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

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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

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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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pie, aimed carefully, and sploo-o-sh! It landed full in my face. There I sat, drenched in pumpkin, which suited my colour scheme. Two bleary eyes were all that peeked through that pumpkin beauty pack. My sister and brother sc1'eamed, my mother fainted, and I . . . well, I had freckles. This was one of the biggest surprises to both the rest of the family and myselfg for now my unusually clear complexion was dotted for life with pumpkin, Karla Bryer, 9:3:5. DESERTED VILLAGE The rutted path wound through the fields, devoid of green, of life, and of all that con- tributes to life. Birds were absent from the sky. The path ended abruptly amidst a heap of charred ruins, the ruins of what had once been a village. Silence reigned - the silence of the grave. Rubble heaps were strewn across the ground. The houses had rotted and crum- bled. Now, all that remained of them were the stark, grey walls, looming jaggedly against the horizon. It is many years since the 'build- ings were emptied of their occupants - once living people. The women's screams and the children's cries have long since died away. Their bodies have rotted and now nothing re- mains but the silent buildings. This happened many years ago. We have forgotten the people's helpless cries. But we have not forgotten the murderers. We remember those who unjustly killed in the name of tru-th. They are called brave, heroic and glorious. We say they gave their lives to save us. True, but we forget they took lives - the lives of those who did not have to die. For these killers, We have erected shrines. All that remains of their vic- tims are the naked walls pointing their ghostly fingers towards the heavens. Brian Shein, 92318. ' WAR War is a messy thing: In it no time to dance or sing, For men will die, and women cry, And blood be spilt o'er everything. The land is marked by courage and guts, And once beloved domestic hutsg We feel the filth in our fox-holes, It reaches to our very souls. And ere we've finished with the fight, We'll know not day, yet know not nightg Yes, each will wonder if He above Is watching over us, with love. But suddenly - the noise has stopped: Our eyes rest on the fields so bare: Then each one falls right to the ground To offer God a silent prayer. 'Warren Cooper, 9:3:10. 1 THE REWARDING DECEPTION The sleeping pills had done their Work. As Bobby Barret fell into oblivious slumber, the doctor left the room. He walked solemnly down the silent hall and into his office, where the boy's parents waited anxiously. Although Dr. Taylor knew Bobby had contracted a fatal disease, he avoided the subject and told the Barrets that nothing could be determined in such a short time. After they had departed, Dr. Taylor relaxed in his easy chair and picked up the book on Indian medicine he had been reading earlier. The story of the many people who had been cured of various deadly diseases by encourag- ing lies on the part of witch doctors amazed him. The witch doctors had a way of convinc- ing their patients to recover, without the aid of medicines. By the use of encouragement, and a few illusions, they could give their pa- tients the will to live and the strength to fight off their illness. The doctor lifted his eyes from the book and immediately thought of Bobby. He wondered if it was possible to give the boy the strength he needed to fight for his life by using the strategy of the Hindu doctors. Dr. Taylor decided to try it, since Bobby was now beyond any real medical help. Morning saw the start of Operation Witch Doctor . When Bobby's parents arrived, the doctor told them to go to the nearest depart- ment store and buy a baseball and a catcher's mitt. An hour later, they met Dr. Taylor out- side Bobby's door. Then, with forced smiles on their faces, they all entered the boy's room together. At the sight of the gifts, Bobby looked almost cheerful but was too weak to move or speak. Dr. Taylor explained that they expected him to recover so quickly that they bought him some equipment for the coming baseball season. Bobby's parents then told him of the trip they were planning to take him on over the Easter vacation. They said his health was improving and he would be coming home soon. After a half hour, Dr. Taylor decided that they had visited long enough and so, with a cheerful good-bye, they left. Bobby fell asleep happily for the first time during his illness. In the days that followed, the Barrets and Dr. Taylor visited Bobby regularly. They never failed to bring cheerfulness and encourage- ment with them. By the end of the month, Bobby had shown a definite improvement in his health, and was determined to recover. Soon he was walking again, and one bright morning his parents came to take him home. As Doctor Taylor watched the reunited fam- ily leave the hospital, he was filled with won- der. A lie had saved a 'boys' life! Arlene Gould, 93:10.