Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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The Canadian Habitant HEN the French came to Canada they brought wi th them many of their old customs. Among these was the feudal system of government. But the peasants did not like the name of censitaire by which they had been known in France, thinking that it carried with it some sense of their old hardships. They much preferred to be called habitants, the French term for free men. The title was recognized in New France and has become characteristic of all French Canadian farmers. The habitant ' s attachment to the land is very striking. In many cases, farm lands are held by the direct descendants of those to whom they were first granted, for the transfer of Canada to England did not affect the habitant. His lands were not taken from him and he remained as French as ever in habits, speech, and faith. A tourist visiting Quebec sees everywhere evidence that he is passing through a country of French origin. Here and there are houses and churches which will remind him of hamlets he has seen in Brittany, or Normandy. The houses are built chiefly of wood, frequently consisting of a single whitewashed room, spotlessly clean with sanded floor, and walls covered with all kinds of household utensils. Among the pots and pans, occupying a prominent place on the wall, is usually to be found a brightly coloured print of the Virgin or other favorite saint. Because of the long cold winters, the high iron stove is the most important feature of every home. On long winter evenings it is here that the whole family may be found, listening with bated breath to tales of loup ' garou or some equally mysteri ' ous being. In one corner two very high beds or bunks constitute the sleeping accommodation for the whole family. Under the bed are tiers of long drawers. Here is the children ' s sleeping place where you will often see from fifteen to twenty little ones dreaming peacefully in their cosy but stuffy beds. The habitant is a frugal, hardworking man, intensely proud of his brood of dirty, healthy children for whom he slaves from morning to night; and nowhere will you find a race more industrious and lawabiding. He is patient and contented with his lot. Especially is this true of those who live in the northern parts of the province where they seldom see a white man, outside their own families from the time the snow comes until the ice breaks up in the springtime. The habitant is a devout Roman Catholic, for, in the present as in the past, the church makes every effort to supervise the teaching and the reading of her people. The parish priest or Cure is the most impor- tant and powerful person in the habitant ' s everyday life. He takes a leading part in all the activities of the parish and often determines how his parishion- ers shall vote at election time. Sunday is a great day, full of religious duties in the morning, with amusements in the after- noon and evening. All the feasts of the church are observed with great zeal and the Canadian farmer has, consequently, innumerable holidays. His gay light-heartedness shows itself in a variety of innocent amusements. He is a born story teller, and no one is fonder than he of music, song, and story. When the days shorten and snow begins to fall, the habitant leaves his farm and journeys to the nearest lumber camp. No one who can swing an axe or drive a team of horses would miss his season in the forest, for the community life of the

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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.

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camp satisfies his social instincts. The hard work in the open air is made merry with shout and song. The evenings are spent around the box stove in the main shanty, where everyone gathers to tell thrilling tales of adventure or to sing the ballads and songs brought from Normandy and Brittany by the early pioneers. A hundred years ago it was not extraordinary to find the women spinning and weaving during the long, lonely winters. But now, with the growth of factories and the reduction in the prices of material, the practice has become very rare. Nevertheless the habitant woman who lives a long distance from towns or factories, still weaves all the cloth in which her large family is clad. The habitant is proud of his origin but he does not like to be called ' Trench. He feels that he is a true Canadian, but he has not yet learned that his country stretches from sea to sea, and he has given his loyalty almost wholly to his native province, Quebec. Marjorie Lynch, Form Va. The Fire The cruel, hungry flames shoot up into the sky, Casting a ruddy glow on the trees near by, Up and up — With a thousand sparks. Up and up — With the never-ceasing sparks. Crackling and snapping, the flames leap up on high. Slowly stealthily sneaking on its prey. Ever creeping nearer, then leaping on its way. Flames rush on With a thousand sparks, Flames leap up. With the never-ceasing sparks, A wild and roaring animal; and all is gone by day. Joan Archibald, Form IVa. Song of a Sea-Fairy Below the sea, in a coral cave, I live when ' tis light on land; At night when the moon shines high o ' er the wave I rise with the mermaid band. We ride on the crests of the whirling waves. And flirt with the frothy foam; With sea weed chains we bind our slaves. The starfish that stray from home. 25} Neptune comes in a chariot gold, Drawn by dolphins free; The tinkling fairy bells are tolled To welcome the king of the sea. When daylight creeps o ' er the sighing sea We go back to our coral caves And there we slumber peacefully. Lulled by the sound of the waves. Betty Hurry, Form IVa.