Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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dozen or so times, drink coffee with him, smoke with him, and — bargain! bargain!! bargain!!! This is quite natural. Time means nothing to a Turk, hence bargaining is one of his chief forms of enter- tainment. Contrary to popular belief, the Turks as a whole are farmers. All about Smyrna, stretching far into the hills are fig and olive groves, vineyards and tobacco fields. Little huts with walls of sun-baked clay and roofs of dry thatch form peasant villages. If he owns a goat, a donkey, a well, and a good patch of ground, the Turk thmks he is wealthy — and he is, inasmuch as he is content. One of the most common and picturesque sights imaginable is to see a string of shaggy camels laden with bales of tobacco, slowly wending their way down from the hills. The camel-driver sits cross-legged on a stocky little donkey, either singing a song composed of the repetition of two words Paedishain padisha, or sleeping comfortably. The sweet sound of tinkling camel bells in the distance is so peaceful, that it seems impossible that so many people think of Turkey only as a land ravaged by murderous heathens. Year by year Turkey and the Turks are developing. Since the emancipation of the women and the education of the men, the desire to become Europeanized is dominating the nation. Whether it will succeed or not is an interesting question. In the meantime, the fact that the majority of Turks are not treacherous barbarians is one well worthy of note. Marjorie Miller, Form Upper VI. I 22 I

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of amber and ivory. Many of these have disappeared, but its galleries still rest on beautiful columns of jasper and alabaster, which in turn support arches covered with golden mosaics. In 1453, the Turks captured Constantinople. Then, according to legend, amidst the blare of trumpets, the groans of dying men and the shrieks of captured women and children, on the threshold of Santa Sophia appeared Mohammed II. A strange silence followed, then rising in his stirrups and smiting one of the columns with his blood-stained hand, he dedicated the Christian temple to Moslem faith. To-day, high up upon a pillar is the bloody imprint of a hand. Is it Mohammed ' s? To tourists the Turks say y s ; to themselves no. But if the buildings above ground seem imposing, almost more so are the subterranean struc - tures — the gigantic cisterns in which was stored the water brought over stately aqueducts, built on tiers of massive arches. Lighted by torches, these shadowy ma2;es of columns, through which cool water flows, present a scene weirdly fascinating. From one of these reservoirs a passage down to the sea has been found. This once was frequently used as a means of escape by the Sultan ' s son, when he had incurred the wrath of his father. Constantinople, with its mosques, palaces and historic background, is intensely interesting, exceedingly cosmopolitan. But on the shores of the blue Mediterranean, half-encircled by pine- clad snow-tipped mountains, lies Smyrna, the nucleus of Asiatic trade — typically Turkish. In the background rises Mount Pagus upon whose summit lie the ruins of an ancient fortress, built by the Romans centuries ago. Under its shadow stretches the modern city — that is to say modern for Turkey. Smyrna too has had a past, but it relies more on its future — a great blessing, for consequently, it is almost entirely devoid of troublesome tourists. There are four distinct routes to Constantinople, only one to Smyrna — the sea — for railroads are practically unknown. A journey by water is far pleasanter than one by rail; however, in this particular instance there is a serious drawback. Passenger vessels never dock at Smyrna; instead they anchor half a mile out in the open bay, and there you anxiously wait and wonder whether the small kaiques slowly approaching are possibly large or steady enough to carry you and your belongings safely t o shore. As a matter of fact, if the sea is very rough, no attempt whatsoever is made to land; and protest as you may, your ship gayly takes you on to Cypress or whatever its next port may be. However, it is well worth taking the chance, for this eastern port is fascinating. Along the quay rattles a battered horse-car and perhaps an inevitable Ford. On the cobble- stones are chairs and tables about which are gathered Turks, smoking their immense bubble-bubble pipes and drinking their national black coffee. Some are wearing European clothes, but the majority are clad in short baggy trousers, leather jackets and broad brightly coloured sashes. To complete this picturesque costume they should be wearing a turkey-red fez swathed in a linen turban; but instead straw hats, felt hats, tweed caps, usually too large or too small, are perched on their heads at every conceivable angle. There is, of course, method in their madness. About a year ago a law was passed by the Turkish Government forbidding the use of the fez. This drastic measure is one of several by which the educated Turks are endeavouring to Europeanize their country. From this scene of idling gossipers many narrow dirty streets lead to the native Bazaars. Either carrying them on their heads or sitting among them in their dark little shops, merchants droningly call out their wares. Suddenly, with the rumbling of an earthquake, a carriage passes through the market. Natives scatter on all sides before this onrushing monster that is taking more than its share of the road. One sleepy-looking individual, either too slow or too lazy to move, falls sprawling under his basket of figs. But flies still drone and the noon-day sun beats mercilessly down — all is calm and serene until the next disturbing carriage appears. The Turk is a poor business man, but he loves to bargain. The following is a typical instance. Mr. J. P. Morgan sailing the Mediterranean in his yacht Corsair landed at Smyrna to buy Oriental rugs. Hearing of an old Turk who had a wonderful collection he went to his house to see them. With the eye of a connoisseur Mr. Morgan realized the great value of the silky and beautifully designed rugs. Although a huge price was asked, without a moment ' s hesitation he bought them. The Turk was astounded, disgusted, and above all disappointed; for he had antici- pated a long and drawn-out procedure, during the course of which his customer would visit him a I 21 1

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A Song Merry, merry, merry, sings the bird on the tree; Merry, merry, merry, he sings a song to me : Of orchards and of love. Of the brilHant sky above; And I love the little birdie which sings so merrily. Softly, softly, softly, knells the solemn vesper bell. Softly, softly, softly, it tells its message well : It bids us leave our cares, And join in thankful prayers; And I love the little toller with its ding, dong, dell. Janet Cameron, Form IVa. A Garden is a Lovesome Thing, God wot! HE storm had ceased ! The last low rumblings of the thunder had died away and the thrilling stillness of a spring evening after a storm had settled down over the garden. The last rays of the setting sun, aflame in the western sky, penetrated through the silver-touched leaves of the birch and poplar. Above the garden, faint but still distinct, a rainbow stretched itself gloriously across the azure sky, and its pastel tints were reflected in the tiny pool in the centre of the garden. Ferns, green and wonderfully slender, leaned protectingly over the edge of the pool, and a single water ' lily floated tranquilly on the surface. Near the pool violets grew. Dew ' drenched violets! Lovely things after the rain, raising questioning heads to the sky whose colour they reflected. Farther on, not so near that they overshadowed the violets, was a flaming bed of tiger-lilies, stately and lovely, their colour softened by the evening light. Beside them a single Madonna lily, placed there by unsuspecting hands, blossomed pure as snow or the Virgin to whom it was dedicated. Even lovelier than these were the ros s. Roses of all kinds — a red rose of a deep rich colour like blood, a white rose, misty and beautiful, with little drops of crystal still clinging to its petals, and A pink rose — proud on its red-thorned stem. And there — like little bright candles lit — Were the pink-tipped buds — a score of them. From the farther corner of the garden a sudden sweet fragrance was wafted across the grass from an apple tree, whose blossoms still lingered, as if loth to leave, and from above the pool suddenly, startlingly sweet, the voice of a bird, singing its evening vespers, blended itself with the harmony of the night, thanking God for the storm and the peace that had followed. Twilight deepened. The red had gone from the west and a vast stillness enveloped the garden. A cool little breeze blew quietly across it as if to herald the first star of the evening, which now appeared above the birch, shedding its silver radiance over the pool. I think God sang when He made a bough Of apple bloom, And placed it close against the sky To whiten in the gloom. But O, when He had hung a star Above the blue, blue hill, I think God in His ecstasy Was startled — and was still ! Kathryn Wood, Form Upper V.