Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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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.

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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.

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Turkey and the Turks URKEY! — delicate perfumes, rare spices, soft rugs, come to mind. Every one who visits this empire of the east, sees its majesty, beauty and wealth; few understand its customs and people. Perhaps they would Hke to, but prejudices are stronger — and so they pass on. For, what have Turks been for centuries? Barbarians, filthy contemptible creatures! Yet Turkey has more to offer than we may think. What of its famous cities? Constantinople, her harbour fringed with marble palaces and mosques — a bewildering panorama - — Queen of the East! But Constantinople is not Turkish. Stand on the famous Galata bridge which crosses the Golden Horn — there you will see two cease ' less currents of humanity that sweep past each other from the rising to the setting of the sun, exhibiting a variety of costumes, races and complexions, such as no other city in the world can present. At intervals on either side of this thorough ' fare are human beings, orien ' tal scarecrows, the inevitable beggar. With outstretched hands and sunken eyes they implore in silence — the language of , distress. Before them sweeps a perfect masquerade of nations. A Jew with long yellow coat and black curls; a Damascus camel driver; a florid-faced English merchant; a group of Persians bed ' izened with cheap jewelry; a tatooed Nubian from the Upper Nile; a Chinaman with his queue, and a noisy personally conducted party of tourists. In the dirty cobbled streets still another strange variety of inhabitant is found — Constantinople has long been famed as an immense kennel. It lodges every type of dog, but it speciali2;es in a certain breed — those with long sharp noses and yellow fur, half ' wolf, half fox. Not one of these canines has a master or a name, yet they are respected. Why should they not be? They never molest men, and, what is more important, are the sole scavengers of the city. But though their streets may be dirty, the Turks themselves are personally clean. Where the ancient Greek would erect a statue, and the modern Christian a crucifix, the Moslem constructs a fountain — for water is the most essential thing in his life. He is entirely dependent upon water for drinking purposes, for the Koran forbids all intoxicants. Moreover, five times a day before Moslems pray, they must wash at least their hands. The Mosque of Santa Sophia, where they worship, is the most imposing and largest in the world. Though the Turks have surrounded it with minarets, it was originally a Christian Church, built long before the birth of Mohammed. As you enter, its immensity is overpowering. Two hundred feet above arches the dome, so distant and so vast that it seems a portion of the sky. The marble floor is covered with soft Turkish rugs and mats of fresh rushes, on which feet fall noise ' lessly. The Turk always removes his shoes before he enters a mosque and visitors have to wear slippers of rough matting. The latter are large and rather difficult to keep on; but it is most ridiculous and annoying to see a tourist gayly hopping about on one foot looking in vain for a lost slipper, while grou]is of faithful Moslems are kneeling in prayer, their faces turned toward the sacred Mecca. The wealth of Santa Sophia was once fabulous. Its chalice-cloths were embroid ' ered willi pearls; its altars encrusted with jewels; its crucifixes carved of purest gold, and its doors f ol