The Threshold

C. J. Hirst went to Norway this summer to represent Great Britain in an Orienteering International. At home T. C. Moore, I. A. Nichols and C. A. F. Brown have all attained silver standard in the Duke of Edinburgh Award Scheme.

Several prizes have been won by members of the House. S. B. Irons won a keyboard prize; a Vth form prize was won by C. J. Hirst, a Latin prize by C. G. A. Morcom, and P. S. Lancaster won a Divinity prize.

Nearly all members of the Middle Sixth are leaving at the end of term and we send them away with best wishes.

M.D.

These five poems were all broadcast by the BBC in their 'Books, Plays, Poems' series. They were out of eighteen broadcast in June.

THE MISTAKE

I looked at an artist's painting; The trees were gaunt and the grass Had been replaced by mud. Why had The trees no leaves and why was there no grass? A child could have splashed the painting With brown paint and made it look like mud; The sky was filled with exploding shells. What a poor way to cover his mistakes; The painter should have taken more care; The trenches were messy and again coloured with the same brown paint. Had the artist become muddled at this stage? The bodies of men were strewn every where; Why had their legs and heads been blown off? Couldn't the artist paint them? Why had he not planned his picture a little better? If he had never intended to bother,

Why had he ever started to paint it at all?

Mark B. Anderson.

THE BUILDERS

They were essentially good builders, When not at the "Three Horses" Or getting a convenient cold after pay day. They produced excellent results When they didn't break tools that were not theirs.

They arrived early, before eight, some days, Except when their van broke down, About twice a week, Or they got stuck in the traffic till eleven And decided it was too late to start work and went home. One day they arrived at eight, Took their money and left at nine; We haven't seen them since.

Pinpoints of light in the darkness of space, Shining with radiation ages old. These globes separated by unimaginable distances, With their crown of fiery prominences. Specks of rock orbit these volumes of hydrogen, Offspring of the Universe, Each with its quota of oceans, mountains, Fire, atmosphere, and—life. What intelligences are ruling over planets? What battles are being fought? What heroic deeds are performed? What is a scientist discovering? Each small entity in this macrocosm, Has its own tribulations, Its own birth, childhood, work, Its senility and final death. But isn't it all so futile? Each person's life, As important as the third "i", In the sixteenth line, Of the seven sixty-first page, In the seventeenth volume, Of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, Nineteen fifty-six edition.

R. E. Craig.

THE SEA AROUND ICELAND

The sea explodes against the rock. It crashes in a hail of spray, white falling all around And then runs back defeated into the deeps. Minorities drip from the rocks and from short lived pools. The sea swirls up the beach Groping like fingers on the rocks, hesitating, losing its grip And then runs back defeated into the deeps Bumping and slashing over the blackened rocks. The sea swirls through the marsh Gurgling and sweeping into pools forming hundreds of death traps And then runs back defeated into the deeps Seeping and sucking through the peaty ground. The sea flows against the river, Whirlpools and currents winding round the mouth like a maze; And then runs back defeated into the deeps Sinking to the river bed, and creeping out to sea. The sea beats against the volcano; It hisses and spits as it reaches the hot ashes on the shore; It forms steam and evaporates—to form rain— And defeats the sea at the river mouth.

Morning comes with a headache Even worse than Tuesday's. He coughs and the pain pierces his brow; Too much beer again last night.

He peers in the darkness of his room At his battered brass clock. Seven-thirty already Yet what reason for getting up?

He sits up and, shivering, pulls the blankets close And hopes he's saved a shilling for the meter. Hearing the rustling bedclothes his dog wakes hopefully And bounds upon the bed.

He totters down the stairs And makes his cup of tea, Then shaves and cleans his shoes Before the morning walk.

On High Street he catches sight of Mrs. Shaw, A woman who last week talked to him For ten whole minutes, But today she hurries by.

He comes into the park and sits down on a bench Near a woman with her sleeping child. "Nice day now", he ventures, but she stku-es And suddenly decides to leave.

The afternoon feels chilly a,ll at once And the breeze makes his old eyes stream. He blows his nose, then calls his dog And slowly he plods hame.

Evening comes at last And having fed his dog, He dozes in his chair And dreams of friendly barrackrooms of sixty years before. R. Bronk

This essay won the first year Essay Prize.

CROSSROADS

We are rapidly approaching a crossroads in time with what has been called "our hest friend and worst enemy", the motor car, and it is urgent that we decide now what direction we are going to take.

Every day a great number of us goes to work or school in our own cars in luxury and comfort. To many the art of cycling or walking somewhere is almost unknown. Each year there are more and more cars on 66

the road and traffic problems increase. Some unthinking people believe the answer lies in building more roads even at the expense of urban fabric. A business man sees little reason why he should walk to work, when he can go in his car, listening to the radio or a tape recorder, shielded from the weather.

In fact a little thought will show him some very serious reasons why this cannot continue. Our towns are being ruined by the ever increasing volume of traffic and life in some of them is becoming intolerable.

Every car uses up finite resources. For a start it is made out of iron of which there is a limited amount in the earth's crust. Secondly, for every inch a car goes it uses up petroleum. Of this there is not a limitless supply. Are we being responsible, when we drive a mile to work using up the earth's resources, which will never be replaced?

We often think of air as a pure substance, and a magical one, into which any amount of gaseous waste can be poured. Alas, this is not so. From our motor c.ars we are emitting inexcusable amounts of carbon monoxide and sulphur dioxide. A city such as Los Angeles is almost poisoned, and very near human danger level! This pollution of our atmosphere is irreversible.

We are now faced with an immense problem, and we have to decide what direction to take. We either carry on straight ahead, in the way that we are going, which will lead to all kinds of disaster, or we turn off in a new direction. This direction must lead to greater economies in all respects. It will require much less selfishness on the part of the individual, so that the resources we still have may be used most efficiently. For instance the idea of one man going to work alone in his big car must stop. Wherever possible public transport should take the place of private transport. This could be in the form of electric buses and trains, so that the quality of life in the town is restored. A passenger train is more than sixty times more efficient on average than a private car per passenger/ mile.

In short we must thinlc ahead, and possibly even sacrifice our friend the motor car, or we will be plunged into deep and serious trouble, in both economic and physical terms. New oil reserves cannot continue to be found. What is left should provide the necessities of life, not the luxury for a few, at the expense of the many.

We must take the right long term turning at this difficult and dangerous crossroad!

R. Bronk

And an echo . . .

(from a Prize Poem at St. Peter's School by James Motley, June 1839) 'Tis said that they who love to read and scan The little period of the life of man,

Praise youth the most; and though full many a chain 'The joys of youthful years doth oft restrain, Who would not bear them, aye! and more beside, To feel the happiness, the honest pride, Which schoolboys feel, when all their duties done,

From work they rush to frolic, game, and fun! 67