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

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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!”

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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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BOOK Page seventy-five iHottmt JltrtureB Ittdn Watn By A. NICOLSON Till a few years ago the world of life beneath the water was almost as un¬ known as that of Mars or Venus. Man had penetrated but the fringes of this vast mysterious realm, and had captured practically none of its strange and awesome inhabitants. The pioneer of the deep sea explorers was William Beebe. In 1929 the idea came to him to construct a sphere capable of withstanding the pressure at one quarter of a mile beneath the surface. After a year of careful research, the Bathysphere was ready for its first trial. It was a steel sphere, four and one-half feet in diameter, sealed strongly with a heavy iron door, and having three ground quartz windows six inches across for observation. It was fitted with a telephone, a searchlight, oxygen tanks carefully valved to let out the oxygen at the rate of two litres per minute, supplies of calcium chloride to absorb the moisture, and soda lime to remove the carbon dioxide from the air. Though a camera was not taken on this particular trial, which took place off the east coast of Bermuda, the whole trip was reported by telephone. So highly successful was it that this form of diving apparatus, with alterations and im¬ provements, is one of the best methods of obtaining under-water motion pictures in use today. Let us now observe what passes before the eyes of the modern cameraman on his hazardous trip to the bottom of the sea. As the sphere enters the water and is submerged, the chamber is dimmed to a pleasant green. The light sifts down in long oblique rays as if through some beautiful cathedral window. Word is passed down to the occupants giving them their depth every fifty feet, but no change is visible save a slight chilling of the pleasant blue-green color. At five hundred feet it has changed to a queer brilliant blue color, most baffling to the eyesight. When eight hundred feet is reached the light has practically faded, and remains almost in total blackness to the bottom. All this time strange and beautiful sights have been passing by the window. Long strings of exquisite lace-like salpa wave by; myriads of colorful jelly-fish shimmer along their aimless courses and Pteropods or flying snails shoot by on their delicate shield-shaped wings. At four hundred feet the first real deep sea fish come into view: the blazing lantern fish, the bronze eels, the absurdly small and rotund puffer, and many other strange denizens of the deep. Pale white pilot fish, ghosts of their larger and more substantial brethren found at the surface, swim into view at this level. Dark spectral forms hover in the distance, never coming nearer but reappearing at deeper and darker depths. Small squids, glowing glori ously in all colors of the spectrum, teeter back and forth on their tails. At eight hundred feet one gets the first glimpse of the silver hatchet-fish, the front view of which looks like a very pompous old colonel with goggles and a high peaked cap. From the side it looks like nothing on earth, its eyes standing out irom its head like miniature lighthouses, a curious jumble of criss-crossing colors all over its body. At another stopping place one hundred feet lower, strange rat-tailed fish flash by, a blinding shower of bright green lights reflecting from their sides, while long, slender, luminiscent eels wriggle off into the shadows. Between the depths of twelve and thirteen hundred feet is a space of terrible blue emptiness where not a light or organism of any kind is visible. When this space is past, life, mostly of a luminous nature, once more returns. At fourteen hundred feet the cameraman is sitting in absolute silence, his face reflecting a ghastly bluish sheen, his pulses throbbing and his hands cold and damp, when the bottom is felt. The journey of breath-taking sights is over. When he steps once more into our common little world he is dazed and in¬ credulous. When asked the ever recurring question, “How did it feel,” etc., he can only quote Herbert Spencer: “I felt like an infinitesimal atom floating in illimitable space.”