West Hill High School - Annual Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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Whether laughter be caused by satire, bur- lesque, wit or humour, the works of Dickens or the plights of Jackie Gleason, it must be splon- taneous and zestful, radiating pure joy. Laug ter is that tiny pebble dropped on the calm, un- wrinkled surface of a lake, at first creating one small ripple. Instantly the ripple expands, form- ing greater and greater circles until, at last, a single ripple touches the far shore. Thus, laugh- ter from one carefree heart can bring joy to all the surrounding many. A laugh, to be joyous, must flow from a joyous he-art, for, without kindness, there can be no true joy. Dolly Luber XI-A PRELUDE T0 THE FRENCH REVOLUTION Fierce, he stood by the furnace-hood, Rhyming his strokes by the heat: His knarled hand, held firm to the bank Of the hammer with which he beat. Strike, strike, while the ingots melt, Hit, hit, and shape the metal, Patriot, strike with zealous force, Your contrymen have a debt to settle. Pikes he hewed, from the metal crude, His skill portraying his cause, The brazen brawn, its strength out-drawn Never a minute did pause. He struck hard, while the ingots burned, Hit, hit and shaped the metal: Zealous, the force with which he toiled, For he know he had a debt to settle. The clanging beat of the hamm-ered sheet, Surged gallantly forth 'til morn. Weapons made, for the debt to be paid, The era when heads would be shorn. Strike, strike, with banners streaming, Hit, hit, but not the metal, Patriots! Strike with sacred force! This is the debt you vowed to settle. J. Raudsepp XI-D THE MIRACLE We were trapped behind the lines. The shell- fire hummed around us all night. Three were dead, and two critically wounded. We needed reinforcements, but, most of all, we needed two pints of blood. Behind us, the enemy started to close in. Ahead of us, a mine field lay, but a path had been cleared through it by Joe, a demo- lition expert on mines. The only way of getting the blood through depended on Rex, a German Shepherd trained to obey commands over a two- way radio. Headquarters had just sent out a reply that Rex was on his way. Now Joe, the master of Rex, took over the operation. Over the two-way radio, he guided Rex by commands. Rex had a long way to go, and the going was rough, but he knew how to get there by Joe's directions. Joe's main problem was guiding Rex over the mine field. An hour passed, the tension in our minds mounted. Another hour went by. By this time we all broke into a cold sweat Then a shout was heard. Rex had come to the edge of the mine field. The shell fire now was coming closer and closer. Three more of our boys died under the heavy bombardment. It was impossible to ge-t out of the trench and get Rex. In fact, to go out there was suicide. Rex had to come to us. It was now up to Joe. Bending over the two-way radio set, he started to talk. The first command he gave was for Rex to move to the right. Rex obeyed and started off but he stop ped after ten feet at a command. By Joe's commands and directions, Rex was guided across the mine-field. Another few feet to go. Five feet... three... one, and there he was. He had brought the blood over ten miles, just by directions over a two-way radio! The two soldiers owe their lives to Re-x today. Sure, we got out all right, but one thing still puzzles me. When Joe took the two-way radio set off Rex, he discovered the battery had gone dead before Rex had started out! Morty Wiseberg X-D THE SEA Basked in Moonlight lies the Sleeping sea of Peace. Tranquil, yet alive, Mystical, yet heavenly Is the sea. Fainter, Fainter fade-s the Silvery mist of night, To meet the new-born sun On crests the new-born sun On crests of the dancing waves Of the sea. Golden In the sunlight Shine the dancing White-caps, like small sparkling Diamonds, fallen from the roof Of He-aven! Clothed in Her crimson cloak Of brilliance lies The sea, in the splendour Of the slowly setting sun In the west. The sea, Often angry, Often tranquil, Sometimes bright and sparkling, Often dark and stormy, is My refuge. Joan Wilkinson X-A

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LITERI-IR SNOWDON JUNCTION Saturday nights, when Monk and I were doing nothing, we got into the habit of dropping in on our good friends, Charlie and Kid. Charlie would roll the old blue Merc out of the drive, and we would all pile in and take off. The Kid would sit behind Charlie, that was his established place. He always sat the same way, hunched forward, his eyes intent on the streets ahead, while the passing lights played shadows on his sharp features. He would beat out an incessant rythm on the seat with his fingers, while he drawled a perpetual flow of of useless advice to Charlie, like Campanella trying to coax his pit- cher down the groove. The first light we hit was always Snowdon Junction. It became almost a portent with us that we always hit the red light there, and it go so that Charlie would time himself to arrive there just at the moment the light flickered red. It was like having a familiar have to start the evening on, a lull before the night began. We would sit there, silent in the early even- ing. The Kid would be hammering out his swing tattoo, now and again hitting the metal sides of the car for emphasis, his talk stopped for a mo- ment while his quiet piercing eyes roamed over the intersection. The motor turned over with a low vibrating thunder, pervading the car with its gentle throb. Hang loose there, Father Charlie, you got all night. .. I have seen that street in all weathers and in all seasons. I have seen it in the burning afterglow of the late spring twilight, when all earth, and brick and sky are washed clear and glowing by the clean spring rain. At this hour, the voices of the people, Jew and Gentile, old men and crazy laughing kids streaming through the crowded junction, are raised in a waving sea of sound. Bathed in the waning amber light, the voices seem to recede, and take on the aspect of a vast far-away chant, as if all the voices of humanity were merged in one huge, timeless cry. Take the lead out, Charlie, drop that clutch... I have seen it shining in the pounding rains of summer. Here the pavements glisten blackly, except where the neon lights glare red and green from the wet asphalt. The rain falls driving down in long white drops through the headlight beams, and the lights are gleaming blobs on the rain- spattered windshield, rather than distinct patches of colour. Peel that rubber, Charlie, make this old can roll... Charlie always took it easy in shippery weather, much to the Kid's contempt. If the red glow on the Kid's face had shifted to green for more than a split-second before Charlie eased into first, the Kid would drawl, slowly with his insolent Whimsy, Drive much, Charlie? Char- lie, who could spin that Merc through a four- wheel drift in high and come out in reverse, would only grin and say, Teach your grand- mother to suck eggs, Kid. I have seen that junction stark in the late November weather, when everything is a dying gray-brown dullness, and the one concern of the people is to scurry somewhere warm, out of the unfamiliar bitterness of wind. The incredible smoky redness of the sun, reflected in a thousand windows down Decarie, is the only flare of colour in this cold grey air. I am seen it in all lights, and in many varied moods. They are all welded into one moment in the memory of time. Always there is the Kid's rapt burning expression, the perpetual intensity of youth, and his fingers rocking out that rest- less swing tattoo. Always the is the low roll of the motor, and the shouts of countless people mingled in the air. The moment lingers in my mind as one of absolute perfection. What more can this world offer than to be young and going somewhere, anywhere, steeped in the company of such giants as Monk, the Kid, and Charlie, pitying no one, envying no one, only watching the play of lights on the cars and people around the streets of Snowdon Junction, waiting for the light to turn, to know the score in a general way, but to be still somewhat in wonder of the world, not know- ing what strange walls would volley the echo of our laugher, this night, or wat strange roads the imprint of our thires. Being young, and resilient, and easy to get along with, we weren't specially worried about it, for at that bright hour in the night of time, all roads led to the morning.. R. Morrison Grade XII LAUGHTER Laughter is an outburst of emotion caused by keen wit or gentle humour. It bubbles and gurgles like a tinkling stream. Its sources are many, springing forth at the slightest encourage- ment. Laughter can be seen as well as heard. Its vibrating rays diffuse into nearby listeners, mi- raculously creating smiles upon their lips. This flash of a smile and sparkling twinkle of narrow- ed eyes display the inner, kindling mirth. In one respect, laughter resembles the- measles - it is contagious and spotty. In the unscored symphony of laughter there are many moods and levels, a major and minor key, even some discords. The giggle, titter, chuckles, or boisterous, unruly laugh are only the shifting notes of a restless harmony.

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A MATTER OF REVENGE The fact that Cromwell was a coward did not surprise me in the least. Somehow, I had known that he would be one. His cowardice would only make the fulfilment of my dedication more complete. His strong beefy body lay quite still and he-lpless. The broken leg was twisted at a queer angle. His hair was stained by blood where I had struck him. I dragged him over to a fin shaped rock that rose sharply into the air about three feet from the water. With a coil of rope, I began to tie him in a sitting position to the rock. My hands worked swiftly, but my mind easily outstripped them. My thoughts carried me back a full year to the day I found Old Tom. Tom had adopted me, and he had been both father and mother to me. I had matured under a strangely understanding and gentle hand. Trapping was a hard task, but Tom had some- how managed for both of us. Cromwell stirred, and I hastened my Work. Old Tom had been brutally murdered. Although the police were baffled, I knew it was Cromwell. He had tried to hide from me, but I had always been there, waiting -- he had almost lost me. In this desolate Labrador cove I had finally trapped him. The waiting was over. We had fought. With the help of a heavy rock I had bested him. Cromwell had broken his leg when he had fallen down an incline. I finished tying him, and my work was done. The tide was already rising, it would do the rest. I glanced down at Cromwell who was now awake. His cruel eyes were magnificent with the fear of a terrible reality. I pick-ed up his jacket, and climbed up on the rock to which he was tied. The tide was now coming in fast. It did not take long for the water to circle his massive chest, then his neck. It slowed when it reached his chin, but still continued to rise. Cromwell was pleading, pleading for his very life. I relished each word he spoke, and every time his whining voice uttered another sound, the past year seemed all the more worth while. I hated this creature as I had never hated any- thing before. He tilted his head back in a vain attempt to escape the relentless sea. His eyes caught mine, and the pure untouchable terror I saw in his filled my whole being with a dreadful satisfaction. The water around him was red from his bleeding head wound. He closed his mouth to his advancing death, but lit was no good, he was going to die and he knew it. The rising ocean reached for his last door to life. He inhaled deeply. His nostrils flared with the effort. Only those unforgettable eyes were left. The water boiled with his struggles. Half an inch up would give him life, and Hank Cromwell wanted to live. I walked back towards his camp. When the tide abated, I would dispose of his body. My mind was vacant, I felt nothing. I had nothing left to hate. I had lived with hate for so long that I had no other emotion in me. I was dead inside. I reached into Cromwell's jacket pocket and took out a gold watch. The engraving on its back leaped out at my hazy eyes- To Old Tom My foster Father As good as any real one. Dale Leggett X-J LIFE Life is Like the new day From dusk to dawn. A priceless prize which is Invaluable but seldom Understood. With dim First shaft of life Comes the dawning, Pure and untarnished Innocence. Magnificent Miracle. The fresh Pursuit of Truth Heralds the morn And answerless queries. Who made this?-Why? When? Seek our Purpose Here. The noon Brings decision And destiny, Success or failure snares The spotlight of the stage. The World watches. As soft, Serene shadows Fall, leisure and Sweet memories mark the Moment of satisfaction Drifting by. Return To the Maker, Focal point of Truth! Causes for creation Become lucid. - Night Becomes dawn. S. Altman XI-D NO END IN SIGHT Who dreams up the advertisements we seem to be destined to hear and see constantly, so long as we are within the clutches of civilization? It has been suggested that they are some sub- human form of life, created to soak up the sarcasm and skepticism of eager consumers. It is my guess, however, that they are friend- less orphaned muttering maniacs. Their allotted time on this earth is spent shaving peaches, drinking my ale, your ale, eve-rybody's ale , and pampering their radiant schoolgirl complex- ions. Some brush their teeth once a day, some