interrupt you. Jim. but I just couldn’t resist, and besides that. be continued in a more serious tone. I have a bit of interest¬ ing information re your impeccable Pat. And what. O Cupid of the light foot anti merry heart, are the tidings you bear of my Princess Patricia? queried Jim. who changed an angry scowl to an inquisitive grin on these last words. My friend, you have been double-dealt: knifed nicely indeed between the twelfth and thirteenth vertebrae. To put it bluntly. Miss Patricia Klane is no longer eligible meat for you. my craven carnivore—she is married. You jest, friend Falstaff, Jim said in un¬ belief. With a line like yours, it’s a miracle you held on to her as long as you did. my most eloquent of elephants. Hut. here—read for your¬ self. and he produced a clipping from a local newspaper which verified his statements. Jim sat mute at his desk for the next hour. Cupid had departed for safer quarters, leaving the thwarted lover to himself. Suddenly he noticed the letter be had been writing. He picked it up. and turning it over, crushed it deliberately in his big bands, lie sought to wring from it all the feeling that bail gone into its creation. He struck a match and held it close to the crumpled little ball. It burned to a crisp on the top of the desk—a burnt offering to a lost love. With a whisper he sent the charred remains billowing away like a cremated caress. AXC.CS MacMILLAX, 12A. SECOND PRIZE DON’T YOU KNOW? Don’t you know you’re beautiful. Young and gay and bright— Don’t on know you’re lovely. Sweet Venusian sprite? Don’t you know you ' re wonderful. Fine and fair and free— Don ' t you know you seem divine. When you ' re close to me: Don ' t you know I love your smile— Tint of sunset skies— l.ove the dancing of your feet. Sparkle of your eyes? Oh. I love you every way. Beauteous goddess of the Day! A. MacMILLAX. 12A. THIRD PRIZE MY SHIP If I owned a boat, big she ' d be. Of course her skipper would likely be me. I ' d hire a crew of lusty young men, Xot too many, just about ten. I ' d have her painted from stem to stern. A safety precaution to prevent sunburn. I ' d hate my ship in misery to be, She-might refuse to sail the sea. There in the corner with a huge padlock. Would be my chest, and on top a clock. To tell me when the noon hour comes. So to rouse the rest of my lazy chums. I ' d have my dinner in royal style. They ' d smell the onions for nearly a mile. And just for an occasional afternoon spree. I ' d serve the crew with crumpets and tea. And as we ' d graciously enter a port. I ' d sound off our gun with a loud report, Mid cast our lines far into shore. Mid stay at home for evermore.. EDDY W I.TOX. IOC.

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