Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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Ah, no! she whispered. Ah, no! Come not thou near me. Murderer! Old fool! Her voice rose shrilly and hysterically. May the gods damn you! May your ancestors shrivel you and curse you! May you burn a thousand years in purgatory! You — you — father! You have murdered your own son! She laughed horribly and insanely as Wang Lung looked at her fearfully. Look, look! She pointed down at the face of the dead man, while the moon shining clearly sent a pale, sickly glow down into the heavily-scented garden, and over the face of the boy. Wang Lung stood fearing to look, but the accusing finger drew his ga;e down, and the bluish clear light of the moon lit up the features of dead Wang Lo. The old man choked horribly, and stretched out a trembling hand in terror. Then, as one demented, he threw back his head, and screamed to the Heavens: Fate, fate, oh Buddha! Art thou satistied? I am punished. I am punished. Oh, Buddha, I am punished! I have killed my only son! He stopped queerly, choked, and spun around, with his hand clapped to his side, then he fell rigidly over the body of his dead son. His limbs stiffened. Only his eyes lived and suffered — suffered horribly ! He will never move again. His body is paralyzed. But he will live perhaps several years. He will perhaps die soon! It is as Buddha wills! The doctor finished speaking to the attendants, and left. As he went out of the room, the eyes of Wang Lung followed him. Eyes that beseeched and suffered — the eyes of a man who, rightly or wrongly, despaired, as he remembered the sins of his past life, and the ghastly features of a son killed by his own father ! Beverley Hughes, Form Upper VL The Bed of the Sea Somewhere down in the depths ot the sea, I know a lovely country to be; Somewhere under that wide expanse. Lighted by distant sun and moon, Where waves on rocks play a rippling tune. Mermen sing and mermaids dance. The floor is strewn with soft white sand, A memory of the distant land; And waving orchards of blue and red Hide by their beauty the hungry grasp Of furtive months which crush and clasp All unwary prey, alive or dead. A sudden silence comes over the sea. As a huge dark shadow comes sinisterly; All creatures peer up with fearful eyes, Crouch stiffly and silent, not daring to move, Until the great ship has passed up above, And the blue of the sea again matches the skies. G. Archibald, Form IIIa. [25]

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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]

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The Satirist ' s Eye Turned on the Sixth Form Cloak-Room IN THE cloak-room there are three distinct classes of girls — those who crowd about the mirrors, of which last-mentioned objects there are two; those who grovel ignominiously underfoot, search- ing for wandering overshoes or string-bags; and those who, seated upon the shoe-bench buried under the coats, and tripped over by many, wait with a superhuman patience till the hungry hundred has dispersed to its dinner. The first class of girls is the most numerous. In their struggle to maintain a steady position before the mirror, in the milling crowd, with jogged elbows and trampled toes, lipstick wanders from the track on many a fair countenance. The mirror over the wash-basins has a clientele three deep, who, through the common interest of one comb, a drab little brown one that lives behind the mirror, manage to keep on fairly good terms with each other. The first-comers, unless they are exceptionally quick at their art, get jammed so securely between the radiator and the mob in the course of the noon-hour rush, that they emerge with corrugated and too-well-heated spines, while those nearest the mirror, and necessarily the basins, are nearly dislocated in the region of the solar plexus. The mirror by the door has a more exclusive band of adherents, each owning her own comb. Being so near the exit these girls are constantly surged over by the outflow, travelling in sudden starts and stops as the door opens and shuts. They also run the risk of never getting out at all, as they are in a side eddy, as it were, of the main stream. In this corner all the weaker spirits foregather, having been stranded there by the backwash from the stream. Their only hope of ultimate safety is a sudden concerted rush, which may effect a stoppage in the main flow for one golden moment. But the opportunity must be seised immediately, or the waters close over again. What magic lure these mirrors possess I cannot say, being merely mortal. Yet the agony of mind and body which any girl of class A will endure, even for the glimpse of somebody else ' s ear in one of them, surely goes to prove that they change the natural — and therefore ordinary and dull — to something exciting and thrilling. To hear the faery pipes of Pan would not be too great a reward for this effort. But woman has been under the spell of the mirror ever since it was discovered, a precious glittering crystal gem in a green cave under the sea, with its mysterious powers of fas- cination. Perhaps a school-girl cannot be severely blamed for emulating her sisters of time immortal. It is really, after all, the mirror ' s fault for practising the black art. The girls who grovel underfoot have undoubtedly the worst time. For one thing, as nobody but a groveller ever deigns to glance at the floor, these poor unfortunates are completely ignored. They are stamped underfoot as ruthlessly and as unconsciously as by a herd of buffaloes. Then, wandering possessions are so elusive. Even when, after painful excavations in the dark little caves under the shoe-bench and after a search through the swaying forest of black legs, the beloved object is sighted — even then, I say, the poor grovel ler must needs follow up her quarry through thick and thin, which, in steady progress with the outflowing masses, will eventually be evicted forcibly into the hall, if not retrieved in time. In this hectic chase the groveller receives kicks and blows enough to daunt a cur, but she heeds them not ; her excitement deadens all physical feeling. Then at last, dishevelled, smutty and bruised — yet triumphant — she raises high above the heads of the crowd, as the successful huntsman holds up his fox by its brush above the yapping pack, her dear lost overshoe, only to discover it belongs to somebody else! Yes, the groveller ' s condition could not be worse. And all for a paltry combination of cheap velvet, imitation fur, and rubber. What a strong tie are wordly possessions! It is easier for a camel Perhaps the girls who wait, class C, are the wisest of all. They sit like patience on a monument, except that their position is not so exalted. Snugly buried in furs — provided by the multitude — they are well padded against shocks and collisions. No field-mouse in its downy nest could be more comfortable; but ever the hawk hovers overhead, poised watchful, ready at any moment to drop like a thunderbolt upon its prey, ruthlessly to tear it apart. Suddenly into the dark softness of such a retreat plunges the sharp wire-hook of a coat-hanger, and a rending sound ensues, horrible to hear. When peace at last reigns, the lurkers emerge from their holes one by one. The mirrors are there for the looking — but gone is the thrill. Success turns to dust and ashes in their mouths. They have braved the fiercest storms for this! The havoc caused by the departed multitude drearily strews the floor. As a final misfortune a member of the staff enters [26]