Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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WHEN THE POSTMAN RINGS TODAY Telegraph, don ' t write, they used to say, it would be quicker, or telephone, it might be easier. Thus letter- writing was fast becoming a lost art. It is no longer so; for the war came and with it a revival of letters. The Nazi hordes were on the march. In the once quiet corners of the world tanks and planes were roaring death and destruc- tion. From the peasant villages of Czechoslovakia and Poland; the peaceful towns of Holland and Belgium; the ancient cities of France refugees were streaming along the roads seeking safety from the terror of the invader. Families were broken up; lifelong friends were separated. A most terrible catastrophe had befallen the nations and peoples of Europe. Those who were fortunate enough to escape death were soon inquiring the fate of their scattered families and friends, anxious to give and receive news. Communica- tions were difficult between war-stricken countries. Letters once again became precious things. They told of adventures and hardships. Out of their pages came the burned smel l of bombed cities, the cruelties of internment camps, the panic of evacuations, and the heroism of hope. Children from the old country were sent overseas to be cared for until victory is won and England safe again. Letters come and go from English mothers to American mothers, from parents at home to children scattered in far lands, letters that are often read and reread until they are worn and tattered. There are letters from soldiers and sailors and airmen in training, and on active service in the outposts of the Empire — in Iceland, the West Indies, in Libyan deserts, Chinese cities, and in London where the church spires are tumbling into rubble. They are letters of courage and fortitude, written in a spirit of high adventure. Letters coming from England today may be written during the weary hours in the crowded bomb-shelters, amid the rocking crash of bombs and devastating fires, often in the presence of death. In some distant [27]

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French Revolution is purely French has completely failed to understand it . I should however, be doing a great injustice to my school and its staff if I were not to mention its high scholastic standing, and allude to the many girls who have gained major scholar- ships in mathematics, in classics and in English and history at our two famous univer- sities Oxford and Cambridge. Music is another feature of our school and many girls go on to the Royal School of Music; there are eight piano teachers and one violin teacher as well as visiting teachers for other instruments. At school concerts and on other occasions the string orchestra performs as well as the choirs and most accomplished pianists. Since no feminine discourse is ever complete without an allusion to dress I must not now let down my sex — indeed I would not be covering my subject if I were not to mention the uniform. For morning lessons a fawn skirt and blouse complete with house tie is the order of the day; in the afternoon, which, as I have mentioned is spent in the playground, a navy blue serge tunic, buttoning down the front, is worn, and under this a navy blouse, thick or thin according to season; further additions are a white collar and a broad blue strap belt, similar to a stable belt, down the back of which hangs a tail determining your house and standard of play. In the evening the feminine taste is given full license. In closing I take this opportunity to proclaim on behalf of my fellow countrymen who stand amid your ranks, LONG LIVE TRAFALGAR, FOREVER HER AIM! NoRAH Young, Matric. I, Gumming House. [26]

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time novelists and historians may find their most valuable information in the letters of our period. How true it is that letters reveal human lives at their most characteristic, their most glorious, and their most terrible moments . Our thoughts go back to some of the memorable letters that have come down to us, written in the dark hours of other days. We recall the letters of the Apostle Paul in his captivity at Rome to the early Christians of Corinth and Philippi, especially the one written just before his death — I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith. There is the letter of Mary Queen of Scots, written in a steady hand to her brother-in-law, Henry III of France, two hours after midnight before Elizabeth ' s soldiers took her to her death in the Hall of Fotheringham. There is the letter of Raleigh, written in the Tower of London, bidding farewell to his wife a few hours before he expected to be executed. Yours that was, but not now my own, he signs himself. There are the historic letters of Abraham Lincoln, particularly the one of consolation to the American mother on her loss of five sons in the Civil War — how weak and fruitless must be any words of mine in the face of such sacrifice for a great cause . Then there is the letter found beside the frozen body of the Antarctic explorer. Captain Scott, in which he declared that these rough notes and our dead bodies must tell the tale of an heroic adventure to the Souh Pole. Reading these letters again one seems to see the pages of history silently and swiftly turning. So it will be: the letters of today are the history of tomorrow. For at a time when literature itself has almost vanished from Europe obscure people are writing with their blood and tears a story for the ages. Mary Mitham, Form IVb, Ross House. PARADES Flags flying, bands playing, the tread of marching feet, Row upon row of Empire men swinging down Regent Street; Englishmen, Canadians, and brave Australians too. Going to fight, and die, and win for the old Red, White and Blue. Guns booming, carts creaking, faces pale and still. Long trains of refugees winding up a hill; All bewildered, hardly caring where they have to go. Hatred deep and lasting the only thing they know. Winds blowing, sand stinging, all so hot and dry. Lines of desert prisoners slowly shuffling by; Faces haggard, shoulders drooping, Italy ' s Empire lost. Never knowing why they fought, not questioning the cost. Some day our flags will wave on high, and we will shout and sing. Bands will play, our soldiers cheer, and all the bells will ring. Forgetting all we had to do, the sacrifices we made, O how proudly we will join the victory parade ! Harriet Anderson, Form IVa, Barclay House. [28]