(a publication from Gifford High School - price 20c)

I should like to thank the following people most sincerely for their hard work:-
Mrs S. Wilson, who typed the stencils for the “Honeycomb”
C. Hardie, our resident cartoonist (not scanned in)
P. Linnevelt, E. Nel and P. Martin-Turner who were responsible for duplicating and collating and for “Gifford Guffaws”. ***Editor*** (I think the editor may have been Mrs Farren or Mr McGeoch)

HOW THE CAMEL GOT ITS HUMP

Many thousands of years ago, in fact it could be millions of years ago, when our planet Earth was in its infancy, there lived on the exclusively sunny, sandy-shored island of Poglodose, a colony of flat-backed, fat-bodied, hairy, frolicking camels. These camels enjoyed a peaceful and relaxed existence on that exclusively sunny, sand-shored island. That was until one day when the vicious, villainous Timbukthree pirates happened to land on Poglodose island.

One highly unfortunate incident led to three others, and the entire colony of flat-backed, fat-bodied, hairy, frolicking camels were captured and placed in shackles aboard the pirates ship. They were all mystified as to what was happening but one thing was for sure, they would never again set eyes upon that exclusively sunny, sandy shored island of Poglodose.

The pirates took the camels to a land completely different from their native Poglodose. Timbukthree was also exclusively sunny, but there were just three miles of golden sand. The camels were subject to harsh treatment from their tyrannical masters. These men carried out dastardly deeds. They raided nearby villages and employed their new acquisitions, the camels from Poglodose Islands, as ‘get-away cars’ and loaded their stolen goods onto the unfortunate camels’ backs.

The flat-backed, fat-bodied, hairy, frolicking camels laboured for hundreds of years in that exclusively sunny area of golden sand. As time passed, there grew an increasing resentment to the tyrannical, vicious, villainous Timbukthree pirates. The camels were no longer flat-backed, fat-bodied or even frolicking, but they were still hairy. Their backs had become ‘indented’ by the cumbersome loads of stolen goods that they had to bear, and, as a result, they suffered from ever-so excrutiating back pains.

When the Earth had revolved around the sun 9899 times, that is to say in the year 9899, the ‘day the camels’ arrived. One night, when the moon was shinning ever so brightly and the Timbukthree pirates were enjoying an exclusively succulent repast in their tent, the camels, under the leadership of the wise old Ali Muhammed, broke out of their enclosures and revolted. The Timbukthree pirates were expelled and the camels had at last gained their independence.

All their problems were, however, not yet solved, for although they no longer had to carry heavy loads, they still suffered from ever-so excruciating back-pains (like I’m getting typing this in), as a result of their indented backs. Just as all hope for a cure appeared to be lost, Clay Cassius, Ali Muhammed’s chief minister, came up with what appeared to be a most ingenious and masterly idea. He proposed that the camels visit the blacksmith, who lived in the neighbouring city of Timbukfour, so he could hammer their backs back into their correct position. Clay advised them, however, that this would be a dangerous operation, and that the blacksmith would have to dissect their stomachs in order to locate their indented spines.

The camels decided to pay a visit to the blacksmith at Timbukfour, and after many difficult and dangers operations, they returned, flat-backed, to Timbukthree. Unfortunately, only three weeks after the operations, the camels again complained of suffering from ever-so excruciating back-pains.

Then something remarkably strange started to happen - the camels backs started to grow upwards and form humps. They found this extremely mystifying, until a certain wise old camel by the name of Isaac Newton-John explained his theories. Isaac Newton-John was a learned philosopher who had been taught by Totle Aris who had lived from 6886 to 8668. Isaac explained that by the theory of de-gravitation, the camels spines, having been forced back into their original positions, would continue to rise into a hump, as for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Newton-John made this his third law. The majority of the camel colony were confused by this technological data. The only person they knew who could possibly cure them of their humps, was Wizard Gee Bees, who lived in the enchanting city of Timbukfive.

Clay Cassius, Ali Muhamed’s aspiring young chief minister , undertook the journey to Timbukfive. But he returned home dejected, as the wizard Gee Bees could only make a potion which would prevent the humps from growing any larger. Clay did, however, discover an economical use for his hump - he could now store water in it, enough to last him eight days.

To this day, the camel has always had a hump, in which it is able to store food and water, which has made it an invaluable asset in the desert areas.

D Jeans 4A


FROM FORM 1 GRADING TESTS.

A person who does not believe in God -

A Christian; a protestant; a moron; an evangelist.

A man whose wife is dead - a spinster.


THE CHASE

It is a hot, sunny evening in the middle of the “African” Bushland. The sun is beginning to sink to tree level. All forms of wildlife are coming to the waterhole for a drink, but little do they know that there is a pride of lions lurking in the shadows close to the waterhole. There are eight members of this pride, one lion, four lionesses and three cubs. It is apparent the females are making plans to kill for their prides meal. One at a time they slowly rise, and begin stalking the herd of zebra that is now drinking at the waterhole. They know that to survive they must kill.

The chase begins quietly as the lions walk through the shadows. Suddenly there is panic at the waterhole as the zebra run off at a great speed. The leader of the predators has already chosen her prey and sets off after it at a great speed. She closes the gap and the zebra is momentarily cornered as the other lionesses come out from the shadows. The zebra turns sharply, and for several seconds looses her attackers, but the lionesses are back on the attack with lightening speed. The leader now springs through the air and lands on the zebra. The zebra, although it is down, does not give up its slim chance of living and kicks furiously at the hungry lioness. It is no match for the four, massive lions who overpower it and bite it so it will bleed to death.

The dust settles in the fading light and the male lion tears the zebra apart with its strong jaws and razor sharp, canine teeth. After the male lion has eaten “a lions share”, the female lions and cubs begin to eat. When they have finished they move back into the shadows. Now the dustbins of the bush come to clean up the mess that is left. The hyenas and vultures clean the ground almost completely. All that is left to show that the lions have made a kill is the blood-stained ground.

M. Van Staden 3A1


CAMPFIRE

A pile of brush,
A pile of grass and twigs
Enclosed by a pyramid of logs.
A flare!
A Light!
The flames of a match flicker.
They curl around the grass,
Licking it, squeezing it.
The smoke rises.
The white smoke rises.
It puffs,
And then…..
The grass catches.
The red white flames blind in the darkness.
The white and red flames catch hold of the twigs.
They rest.
Then the first log is won.
The next and the next go,
Until…..
The campfire blazes.
It lights fully.
Blowing smoke,
Billowing smoke.
The flames flash up.
They shoot, jump and twist.
They leap and sway.
They relax and curl feebly.

Another log is thrown into the fire;
Into the jaws of death;
Into the ravenous fire.
The flames tense.
They tense and twist.
They dodge and attack
They attack with all their might.
Then, slowly, the log flickers.
It, to, has lost.

The flame dances.
The shadow dances.
The flame leaps and moves.
The shadow leaps and moves.
The flame shoots, twirls and twists;
It meanders and flutters.
The shadow too, shoots, twirls and twists,
It too, meanders and flutters.

Then the wood is spent.
The flame claws for more.
It raves and screams for more.
It scratches at the smoke and ground.
The shadows laugh.
The flame flickers.
Its end is near.
The flame dies.
No….!
Not yet!
It claws at a blade of grass.
It grabs and snatches the blade of grass.
It laps up the blade.
It looks greedily for more.
Then….

Puff!
The flame dies.
Leaving the smouldering charcoal.
Leaving the burning ashes.
Leaving…. The world.
The smoke dies.
It puffs its last breath.
And…. Vanishes into the atmosphere.
Yet the shadows dance on.
They twist and twirl.
They leap and bound
They shoot and play.
They…. Laugh.

M. Stone 2A1 (1979)

The above poem won an Honours Award in the Bulawayo Eisteddford’s Literary Section in 1979.


“The Power of the Press” and “Must we Turn the other Cheek” were the speeches delivered by our two Gifford representatives in the Lions’ Public Speaking Competition.

“THE POWER OF THE PRESS”

There is a saying that today’s news wraps tomorrows fish and chips. Bearing this in mind, the power of the press does not seem to be so great. Who are these people, the so-called fourth estate, who rush around with their cameras, tape recorders and note books, flashing press cards and demanding to be admitted where no-one else is allowed to go, if what they write is read then thrown away? Why are governments so afraid of newspapers and newspaper men whose views are different from theirs? Why do political parties invariably try to get a newspaper to support them, and, if they cant, start a newspaper themselves? Obviously the Power of the Press cannot be underestimated.

The press can be loosely defined as that part of business which deals in printed matter, especially newspapers and magazines. We all come into contact with it at a very early age, even if it is only when reading comic strips. These should not be passed off lightly; when you think of it, Asterix could be interpreted as being propaganda inciting the young to join terrorist groups.

Newspapers were originally started to do what their name suggested. Their function was to collect the news of the day or week and print it legibly. The very fact however, that what is news to one set of people is worthless trivia to another, means that they have to choose where their bias is going to be. Most try to cover as wide a field as possible to attract as wide a readership as possible. Thus they have a couple of pages of sport, a few dealing with crime and politics and at least one pin-up in every issue.

The people who write in the articles are human beings - that is they do make mistakes. It is difficult to argue therefore why people put so mush faith in what they read in the papers - faith - which is the cornerstone of the Power of the Press. Lovemore Dube will read an article on the economic situation in Britain and will base his entire judgement on how the “Brits” should sort out the mess in their country on similar articles, and when you realise that the articles are very often written by political extremists, the attitude some of the British have towards this country is understandable.

Newspapers, like most things in life have to earn their keep. The money people pay for the publications helps but does not cover the full amount. That is met by advertising. The press was the first of the mass media and so naturally first in the use of mass advertising. As such, it must take a large amount of responsibility for the way advertising has increased hand in hand with the power of the press.

The press has the power to tumble men from the highest offices in the world. The case of Richard Nixon is perhaps the best example. He might have stayed in office, with Watergate being one of those blots to be found on any political record, except for the publicity given to the affair. He was well aware of the potential of the press, saying in 1968, “Where news is concerned, nobody in the press is a friend, they are all enemies”. This ability to destroy, at a few touches of the typewriter, the entire careers of men, indeed their entire lives, poses serious ethical problems.

Newspapers themselves must decide what to print. Putting themselves into a position where they must act as both judge and prosecutor in dealing with a case. A great responsibility - but responsibility always goes with power - even in the press. We can see then that the power of the press should never be underestimated. It is one of the greatest powers in the world in controlling how people think.

Brian McCulloch U6


“MUST WE TURN THE OTHER CHEEK”

Who wishes to be victimised and preyed upon by others for their own ends? Very few of you if any. Yet those of you who say ”we must turn the other cheek” are about to be, or have already been, overwhelmed by the more aggressive and forthright among us who do not believe in the same degree of tolerance.

Tolerance could be classed as a virtue, but I consider it to be a handicap to progress in today’s capitalistic society. The man who is prepared to accept an injustice once, and who makes no effort to ensure it does not happen a second time, is the man who will not succeed, and success is surely the goal of every one of us. The thought of passively accepting the numerous injustices thrust upon us is surely abhorrent to most of us, yet modern society , under the influence of the New Testament commands us to forgive. Consider the words of the Old Testament “an eye for an eye” and we can see that it is a modern concept to accept our fellow mans failings and not seek revenge.

The seeking of physical revenge, is not an admirable trait, but it is sometimes necessary to preserve ones rights. To put it in simple terms, if somebody borrows a sum of money from you, and then refuses to pay it back, should you then accept this and lend the fellow more money at his next request? I think not. If those hypocrites who say “yes you should” were approached with a similar request under the same conditions, it is unlikely hat they would be prepared to assist. “You turn the other cheek, I’ll keep my head still” is what they believe.

There are some obsequious weak-willed individuals who turn the other cheek to people in power in the hope of personal gain. On the surface, they may succeed as many powerful people prefer those that submit to their every wish, as they realise they need have no fear of being toppled from their privileged positions. Yet how has this person really succeeded? True, he may earn a better salary or command more influence but he is still a servant of the person who elevated him. When he is needed, he is made welcome, but behind his back he is an object of much ridicule. The only way for persons of this type to really succeed is for them to become strong-willed, stand up for their rights, and apply for a ten day body-building course from Charles Atlas.

The all-powerful personalities who govern their businesses have not reached such a position by allowing people to wrong them twice. In fact, they have allowed very few people to wrong them once.

In world affairs, it may be considered expedient to turn the other cheek, and the obvious example of a nation that will impose her will upon other countries, is Russia, who has extended her influence throughout the world. The ‘Great’ powers of the Western World have issued threats at each step she takes that THIS outrage is the end and that Russia will be allowed to encroach no further. Each time, however, Russia has taken another stride and the Powers have failed to act. Nevertheless, the West does appear to be standing up for its rights over the latest crisis in Afghanistan. President Carter has threatened war and a boycott of the Moscow Olympics, but I believe the Russians will once again say to Mr Carter “NUTS!”.

It may sound as though I believe that anyone who is prepared to submit to the injustice does not deserve to succeed and should be overrun and destroyed by his fellow man. This is not the case. Anyone who contents himself with USING the gentle and tolerant is a coward and a bully, who exerts his influence on these people because he has neither the courage nor the will to face people with a stronger disposition. The real man is he who is prepared to come to grips with people of his own stature.

The practice of turning the other cheek is for the spineless, the cowards, the jelly-fish of our world. We should all have the courage of our convictions and stand up for our rights. Thus will we command respect. We must not turn the other cheek.

N. Williams 6M1


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

As I crept cautiously down the broken steps there was a deathly screech. I shuddered and sat down suddenly. The screech came again and yet again. I turned and crawled frantically up the steps as I was now shaking with fright.

How I wished that I had not decided to explore this beastly network of caves and tunnels!

A shattering roar made me gasp with fright. This time it came from above. I was in a dilemma. Should I go down to the screech or up to the roar, or stay where I was and risk detection by one or both, of what I was now convinced were angry demons or dragons?

A voice bellowed from below:
“To be, or not to be - that is the question;
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune…”

“Hamlet?” I wondered. If this demon knew Shakespeare it was certainly a better creature than I had judged it. I decided my course of action at once. Creeping down the steps, I tried to peep into the cavern which I had left only a few minutes before. Unfortunately I tripped on an uneven stone, and fell head-long out onto the rocky floor of the cave, which was now illuminated by lamps and candles.

There were about a dozen men in the cave, all in sixteenth-century costume. Overhead an owl screeched. That was the screech that had terrified me. One of the men stepped up to me. “You filthy scoundrel, you are like a rat.” I looked at this strange man, and, mustering all my courage replied, “Comparisons are odious, sir.”

The man chuckled and asked me to sit down. Then, without waiting for me to speak, he launched into the explanation that he and his friends were old actors, who met in this cave to act their favourite plays, mostly by Shakespeare. As most of his monologue was in outdated Shakespearean language, I can truly say that, for mine own part, it was Greek to me. And thereby hangs a tale. I shall never go exploring again.

C.A.Renaud 2A1 (1979)


MY AMBITIONS. 2B1

I shall buy my wife a car so that she doesn’t have to use my car.

Once I have established myself quite well, I want to but a hotel in Four Winds called “Churchill Arms”.

I do not wish to get married because I personally think women get in the way sometimes.

I will not marry till I find the right woman, because I do not want to have a faulty marriage.

My other ambition is to become a prefect or head-boy of the school.

As I get older, I would give up hockey and would take up a more relaxing sport like golf or bowls.

My ambition is to live until my late nineties and my wife can become as old as she wants to, without pain or tears.


A DAY AT THE DAM.

The yellow Mazda we were in, chugged along the overgrown bush road. Tiny thorn trees, bushes and shrubs scraped along the bottom of the car, making the screeching sound that sounded very irritating. There were four of us in the small car, we were all friends. The road twisted , climbed, turned through the hills until we reached the last rise. The car slowed, changed down, then stopped on the peak. Before us appeared the glittering blue dam.

As we descended the hill, and parked our car in a cool, shady place, we sat watching the water. It was very peaceful, the surroundings were rocks, kopjes and bush, quite, untouched and altogether paradise.

A few minutes later, we were fishing in the dam, we were not catching anything, nonetheless, it was enjoyable. The water looked so peaceful and calm that you just could not imagine the deathly fish hook under the quiet water.

Some time later, two of us went climbing. The other two boys stayed fishing. We climbed rocks, jumped over large cracks, crawled through thick bush, slid down slidy areas until, finally out of breath, we stood feeling almost the conquerors, at the summit of the hill. Everything below us, looked toy-like. The dam looked like a small puddle of water, and the rocks around it looked as if they were tiny pebbles that you could pick up and throw, everything seemed so small.

While we were away rock climbing, the other two boys gave up fishing and opened out the shade canvas. They also laid out all the food we had packed. We then returned and sat down to a good meal. The day went very fast, until it was time to return home. The sun grew bigger as it lowered itself into the hills and rocks. The dam became dark but remained beautiful, and so ended the day.

G. Russel-Smith 4C


THE STORM.

After three, boiling hot days, signs of rain started to develop. The smell of rain clung to the air and everyone was hot and sticky. Heat waves made their way around people. Everything was silent. Birds were flying around the heavily clouded sky, getting lower and lower. The white clouds moved swiftly away and were replaced by heavy dark-grey clouds. A forked flash of lightening darted across the sky and there was a rumble of thunder. By now hundreds of birds, mainly swallows, dotted the sky, and a strong wind was building up, sighing through the trees and rustling the dead leaves.

Then, very suddenly, the rain started. It came down in a sheet and hit the ground with a sound like boiling oil. The bounced off hard surfaces leaving a spray which reached about thirty-five centimetres off the ground. Puddles formed in dips and holes and the rain drops splashed on them. Small plants were getting badly battered, and their petals and leaves were falling off. The rain was rattling in the drain pipes and gushing into the ditches. Everywhere was getting waterlogged and marshy. Every now and again the falling rain changed direction as the wind changed. A brilliant flash of lightening lit the almost dark countryside, and almost immediately there was a terrific roll of thunder.

Everyone was in a state of panic. People were dashing to do up their car windows, and to get to shelter before they got wet. Ladies ran with their hands over their heads so as to keep their hairstyles from being ruined. A flash of lightening and a crash of thunder made a dog yelp with fright. Cyclists pedalled as fast as they could , with heads down, trying to get to their destinations before they were thoroughly soaked. People with umbrellas walked normally, stepping over the occasional puddle. A group of Africans gathered under a tree for shelter. Ladies and children gathered the washing from clothes lines as fast as they could. Cars drove with their windscreen wipers on and the drivers wiped the mist off the inside of the windows with a cloth. When the cars drove in a puddle, a large spray was sent in all directions. Two little boys started paddling in an extra large puddle, much to their mothers disgust.

After about ten minutes the rain slowed to a soft drizzle. The lightening and thunder were more distant, and the heavy dark clouds moved on. The white clouds gave off a glare, and soon the sun peeped through them. Everywhere was water logged. People started to move about again, and when the drizzle stopped, the washing was re-hung on the line. Then the two boys started to have a mud fight, which their mother ended abruptly. Still there was a drip-drip-drip in the gutter. When the wind blew, the drops from the trees were showered on the ground. The rain had broken the built-up tension - and all was normal again.

M.Carew 1A


KING OF THE PLAIN

Buffalo, Buffalo, roaming the plain,
I, Red Feather, shall hunt you again.

Buffalo, Buffalo, great massive beast,
I hunt you and kill you to give us a feast.

Buffalo, Buffalo, provider of meat,
You also give us our clothes and heat,
Needles and thread, tepee and shoe.

May my arrow fly straight and true.

S. CUERDEN 1B3


Many of us who have read “Lord Of The Flies” have wondered how the children left the aeroplane in which they were travelling when it came under attack. The story below explains how the “passenger tube” mentioned by Golding transported the children to their Tropical island.

ATTACK

“All clear”, said a voice from the control tower. A Concorde nosed its way towards the run-way. It turned and faced the run-way, then the engines revved up and the plane sped down the tarmac at about 500 miles per hour. Its nose lifted, and they soared into the air. There were only children aboard the plane as they were going to America for their holidays.

Under the fuselage was a tube like object. If the plane was in trouble, the children would run to the chute, where they would slide down into the tube. Then someone would close the door, press a button, and the tube would fall away with the parachute opening afterwards.

One of the children went to the back where he got himself a cooldrink. Next minute the plane shuddered and they saw a light flashing. The pilot came through, his face white and drawn. He had half an arm missing and said “Jump, Jump now. We are being attacked by another plane”.

The children ran panic-stricken towards the chute. A few others ran to the man and tried to help him. The last child in the tube closed the hatch and pressed the button. The tube fell away and they plummeted earthwards. Then the parachutes opened and they floated to the ground.

Another child opened the hatch and said, “Hold tight, we’re landing”. The tube struck the ground and slid along, hitting trees. Then it came to a halt. A child got out and the rest followed. They were on an island. They all scattered, and went to explore. The tide rose and carried the tube out top sea where it sank.

D. Adams 4C


THE BEGGAR

Hobbling over the lawns at the park,
There came a beggar,
And who turned every head which seemed to say
“Say! Don’t you think you need a bath?”

He stood, and from head to foot he seemed to writheIn dirt.
He nods his head
And his hands, as filthy as rodents, creep out from
Behind the woven rags.
They twitch.

Dishevelled hair,
A greasy as garage waste,
Falls into his face,
His face cratered and unshaven.
Antiquated glass frames rest on his large, flat nose.
“Oh, how his teeth must be deprived of attention!”

Hi breeches, barely visible, are worn through with age.
His unhealthy feet cling to “19th century” soles.

How we take pity on him.
How he haunts our extravagant minds.
How, with shame do we give him our “coppers”.
Yet, in truth, he worked for his living!

M. Tyrer (2A1) 1979


THE BIG RACE

Nerves on end, Waiting for Le Mans to start.
The chequered flag goes down and
The cars roar into life.
As the cars burst away from the start
Smoke comes off the rear wheels,
Shouts of excitement are roared from the grandstand.
Co-drivers keeping good records of their cars,
And mechanics at the ready for pit stops.

T. Carroll 2C (1979)

THE KINGDOM OF TERROR
Well we sang and stood
In the House of Assembly.
And yet the blue armour shirts
They attacked,
Attacked us in a torrent of words.
It was they that insulted us,
Swearing and using vulgar language.

Many survived the great battle,
Others were taken slaves
And thrown into the room of Common Evil,
To work their hands away.
Other survivors
Were sent before the King.
To receive from him the “Glorious Cane”.

One of these fine glorious days,
The future generations -
They will war against the Lords,
They will war against the Barrons.
They will war against the Knights;
War against the King,
There will be a great civil war amongst the hated.

M. Stone 2A1 (1979)


A STORMY NIGHT

The wind was howling through the trees, and the rain was spluttering down the drainpipes. The window shutters were slamming back and forth, as the wind was blowing in all directions. The rain was drumming down on the old tin roof, and inside there was a continual drip-drop as the water coming through the roof splashed into buckets.

Thunder boomed and bumbled as if the Gods had become angry. The lightning flashed about in the dark sky, cloudy sky, like arrows, the lightning came down out of the sky and struck out blindly at everything.

Then hail came, and it gunned down onto the roof, it bounced off the roof as if the roof were armour. As the hail hit the ground, it splashed in the deep muddy puddles, which filled the ruts in the ground. The continual throbbing of hail stones pelting the roof could be heard even in the quietest corners of the house.

As the hail slowly stopped, the rain filled the garden with a watery mud. The whole garden looked like a muddy lake. As the rain started to fade away, the thunder rumbled into the distance. The lightening could be seen as fluorescent flashes on the horizon. The gutters slowly stopped clanging and within half an hour there was complete silence.

As the dark black storm clouds began to part, the moon shone its golden face in a hundred different puddles at once. The stars twinkled in the background like sparks from a fire. The storm had been rough and destructive, but, as always after a heavy storm, there is peace and tranquillity.

K.L. Savin 5B1 (1979)


UNDER WATER GARDEN

Under the crystal blue water,
All the colours of the rainbow.
Reflecting as bright as the sun’s rays.
Like lights in the Disco
From bright reds
To dull browns
Green seaweed glittering
As you dive deeper
Grass with colourful diamonds.
Scattered everywhere.
Wonderful!

A Boland 2C1


AT A DISCO

Vibes ‘n jives Beat in the heat Mob throb!		Smoke and coke Chips and dips Some fun…		Uncouth young Relax in slax Peck and neck…
Sweat oozing People boozing Flashing light Night after night		Sounds booming Bodies zooming Here and there An hypnotic affair.		At a disco!

B Berry U6


PUNS ON THE NAMES OF STAFF AND PUPILS:

(Names used are those of people who are at present at the school or were here not long ago).

One MUNDAY the BROWN FINCH(am) sat on the BERRY tree while MENNE miles FAR(ren) away in the WEST on the LOVELLY STONEy SHAW covered with SHELLs, the BRINEy sea LAPAGEd around the (gar)RIOCK far from the DAVIS JONES locker. As the CUMMING boat came within a SPIERS throw of the (E)’Silva CLIFFs an AIREY blast hit the CAREW from the WAKE(field) of the GRAY sea.
The oncoming HUGHES of the DAILY sunset obliterated the HARDIE outline of the SAND(ham) covered bay which was sprinkled with seaweed and MOSS, while on board the passengers enjoyed a HARTy MEAL. Miles inland the WILDE LYON did not TYRER as it WIGGELed through the DEVINE foilage in the WOOD on the BRINK(ley) of the LAKE seeming as if it could not DUGUID. Not far from (van) HEER(den) under a WILLOWs tree he caught an unsuspecting LAMB which did not have a HOLLOW in a CLARENCE where he was forced to (van) WYK by the kNELL of the BELL rung by the angry farmer. A friendly MILLER and a GARDNER helped the farmer build a WEBB in which they caught the CRAVEN animal causing it much PAYNE. The BLACK-SMITH was overjoyed since the beast had been a (Haw)THORN in his side, so he asked his (La)FRENZE to have a PINT(e-Riech) with him at the pub to celebrate the removal of this NEWSONs(-Smith). So they put on their COATES and JEANS and set off on a WALK(er) down the TARR MACADAM road to the pub where they enjoyed a BUFE supper which was prepared by the COOK and was topped with MADEIRA cheese and WHITE WYNN. The HUNTERs were declared CHAMPIONs and the black-smith received the Lyon’s skin from a MANN who was the SKINNER.


GRANNIES

Granny Thomas of ‘Granny Thomas’s Fresh Farmhouse Chutney’, sat in front of her electric fire reading a book. She was suddenly disturbed by a loud knocking on her front door. When she opened it she was confronted by a man waving a pistol and wearing a ski-mask. He bundled her down the garden path and into a waiting car.

She was the fourth chutney making Granny to go missing in three months.

John Malone was now nearing his goal of getting all the recipes of the grannies’ chutney in order to make the best chutney in England, and also to make his fortune. The last granny was Granny Green. When he had her, he would get all the recipes and dispose of all the grannies.

Granny Green was pushed down the corridor of a abandoned prison. Her glasses slipped off her nose and under the feet of her armed guard. He laughed harshly and pushed her on. She did not object as she was gagged. The guard opened the door of the other grannies cells and pushed her in. She stumbled and fell as the door clanged behind her. The other grannies picked her up and removed the gag. “How are you” Granny Thomas asked. “Shaken, and that brute od a guard stood on my glasses” replied Granny Green.

“We’ll have to get out of here, and I know the plan” said Granny Thomas. “First we’ll….”

John Malone stood in front of the grannies and said “Ladies, I will ask you to submit your chutney recipes to me in writing and if you don’t, harsh means of extracting information will be used. Don’t think I’m lying, ladies. You have until tomorrow”. He then turned on his heel and walked out.

The guard outside the cell door heard panting gasps and moved fast when he heard a voice shouting out that Granny Green was ill. He opened the door and stepped in. He only had enough time to take in the grinning faces when a shoe hit him squarely on his forehead and he slumped to the floor. Granny Thomas, still holding her shoe, stepped over him and took the Browning .32 pistol from his belt. She knew how to operate it as she had combat experience with the W.A.A.C.S. She led the way with the other grannies helping Granny Green as she could not see. A guard at the end of the corridor saw them. Dropping his Sub-machine gun to his hip, he fired wildly at them but the bullets missed. Granny Thomas steadied herself, took aim and fired, with the first bullet just missing the guards ear and the second hitting his chest, slamming him into the wall behind. He dropped and writhed on the floor.

The grannies ran forward to the main gate which was locked. Granny Thomas emptied the magazine at the lock which snapped and the heavy oak door swung back. Another guard ran up behind them, but Granny Thonas threw the pistol at him and he ducked. When he looked up they were gone!

Granny Smith bumped into a farmer as the grannies rounded a corner in the lane. He carried a shotgun and was coming to see what was happening at the Old Prison. He was still gathering his wits about him when some armed men appeared. Lifting his shotgun, he fired one barrel into the air. The men turned and fled.

The farmer took the old grannies back to his farm house where he telephoned the police, but by the time they arrived, John Malone had made good his escape and had gone!

J. Taylor 2A1 (1979)


A DOG LOCKED OUT

Man’s best friend, the guard of his home, the faithful companion, is the dog. That is the reason I was bought. I was lifted from the cage and marked as a loving, trusting, bundle of fun. I was taken, loved, fed, looked after. I was the focal point of the family then. But now… I am nothing. I am merely a wistful presence. They have ceased to love me! After all, who would leave such a dear friend locked out?

In vain I sit on the step waiting patiently for someone to remember his companion and let me in. But the only result is the cold setting into my bones. Now I lie on the lawn, my ears alert for the metallic sound of the latch being drawn back and the door sliding open and a soft “Tsch, Tsch” as a voice beckons. But no sound comes, save the rasping of crickets and the wind sliding through the garden. I keep changing my position to remain warm as the night grows colder.

Who can understand? I cannot. After all I have done for them. Ungrateful creatures. I have fetched slippers and placed them near vile feet. I have answered each calling of my name, even though it is sometimes a summons to a crude joke. I have chased and retrieved countless gnarled sticks to satisfy juvenile humours. I pad ceaselessly across doormats, ears alert for the slightest alien sound. I sacrifice my own freedom to give others an object of fun, joy or hilarity. And they lock me out!

They sit in their cocoon of warmth, lolling about in front of the television and munching, nibbling, forever nibbling. They give me absurd orders and I obey them. “Go on, boy, fetch my paper” or “fetch my slippers”. If I fail, it becomes “thick animal”, “good for nothing”, and they stare pityingly at me as if I do not understand a word. But I do. That is why I cannot be found when they wish to punish me.

But wait! The inside doormat slides under the weight of small feet, visible as blurs against the narrow ribbon of light under the door. The latch explodes in the stillness of the night. The door opens slowly and a slight figure is outlined against he blinding light.

“Come, doggy, come inside boy! Ntsh! Ntch!! Comes a soft voice. I scramble up and blink. Can it be true? Could they still love me? “Come on, doggy, its cold outside”. It is true. I hurry inside. Into the warmth. Into the haven of light and love. “Man, your faithful companion is home to roost!”.

K. Hannan 2A1


BY GUM! ELIZA’a DEAD

Eliza was always chewing gum,
Better perhaps than sucking her thumb,
Every day she would chew and chew,
She seemed to have nothing better to do.

One day she went on an aeroplane flight.
Still chewing her gum as the plane gained height.
Soon it was speeding across the sky,
The girl didn’t know she was going to die.

For all of a sudden a pocket of air,
Made the plane drop from here to there.
The fall made Eliza jump in surprise,
The people could not believe their eyes.

They saw Eliza starting to choke,
No-one moved and no-one spoke.
Eliza could not draw a breath,
The gum it was that caused her death.

C.L.Rutherfoord-Jones 4A


CAGED

The Gorilla rattled his cage bars
He was locked up all alone.
The man rattled his cell bars
His name was Al Capone.
They were caged.

The gorilla looked around in despair
Dreaming of his friends in distant lands.
The man ran his fingers through his hair
Dreaming of things which he could’ve laid his hands.
They were caged.

He gorilla could not understand the scent
Of the place in which he would live all his life.
The man did not own one brass cent
And he thought of his fair - haired wife.
They were caged.

The gorilla could not understand why
He had been sent here, and he cried.
The man had been doomed to die
“Because of what?” he lied.
They were caged.

J. Taylor 2A1 (1979)


A TRIP TO KARIBA DAM

My sister and I had won a drawing competition sponsored by “Rhodesian Breweries”. The prize was a trip to Kariba Dam.
When we arrived at the dam we were very excited. We had come in a small four seater helicopter. My sister and I could not believe our eyes. The beach was lovely with a pale yellow cream colour to it. The dam was beautiful and calm. Occasionally, a fish would jump, or the cry of a magnificent fish-eagle could be heard, as it soared high in the cloudless, blue heavens, scanning the water with eyes that could pierce you, looking for its food. We were suddenly awakened from our trance by our guardian who was looking after us while out at the dam. He told us to look at the kopje to our left, an to our amazement, there, eating lush green grass, was a heard of young impala. They moved without noticing us, as if they were ghosts sliding gently over the ground. My sister asked if she could take photos, and the click of the camera sent the herd scampering away, their calves following close behind.

We then went exploring on the nearby kopje. It was an exhausting climb, it left us puffing and panting. It was there that we learnt how to open our eyes. The scenery was beautiful. The twittering of birds and sounds of the insects mingled with the sounds made by the trees and the grass, made the bush paradise. Our knapsacks were filling up quickly with beautiful stones, and eggs of various species of wild birds.

Eventually we had to sit under the shade of a Mukwa tree, while the blazing African sun beat down on the bush and everything seemed to go silent. Then the sun was covered with thick, back, rolling clouds. Very soon the paradise became dark, and jagged forks of lightening, could be seen splitting just before the ground. The sounds of thunder resounded like a thousand drums beating continuously. It looked as if the devil had taken over paradise.

We then retraced our steps back to the helicopter. When we were out of the danger area, we saw the thunderous clouds open and the rain poured down. It seemed as if the dam’s gates were opened.

When back at home, we told our story to our parents, and they too were thrilled. Our collection was mounted and put into my fathers study. It is still there today, twenty years later.

D. Sinclair 4C


PROGRESS

Progress means and always has meant suffering for someone. Ever since his creation, man has never been able to resist the temptation to question, form ideas, create and as a result, progress. This is not entirely man’s fault, since he was given as well as normal power of instinct, the power of thought.

Man has progressed in every direction; from cave-man grunts to highly evolved speech of which no other animal is capable; from stone tools to precision instruments; from blistered feet to high velocity cars, trains and aeroplanes. Man has evolved from the stone age to the space age. However, he will never be satisfied to stop here. He will strive to continue to the limits and even further, because his mind will never be contented to allow for anything but progress, improvement, precision and more and more knowledge. Never will he be contented to sit still for too long. Unfortunately, ever since he left the limits of his cave, he has inevitably caused pain and suffering to everything living. Man, the explorer, has wondered deep into many jungles and has disrupted the lives of many tribes.
Civilised man especially has bought with him a different culture and has forced religion and habits upon unfortunate tribes. An example of this is the suffering of the Brazilian Indians. These people who have survived so long without help from our “civilised” ways and advanced knowledge, are now suffering from many of our common diseases such as colds and coughs and are dying because, unlike ourselves, they have not had the many generations of inbred resistance against diseases.

Man has also progresses in his knowledge about mathematics, medicine, chemistry and all fields of science. For this progress to be possible, there had to be the unfortunate guinea pigs. Many people have died and suffered from the advances made in medicine. Man does not really care, in fact he rejoices, because would we be alive if it were not for their sacrifices?

Again people have suffered through the splitting of the atom. This caused the production of the atom bomb.

There is also the arms race; with threats of germ warfare, nuclear bombs, lithium bombs and a number of other devices which all produce the same effect. With all this progress, however, earth has become too small a laboratory to work in, and thus man expands into space. It is a never ending struggle. Even if you are to be the next victim to die for a good cause, take advantage of all the advances and progress man has made and enjoy living in this age - or would you rather be dressed in skins and eating grubs on an uncomfortable rock?

G Nosenzo 5B1 (1979)


WINTER

The summer is slowly fading away,
And it’s getting colder day by day.

Squally day and freezing night,
Snow flutters, falling in its flight.

In the morning, black and white,
The snowy ground is a beautiful sight.

The pond is frozen - lets go skating,
While the dance is in the making.

Making snow-men round the house,
With some charcoal for the mouth.

Going skiing down the hills,
Having falls and lots of thrills.

Having snow-ball fights with friends,
Dodging them with twists and bends.

One mother’s call, it is time for bed,
So off we go with sleepy head.

In the morning, I get up again,
And find fern patterns on the window pane.

In the garden the trees are bare,
With white moustache and white , snow hair.

There are no birds for us to see,
Except a robin in the trees.

The sky is dark and fluffy grey,
There’ll probably be more snow today.

Winter is a time of games,
Of sleet and hail, snow and rains.

Winter is a happy time,
Playing in the snow’s just fine.

But the snow will eventually melt,
And the trees spring leaves as soft as felt.

Then with the coming of spring,
All the birds will start to sing.

The animals, they will all come out,
And all begin to run about.

The winter’s carefree time has ended,
And into nature’s cycle spring’s been blended.

A Christie 2A


THE AFRICAN MARKET

An ominous cloud of acrid dust rose slowly upwards reaching into the naked sky, revealing the vividly-coloured market square. The sun lashed the rows of blushing tomatoes, mangoes and pumpkins with truculent heat - beads of moisture trickled across the cucumber skins.

A procession of jovial African women - babies clinging desperately to their backs - skilfully weaved their way among the shanty stalls. Finally they stopped, and sat on a sweltering flat boulder. With vivacious chatter and laughter, they delicately selected various treasures from amongst the colourful array of articles in the huge, woven baskets that had been carried on the women’s heads.

Bowls of succulent wild fruit, refreshing berries and oily nuts aurraunded an ancient, wrinkled peasant man. People stopped to inspect the delicacies. They tasted he fruits and, in delighted satisfaction, purchased a bowl or two - the shiny twinkle of small coins flashed from hand to hand.

A dozen gay peasant children, clothed in ragged garments and decorated with gaudy necklaces and bangles of beads, ran joyfully across the dusty market path. The fearful screech of a savannah bird penetrated the constant, clamour of the market. A scrawny, decrepit dog howled mournfully - a chicken squawked in terror as it scurried desperately among the bare feet of the bustling, sweating crowd.

A plump, pugnacious woman, her brow glistening with moisture, thrust a row of clattering necklaces in front of a passer-by, and stubbornly explained the value of each ornament in her convincing rapid dialect.

The aroma of the yeast and wheat stealthily crept from behind a colossal brick enclosure. A raucous noise of jubilant men mingled with the sound of the bargaining crowd. The acute heat guided more people towards the enclosure - their thirsts were intense.

The smell of freshly ground maize attracted a gathering of young, gaudily dressed women - their bandannas skilfully arranged in intricate patterns upon their heads. A musical beat was thumped on a skin drum; a marimba tune was played, and presently, amongst a drunk swarm of droning flies, a traditional dance commenced. A shrill blast of a penny whistle, followed by several more, drew the rest of the fatigued crowd from the empty market stalls.

The heavens revolved into a smouldering amber - the sun gradually retreated over the horizon. A thin finger of smoke groped upwards into the darkening sky - the market had finished; the ground was barren.

A Fenner 4A


360 DAYS TO GO

Your time has come. There is no way to escape. You are caught by your “civvy” shirt-tails and dragged, or rather whipped, though the military mincing machine, from which you emerge within a day or two, neatly gift-wrapped in camouflage from short-cropped head to nail-cut toe. But as you apprehensively await the time of your departure aboard the train which will inevitably deposit you at the appropriate siding, you have a murky and dismal view of your fate. Uncertainty pervades your crowded cabin with heaviness as great as that of your tightly packed metal trunk. Advice has come from every quarter as to what necessities should be included in this cumbersome container and on arrival at your barracks, you discover that not only do you possess a quantity of diverse equipment similar to that of the quartermasters store, but that much of it is considerably less essential than you were led to believe. Then with intense, but nevertheless belated frustration, you recall the numerous occasions on which you unloaded this awkward item of personal luggage from train to truck and from truck to train. Do not think, however, that you will be treated so leniently! Oh no, the army, in its malicious benevolence, will supply you with another even larger trunk containing an even greater assortment of equipment to that of your own, most of which is foreign to your civilian eye. This too, must be hauled around the country until, at long last, it finds a final resting place in your barrack room.

Well, finally, after much laborious travelling and shifting from one barrack room to another, you and your baggage find themselves at the foot of a bed with a foam rubber covering as an excuse for a mattress. To one side is a dingy locker which invariably does not lock at all. With these encouraging portents before your weary eyes you set about creating some sort of order in your disrupted life. Into the locker at your bedside you carefully, almost religiously, place the various items of cleaning kit consisting of countless tins of boot polish and an equal number of polishing brushes, wire wools, dusters and cloths of various types, washing powder, window cleaner, floor polish and of course brasso. Having completed this operation and realised just how much you posses in the realms of hygiene, you wonder if you’ll ever find a use for all this. Some weeks later you will laugh cynically at yourself forever harbouring such doubts. Next to occupy a space in this repository are your writing materials; pens, envelopes, pads, stamps. You naturally look forward to maintaining the last possible vestiges of contact with the outside world. In the meantime the ludicrousness of this vain hope will soon dawn upon you.

Now those venerable military chiefs who enjoy an apparently infinite amount of privileged authority, namely the Corporals, descend from dizziest of heights upon you and your companions, and embark on a systematic program of making your time spent under them as nightmarish as possible. Their methods are ruthless and range from inspections and shine parades to hours on the drill square. Their violent remonstrations directed at members of the platoon (hopefully not yourself!) are exceptional examples of the resounding volume which is capable of being produced by the human vocal chords. The effect, of these vicious verbal attacks is just as wondrous; the dejected recruit is tortured cruelly with innumerable terrifying threats from the loss of a huge percentage of his minimal salary to the prospect of a lifetime in the detention barracks (colloquially known as “The Box”) which result in an instantaneous flash of obedient dread in him.

Could the situation deteriorate any further, you ask yourself? Surely things must improve? On the contrary, at this stage, life is still comparatively pleasant and the real burden of your first phase training has not yet manifested itself.

From the Drill Square you may notice the intriguing forms of various strange constructions, which collectively constitute the infamous assault course, peering over the thorned treeline. The distance reveals their oddity well enough but, as you advance towards these alien obstacles for your first lesson in transverseing the course , their function becomes increasingly baffling. There are walls of evry shape and size, barriers constructed from different lengths of lead-heavy logs and everywhere, it seems, there are ropes dangling in anticipation. Each obstacle has one feature which is peculiar to them all - they all appear to be insurmountable. The walls are too high and the ropes are too short. These thoughts will perplex your unbelieving mind when a demonstration is given of how to manage each barrier. You would be more at ease if the confidence of the instructor was shaken by a slip here or a fall there, but, no, he sweeps through the entire course with Tarzan-like skill and ease. Having done so, he expects you and your companions to emulate his shining example. Understandably there is no enthusiastic surge to be first as you cautiously approach the first obstacle. Soon enough, however, you are committed to the most injurious few minutes you have ever endured. At the end, lacerated, bruised, and, you convince yourself, with at least two fractured bones somewhere in your agonised frame, you feel that it is you who have been assaulted.

I have outlined but a fragment of the existence of a first phase recruit, but what I have mentioned is that which is most characteristic both in nature and circumstance of those first few weeks and which I am sure, remains most vivid in his memory. In reminiscing he may cherish the experience despite its frustrations at the time, even though, after those first days he will remark with despairing gloom, “Three-hundred-and-sixty-days-to-go”.

G. Bruce


MEAT

Two men stood on the platform of the railway station. One, a lean, thin-faced individual, held a small crudely-constructed wire cage. The other a tall fellow with a benign countenance, studied the occupant of the cage. “Yes” he muttered to himself. “Yes. He’s got a good carcass on him, hasn’t he?”
“Uh-huh,” replied the other. “He’ll be a good breeder too.”
“Yes” agreed the first. “and I’ll surely find a use for that pelt.” The thin man threw him a quick glance.
“I thought you knew,” he said. “The skins must be burned. People might get suspicious”.
“Yes. Yes, of course”, answered his partner. “I had forgotten, that’s all”. He smiled to himself.
“How much?” he asked.
“Six bucks.”
“Six!” he exclaimed. “He’s not worth that much! Look at those teeth! I’ll give you three.”
“Five,” rejoined the other, looking shrewdly at the tall man opposite him.
“Three-fifty.”
“Four”. The tall man stroked his chin, pondering.
“All right”, he said finally. “Four.” He took out of his pocket a wallet and extracted four dollars from it. “Here,” he said abruptly, thrusting the notes into the other mans hand. He picked up the cage and walked away. The small man shrugged his shoulders, pocketed the money and left.
Walking fast, the tall man soon reached his small truck. He dumped the cage and its occupant in the back, opened the door, and got in. The engine started immediately, and he was soon driving through the city. He left the town by a small, badly cared for road, which few people used. After half an hour’s driving, he was home. He got out of he truck, lifted the cage from the back, and went towards a large shed.

Inside the shed there were hundreds of small cages, stacked one on top of the other. From each one gleamed a pair of cruel , wicked yellow eyes. The man went into a room at the back of the shed, and re-appeared holding another cage of the same type as the others. He put it on the ground and opened it. He then turned to the cage which he had bought from the railway station, opened it, carefully reached inside, and pulled out an enormous rat! He put the verminous creature inside its new cage, and closed the lid. The man reached into his pocket and took out a small note book, which he consulted. “Hummm,” he mused. “I’ll have to slaughter one hundred to fill the steakhouse order, and another fifty for the Anchor Restaurant. Lets get to work.”

He returned the notebook to his pocket and walked to the door. As he opened it, he saw a nondescript white van standing in his driveway, but its presence did not really register. He walked out of the shed, and closed the door behind him. As he did so, he saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. He ducked - but it was too late. He felt something hit his head, and then he sagged silently to the ground. Two men emerged from the bushes and, aided by a third ( who had hit the man) carried the unconscious victim to the truck, opened the back, and threw him unceremoniously inside. The three men climbed into the cab, and drove away.

When he awoke, the tall man was lying on a table in a brightly lit room. Strangely his head did not hurt. Suddenly he realised that he was naked, and tried to sit up, but found that he was strapped firmly to the table. As he lay on the table, squirming uncomfortably, a door opened opposite him, and a short, stocky man entered the room. His dark, unshaven face wore an unhealthy leer as he walked towards the table, his hands behind his back. “So,” he mocked. “We have another victim. No?”
He gave a sadistic smile.

“What the Devil!” began the man on the table, but he stopped abruptly when he saw the other man bring a knife out from behind his back. A huge knife. Sharp.
“So,” began the short man, “we heard about your little enterprise. Well, I am in much the same business. With one minor difference.”
“No!” screamed the tall man. “No!” He felt the knife enter his body.

S.Eames 4A


VIOLENCE AND AGGRESSION

The word violence is stated in the dictionary as meaning the state or quality of being violent, excessive, unrestrained, or unjustifiable force. The crucial factor of violence is the intent to cause harm or pain. The act of violence and aggression is common to all corners of the world in this day and age. Not a single week, day or even an hour passes by without some form of violence taking place in countries around the world.

People have never really been able to understand what causes a person to become violent, but it is believed by many hat in every person’s character there is a violent side, whether I be deep seated or easily recognisable.

Violence takes place in innumerable ways and under many different circumstances. It may be on a sports field, in a dark ghetto alley, or in front of some political building. No matter where it occurs, however, the result is always the same, human injuries or even deaths.

Violence in sport is particularly evident in European football, not only on the field, but also amongst the easily excitable spectators. In professional football the fields have come to resemble battlefields. Players end up with broken bones, cut heads; and why? Because everyone has the same thought in highly paid football. To win, no matter what the cost.

An English magazine stated that violence is part of winning. In professional sport it has been pointed out endlessly that the result of a win-or-else tic is that if you are not winning, anything else is acceptable if it will help to avoid defeat. Perhaps it was inevitable, that as stakes got higher and rewards more enormous, winning became, not just desirable, but essential.

The rugby pitch too, seems to have a magnetic influence on violent actions. Brutal fouls have begun to disgrace the game, and casualty statistics have risen each year.

Crime and violence continue to produce examples of the bloody and the bizarre, especially in the large, highly populated cities of the world such as those found in the United States.

In 1972, Charles Mason and three girls from his “tribe” were found guilty of murdering Sharon Tate and other victims, and were sentenced to death after that trial that “The Times” described as being like ‘some unbelievable film scenario’. This was just one of the thousands of violent acts which had to be delt with that year. Police law enforcement seems so inadequate to cope with the ever increasing number of murders, and in fact all violent acts.

Statistics from the United Stated crime sound more suited to a battlefield than to a highly industrialised country. Indeed, in New York alone, there were seven hundred and fourteen murders in the first six months of 1971, not far behind the number of America soldiers killed during the same period in Vietnam. It is inconceivable how human beings continue to kill their fellow citizens while there are so many lives being wasted on battlefields in countries all over the world.

Organised crime is on such a large scale in America to-day that it is impossible to believe that violence will ever be eradicated from there. It has also been written by an American criminologist and expert on the Mafia, that Britain, too, could face organised crime on the United States’ pattern. Even without his organised crime, violence in Britain, as in urban societies everywhere, is at an uncontrollable stage.

Will violence continue to increase in the future, or will man discover some sort of ‘force’ to overcome the barbaric acts perpetrated in as many countries of our world?

G. Parnell U6


TALENTS

The word talent is defined as any special or natural gift or aptitude, meaning, in other words, an ability to produce worthwhile efforts stemming from the various abilities inherent in each one of us. The us of our talents forms a significant contribution towards the expression of our individuality which is unique in each one of us, since no two persons have identical habits or desires.

We find the word referred to in the Bible, where in Matthew 25: 14-30, a parable describes the just deserts which one receives from God as a result of a life which one has led and the deeds which one accomplishes. In the parable, Jesus describes how a man gave his three servants certain amounts of money which they were required to invest each to he best of his ability. Two of the servants, through their own initiative were able to double the money within a very short time, but the third, merely kept the money and was expelled, as a result, by his master. The interpretation of this story serves to illistrate the use of ones talents, since the efforts of the two men who increased their investments, can be interpreted as meaning that they were able to prosper as a result of their devotion to God, while the third failed to prove his worth, and was, as a result, cast out. Thus, from this parable we learn that through using our abilities we are able to profit and obtain success.

All people must have talents in some field, whether they be physical or mental, and which, if applied correctly can lead to the prospering of one’s pride and self-confidence, and of course ones financial status in certain undertakings. Some people excel themselves on the sports field by obtaining prestige in the numerous and varied activities in which they participate. Others participate in less aggressive and less exhilirating activities such as those which require the use of cultural and creative ability to produce things which are meaningful and self-expressive, whether it be on the stage, in the music field, through the use of language both spoken or written or the acimen to achieve financial success. Some contribute to various organisations and societies through which their invaluable services display their talents.

Everyone has a talent of some kind. If one views oneself in perspective, critically examining ones abilities and character, one will almost certainly be able to find some ability in which one is proficient. Talents are God given gifts which we are intended to employ to gain recognition and appreciation of ourselves and of our Lord. It is an ability which is closely allied with individuality and should be used regardless of the feelings and reactions of those around us, since throughout the exercise of our talents we can obtain spiritual contentment and a sense of achievement. Thus it is a personal obligation to ourselves to use our talents; the benefits which are reaped will undoubtedly confirm that our talents are genuine and worthwhile pursuing.

E L Nel U6


BEYOND THE GRAVE

My body was rubbed with silver natrium, myrrh, and sweet cassia. My brain and my internal organs were taken out of my body and put in canopic jars. I was then wrapped in fine white linen bandages and placed in a dark sarcophagus. I was taken to my brick mastabo.

My soul now had to set out on a very dangerous journey, through the wild country. It was a cold night, and dark jagged rocks tore my feet. The trees were like skeletons with long finger-like branches. There were many wild animals. The most frightful was a sinister crocodile which lurked in a stagnant muddy pool. It suddenly attacked me. Its teeth sank into my leg, but I struggled and strained and finally managed to escape. I walked on with my leg bleeding. I saw a black shadow following me and I knew if it reached me I would be destroyed. I began to run for my life, panting as I went. In vain. It reached me, cold, menacing, but it was not the end, for I touched my lucky amulet and it vanished.

It was not long after this incident that I reached the hall of judgement, with its tall doors. The doors were studded with iron. There was a huge picture of Osiris on the door. Quite confidently, I went into the hall of judgement. There before me, stood the stern God, Osiris, and the forty-two judges. I saw the golden and ebony scale with the white feather of truth on it. Thath, the God of Wisdom, would decide my fate. The monster, part crocodile, part lion, part hippopotamus watched and waited. Anubis took my hand and weighed my heart in the balance. I was terrified.

Trembling and shaking, I watched my heart plunge the balance down. I shrieked and screamed and tried to run, but the monster swiftly and surely ate my heart.

M. Nichols 2B2


A SHATTERING NIGHTMARE

It was a cold night when I jumped into bed and I had put extra blankets down on my bed so as to keep warm. In no time at all I had fallen asleep and was dreaming when suddenly I was running.

Running away from something, I was screaming out aloud “Help, Help!”, but there was no one to hear me except the ferocious beast that was chasing me. I could not see what it was from where I was running. Not watching where I ran, I tripped and fell into a pool of blood where the victim of the beast had said its last farewell. The disfigured carcass of the victim was an awesome sight with its eyes pushed out of its head and its arms and legs (or should I say the bones) were dangling on thin pieces of sinew. I heard a growl behind me, a blood-chilling growl.

I got onto my feet and ran as fast as my legs could carry me. I could feel the warmth of the beasts breath as I was running. I felt claws digging into my arms and it felt as if the beast was crushing my bones and I could not stop it. I tried to free myself, but nothing doing, it was as strong as an ox. It carried me away with one hand. It had big bulky eyes and a nose like a pig with tremendously long incisors. It had a bear-like body and stood about fifteen feet tall, and had coarse hair.

When it arrived at its destination, I passed out from loss of blood. When I awakened I found myself attached to a large stake and in a dark cave. There was a flame at the entrance and I saw the figure of the beast moving here and there, as if doing a ceremonial dance.

He came towards me with a large torch. I stiffened as he approached, for I did not know what would happen to me. He pulled me away from the stake towards the fire. In front of me, was a large slab of rock with spikes sprouting through the sides. He laid me on the slab and tore the shirt from me. He tied me down with vines and started chanting some weird ceremonial song of his. This was it, the moment I had hoped would never come, but there was nothing I could do about it. He lifted a sharpened stone up into the darkness and as he brought it down………

I found myself lying on the floor and feeling very cold. I climbed into my bed and sat and thought about my nightmare. I hope it never will come true.

V. Bassett 4C


REPORT ON A UFO

I looked above and there it was, a bright, reddish light.
The object hovered over me, a marvellous sight.
I watched it, disbelievingly. It made not a sound.
As, slowly, the space-craft landed on the ground.

No-one could have been inside this frail machine.
A mass of wires and complicated gadgets could be seen.
It stood on a tripod and its rockets still flared.
With nothing in our world could this craft be compared.

As it rose into the universe I ran from where I stood.
I went to tell my tale to the sleeping neighbourhood.
But when I looked up to the sky the object had gone.
So I did not tell my story to anyone.

K. Porritt 4A


And incase you're wondering about this document - I found this in the Jubilee Magazine Pg 172:-

REPORT ON “THE HONEYCOMB”

Editor: Mr. R. T. McGeoch
As we already have The Bee Hive, The Honeycomb seemed the automatic choice of a title for the henceforth annual publication of the best literary efforts of Gifford pupils. The need for this has been evident for some time, particularly as the available space in the annual School’s magazine has progressively grown less and less as printing costs have risen until the last two years when no contributions have been printed.
Hence The Honeycomb.
The aim is to include at least one contribution from every form in the School, an aim which has not yet been achieved in the first two numbers published in June and October. Reception of the publication has been good, and most favourable comments have been received from sources outside the School. Within the School interest has been generated, and with the awarding of small prizes we hope to reward literary effort and achievement. Above all The Honeycomb has, I believe, given a sense of kudos to the contributors and considerable pleasure to those who have read the stories and articles. This is the justification for the continued existence of The Honeycomb.