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MERVYN RICHARDSON llD
SAPERE AUDE
Do you dare to be wise? It. is not as easy as it seems to be, No apparent gains are held out
for those who achieve wisdom; on the contrary, where are a good many deficits.
Society as a whole regards wisdom as ridiculous. The wise are either owlish old men who spend their lives in musty museums or fanatical scientists with microscopes in their brief cases. Have you ever heard of a man who was hero-worshipped for his wisdom? Ah, no, it is the
loutish, bumbling football player whom all thP. grubby, little boys in the nation adore.
Nobody expects one to be intelligent or display any wisdom on any occasion. Most people, after their first violent shock when they see that "unnatural child," immediately proceed to "put
him in his place. " A number of teachers become greatly flustered if a pupil attempts to discover why something is stated so complacently in his uninspiring text-book.
· The teacher's affection goes out to the quiet, trusting, little souls who, having memorized their text-books and the teacher's words of wisdom, proceed to fill their examination papers with these standard answers,
Imagination and originality are supressed; if one thinks and acts as the rest of the community does, one will sail through life accepted by all, as an ignorant dope, perhaps, but then so is one's neighbour.
We seem to have embraced the proverb, "Ignorance is bliss," as the motto for our schools and are determined that everyone shall be blissful.
Any student who exerts himself to get a reasonable mark on his report card is scorned by those who realize the foolishness of intelligence and is mentally ripped to shreds by his rivals.
Is there any brave individual left now who dares to be wise?
MARGARET CHRISTENSEN llA
NORTH WIND
Hand in hand with the mist
I ran
Through the star-kissed Heather.
The craggy hills
And the peat bogs quailed
'Neath the screaming challenge Of the Wind.
The indigo depths
Of the North Sea roared
And cast me a warning I ignored.
I ran to the top of Ronas Rill.
I flung my arms,
I hurled my taunts
To the shrieking Wind; And he drew his fingers Through my hair,
He closed his arms about My form.
I cried in my fear but He only laughed - Pressed his stormy, Cold,
Relentless self
Against my futile fury;
I begged for freedom,
I beat my fists,
But over the beating in my breast I heard his laugh -
And he pressed his
Aching lips to mine.
And I found rest.
AUDREY ABERNETHY 12A
THE GULL Sailing high above the shore,
A silver seagull flies;
Up there the waves he hears no more, Only the wind's whispering sighs.
Far beneath, the people play Enjoying summer's fun;
But flying on his lonesome way He pays attention to no one.
Now against the deep blue sky, His shining figure glides Smoothly and serenely by;
And in the distant haze he hides.
JOHN LUCAS lOE
THE WAVES
Far out upon the glistening bay
The little riplets dance and play
And rush with almost childish glee
Upon the foam running wild and free
The breakers with gathering strength and grace Dash in upon the very face
Of the great cliffs, whose high walls
Protect the land from these wild calls,
Voiced by the thunder of the waves.
As they smash upon the granite caves
Their echo rings out on the sky
Borne by the wind, as the·seagulls fly.
But all too soon the thunder dies
Only to rise throughout the day
Again far out upon the bay.