Elmwood School - Samara Yearbook (Ottawa, Ontario Canada)

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S A M A R A 31 My Path through the Woods My favourite path twists and turns through a lovely wood near the south coast in England. It is a narrow gravel path and in some places it is choked with grass and moss. Some of the branches of the trees are so low that they make an archway over my head. The path ends in a gate and beyond this there is a sandy shore below, and the murmur of the sea can be heard in the distance. In the winter when the sea is rough I can taste the salt in the wind from the sea. I love walking along this path in all seasons as there is so much beauty there all the year round. In the spring the path is bordered with primroses, and wild violets and daffodils grow in the grass. The trees have a lovely fresh look of spring and the birds fly around busily trying to find places to build their nests. Later on in the year there is a beautiful blue carpet of bluebells, and rhododendrons grow among the bracken. In the centre of the wood near where the path winds, there is a little lake where yellow, orange and pink azaleas grow, making lovely reflections in the water. It is fun to lie on the grass and look up through the trees to the cloudless blue sky overhead. Autumn brings the mists and the little path is strewn with dead leaves. In January the snowdrops cover the ground like a white carpet and a few weeks later the yellow and mauve crocuses come up to remind me that winter is over for another year. Dorothea Berwick, Form 5C. The Bold Knight There he sits, tall and straight and proud. Resting on his coal black horse high above the crowd. There he sits exhausted, after the tiring race, But a look of proud contentment plays upon his face. This Bold Knight and coal black horse have won a race so grand, And now they rest there calmly, while the crowds cheer in the stand. Suddenly a bell chimes, and he goes to claim his prize. The crowds all cheer and shout for him and to their feet they rise To catch a better glimpse of him, their Knight so bold and true, The Knight who won them glory, and ever more will do. Janet Anne Hair, Form 5A. Mr, Whiskers Mr. Whiskers was a cat. Not a pure-bred or a Siamese with papers, but an ordinary, middle-aged Tom cat. In spite of heredity, however, Mr. Whiskers was brought up and lived (as did thousands of others) in a most unforgettable and unforgiveable environment— a communist cat kingdom. It had its assets, certainly, but these were strongiy overpowered by its defects, social and political. (Economics are unmentionable as the economy of cat kingdoms throughout the world at this time isn ' t worthy of men- tion.) In such a kingdom, individualists were normally not heard of. However Mr. Whis- kers, a rebel at heart, was an individual. He reasoned out the pros and cons of such a dictatorship and decided to take action. There was really only one solution, thought Mr. Whiskers— overthrow the dicta- torship! It was a simple as that! But then he thought about it a second time and decided he must not only think. He must do some- thing. Night after night, after his habitual neighbourhood yowling, he parted company with his closest comrades (as close a friend- ship as they dared allow) and made plan after plan. Finally after many hours, not only of concentration but also of evasion from gov- ernment agents, he decided the only way to begin was to reside as close to headquarters as possible. In fact, why not at headquarters?

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30 SAMARA The Man with one eye My head was spinning violently, and the mumble-jumble sound from the over-crowded room was not helping matters. It was a miserable mid-afternoon for me. A kind of day where I tried to escape the inward feeling that was fighting me. My— but it was odd! But was not that the way life was? Everything seemed to be untouchable! Everything but this one object ... .It was there, and I could not leave it alone. I tried .... Oh! .... how I tried! .... but there seemed to be no solution for this overpower- ing subject. I did not know whether to laugh or cry. The sight of my stricken eyes expressed my emotion to anyone who was interested. But why worry?— I was only a fish lost at sea. The vividness fought me until my nerves were twiiching with fright, and my body froze. The tears were streaming down my pallid face, and I knew my soul would not rest in peace, unless I brought my problem to a conclusion. Colours were beginning to mingle— all except that one blur. What was it?— All twirled in together making me feel I wanted to scream. The haze was beginning to clear now, and my imagination was working— so much so that my body trembled. Something was there, but I could not grasp it enough to satisfy myself. Then the painting took its place. Why of course— it was a modern picture of a man with one eye. With my mind at rest, the crowd ' s chatter did not seem so harsh. I could understand their feelings, and I could not hel p wonder- ing if that morbid painting had roused them, as it had me. Alexis Thoman, Form 5A. Little Brothers Only someone who has lived with little brothers knows of the trials and tribulations I go through trying (vainly, I might add!) to understand mine! Perhaps if I introduce them to you it will be easier for you to understand my complete bewilderment. Robby is my blond, blue-eyed, eight-year- old brother, who would truthfully be much happier if I hadn ' t been born, or if I had to be born I should ' a been born ten years earlier and much easier to punch in the nose . Robby has an amazing ability to disappear and com- pletely forget the time, both of which he does when I am in charge of his whereabouts. On returning one hour and a half late one night, his simple explanation was that the plane he had gone for a ri de in did not have a phone, and I shoulda guessed where he was! (Actually he was in a plane with the father of one of his friends!) Robby ' s bed- time, being seven-thirty, always presents a problem, as his watch never fails to stop (for some unknown reason (?)) at seven o ' clock on the button! Even more bewildering to me is my four- year old brother, Brian. Being blond, brown- eyed and completely angehc-looking helps him to twist me completely around his little finger until he has exactly what I have just pointed out I would rather he did not have. Brian (or so he tells me) is an expert cook, painter (especially painter), housewife and grade twelve student (at this moment he is helping me write this Composition). My patience wears extremely thin after a session of persuading him that food is to eat (a very hard thing for him to understand) not to make castles and roads in or to bounce on the floor. Another unnecessary habit of grown- ups that a four-year-old certainly doesn ' t need is sleep. Just because you can ' t keep your eyes open, or walk in a straight line, is no reason why you should sleep (although once in bed it does not take much convin- cijug! ) Despite all the trials and disagreements I know that I would be at a loss without Robby and Bri n, and I feel very sorry for anyone who does not have a little brother or sister in his family— even if he is ajittle terror!! Judy Toller, Form 6M.

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32 SAMARA The dictator, Czar Thai, was of the best Siamese blood. This, however, was no asset in a dictator. He was ostentatious, blasphemous, worldly, of course, and weakly extroverted. He had no use for anyone (directly) who was not of his own kind, or at least of Siamese or Persian descent. The rest were public scum to be used, fed and housed. The last two requirements added unpleasant duties, but un- fortunately were necessary. This dictator, unlike many cat czars, was an excellent target for Mr. Whiskers. Our hero managed, through secret pull, to obtain a position as the Czar ' s cook. In this work he almost forgot his mission as the dishes of dried seaweed, fish and caviar were most tempting. After he had overcome this temp- tation and regained his bearings, he decided to murder Czar Thai. This, he thought, would cause a revolution, but bring to the minds of kittens throughout the empire a realization of the corruption that prevailed. It would bring to their minds a sense of liberty, equa- lity, and fraternity. In other words— fish, friends, and a fireside mat— a veritable dream for those who dared to think. The day finally arrived when Mr. Whiskers was to perform the dreaded deed. While mixing milk and caviar, the standard morning refreshment, he also added an ex- treme overdose of catnip— (fatal if there is too great a consumption). But the overwhel- ming smell lured Czar Thai unexpectedly to the kitchen, and there was a nerve-jostling moment for Mr. Whiskers. He covered up beautifully by explaining that the amount of catnip in the drink was barely enough to see, and that some had fallen on the floor. The Czar was livid because of Mr. Whisker ' s supposed incompetence and waste, and threatened him with the most dre aded punish- ment—a bath. But Mr. Whiskers held a ready answer to all the Czar ' s accusations and finally persuaded him to drink and be merry. Drink he did, but unfortunately the catnip erased his chances of being merry. The news of his death spread rapidly, and revolution resulted. Mr. Whis- ker ' s fame spread kingdom-wide. But for what? Revolution was no answer. A demo- cracy must be formed. . . . And in time it was. However the greatest reward of all arrived when Mr. Whiskers travelled from place to place seeing freedom written around the whiskers of fellow cats and kittens, and the happiness on their faces after they had taken their first smell of catnip (in limited quantity) or had eaten their first fish, as they had pre- viously only heard of such delicacies. What a rewarding life it seemed: Mr. Whiskers too had eventually returned to the kind of life he had wanted for himself and his kind, whether they be Siamese, Persian or mixed. Even in his final years he was still known and referred to as the martyr cook of Czar Thai, a title that lived with him always. Linda Redpath, Form 6M. Books In your desks there are many books. What wonderful books they are, both in appearance and in the richness of their content. On the printed pages are piled up all the treasures of human thought. Nevertheless, your books, which are both plentiful and precious, are rather ignored at times in pre- ference for other amusements. You are all guilty, at some time or another, of scribbling in, throwing around, and tearing them. I guess you forget their great value. For example, with your history book you are given the greatest opportunity of travelling into the past and meeting people and civilizations and accepting their contributions to you. Books are your best friends because they can show you in their pages all the wonders of this world. The first books were copied by hand, which made them very dear, so that only millionaires could buy them. Just think, if books were still hand made, a small minority of you would bear any kriowledge. How tragic for you, your families and your country.