Westdale Secondary School - Le Raconteur Yearbook (Hamilton, Ontario Canada)

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ETERNITY It is dark out now, and cold. Outside the window, the grey fog rises in masses, swirl- ing, twisting and turning. Its dark filaments float and then twirl through the empty branches of the wind-blown trees as though caught in a whirlpool. Through the mist comes the sound of a bell tolling the hour wearily, as though the fog is Weighing it down and increasing the strain of its eternal task. The mist grows thicker and thicker. It seems to envelope me. The bell - now it is the foghorn out in the bay - is moaning with loneliness. Gulls have come to rest on the edge of the dock. The water slaps against the slow-rotting wood, rhythmically, in a sleepy dream-action. There is stillness and peace. Peace, save for the foghorn, blindly groaning and groping in dis- tress. Will no one comfort it? There is only the cold water, the mist and the dull grey sky. It will always cry .... The foghorn fades into the distance. It is replaced by the chiming of church bells. Hap- py, happy bells that are the golden voices of man-made angels! It is Christmas, Easter, wedding, time for rejoicing. They proclaim to the world, happiness - peace and happiness! Nothing to fear! Everything to live for! The people coming forth from the building sing with joy. Hope shines in every face. They are so gay .... The fog shifts slightly, and they are gone. And in their place? A street scene - tall, ugly buildings, reaching out with their stiff concrete fingers to strangle the light of day. A horde of people shuffle and curse as 'they move about their petty jobs. Rushing, screech- ing traffic - rushing, rushing - rends the quiet of the day. What is the hurry? Whither do they rush? They are enslaved by them- selves. They have lost a purpose and merely live out their lives in a prison of steel, driving each other. 'They are almost lonely, but they cannot admit - that they are lonely or happy or sad. They have lost all purpose, and run around in circles, waiting for death. The bell - always tolling the hour, marking the departure of time - where? Gone and lost. The people are lost, happy or sad, good or bad. All are lost in the past. We have no use for them because we have no use for the past. It is dead, and the future and the pres- ent are ever becoming the past. Everything must go, all will depart. What is left I The bell - forever declaring in gloomy tone. the fact we have left all be- hind us in eterniv. It is but a reminder that I, too, will soon be 'fone and forgotten. Brian Shein, 9:3:8. MAKING A SPEECH IS NOT EASY Making a speech is a difficult process and involves many things. After being called upon to speak, you walk to the microphone and clear your throat, awakening all who were about to go to sleep. Nervously you take a last glance at your notes, hoping it is the right speech. Then with much more confidence you give an assuring smile. As the speech is started you begin to feel the audience responding even though they re- main still, and, as you are nearing the end, you give yourself a silent congratulation, knowing you kept your audience's attention. At the end, with a sigh of relief, you answer your family's questions. You hope the ques- tions won't be any harder the night of the assembly. Heather Leibow, 9:5328 TORNADO The dull, greyish clouds were becoming darker and frighteningly large. Rain began to beat unmercifully upon the small village nestled in the valley. Roaring around the flimsy houses, the wind lashed cruelly. The threatening sky had turned an inky black. A peculiar rumbling from the west heralded the approach of something even more terrifying. There appeared a black, funnel-shaped cloud reaching menacingly down to the earth. With- in minutes the funnel passed over the village, leaving behind it incredible disaster. Build- ings that had once stood strong and erect were now nothing more than a pile of wreckage. The life work of many people had been ruined completely in a few minutes. This was the work of a tornado. Linda Dunkin, 92324.

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HOW TO BATH YOUR DELINQUENT When the fatal time has arrived, sit down and carefully plan your attack. From experi- ence, I can tell you that it is best to catch the little monster by surprise and not give him a chance to get away. You usually spot him near his favourite hideout which, in his case, is under my double bed. As you slowly ap- proach him with a horrible, fixed grin, he almost always realizes his intended fate, for the little monkey disappears under the bed. Dropping to your knees you'll look under and glare at him while he sits triumphantly in the far corner. You can be sure he will never come out on his own, but if you bribe him with some kind of candy bar you can catch him in the open a few minutes later. You have won round one. Once you have captured your prey, lead him into the bathroom and order him to undress while you go into the kitchen and collect the necessary articles, which usually include a toy submarine, a space gun, a sea pony, a wash cloth and a bar of soap. When you return to the bathroom, Junior will be sitting in the tub in his swimming suit, ready for the com.ing struggle. Before starting, run over your plan of attack and then begin. As usual, your main weapon is a bar of soap with which you are supposed to clean all the tiny crevices filled with grimy dirt. To add to your problems, Junior won't sit still, and with submarine bullets and space gun rays flying around you, you'll soon begin to feel quite uncomfortable. By this time, Junior will be having a field day, blowing up imag- inary warships, killing invading Martian men and riding his sea pony While you are trying to clean his right ear. Much to your surprise, you usually pull something like a worm out of his ear or a pet centipede out of his hair, but as you become a pro at this tedious job you soon become accustom.ed to these minor things. Finally, Junior will once again appear clean enough to be set free. In most cases, the poor parent is so exhausted after he has washed his baby he can hardly keep his eyes open while he towels his child. Without any doubt, you will feel the same way after you bath your baby? After you have set Junior loose again, cleaned up the mess and lay down to rest, you usually realize you have made one or two hor- rible mistakes: instead of putting baby powder on Junior, you poured Dutch cleanser on him, the baby wasn't Junior! It was his boy friend who was visiting him for a day. This is a typical -bath the average Canadian child receives today. Follow this simple bath- ing routine - you'll have a happy, healthy baby. Jim Turnbull, 9:3:9. THE LONG WAY HOME One night after a long and dismal card game, Pete Malone headed for home. Because he had lost heavily, Pete was in no mood to face his wife. He chose a long route for his homeward journey which led through the ceme- tery and a small wood. As he approached the cemetery, his mind fogged with drink, Pete imagined a faint form in the mist ahead of him. Was it his imagin- ation? When Pete saw nothing more of it he proceeded through the cemetery, past the century-old grave of a southern soldier. At this moment he distinctly saw a form standing in the shadow of a large headstone. It Van- ished at once. Panic-stricken, Pete ran, stumbling, through the cemetery and into the small wood. He felt safer now. Peter looked back as he walked around a tall tree. When he looked ahead again, he saw the figure of a man wearing an old shroud which people were once buried in. Pete turned and ran, but the figure behind him. gained quickly. The next morning a neighbour dropped in on Mrs. Malone. She told her of a frightening incident when she was driving past the cemetery on her way home. It was late at night when she heard a terrifying scream coming from the direction of the small Wood beyond the cemetery! It stopped suddenly and she thought no more of it. Mrs. Malone wasn't listening, she was Won- dering: why her husband had not yet returned homo from last night's card game. Bill Scott. pei

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A MAN, A DREAM, A GRAVE There is a grave on the top of a hill - a small, unadorned grave with no epitaph. Be- neath the stone lies a man that was, in his lifetime, a beggar and a midget. Yet like so many other men, he was consumed by a passion many times larger than his size, and like so many other men, his passion never material- ized into anything but the dirt in which he now lies. Passers-by would see him sitting on the street begging, and sometimes would drop a few pennies into his cup, and sometimes would walk by with nothing more than a look of pity on their faces, pity for this man. And, of course, there were days when nobody would walk by, and the little cup would remain emp- ty. It was on these days that he would pull out of his pocket a book, torn and old, and read it. These stories of the Arabian Nights were his most prized possessions. He would depart from the world of reality, his world of poverty and ugliness, when reading the stories of wealth and romance and beauty in his book, and live in a paradise until it was dark out and he had to go home. One day as he sat begging, a beautiful wom- an passed by him - beautiful and rich. She belonged to a class of people he, in his poverty, could never join. He recognized in her the final goal of his dream, his dream of lifting himself from the destitution in which he now lived, and placing himself in the wealth and luxury she possessed. She was, to him, the princess in his book: and now he was no longer an ugly little pauper but a handsome prince who would inevitably marry the princess. So, a thought born in the imagination of a man desperate to escape reality, turned into an obsession which meant life and death to him. A poverty-stricken beggar marrying a woman he hadn't even spoken to - ridiculous! Yet the fantasies and far-fetched dreams of his imagination were his only possessions, and his sense of reality was not only stifled but ob- literated by these much, much sweeter illu- sions. So as each day passed, his determination to marry this woman increased. He devised ideas of how he would go about achieving his dream. He could not go into such a high class house as hers without a tuxedo, he must get one! He would have to buy a bouquet of flowers for herg he must get that. Then, with his tuxedo on, his flowers in his arms, he would enter her house and announce that he was go- ing to marry her. His only problem now was to buy the tuxedo and the flowers. So he col- lected all the pennies and nickels he had ever saved and with them bought these things. Now he was ready to go to the lady's house. He knocked on her door and was admitted. The next day the passers-by did not notice that small man with a cup was no longer on the streets begging. There is a grave on the top of a hill - a small, unadorned grave with no epitaph. Be- neath the stone lies a man who had hidden from reality only to have it thrust in his face, a man who found it too great a burden to bear, a man who killed himself. Stephen Snider, 92328. TERROR IN DISGUISE There I stood, teetering on a small ledge, high above the canyon. Terror swept through my body as I realized my predicament. To reach the top of the cliff and safety, I would have to crawl past a cave which was set into the cliff. Just as I began to inch my way along the ledge towards safety, there was a shattering roar from inside the cave. Shaking with fear, I crept towards the mouth of the cave. On reaching it, I mustered all my cour- age and peered around the jagged edge. I shrank in terror, for there before my eyes was a lion! He had seen me, and rose onto his feet with another bellowing roar. He crouched, he sprangg his huge, monstruous claws were bearing down upon me! Suddenly, I heard a piercing ringing, and my eyes flut- tered open. Ins-tead of a lion, there was my dog anxiously looking at me, and my alarm clock was ringing insistently. Linda Dunkin, 9:3:4. A SURPRISE It is the generally accepted idea that freckles are caused by a pigment in the skin. I am, however, convinced that I am a new page in medical history since my freckles, as you will see, were caused in quite a surprising Way. During my early childhood I acquired a very obnoxious habit. I would stamp, kick and scream for a certain food the rest of the family were having and, once it was in my possession, I would muck it all up and leave it 'to be de- graded to garbage. This was quite an annoy- ance to my dearly beloved parents until one day my father flipped his lid . I had had my supper and wanted a piece of pumpkin pie, which I disliked immensely. I went into my usual tantrum, for which I could easily have won an academy -award for dra- matics. Suddenly, father, white with frustration and anger, turned and, in an unusually calm voice, said between clenched teeth: Do you want the pie, dear? I stopped screaming a mo- ment to nod the necessary approval and then went on with my act. Then he picked up the