Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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THE WIND IN A FROLIC FOLLOW, follow, follow me! cried the Wind as she frolicked across the common. Puppy and I gaily chased after her; playing leap frog over briar and bracken. Puppy became entangled in a burr patch, and the thick copse scratched my bare arms and legs, and tore my trousers. Still the infectious laugh of the Wind led us hither, and yon. ... It was an afternoon in late October. The sky was azure blue; the landscape was copper-gold. As we lay down, panting, by the stream, we — Puppy and I — watched with glee the Wind play ' tag ' with the fleecy clouds. She would race with them across the sky, darting in and out, changing their appearance from soft down to gnomes ' faces to lions and tigers and then to down again. We soon regained our breath and the Wind led us on the Green Forest. Now, like ourselves, she has certain duties which she must perform each day. While she swept the mossy carpet clean, and shook down fresh pine needles, I filled my pockets with cones which miraculously fell from the top branches of the tall evergreens. Then, we followed the Wind on to the Orchard. There, she detached the rosy fruit from the sturdy trees and carefully dropped them on the hay surrounding the trunks so as not to bruise them. Now having done her chores, she was free to enjoy herself. We ran on to the village and she whistled mischievously up and down the streets. She sent men ' s hats whirling away and forgot to bring them back again; she played havoc with damsels ' curls and swirls which had taken such time and patience to arrange. She lost little boys ' balls and then found them again. She made little girls blush by swishing up their short circular skirts. The neat piles of dead leaves were swept in spirals about the tidy lawns, the evening papers lying on the doorsteps were mussed and torn. While the Wind was enjoying her sport to its utmost, cries of help arose from the river. A rowboat, caught in the current was unable to reach shore again. The Wind hastened to its aid and blew with all her strength until finally the boat was out of danger. The sun was now sinking low in the West. The sky as well as the earth was fired with molten gold. The Wind, weary with its frolic, sank with the last mellow rays of the ' dying fire ' . Elspeth Rankine, Form Va, Fairley House. FREEDOM 0 God, who made the universal life, 1 seek to know why Nations strike and fight To gain the strength and power won by might. Do they not know the uselessness of strife? [27]

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another. As in all institutions of long standing, there was in the Fleet a code of conduct as rigid as that of Oxfordan College, and one to which all prisoners did well to c onform. They formed a self-governing community, electing their own officers, holding meetings in the tap-room or the coffee room, forming rules which all prisoners had to keep, and levying fees they had to pay. One of the oldest rules forced every newcomer to provide free drinks to the house; if he would not, or could not, his clothes were stripped from him and put up to auction to provide the necessary funds. No undergraduate was ever put through a more severe or more desperate initiation than the new collegian in the college of the Fleet — that veritable hell on earth. Here the sponger and the cheat rubbed shoulders with the helpless debtor and the religious fanatic. Women of the town, shady lawyers, and pickpockets came and went at will. Drinking and gambling were permitted at all times, and with weapons easily smuggled into the prison, it is little wonder that brawls were daily occurrences, and well-organized mutinies not uncommon. Space prevents me from telling you more of this famous prison. You will find for yourselves references and descriptions of it, scattered through the length and breadth of English literature and history; from these, with patience, care and hours of pleasant labour, can be gradually built up a living picture of an institution which for eight hundred years held a unique position in the life of England. Margery Bassett. SONGS OF THE SEA Lapping, lapping, lapping. On the golden-beached shore; Crashing, crashing, crashing On the rugged cliffs afore: Blue as the cloudless heaven. Or grey as the steely sky. The sea yields up its story To the vaulted dome on high Tales of great adventure — Of mariners, strong and bold. Of nobles, whom the fatal lure Laid low in waters cold; The song of a lusty fisher. The prayers of a waiting maid. The sea yields up its echo As the shadows dip and fade. Allana Reid, Senior Matriculation, Barclay House. [26]

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That ultimately tyrant masters ' harsh Rapacious rules, and peoples led to smite Much smaller countries, will be crushed by right? No more, then, will the world with greed be rife. Though cruel, brutal, grasping paws attempt With vicious claws outstretched to snuff, and crush The burning flames of hope, of love, of creed; And tear with talons all that free lands dreamt; . nd though in sanguine streams free blood may gush. The force of Tyranny will ne ' er succeed. J. Donnelly, Matric. I, Ross House. NIGHTMARE OMETHING loomed on the horizon of a hill on the state highway. There was a screeching of brakes; a girl ' s hysterical scream; a man ' s fervent oath — and the CRASH!!! Then there was silence — broken only by the tinkle of shattered glass on the concrete. But not for long. Sirens, Radio Car sirens, ambulance sirens, motor- cycle sirens. Clang, clang! Zing, zing! Now the horror of removing mangled bodies from the wreckage. Pitiful moaning. Nerve-wracked sobbing. Nausea. Then the curt efficient voice of the ambulance surgeon to the waiting, inquisitive bystanders: One killed, three injured; truck driver — head lacerations. You ' ll oblige us by moving on now, please. Called for surgery! Called for surgery! Hospital antiseptic. Jangling telephones. A dull, cold waiting room filled with anxious tea-stained faces. Eyes too swollen to hold blame or malice. Throats too parched to offer sympathy. News?? — no news! Waiting, endless waiting. Nausea again A car door slammed, rustle of taffeta, smothered laughter, whispered ' goodnights ' . She awoke with a start as a carefree girl of seventeen tiptoed into the dimly lighted room. Why Mother, you shouldn ' t have waited up for me! she gently reproached. It was a lovely dance and we had a wonderful time! You didn ' t worry did you, Mother? It ' s not late. We were so careful — there ' s nothing to worry about, ever! Goodnight, Mother. Come to bed soon! The woman sat there a few moments; a prayer of thanks, unspoken on her lips. No, nothing ever to worry about — not even nightmares! Elspeth Rankine, Form Va, Fairley House. [28]