THE SCHOOL MAGAZINE

Summer 1963

Archive index
Homepage
Email us
Cover

Foreword

This magazine is rather an achievement as it is lacking in the guiding hand of Mr. Jacques, who unfortunately was not available at the time of production. We would like to state that this magazine had the "thumbs down" from Mr. Jacques but we thought that we could show him that he has some loyal followers. With the guidance of Miss Quass and the assistance of Judith Bissett and Richard Hollister, the magazine was produced by:-

Robert Morgan and David Harvey (Printers)
June Astill and Peter Dowdall (Typists)
Robert Lockyer and Colin Jarman (Co-Editors)

and we hope that this magazine will live up to the standards of its forerunners.

Thanks are also due to K. Carveley for his assistance in producing the covers.


by J.C.Q.

I would like to point out that my own contribution has been non-existent, and at the same time thank most sincerely all the pupils who have helped with the magazine. In passing I might add that, by strange coincidence, 75% of the magazine staff will not be here next term!


A Day on the Farm by Gillian Cooper (3H)

A day on the farm begins at dawn
First it's the milking, and then the corn
After breakfast the chickens are fed,
Then the bull to its field is led.
The cows are then sent out to graze,
Oh, how long are these summer days
But to help to pass the time away
You could help to go and make the hay.
But that's quite a boring job
When you'd rather be out with the dog.


Spot the Sportsmen

1) ..... as an arrow.
2) .... stock and barrel.
3) Dick ......'s ride to York.
4) Needle and ......
5) A rolling stone gathers no ....
6) Small ...
7) I'm to be Queen of the ...
8) The pride of ....... town.
9) The ..... in heart.
10) The .... and Duchess.


Father to son -

Why do you wear your hair like Adam Faith?

Son to Father -

Why do you wear yours like Yul Brinner?


Collecting Coins by Derek Hughes (3H)

I collect old English coins and I am finding it harder and harder to get hold of good coins without paying the full price. Seabys of Great Portland Street is about the only place where any good coins can be bought, but then one has to pay the full price for them. Some of the prices of coins range from about 1200 for a Henry VII sovereign to about 12/- for some Henry VIII groats or fourpences. I myself collect Anglo-Saxon pennies and coins from Henry VII to Elizabeth I, which I find was a very interesting and lovely period. Many of the coins of that time are now damaged and are therefore not very good as collector's pieces, so now I have to save up my money and go to Seabys to get coins in a good condition.


by M. Bone (4X)

How many times must I tell you this
I say it again and again
I'll say it to you my pretty min
How many times must I tell you this
Your hair reminds me of golden rain
My love for you will never fail
How many times must I tell you this
I say it again and again.


Hallowe'en by Nigel Jeny (1M)

Hallowe'en is such a night,
       Pumpkin-masks and paint too.
Dressed up ugly! What a sight,
       We have so much to do.
All in a room do we sit,
       Nerve-racking, with the twitch,
Candles all around us lit
       Now comes the ugly witch.
O! What an eerie day.
       Around and around she walks,
Singing on her way
       At last she sits down and talks,
O! what an eerie day.

The Stranger by M. Houghton (4A)

I saw this strange man every time I went to the lake. He sat on his ancient wicker basket with his tanned arms supporting his head. I never saw his face. He just sat there in his torn sports jacket, a pair of brown trousers that had seen better days, and a pair of knee high boots. On the back of his head, how it stayed on I don't know, was an old trout fisherman's hat. Unless you knew the old man was there, he was invisible against the blending scenery.

Each day he arrived, his sensitive fingers made up his tackle, and he cast it out. Occasionally he caught fish, large fish. The sun beat down on him but he paid it no heed. I asked him for a hook, but he just sat there.

Dusk came and he packed up his tackle. Away he strolled and slowly disappeared into the nearby wood.

The night passed, and the following morning I was back at the lake. My fishing seemed incomplete. The sun beat through the trees onto a bare patch of earth. Then, I realised. Where was the old man? I tried to concentrate on my fishing, but the old man had made an imprint on my conscience. I packed up my tackle and walked through the wood. There was the old man, lying by a tree. For the first time I saw his face. It was not tanned as I imagined, but white. He seemed to stare at me, but his eyes had a far off look. I touched him, he was stiff. I realised he was dead! The old man's tackle lay half mended around him. I liked this man, although I had never spoken to him. Now he was no more. Sadly I walked away. I did not want to fish any more that day.......


by Anon

There was a young girl - Dubois,
Who drove a large Jaguar cois,
The Speed as she travelled
Her garments unravelled
Exposing her "Je ne sais quoi."


by L. Hammans

Oh hang my heart in a great, Black void,
Out of reach of emotions,
Let it not cry the rivers and seas,
Let it not cry the oceans.
Let it live in wondrous oblivion,
An entity apart,
To forget and be forgotten,
So must be my heart.

(2nd. prize in Tottenham Art & Civic Guilds.)

Next page >>>>>