Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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Remembrance Day A blaze of poppies on an Autumn morn, A drumbeat and the tread of marching men — The comrades of the dead ! Remember then The weary trail through blood, and sorrow torn. These gave their lives that peace might be reborn. To wear the poppy and to sigh again — Empty remembrance ! ' Tis to press in vain The crown of thorns upon the brow torlorn. Children at play, serene, well-housed, well-fed; The happy aged, knowing the last war fought; Be these the tlowers to honour the dear Dead, These be the gifts that bloody war has bought : For if its fruits be not a world remade, Agiiin the crown of thorns is worn tor naught. Beverley Hughes, Form Upper VI. The Queen ' s Gift Titania, the Queen ot the Fairies, Asked Oberon one day Whether he ' d give her a plaything To pass the time away. Oberon smiled as he answered, Queen of my heart, your desire Whatever it is, is granted. Provided you give me your lyre. Titania, the Queen of the Fairies, Wept bitterly and long. With the loss of the lyre she could never Fashion another song. Oberon grieved when he saw her. Knowing what he had decreed. And ordered the fairy minstrels To make her a magic reed; Presented it to his lady With a courtly bow and a smile. Titania, the Queen, played gayly. With feet that twinkled the while. Ann Sweeny, Form Upper VI. The Charm of Barrie SIR JxA.MES BARRIE, BART., O.M., is one of the best known and most popular English playwrights of our day. His character seems to be a happy mixture of whimsicality, the joy of living, love of youth, understanding of human nature, and the ability to laugh — not at us, but wnth us. There seems to be a part of Barrie which will never grow up, for was it not he who said of himself that he was two people; one of which behaved as he should, the other who threw cherry-stones at Bernard Shaw ' s front windows when he had a party? I may be mistaken in quoting Barrie as saying this, but, anyway, it fits Barrie ' s character. He has contrived, moreover, to put this youthfulness and joy into his plays. There is hardly a child who has not read the story of Peter Pan and Wendy. Not only children, but grown-up [21 ]

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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.

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sensible people love it too, and after reading ' ' Peter Pan one is inclined to believe, with Barrie, that a baby ' s first laugh breaks into thousands of fairies. Almost one is afraid to say, I don ' t believe in fairies, for fear of killing one of the dear little things. When Peter Pan cries to all the children, Do you believe in fairies? If so, clap your hands and Tinkerbell will not die! Can you not hear the children, not only in the theatre, but throughout the world, clapping? And do you not clap yourself? It is Barriers intensely appealing charm that rides into the heart of humanity on the words of his plays. But one does not find only joy and gladness. None can see or read Dear Brutus without realizing the wisdom and truth of Cassius ' words, The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars. But in ourselves, that we are underlings. In spite of your common ' sense which tries to say, It is only a play! your heart aches for Margaret when she cries, Oh! Daddy, Daddy, I don ' t want to be a ' Might Have Been ' ! The pathos of the play creeps into your heart, and you feel sorry for every character in the play. Yet the sadness of it is Hghtened by Barrie ' s ever-present humour, and you must laugh heartily at strange little Lob. Again, Barrie shows his ability to write a romance, sweetly, simply, yet still with his touch of fun and his irresistible manner of poking just a little fun at you. It does not hurt; it just makes you blush, and then laugh. One of his prettiest romances is Quality Street. You worry, weep, rejoice with Phoebe Throstle. You rack your brains over school and algebra, and slyly look at the end of the love story with Susan Throstle. You laugh with Patty; you want to shake the gossips, and — you want to kiss the hero. Yet this hero is nothing more than an ordinary, small ' town gentleman ; rather stupid, indeed, not to see what was before his eyes for years. Phoebe is only a young girl, very much in love, and a wee bit sentimental. Such characters, under a pen other than Barrie ' s would, in all probability, appear insipid, lifeless and uninteresting. Barrie, however, throws a cloak of glamour around them, interspersed with fun and laughter, and lo! these ordinary, everyday people, become the hero and heroine of a charming, altogether-delightful play which, once seen, is not easily forgotten. This gift Barrie has of making the ordinary into something rare, and his own special charm permeates every work of his, every character, and in the end every reader or member of the audience. Barrie ' s plays can never die. They may be old-fashioned, as Quality Street; they may be modern, as Dear Brutus; they may be fairy tales like Peter Pan and A Kiss for Cinderella, but you love them all, and plays that are loved keep on living. Barrie ' s works may not become classics; but surely, in the years to come. Englishmen will speak of Sir James Barrie with the same pride of ownership as they use in speaking of Dickens. Indeed, although one wrote books, and the other writes plays, both have found the joy in life which comes from a perfect understanding of human nature, and the ability to create characters that live and move like real people. Cynthia Jennings, Form Upper VI. A Ballad of a Grecian Vase On a lovely summer afternoon, Into a bazaar I strolled ; ' Twas a native who showed the vase to me And this is the tale he told. The vase had been bought from a sailor Who had sailed on the Chinese sea ; And the history of it had been told to him As now it was told to me. This vase that stands by a Hindu jar. Was made by a Greek of old ; And when it was made, he sold it To a Chinese merchant for gold. [22]