Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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taken place that afternoon, rushed over her. Every movement, every word was clear in her mind. She saw the anger on her father ' s face and the stranjje expression that had come into his eyes, almost the expression of a madman, when she had let herself go and said what had been brewing within her ever since last winter, when she had come back from the visit at her aunt ' s, where for the first time in her life she had been really happy; and where she had met Bob Robertson. She had told her father that she was going to marry Bob; that she had spent thirteen years in the same house, never meeting any young people, never going to parties, never doing anything that young people did, keeping house for her father, and for enjoyment paddling up and down the river by herself. She started to tremble violently as she thought of her final words, Why do you treat me like this? I ' m your own daughter! if you ' re trying to break me as you did m--! The terrible silence that had followed her father ' s angry Anne! , in which she realised what she had said, had terrified her, and she had stvimbled from the room, hardly noticing the bent, little figure of the old man standing just outside the door, who watched her with a dog-like expression of silent devotion and sympathy. Whose eyes, when they turned to the room in which her father was, blazed with hatred. As she watched his slow progress up the path, Anne found herself wondering about him, and at a time like ' this, she thought. She knew that he had been with the Watson paper-mills for thirty years, thirty years and he was still earning barely enough to make a living; and yet people said that he worshipped J. P. Watson and would do anything for him. Anne herself had seen the way he followed her father around and seemed devoted to him, and she could remember that ever since she was a child, he had watched her as carefully as if she had been his daughter. Like the time when he had pulled her out of the river when her canoe had upset. A funny little man, who never voiced his opinions but always listened to everything, his quick black eyes, which he could veil at a moment ' s notice, never missing anything. She wondered how he could like her father after the day she had seen him strike the little man and knock him down; and after all the times that her father stormed and swore at him for some- thing that was not his fault. Only the housekeeper, Mrs. Philips had said, He don ' t love J. P. like he makes out. The next day dawned bright and hot, and Anne rising from the bed where she had thrown herself the night before without bothering to undress, stared at herself in the mirror with a determined expression, as she tidied her hair. She had decided whether her father gave his consent or not she would marry Bob, though her heart pounded rapidly at the thought of going through another such scene. When she went downstairs Mrs. Philips informed her that her father had gone down the river O so angry , and that somebody was in for it. After gulping down a cup of steaming coffee, Anne left the house in the direction of the mills. Walking quickly, and repeating over and over again what she was going to say, she soon reached the town. Her father, she was told, had gone farther down the river to Higgins ' the last house before the waterfalls. Anne followed, vainly trying to [17]

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THE LONE WITNESS ON a little river far up in northern Canada, Watson ' s paper-mills hummed and buzzed continuously like a drone of bees. All day long logs floated down to the mills from the huge timber woods some ten miles up the river. Only at nightfall did the activity of the little paper-making town cease. Only at nightfall could the roaring of the huge waterfall below the town be heard. J. P. Watson, heavy and red-faced, with twice the strength of an ordinary man, was the owner of these mills. He ran the whole village, and was regarded by the vil- lagers with awe not unmixed with fear. He was feared because he was so strict and hard; and although he drove his men relentlessly ten hours a day, nobody grumbled, because he paid well. On the evening of one hot, sultry day, Anne Watson, the pulpmagnate ' s only daughter, sat at the window of her bedroom staring vinseeingly at the landscape in front of her. Her face was white and strained except for a redness around her eyes, which were a mixture of terror and anger. Her long, slender fingers twisted nervously at a handkerchief, and her lower lip was caught between her teeth. She sat there as the sun sank lower and lower, and finally disappeared. Still she sat there, her hands never ceasing llu ir nervous movenienl. Finally somebody moving in the garden below caught her eye and broke the spell which seemed to hold her. A little old man, l ent, wrinkled and lann( (l from long lays in llu o|)cn, was coming up tlie path. At ihe sight of liiui Honi ;liiing iiiHidi; lier Hna|)])ed and like a flood, ihc liorrible scene that had |K.|

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suppress the nervousness mounting in her. At last sJie couhl see the cotta};;e, and as she drew near her father ' s angry voice rang out ahove the roar of the falls. Then he appeared, and at the sight of his face Anne ' s determination left her. She could not approach him now, not now or ever she thought, and yet she must do something. And as she stood concealed from the river bank watching her father climh into the hoat his back to her, she saw a bent little man creep up behind him, cast off the painter, and dart back into the woods. The oars were on the bank, and the warning scream which rose to Anne ' s lips was a mere whisper. The little boat swerved madly and swung towards the falls, her father ' s arms waved wildly as he fought to keep his balance. Anne stared, unable to shut her eyes as the boat dipped and swayed, and plunged over the rushing torrent, out of sight. Barbara Ward, Form Matric I. FROST ON THE WINDOW-PANE Stenciled on the window-pane Patterns white and fair Silently they formed last night In the midnight air. Lacy and so beautiful They seem to all our eyes As we note the figures rare And the shapes of every size. No human hand could fashion Or could mould those shapes so fair God formed them silently last night Out of the midnight air. Allana Reid, Form IIIb. A SQUARE DANCE THE village of La Minerve, Quebec, was wide awake to-night, there was going to be a veille at Willie ' s. Willie Simon, a charming middle-aged halfbreed, had a house in a strategic point in the village, opposite the post office and next to the general store. To-night people came flocking into his tiny house. He himself had built this crude square building with its sloping roof; inside, downstairs, were two combined rooniK, ihe kitchen and sitting room, and a large bedroom and dining room. Al llic moment, all llie guests were clustered in the kitchen and one could smell the fresl) hron( laid on a side board; near the bread stood a large barrel of water. For a goo«l lialf hour while llie guests were arriving, stories were told, mostly tongue twisters and yarns. Finally, when about fifty peo|)le wore all 8quashe l into the little room — [18]