Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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A Night of Rain PRIZE STORY THE doctor raised his eyes wearily from his supper at the discordant jangle ot the bell. Slowly he stood up and walked to the door. Another case, he supposed — and he ' d counted on a good sleep to-night. Six hours out ot forty-eight wasn ' t enough for any mortal. He was a small man with the appearance of one who taxed his strength to the utmost — a worn look like that of a silver coin which has lost its edge, and grown thin with much handling, there was a certain indelinable luminous quality of the large eyes which suggested genius — but surely wasted genius! The world might say, if it deigned to notice him in its busy turmoil, How foolish to hide his light under a bushel! but the doctor knew a place which is not of the world. For ten years he had gone to the succour of the needy in one of the poorest slum districts of the city. His fame was not of the world but in the hearts of those who trusted and needed him. That his life was a singularly lonely one showed in a secretive something in his face — and a fleeting loo k of pain behind those luminous eyes. He opened the door and looked out. A man stood there in the rain — a mere blot of shadow, ragged coat-collar up, hat brim down over his eyes. He gave an almost inaudible gasp when he saw the doctor. Then gruffly, quickly, he said: There ' s a child sick on the other side of Cork Street. Diphtheria. I don ' t know if there ' s a chance. Mechanically the doctor got a bag with some instruments and came out, struggling into hi? coat. He shut the door and followed the shadow that was a man through the dismal streets, in the steady drizzle of rain. He walked as one in a dream — too tired to notice where he was going. The street-lamps floated above him, faint blobs of light in the fog. The roar of the city, afar off, seemed deadened, and the only sound was the stumbling of his own feet in the mud and wet. As usual when he was very tired his thoughts, sad but never bitter, got the better of him. Memory took him back to a dreary night of rain, ten years ago — the night John went away. He remem- bered the terrible scene — the sudden outburst of long-pent-up thoughts from the boy. He ' d never realized till that minute that he wasn ' t happy. He ' d just been working to give John all the advan- tages he had longed for in vain — good education, fine home, friends. Ten years — a long time in a man ' s life, but a longer in a boy ' s. John must be twenty-eight now — grown-up! Impossible to realize he was not still a tall awkward boy, with a gruff voice and a wide curly mouth which grew sullen when his father spoke to him. Yet how he had loved that boy — bone of his bone, in very truth. Then that dreadful night it had all ended. The poison, long rankling, at last came out. [ 19]

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Impressions of the Memorial Service (By a Present Girl) IT WAS on the twentythird of February, a beautiful clear, cold day, that the pupils of Trafalgar had the great privilege of attending the memorial service for Miss Grace Fairley, former Principal of the school. It was held in the Hall of the new Church of St. Andrew and St. Paul, and was a very short and simple service. The spotless new hall looked very pleasant with the bright winter sunshine streaming in through the large windows. Beautifully-arranged baskets of flowers stood at the edge of the platform, and their delicate colouring and fragrance seemed to foretell the coming of spring. There was a large attendance, and the hall was soon filled with friends and former pupils of Miss Fairley ' s, as well as with the teachers and pupils of Trafalgar. The service began with the singing of The Lord ' s My Shepherd. Then the prayers were led by Dr. Donald, minister of the church. Immediately following the prayers Miss Fairley ' s favourite hymn was sung by one of the members of the church choir. Dr. Donald then read letters received from Senator Cairine Wilson and Miss Brown, a former teacher of Trafalgar. By means of these letters the girls who had not known Miss Fairley personally learnt something about her. By the time Dr. Donald had finished reading the letter from Miss Fairley herself to Miss Gumming, the girls all felt that they really knew her. This letter was printed in our magazine of 1918. Miss Fairley was Principal of Trafalgar for twentysix years, and during that time she did much for the advancement of the school. She retired in 1913, and lived in Edinburgh until her death on the first day of February, 1932. But although she was so far away, her thoughts were ever with the school, and she was always eager to hear of its activities. S he seemed very near to us indeed when we heard the references in her letter to the familiar spots about the house and garden. We are told she was a great lover of nature, and believed that there are many more things to be learned than just what is printed in text books. She looked upon nature as a great teacher, from whom one might learn many valuable things if one only would. From the letters read we see that she was a real companion to her girls and took a great interest in all their activi ' ties. She was sympathetic, patient and gentle. They took all their little troubles to her, con- fident of receiving comfort and helpful advice. Briefly, she was their Guide, Teacher and Friend. As the girls filed out after the service was over, it is probable that each girl carried away with her in her heart her own little picture of Mis s Fairley. The very simplicity of the service served to heighten the feeling of respect and devotion for her, as perhaps a more elaborate service might not have done. The letters, too, made it almost seem as if she were present. And this should make us all realize what a wonderful thing our magazine is. For without it we might never have been able to hear Miss Fairley s letter, and thus never have enjoyed those few precious moments with a woman who had sacrificed everything for her life ' s work. Betty Forrest. [ 18]

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In a sudden passionate storm of words John had said: Always grubbing for money, money, money. I hate the very sound of the word! A doctor should help the poor, the suffering. You are just the lap ' dog of fat society dowagers! His voice had risen in a sob at the end, as he stopped, appalled at what he ' d said. For ten long years the doctor had been living his son ' s ideal — and incidentally his own. Always the remembrance of these bitter words, from the twisted boyish mouth, lay like a sword ready to be turned in the wound of his spirit. Gradually, by the monotonous sameness of his life, that wound had been partially healed. But always it pained him on a night such as this — dismal, rainy — with a patient waiting in some den of misery, waiting and trusting him. The shadow ahead of him melted into the deeper shadow of a doorway. As he came up to it the door opened, and a warm breath of foul air met him — like that of some horrible monster asleep. Wearily he plodded up innumerable stairs behind his guide, hearing with accustomed ears the muffled sounds of crowded life behind the doors of the rooms. The patient lay in a tiny room on the top floor. A woman sat in a low rocking ' chair by the cot, but she wasn ' t rocking. Her eyes, dark pools of anguish in her bloodless face, made mute appeal to the doctor. Case of mal ' nutrition, he noted, mentally. Then he turned his attention to the child. It was breathing with difficulty — he might have to operate if it got any worse. Methodically he set to work with absot ' bent swabs. Every few minutes he had to scrape the child ' s inflamed throat. The mother sat immovable, waiting. Only her dark pain ' fiUed eyes seemed alive. The room was stifling and . great drops of perspiration rolled down the doctor ' s face. The child ' s breathing suddenly slowed, coming in deep painful gasps. The doctor decided to operate. The mother ' s eyes assented. With deft, clever fingers he did what was necessary. When the child came out of the ether they would be able to tell. Nothing to do but wait now. He sat down by the bedside on an old soap-box, and took the little wrist in his hand. His fingers found the faint fluttering pulse. Hope still. He admired that woman ' s courage. No tears; no scene. She must have suffered pretty awful things to be able to sit so calmly, waiting for death, by her child ' s bed. Memory brought before him in a seemingly endless stream the other times he had watched by bedsides in the still of the night, with the ceaseless drip of rain against the window ' panes. Most vividly he recalled the times he had failed — the sudden outburst of grief from the mother — the wail of a child somewhere in the house — his own desolate feeling of utter futility. The child took all his attention again. Its eyelids flickered, and opened. Its eyes, cleared from the fever, had lost their look of helpless terror. It was always the helplessness of these poor sick dregs of humanity which appealed to the doctor. With a deep surge of thankfulness welling in his heart he knew it would live. Turning to the mother, he saw she knew it too. Silent tears of unutterable joy were raining down her cheeks as she looked up at him. He gathered his things together and, giving the mother some directions, went to the door. From the corner arose along figure — the father, wasn ' t it? Then, at the gruff voice, he looked up suddenly, and his heart gave a mighty leap — surely it was John! His eyes were wet, but his wide mouth was smiling un- certainly . Thanks, dad! he said. That was all, but the doctor ' s contentment was beyond mere words. He was at last justified in his son ' s eyes. They under- stood each other now. Going back to the bed he kissed the woman on the forehead and sat down again on the soap-box. Suzanne Kohl, Form Upper VI.