Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

Page 20 text:

I myself have seen these wood-haunting ghosts. A young moon, black waters, a strip of sandy beach, the scene is set and one by one the actors come on. An ancient learned owl flew by with a soft swish of wings disturbing in his flight two little timid deer coming down to drink. Their eyes seemed to be watching, eyes which did not belong to the deer. There was a strange feeling that perhaps another world was overlapping ours. For a few minutes the spell lasted; then it was broken. So much for our woods. If there is a place that may he termed godless, it is the plains. They are new. They have no ghosts. say the wise. But there are spirits there. The seeing eye still sees the Hudson ' s Bay Company ' s sleighs pull out for the new settlements of Winnipeg and Regina. Listen to the drivers ' cries, Mush! you huskies, mush! And the phantom train gets underway. There is the old block ' house where the Indians went to and fro, where they danced on the arrival of newcomers and where many a man saved his last shot for himself. Is it really altogether ghost ' less? In the east in the Province of Quebec, there is a more courtly atmosphere. Here the first settlers brought the splendour of the Bourbon Court with them, for they were no peasants but the proudest of French aristocracy. They played and intrigued in the Intendant ' s palace as they did at Versailles. They were a merry crew! Ladies clad in imported gowns danced the newest steps in log cabins. It was an odd mingling of new and old, and Quebec still bears some trace of 1 hem Their houses still stand there; and I swear I have seen a lady pause before a faded mirror or a satin, clad gentleman observing the weather from one of the deep windows. Surely in the streets of Quebec you may meet a gentle laughing ghost or a swashbuckling duelling one! Most of this atmosphere is gone, but some of it lingers with us still. The Habitants cling to the past and a French-Canadian farm of to-day is much the same as it was a hundred years ago. To get the spirit of the old regime you must go to midnight mass on Christmas eve in a little country church. You walk to church over snowy roads and the people beside you seem to belong to another century. Their talk is of the business of pioneers. The roads that must be made, the trail across the lake that must be marked out, who will be breaking land in the spring, all these things the men talk of in their gruff, friendly voices. The church is decorated with pine boughs and candles, for the children have been busy helping Monsieur le cure. Here too you can still keep the illusion of antiquity. The carols have been sung for centuries, the priests ' robes may have a history attached to them, and if you are on the borders of civili2,ation there will be a stolid blanket wrapped Indian woman in the background. But the Indians, the West, the French — none of these would have been anything without the spirit behind them all — that is Canada. This is no cold aloof spirit. It sings with the men on the river as the logs go spinning down, it camps with the traveller under the northern lights while the wolves howl on the hill top beyond; it is the spirit that inspires us all — youth and Canada. We are not godless! Do men die gladly for a godless country? Surely some spirit fills the woods and fields they gave their blood for! No man cares for the thing of bricks and mortar that is his house or city, it is the Lares and Penates that count. So perhaps our spirits are strong enough to draw back the ghosts of the dead from foreign dust. How they will come! See that flock of wild geese crossing the sea. Our dead have returned to us, the dear home-haunting ghosts! Annie Rowley, Form Upper VI.

Page 19 text:

Reflections on Reading Rupert Brooke ' s Essay on the Rockies The maples and birch conceal no dryads and Pan has never been heard among these reed ' beds. Look as long as you like upon a cataract of the New World, you shall not see a white arm in the foam. A godless place. And the dead do not return. There walk, as yet, no ghosts of lovers in Canadian lanes. — The Roc ies, Rupert Brooke. CTy ' UCH as we admire Rupert Brooke ' s sympathetic and beautiful description of our Canadian scenery, we feel that he misunderstood us when he made the foregoing statement about our spiritual emptiness. In spite of all statements to the contrary Canada has ghosts — or at least she is making them. No country has ever been presented with a complete set of ghosts and traditions at its foundation, nor would any country desire them. Canada has to make her ghosts and she has not had a long time in which to do it. Give us time, you elder Nations ! What do we want with imported fairies? We have our own spirits, a somewhat meagre collection it is true, but they are ours and we have hopes for the future. When considering our ghosts you must not expect leprechauns, dryads, fairies, or even a Robin Goodfellow. Our pioneers left their ghosts at home and the Indian spirits are far from gentle, so Canada is a new spirit land and tickets for it are not to be purchased at Cook ' s with your steamer reservations, but are given to all who come open-eyed and willing to understand. The oldest spirits are found in the woods. Canadian woods are not park ' like places. Put away all thought of green glades, crystal pools and Pan ' sheltering birch trees. Picture instead a forest untouched by fire or axes, when the sapling grows out of the dead tree ' s trunk. Gossamer fairies would be lost in a forest that stretches unbroken from Labrador to Hudson ' s Bay. There are Indian spirits; the loup garou howls and the Windigo leaves his mile-wide snowshoe tracks in the snow. And there are ghosts. On a spring night you will hear a canoe grinding on the gravel— yet there is no one there. Over there, by the cascade glimmering in the moonlight, can ' t you see a slim brown form? A phantom girl is waiting for her ghostly lover. Down there, along the pine- bordered trail, see those shuffling figures! A ghost tribe is moving camp in the Happy Hunting Grounds. f 17I

Page 21 text:

The Wind The wild west wind blew loud and strong And whistled shrilly all night long; The pine trees listened to his song, The wild wind. The wild west wind blew fierce and loud And, as he passed, the saplings bowed; But the mighty pine stood stiff and proud Against the wind. The wild wind blew and then he spied Dark clouds overhead; the wild wind cried Triumphantly, but the pine trees sighed, O cruel wind! The wild wind blew, the clouds drew near, He filled the smaller pines with fear, And through the trees he seemed to jeer, The mocking wind ! The wild wind blew, the lightning flashed; The rain poured down, the thunder clashed; The mighty pine, uprooted, crashed. O cruel wind ! Sallie Ward, Form IVa. Puck Hidden in the heather, Golden and yellow, Hidden where the bees hum All day I lie; Sometimes whistling gently, Sometimes laughing softly, Sometimes stealing honey From bees that hurry by. Singing with the owlets, Hauntmg and eerie, ' Neath the winter ' moonlight All night I crouch ; Wishing I was visible. Wishing I was beautiful. Wishing I was changeable, Like my snowy couch. Never will be satisfied. Such is my nature, Always wishing dullness When the world is bright; Thinking of last summer. Thinking of the heather, Thinking of the drone of bees. When the world is white. Margaret Hill, Form IVa.