Western Canada High School - Yearbook (Calgary, Alberta Canada)

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Page eighty-six YEAR Let us consider: Those in authority decree that we are to write our home¬ work, classwork and examinations all in ink. If we use pencils we are detained after school and we have to write our homework over again in ink. Therefore we depend on ink to pursue a successful High School career. But should you go into any classroom, search diligently for half an hour, and discover a bottle of this vital fluid, you might consider yourself exceptionally fortunate. Indeed you have no inkling how scarce it is. It is as rare as money. Where the students keep it I can’t imagine. Perhaps they hoard it at home, buried beneath the hearth, and upon arriving home at night pour it back and forth between two tumblers, gloat¬ ing, as a miser counts his gold. Certainly they never have any at school. Perhaps you’ll say that I am no exception to this rule. But, with all due modesty, I must refute this slander. For, one day, desirous of making myself a shining example, I bought myself a bottle, took it to school and placed it in full view upon my desk, meaning it of course to be a gentle hint. However, the stu¬ dents in my room do not seem to possess the faculty of recognizing gentle hints, and imagine my surprise when, like a flock of vultures, a dozen of them swooped down on me, knocked me down, trampled on me, and lowered my ink to half its former volume. After this episode, I had no more faith in my fellow students, so I resorted to the policy of hiding the ink in my desk behind books. But one morning, t wo days afterward, I was busily engaged in writing an examination, towards the end of the period, when my pen ran dry. Hastily I lifted the lid of my desk and moved my books to get at the ink, only to find what—no ink! My simple artifice had failed, the lust for ink had proved too strong in some student’s breast. In des¬ peration I scanned the horizon for signs of ink, but as usual there was none in sight. Pitifully I entreated those around me to spare me a drop of ink. Ha! As well ask of their very life blood! I received nought but rude rebuttals and stony glares. The teacher had none— Writing, writing, everywhere— But never a drop of ink— Alas! What was I to do? Then the bell rang—too late now to write more, even if I had some ink. Mournfully I handed in my paper, only half answered. But they would pay for this, these vipers! Pilferers of ink! That night before I went to sleep, I planned my revenge. Oh, it was a cunning plan! The next day I carried it into execution. I purchased myself another bottle of ink, and poured a little into an empty ink bottle which I had previously filled with aqua regia (which as you know dissolves gold and rubber). This was to color the acid blue. Then I took this substitute (for ink) to school where I placed it in a conspicuous position on my desk, to act as a decoy, after doing which I left the room. In a few minutes I returned to find, as I had expected, that the ink had vanished. Now I bring my ink to school without a qualm. But such forceful methods should not have to be adopted. Some other way is necessary to remedy this evil. Our present system of municipal distribution of a private utility at the owner’s loss must go by the board. 1 might suggest that all students be compelled to bring a new bottle of ink to school every three months. Or, perhaps, an inkome tax might be levied on the students, the pro¬ ceeds of which would go to a fund destined to supply them with ink. These are drastic measures, however, and would probably lead to open rebellion. But they are suggestions which you can take or leave, whichever you please. At any rate, I have brought to the attention of those who read this, a situa¬ tion which must be rectified. If others can suggest a better solution, let them propose it to the School Board. I have done my duty.

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BOOK Page eighty-five He lay on his side with his knees drawn up and his hands clasping; his stomach, while an expression of extreme agony distorted his handsome features. A sword with “Mark Antony” engraved on the hilt was sticking in his chest. First, 1 carefully examined the salmon, smelt it, tasted it, and glared at it through my pocket microscope. Next, I examined the body carefully with the aid of my patent X-ray flashlight. Then I leaped to my feet with a cry of joy. 1 had solved the mystery. I rang the bell, and almost at once the butler appeared. Without giving him time to remark on my presence, I demanded an audience with Cleopatra. Whether he thought I had a right to be there, or whether my display of authority fright¬ ened him, I do not know, but without demur he led me into her presence. She was lying on a divan, playing with her favorite asp, and by her side, in a very amorous attitude, knelt a man whom I soon recognized as Mark Antony. On my approach he rose hurriedly and began to brush off his knees with a great show of nonchalance. “What do’st thou want of the most royal Cleopatra, Queen of Upper and Lower Egypt, daughter of Ptolemy Anteles, King of Egypt, and of Isis, Queen of Heaven?” she purred. “I arrest you in the name of the law for the murder of Octavius Augustus Caesar, and it is my duty to warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used as evidence against you,” and I showed my badge. Cleo se emed quite unmoved, but Antony began to wax wrathy. “Thou varlet,” he shouted, “how dare thou make such a ridiculous accusa¬ tion against the Queen of Egypt? What grounds have you, I say?” “Caesar died of ptomaine poisoning; Cleopatra’s name is Ptolemy. Surely even you can see the connection. “Why, you idiot,” he roared, “didn’t you see my sword sticking in him?” During this altercation Cleo had been teasing her asp beyond endurance, and it chose this psychological moment to bite her. She died almost at once. “Pshaw!” I stated, apropos of his last remark. “That was only to cast sus¬ picion on you. But I was not deceived! I solved the case despite the many obstacles thrown in my path.” “Why, you fool,” he said rudely, “I killed him myself.” So saying, he fell on his second-best sword and, not unnaturally, died. “Humph!” I murmured. “I hadn’t thought of that!” 31 ttk By PHILIP HADFIELD You ' d never think that in a bottle of ink There’d be food for contemplation ; But if you do think, you’ll see the link Between the ink and my narration. Our High School system is one which, on the whole, merits a great deal of praise. Of course it is an established fact that Western Canada High School is far superior to any other in Calgary, if not in Alberta. We have the finest teach¬ ers, the ablest principal and the most intelligent students. Some, attending other High Schools may say that I am prejudiced,—let them prove it. There is, however, one small matter in this system of ours, excellent though it is, which requires consideration. This is the ink problem. From all sides we are bombarded by the financial situation, the situation in India, the situation in the Far East, and so on, yet I seem to be the first to realize the growing importance of the ink situation which has arisen amongst us, which is indeed, from an inko- nomical point of view, a problem deserving deep thought.

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BOOK Page eighty-seven Uokps Jack Cameron—“Didja know ya can’t hang a man with a broken arm?” Alpha—“Is that so? Why not?” Jack—“Ya gotta use a rope.” Carman Johnson (flipping a coin)—“Heads I go to a show, tails I go to a dance, and on the edge I do my homework.” Proud Parent—“My son has some very original ideas.” T.E.A.S.—“Yes. Especially in Algebra.” His Mother—“Tom is getting along very well in school—he learns French, Latin and Algebra.” Now Tom say “Hello” to the lady in Algebra. -K T.E.A.S.—“How much time do you spend on your homework?” Costello—“An hour per.” T.E.A.S.—“Per what?” Costello—“Perhaps.” Kenneth Lebbert—“In what course do you intend to graduate?” Jack Biddell—“Oh, in the course of time.” Miss McCracken—“Who was Sir Isaac Brock?” Jarvis—“The fellow who posed for Brock’s monument.” Albert Laven—“I hear Bob Cook plays the banjo. How’s he getting along?” Chamberlain—“Well, he’s got so far now we can tell whether he’s playing or tuning.”