Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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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]

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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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Wang Hee gave a cry of pain and surprise, quickly checked, and then for once spoke impetU ' ously to the implacable figure seated before her. But, honourable sir, he is my brother! Our own mother on her death ' mat bade us look after each other. He spoke hastily. He did not mean Enough, Wang Lung raised his hand. Then continuing in a harsh, dry voice, On this day have I sworn before the tablet to the sacred memories of my most honourable ancestors, that you, my daughter Wang Hee, shall never leave my house for the house of any man, whosoever he be. I have no son to carry on the line of Wang, I do not mean it to be perpetuated by my daughter under another name. Be gone! The old Chinaman smiled bitterly at the recollection of the pain on the face of his daughter; he chuckled inwardly at the surprise he had dealt her, in forbidding her to marry; he laughed harshly at the thought of the barrenness and emptiness of her future life. He was trying to forget Wang Lo. But underneath there was hurt in him — hurt to his pride; hurt to the hope of future grandsons — Wangs, and hurt because of his own sense of failure. He who never before had failed in bending people to his will ! Well, even if his son had defied him, he would show that he was still every whit as capable and unyielding as Wang Lung of old. He would see that Wang Hee took no advantages. A month passed. Wang Lung had had no word of his son, and could find no way of getting any. Too proud to ask for news, he yet longed bitterly to hear of him. One day while going over some of his accounts, he called one of his servants, Lo ' Nan, to bring him an envelope from his outer office. When the slave had brought it, instead of immediately departing, he stood in front of Wang Lung embarrassedly, waiting until the old man should bid him speak. Well, unworthy worm! What want you? Wang Lung hated this obsequious fellow with his oily fat face. Pardon, most respected and honoured master. But this unworthy toad and humble worm knoweth something that will perhaps be news to the ears of my master. Well? The word was a growl. My honourable mistress, Wang Hee, has these last few nights met in the garden a strange man, whom I am afraid means no good to the House of Wang. It is out of my deep respect for my master ' s house, that I tell him this, as He broke off, for Wang Lung, shaking with anger, rose and lunged forwards. Pardon, oh pardon. By the image of Buddha. By the goddess Khan, I swear Ah! Wang Lung shook the coolie back and forth by the throat several times, and then threw him into the hall. Trembling with passion, he returned to the desk to think. That an insolent servant should dare to mention his daughter ' s name to him with such implications! But, yet at the same time, that his daughter should dare disobey the express orders of her father ! He would call the girl to him — force her to tell. Ah, no! He had something better. He would teach the unworthy female a lesson, and at the same time discourage other suitors! That night, in the moonlight, two figures were seen approaching each other between the cherry trees of the gardens. At the same time another indistinct figure crossed the inner courtyard of the estate, and entered the garden where he could see faintly, but not be seen by, the boy and girl drawing near each other. The girl he knew to be Wang Hee; but the boy, keeping in the shadows, could not be distinguished. As Wang Lung, for so he was, watched the two, he saw the boy embrace the girl reverently, and then watched while the girl dropped onto one of the tree ' benches, and the boy remained standing. Old Wang Lung slowly drew his gun and shot at the tall young figure of his daughter ' s visitor. The boy slowly crumpled, and then Lung heard such screams from his daughter as he had never heard before, nay, not even from some servant who was being punished. As the girl knelt at the youth ' s side, her father stepped out from his concealment, and advanced towards her. As his daughter saw him, she shrank slowly back from his approaching figure, putting out her trembling hands blindly, to make him stop. [24]