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THE SCHOOL MAGAZINESummer 1963
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ForewordThis 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) 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)
Spot the Sportsmen
Father to son - Son to Father -
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)
Hallowe'en by Nigel Jeny (1M)Hallowe'en is such a night, 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
by L. Hammans
(2nd. prize in Tottenham Art & Civic Guilds.) Next page >>>>> |