Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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CITY AT TWILIGHT Beneath the hazy blue of Twilight ' s cloak The city gleams, its lights like tiny stars Pinpricking through the dusk. They lie in patterns Like constellations in the whirling heavens. Blurred close at hand, but sharpening with distance, Until, farthest of all, a jewelled chain Is flung across a chasm — lazy darkness That is the river. And beyond the lights Mysterious purple mountains softly beckon As Twilight runs to them, deserts the city. And it is left alone, a prey to darkness. Anne Begor, Form Vb, Gumming House. FOXHUNTING WHAT COULD BE more thrilling than to see hounds in full cry behind a straight-necked fox? The scarlet coats and gleaming horses of the riders, and the dappled beauty of a pack of fox hounds is a sight which quickens the blood of all who see it. The farmer ' s pleasure, however, in this great sport is apt to be marred if he has to spend the evening hours sorting out his cattle and repairing his fences. The hunt never wants to cause damage, and if a farmer finds his gate left open at the end of a day ' s hunting he may be sure that the hunt feels even worse than he does about it. After all, it wasn ' t their fault that that stupid nephew of old Mrs. Plushbottom came down for the weekend. In fact the farmer is probably so angry about his gate that he forgets the foxes hounds kill, and the money the hunt saves him by ridding him of those chicken killers. It is a pity not more farmers come out hunting, all are more than welcome and, for a farmer, it doesn ' t cost a cent. Just follow hoimds once, either on foot or, if you are lucky enough, on that gallant animal the horse. I promise it won ' t be the last time you go! Jennifer Biggs, Arts VI, Fairley House. [15]

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PHOTOGRAPH COMPETITION Second Prize — Jane Torrey Honourable Mention — Anne Murray We thank Mr. Keymer for his kindness in judging the conipetition, and so generously presenting Sylvania flash bulbs to all the competitors. [14]

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SUNSETS IN SCOTLAND I MUST CONFESS that I am deeply moved by the spectacle of the setting sun. During my stay in Scotland I witnessed some of the most glorious sunsets imaginable. I knew Scotland was famous for its sunsets, but I was unprepared for their splendour and beauty. It was a favourite pastime of mine to sit in Balloch Park, on the high, grassy hill that slopes down to the banks of Loch Lomond, and watch the ever changing scene before my eyes. I remember well how at first the sun would be a harsh, glaring ball of white intense light, reflected as a wide silver ribbon shimmering the length of the Loch; then how, imperceptibly, the mood began to change as the sun started to decline. The harsh intense light would grow softer until it emerged as a wonderful orange hue, diffusing an orange-pinky glow over all the western sky. Gradually, subtle shades of lavender to deep purple would become evident, then, shooting from the sun itself like giant arrows, great shafts of light would gradually become firmer and emerge as golden rays, overlying and dominant. The colour of the sun would now start to deepen xmtil it became a crimson ball of fire, tinging the edges of the clouds; those nearest the sun would be crimson, and as the area widened the colour became more delicate until the fringe was just the palest pink. Like the crescendo in a symphony the colours seemed to blend into a wonderful vibrating rhythm, and then the sun, as though exhausted with its effort to pour so much beauty into the sky, would slowly sink behind Ben Lomond, leaving a wonderful afterglow and a sense of beauty and peace. Stephanie Windsor-Pleydell, Form Vb, Gumming House. AUTUMN Autumn is many things. It is the haunting cry of mournful geese, Which echoes through the grey-coat sky above As they fly south before oncoming frost. Then, too, it is the bright and brilliant note Of autumn ' s messengers, Leaves, orange, red and gold. Which, blown by chilly breezes, gently float To earth below. The endless trees, black and bare Without their pretty leaves. Stand out like silhouettes Against the crimson carpet on the ground beneath. And days of changing weather, never still, With first the sound of raindrops Always falling; And next, bright days of sun, and warmth, and life: No promise of the weary times to come. These things make autumn what she is: A time of change, a time of restlessness, A time for thought. Bette Shannon, Form IVa, Gumming House. [16]