Budding Authors Back Then
From Our Yearbooks
THE CHRISTMAS TREE
by CARL COOPER
Last Christmas Rockefeller Centre, New York, displayed an avenue of twelve foot "plastic trees".
At the same time room 120 displayed a Christmas tree just as unusual but not as elaborate.
This controversial tree was a birch.
Shortly after the announcement that there would be a contest within the school for the classroom having the best Christmas tree, three boys, Don Wells, Steven Ross, and I, inspired by originality, set out for the woods. We procured a birch, which although stripped of its foilage and barren of all greenery, was triumphantly brought forth from the nearby woods and lovingly deposited in the waste-paper receptacle. The classroom teacher took offense to this and ordered us to meet him at four o'clock. Meanwhile the tree was removed and placed in a snowbank outside. Before four o'clock, however, it was decided by the class that everybody would stay and "bargain collectively" for the right to erect and decorate the tree we wanted.
At four o'clock, after a few minutes of discussions during which several individuals expressed the opinion that the tree should be returned to the classroom, and if properly decorated, the prize would be ours, the teacher somewhat grudgingly granted our request. The tree was promptly returned. Immediately the pupils commenced to have it properly erected and it was decided that everyone would contribute decorations. While some pupils brought decorations from home, others freely spent their pocket money to buy them. Without this combined effort, the tree could not have been the success it was.
The branches and trunk of the tree were encased in tin foil and gave the appearance of being coated with silver. Tinsel and bulbs were liberally employed on the branches and over this masses of angel's hair engulfed the entire tree. To view the tree thus arrayed with only the tree lights burning, was a spark that would set the fires of the imagination burning. It appeared to be suspended in the air. The lights reflected in its silver branches and filtered out through the heavenly mist-like angel's hair which surrounded it. This representation of beauty and mystery gave one the sensation that he was beholding the legendary "Raintree".
The judges must have been thus inspired, for upon returning to school the morning after the judging, it was announced by the principal that room 120 had won the coveted Christmas panda. The fruits of our labour had ripened. Mr. Belbin, the classroom teacher, was the first to offer the class his congratulations.
The panda now holds a place of honour in the classroom, but it should not stay sitting above the
blackboard. It should be given in June, to one who will treasure it and, in years to come, will look upon it and relate to his children, with maybe a tear of sentiment in his eye and a trace of pride in his voice, the story of the silver birch.
With this in mind, room 120 of the graduating class of '59 presents the panda to Mr. Belbin.
How many of you remember the School song "AMALGAMATED HIGH"?
I found it in the 1963 yearbook.
Words by Charles Hull and Music by Miss Barbara Graham
|Onward and marching proudly,|
With banners waving high,
Our hearts are joyous there to see
Our alma mater glorious,
From whom our hopes arise,
Our teacher, guardian, guiding hand,
Our future in thee lies.
So give us never failing strength
And guide us in our ways;
Keep us alert and ready to
See through the darkest maze.
Push on, push on, donít ever tire,
Always put forth a try,
Our alma mater glorious,
Again, from the 1963 yearbook comes a:
"LITERARY SECTIONÖ. a few samples from budding poets and authors"
Me? A Poem?
By Nancy Pafford
They told me, "Go and write a poem."
I said, "I donít know how."
They said, "Just try. Itís not hard."
I still canít do it now.
I wrote and wrote until I tired,
Iíve just got six lines done,
But I canít write, I tried all night
I know you think Iím stun.
I thought of birds, I thought of bees
But still I had no theme.
I racked my brain (it gave me pain)
Until I thought Iíd scream!
At last I thought, Iíll tell the truth
I canít write such a poem.
But now as I look back I see
Iíve written one all on my own.
Goddess of the Moon
By Janice Wells
Shimmering lights shine from her hair
Silver moonbeams light her smile.
Her eyes as twin stars do appear
Lighting the heavens for a while.
A shawl of softest silk she wears
Glowing with iridescence gay.
No mortal maidens, laden with cares
Have skin, as from the Milky Way.
This is the Moon Goddess, adored
And yet in the heavens, where she doth reign
Bonded with an immortal cord
She weeps, but weeps in vain.
By Truda Sansome
When I stand on the top of a mountain and gaze
At the wonder of Nature, ashine through the haze
I think to myself, "What a wonderful thing
To look down on all this as if I were king."
I raise my eye to the heavenly sea
And give thanks to God that I can see.
By Bob McKay
I donít like writing poetry
Iíd rather write in prose.
But since Iím asked to do it,
Iíll do it, I suppose.
I hope itíll be accepted
I canít write any more
So please excuse the dribble
And give me a good
Articles typed and forwarded by Elaine (Purchase) Watton
Class of 1959