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

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BOOK Page seventy-three The coffin offered no shelter. Maybe it would be better to slip off and sink softly to the bottom of the ocean. . . . Were his eyes deceiving him? No, No, No! It must be land. It was! Now he’d get rid of the thing at last. The coffin-raft moved so slowly. He’d better not swim for it because he might need the coffin again. He’d soon get rid of the thing though. Slowly, slowly, he was nearing land. There were trees. There must be water. . . . Another day! Another burning sun! The thing was still there. Why couldn’t he get strength enough to fling the grinning thing into the sea. It was mocking him. It needed no water, no food, no shelter from the burning sun. It mattered not a whit, to it, that he had been carried past the first fertile islands and marooned on a narrow, red-hot strip of barren sand. If only he weren’t so weak he would throw it to the fishes. Now he had managed to lift the coffin lid, he was too weak to move any more. It looked strangely like Hershaw. It was Hershaw! Mocking him! Laughing at his dreams of freedom and escape. The sun was so hot. Everything was indistinct. The waves and sand were blurred. Only the thing grinned back at him, distinctly, from its black box. He could sta nd it no longer. It wouldn’t get him. They wouldn’t get him. He’d fool them all yet. Ha, ha. He could crawl. He’d get cool soon. He’d get to the sea. He’d sink peacefully down, down in the soft cool depths. Ha, ha. He’d fool them. Ta, ta, old thing. Grin on. He was going an easier way. Ta, ta. Rothnie Montgomery-Bell brought further honors to our school by winning the University of Alberta Matriculation Scholarship, Utnntng It takes a little courage, And a little self-control, And some grim determination If you want to reach a goal. It takes a deal of striving, And a firm and stern-set chin, No matter what the battle, If you’re really out to win. There’s no easy path to glory, There’s no rosy road to fame, Life, however we may view it, Is no simple parlor game; But its prizes call for fighting, For endurance and for grit, For a rugged disposition, And a “don’t-know-where-to-quit.” You must take a blow and give one, You must risk and you must lose, And expect that in the struggle, You will suffer from a bruise; But you mustn’t wince or falter If a fight you once begin. Be a man and face the battle— That’s the only way to win.

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Page seventy-two YEAR TSnXWBXB By BETTY COLLEY (!) Stealthily! Hush! That was better. No one would ever find out. Old man Hershaw looked awful with all that blood on his face. Served him right. He shouldn’t have been such a fool as to trust a clerk with his secret, especially a clerk that he had tyrannized over and driven like a slave for twenty years. Well, now, it was the clerk’s turn. It had all been so easy. The old man had been alone. No one heard the shot that killed him and left him oozing out blood all over the office carpet. The sec ret safe had easily yielded up the money it contained, and now the clerk just had quietly to leave the building and catch the steamer to America, on which his passage was already booked. It was all so simple! And to be free, with money to live one’s own life! Careful! Not safe enough yet to give way to one’s feelings. Caught! Trapped! Like an animal deep in the hold of a ship. In irons, too! Who would have thought he would have been found out? All on account of that busy-body of a secretary! What had she been snooping about back at the office after hours ? She had her eye on the old man’s money, too. That was why she had put the police on his trail. Jealousy, nothing else. And now to be sent back to smoky, foggy old Tondon, to be tried, convicted and hanged. No freedom after all. What was that? The ship had struck something! Already it was listing to one side. The water was trickling in under the door. Good heavens! Was he to be drowned in a hole without a chance? Why didn’t somebody come? They wouldn’t bother with a murderer. He wouldn’t have a chance. Hurried footsteps in the corridor. Surely they would hear his cries and have mercy. Ah! Someone unlocking the door! The water was waist high. Hurry to the boats. On deck at last. The ship was sinking quickly. The boats were over there. What ? They were gone. Quick! To the rail. The last boat was rowing off. They couldn’t wait for a murderer. He’d have to jump for it. He was smothering. Would he never rise to the surface? Ah! It was good to suck air into his bursting lungs. What was pulling him? Oh! It was the ship sinking and sucking him dow n. Hurry! Strive harder. He was winning. It wouldn’t get him yet. What was that which had struck him ? A black box floating in the water. Good! It would carry his weight. Horror! It was a coffin. Someone in it too. It was shifting from side to side as the box rose and fell in the water. What if it was old man Hershaw? Nonsense. That was his nerves playing him tricks. Hershaw was in England, probably buried by this time. Still, what a gruesome raft it was! Would he be able to stick it out until he reached land somewhere, or would he go crazy and slip off into the green depths of the sea? The ship’s boats were all out of sight. He had no provisions. Nothing-. Even his clothes were soaked with salt water. No company but a dead man! No boat except a coffin. . . . Would the thing never stop? Slump, slither, smack. Incessantly. It was driving him mad. Every time the coffin rose on a wave, the thing inside slithered from side to side. Well, it was saving him, wasn’t it? The old guy was doing some good even after death. Hershaw wouldn’t. He’d be in the ground. Why must he think of Hershaw! If only he could reach land. He was so thirsty. Every gust of wind and every dash of spray was torture to his exposed limbs.

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Page seventy-four YEAR lOadp Mao n By BETTY COLLEY (4) Like a silver boat upon a raging- sea, The moon is tossed within the wind-swept cloud, Whose fingers grasp its edges greedily And seek to dim its light as in a shroud. Sir North Wind wakes and puffs his icy blast, Before which breath the clouds all flee away. Sweet Lady Moon in triumph rides at last, O’er heaven and earth to hold her queenly sway. And now she pours her glory o’er the sky And sheds upon us all her radiant light, And oftimes as we look we heave a sigh That men can never keep their souls so bright. Mippin’ By C. O. NICKLE We crept down the hall as silent could be, School was in session but not for us three; A good show was on, to miss was a crime, Why bother with school? We’d each raised a dime; We lurked in a hallway—not a soul was in sight; We started a-creepin’—Oh Lawd, what a plight! A dominie appeared from a room just ahead, Spotted us; stopped us; “What’s up?” she said. “We’re not feeling well,” the lot of us cried; We weren’t at that moment, so none of us lied. She seemed to believe us, and—what was more— Left us alone, so we streaked for the door. We were quickly outside and as quickly away; We’d skipped from school, were free for the day. With a laugh and a song we headed for town, Nary a cloud in sight and nary a frown. The office bell rang in a silent class room. In the eyes of a teacher we three read our doom; No need to tell us, we knew we were through, So we slunk to the office, crestfallen and blue. We creep down the hall as silent can be, School is in session but only for three. Good shows may be on, but what do we care? We go to the office, work’s waiting us there. Hour after hour for that sin we atone, Our fates o’ertook us, so now we just groan: “Dear fellow student, if skipping’s your thought Pause before doing it—take care you’re not caught!”