Page 51 - 1962-63

Senior 2nd
The night is cold and dark. The wind plays havoc with the trees as it creates a theme of nature's music. The night hides our eyes from the doings of man. The night is an old lady, laden with regrets. She will not yield them.
Let us take an imaginary light. A star will do. Let us proceed into the foreboding darkness and snatch its secrets. Wemustbecareful for if we are seen, the balance, the solitude, the intriguing abstractness will be disrupted.
Let us first stop at the house of the old cobbler. He is sitting at his bench. On either side of him we see his tools, a punch, a rule, a pair of cutters and, of course, his biggest asset, a pair of skilled hands, wrinkled with age, and exacting by experience. He is a very old cobbler. He lives alone. His snowy hair is ruffled; his shining blue eyes literally dance with the flames from the hearth. He is making a pair of shoes. For whom it does not matter. I should like to stay and watch him, but dawn is threatening and I should like to visit still another. I will leave quietly.
Below us is a light, flickering. and dim. It is coming from a small room. There is a table in this room. At the table sits a youth, the candle pouring light upon his countenance and over his many books--old books. His face is taut and his mind is deep within his work. I think we have stumbled upon one who is being educated. He does not notice us. He murmurs quietly to himself. He is tired. His head seems to be getting heavier, not with knowledge, but with the want of sleep. He slowly leans forward. His outstretched arms gently engulf his head and he is heavy with sleep. Let us pinch the candle flame for him. The night continues.
The eastern sky is lightening (cascading over the darkness). Light seems to be pouring out from the horizon. One by one the stars go out. We must hurry back for dawn is breaking. A meadowlark on a solitary limb greets the golden flood waters which tinge the frosty cold dew on the blades. We are back. The birth of a new day has overcome and sent the secretive night fleeing.
EIGHTEEN YEARS AGO
Don French XI D
Senior Honourable Mention
Although it was not loud, the impaction of twenty-two boots as they hit the gravel somehow disturbed the quiet German countryside. Ten young boys (looking very hot and tired) in soldier's garb appeared on the elevated road, each one cursing the sun as it relentlessly forced its scorching power on the greenery. An order was sounded, and the patrol halted smartly.
Following the outstretched arm of their officer, the boys saw a small farm nestled in the little valley below, and ten once bright uniforms now layered with the dust from the road, stood easily. These boys, snatched from classrooms to serve their Furher and Fatherland, gazed at the serenely beautiful setting and thought longingly of the succulent fruit they would taste from the orchard. A command was given, and two of the young soldiers snapped to attention, then ran down the embankment and through the trees. Suddenly one of them reappeared guesturing excitedly.
"Amersche soldatent! Es waren vier!"
The officer grinned as if to impart to his sheep that four soldiers would be no problem. The patrol started down the hill toward the farmhouse with its red roof and green hedge. As the group neared the edge of the trees they approached more cautiously, and crouched where the meadow of clover began. The place did not know of the world's turmoil, had not felt the murderous cla¥S of war. All was silent, unsuspecting.
The moon was nowhere and night fell quickly. Only a dim light from the windows of the little house revealed the presence of life in that valley. One of the boys went to the open window, made a motion, and returned to his fellows. There was a flash of light, and flames began to lick the night air with a horrible greed. A terrifying scream of a man no longer a man followed the explosion. The door was flung open and a single man appeared from the halocast, one arm dangling bloody and useless by his side. His cries of agony were cut off sharply as a shot pierced the night and the man fell to the ground. There was silence now, broken only by the insatiable tongues of flame. Three soldiers edged forward stopping a few feet from the building. Someone crawled through the doorway: half a man, a blackened stump where his legs should have been. One rifle was raised; one shot was fired; blood flowed purple in the light of the fire. A boy fell to his knees. "Gott beschutze uns !"
Would he still be asking God to protect us and still be trying to understand why men ask babies to suffer their actions?
Deena-Kay Irwin XIII A
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