Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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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]

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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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The merchant kept the vase safely, And on it he painted some fruit, But during a great rebellion, Twas taken trom him as loot. It fell into the hands of a Spaniard, Who sailed from China that day; The ship was wrecked, and the vase was found On an island near Mandalay. An islander did find it. And to the temple ran. To put it in front ot the idol. Known by the name ot Vie-dan. Stolen by a sailor years after. It was bought by me as you see; And I tell you the tale as he told it. The tale as he told it to me. Dorothy Brooks, Form IIIa. From Dawn to Day Early in the morning the grey dawn tills the place of the passing night; all is still, so still that even the crackling of a twig is startling, and a faint chill still lingers in the air. Later, with the rise of the sun, all nature seems to wake and the radiance of the morning sun spreads across the sky, showing the thickly leaved trees, with leaves heavy, and the ground tinted with dew like a sparkling mantle. All seems delightfully fresh, and the birds twitter and sing, and flowers gently unfold their delicate dew-kissed petals boldly to face the fast-coming day in open beauty. Thus pass the mornings into days. P. EwiNG, Form IIIb. Fate Honourable Mention in Short Story Competitwn WANG LUNG sat looking at the door through which his son, Wang Lo, had just gone. His harsh, boney old face had a curious look of mingled rage, regret and stiff-backed pride on it. Wang Lung had just dismissed from his life the one thing in all the world that mattered to him. Hard and unfeeling an he was towards his daughter and the servants of his household, he yet loved in a curious, selfish fashion the son that he had just disowned. The trouble, though Wang Lung would have been furious at anyone who suggested it, was that Wang Lo belonged to the modern youth of China, and his father was a particularly selfish, old-fashioned Oriental. Wang Lo had wished to marry a girl who had gone to school with him in Peking. Wang Lung wanted him to marry the daughter of Ching-wei San, an old friend of his. The match would have united the fortunes of two famously rich houses, but Wang Lo had bluntly refused to marry the girl; hence the quarrel and his departure. Life was queer, thought Lung. In his day no son would ever dared have defied his father as his son had just done. Wang Lung roused himself from the reverie into which he had fallen, and sent a servant to summon his daughter to him. Young Wang Hee entered the room slowly, and stood meekly before her father. She knew only too well that she was not loved by her father; that he resented her being a girl, and that he resented the love between herself and her brother; and yet she sensed how empty his life was, and how incomplete it was. Wang Lung sat several seconds looking sardonically at his pale young daughter, then he spoke, This day have I put out of my house forever, a disgraced son, Wang Lo. See you to it that he comes not sneaking near you for help. He is no longer son of mine, nor brother of yours. The honourable ancestors of the House of Wang deny him! [23]