Balmoral Hall School - Optima Anni Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

Page 14 text:

I2 Witness in the Window This is a short tale about a very small animal with a long one. His name was Sim and he was a fieldmouse who lived long ago in a small but comfortable nest in the corner of a stable. He spent most of his life hunting about for food to help feed the family, and watching out for the cats who came from the nearby inn to prowl through the dark stable at night in search of dinner. When he wasn't busy with these affairs, he often climbed up the wall to the small, high window at the end of the stable and sat on the ledge looking down onto the road outside. Sim liked barley, warm straw, sleeping and long grass, but most of all he liked looking out the window, for from this exalted position he could see the heads and bodies of passers-by with their camels and mules, instead of just their feet, and he could see the tops of houses and the sky. All his life Sim wished that he could look at the sky without craning his neck. One particular day, Sim woke up feeling better than he ever had before. He leaped from his nest, turned a few somersaults and jumped about, then fairly streaked up the wall to the window sill. There he stopped for a moment gazing out onto the fresh morning world and gulping early morning air till he nearly choked, then he scrambled down the other side of the wall and set out to visit the meadows. He followed along a steep embankment beside the road, swinging along at a jaunty pace, humming little tunes to himself and watching the travellers who were already streaming by in the opposite direction towards the town. just as he was turning off into the meadow, Sim saw near the edge of the road a travel-worn man and woman with a donkey who seemed indisposed to budge. The woman on the donkey was very beautiful. Sim watched them from behind a clump of grass until the donkey finally gave in, then scampered off into the field, his heart pattering triple time with un- accountable excitement. Long after the sun had sunk out of sight and night had spread a dark blanket over the sleeping world, Sim, weary from a long day in the meadow, was moving homeward under cover of the long grasses that hid him from the hunters in the sky. His tiny feet dragged over the pebbles and his tail trailed and bumped over the ground behind him. As he neared the window of the stable he could think of nothing but his warm nest in the dark- and sleep. Up, up the long wall he climbed, till just as he was nearly at the top, he noticed that a strange bright light was shining from within. He scrambled up the rest of the way and stood on the sill, blinking. And when he looked in, a sudden huge happiness took hold of him and wound round and round inside him till he could no longer con- tain himself, and he burst into a frenzied jig on the window sill, squeaking joyously at the top of his lungs. At last he got so dizzy that he lost his balance and tumbled head over heels into the manger full of hay below him. When he picked himself up, whom should he see looking down at him but the man and the beautiful woman with the donkey, and right beside him in the manger, so close that he felt a warm breath all down his back, lay- The mouse, overcome with shyness and awe, hid his head in the hay. Ann Jennings, Grade XII. St. Valentine's Day According to history there were in early Rome, two very holy Christian martyrs, both named Val- entine. Both died a very ugly death on February 14, the date of pagan Rome's Spring Festival. Lest anyone should want to make a pilgrimage to their graves, they were buried at widely separated spots on the Appian Way with neither a shrine nor a tombstone to mark their resting places. These two Christian martyrs were quite unknown to most of the pagan Romans, who, as was their custom on February 14, wrapped their togas about them and went off singing in celebration of their nameless annual Spring Festival. The mourning Christians, however, called February 14 St. Valentines Day, and each year thereafter, while the Christians mourned, the Romans celebrated and made gay flower wreaths. In time, since the Romans accepted the name of St. Valentines Day for their festival, and the Christians continued to remember their two martyrs, the two became synonymous. When the Romans reached Britain, they brought their customs with them. On February 14, the Britons saw the Romans having a splendid party. Clt may be noted here that, as the English Febru- aries are quite different from Italian Februaries, the gala occasion may have been a rather drizzly onelj They naturally inquired as to the reason for the gaiety, and when told, they immediately adopted the idea and, as the English are wont to do, they set about quickly establishing traditions to go with St. Valentines Day, for as everyone knows, nothing in Britain is good until it is at least four hundred years old, and steeped in tradition. Young British maidens were only waiting for a chance to snatch a husband, and so they took full advantage of this light-hearted festival. QAI Capp had not yet invented Sadie Hawkins' Daylj All the lads and lasses of the village would gather on the green, and the men would place hearts, with mottoes on them, in a hat. The girls would step blushingly forward and draw one, and the man

Page 13 text:

ll Can't you give us anything, lady? No. I'm sorry. O.K. The leader turned. Let's go. Mrs. Burns shut the door after them softly. She leaned against the door, as everything began to swim before her eyes. ........ . Suddenly Freddy was standing in the room again, skinny little dark-haired Freddy, looking up at her through his long, dark lashes-pleading. Mom, why can't I? Spike and the other guys are going out for apples. Can't I go? Please? Quickly she thought of ways and means to dis- suade him. Wouldn't you rather have a party, instead? she asked, her mind racing to see how she could carry through the plan on such short notice. Spike and the other boys could come here. You could have hot dogs and pop, play games, and then go to the movies. Wouldn't you rather do that, Freddy? For a moment the boy appeared to be swayed. Then, with a stubborn set to his jaw, so like his fathers, he declared: That wouldn't be half as much fun as going out for apples. Spike said we could have super fun. Besides, - a happy thought occurred to him I could have a party like that for my birthday. She tried to argue with him, but finally gave in. When she saw his joy as he got into his cowboy regalia, she felt a little ashamed for trying to dampen his enthusiasm. Remember, Freddy, be careful. Watch the lights when you cross the Drive, and be back by eight. O.K., Mom. She remembered the twinkle in his eyes, as he and Spike and the other guys had come to the door a half -hour later. Trick or treat, Mom, he had grinned. She remembered how nervous she had grown as the time went by. Eight o'clock, eight-thirty, nine -then she began to phone the neighbours. No, we haven't seen Freddy. Our own boy hasn't come in yet, as a matter of fact. The door-bell rang. When she answered it, a beefy, red-faced policeman confronted her. Mrs, Burns? There's been an accident. I'm awfully sorry, but your little boy has been killed. An accident-your little boy-so little-it could not be-he's only six-so little-Hallowe'en-a year ago-oh Freddy! Freddy! ...... She began to sob, quietly. The spaniel whim- pered softly, in sympathy. Hey, Paul, let's really give her the treatment! Nn-no. He remembered the sad, hurt look in her eyes. We've got to get home now. Senior Literary Competition Eifffne Landon, Prize Slory Grads? X- Awake! You lie here as if in a dream, Oblivious, while others scheme. You see not the decay, nor smell The stink of rotg and while you dwell In grandeur, in magnificence- The thieves you pay to rule your land Perform dark deeds of violence. While saying, It is the Kings command! Conniving tongues link your royal name To countless tales of horrible shame And if your subjects dare to groan, They blame it all upon the throne. Once still, the sea is calm no more - But ripples of discontent are stirred And fanned to waves you yet ignore- And still their moaning is unheard. Q Gaze at your work and dismay! Through your neglect, they must decay. Awake! Atone for your great sin, Erase the crime that dwells within Our land! Cast out the evil men That plot destruction-death! And then From this welter shall arise An empire stretching to the skies. Not buried in greed and hate and lust, Or tied by false, unequal laws, Her people shall dwell with love, and trust, And work toward a common cause. Awake, before it is too late- Cast out the schemes and jealous hate! Hope then shall be a brighter gleam- Utopia - a truer dream. Nora Anne Richards Grade XI Senior Lifeiziry Compelifioii Prize Poem Room - Mates What else comes in all sizes, All shapes and all disguises? Dispositions sweet and sour, Laughing, crying, every hour. Nothing else could be so sweet, Nothing else so much could eat. Bad moods, good moods every day Depending on both work and play. Sylvia Pierce Grade X

Page 15 text:

13 whose name was on the Valentine , was bound to be her sweetheart until next February. And, if she had not talked him into marrying her by then, she could have another beau for the next year. I am thinking of instituting this novel system in Winnipeg. It does have its drawbacks, but we would all be assured of escorts for the Graduation Dance! The British conception of St. Valentines Day emigrated to Canada with some of our early set- tlers, but what has happened to St. Valentine's Day in our fair land, I cannot discern or explain. All I know is that every year since I was six I have been sending and receiving penny Valentines, with no signatures on them. Such a waste of money! I am not too enthusiastic about returning to a day of mourning, but I am all for returning to a Roman spring festival. If we followed my sug- gestion, we would have a week-long holiday and gambol about in City Park, with hot-house roses adorning our long tresses. Also, to protect our tender little feet, we would wear fur sandals. Ah well, I must rush out and buy this year's supply of penny Valentines. If I don't send any, I might not receive any, and that would be tragic! joan Davidson, Grade XI. Hands An arm is resting on a table- a thick, muscu- lar arm-strong from heavy work, and constant labour-and at the end of it-a hand. With one glance at this hand, one can tell that the own- er is a poor labourer. The knuckles are large and protruding, the nails at the end of stubby fingers are clipped short, and are black. The skin is rough and red, cut and scarred from constant exposure to wind and sun, flying coal chunks and biting wire. The tendons are large and rippling, surging with strength. A child reaches with delight for a balloon. The chubby fingers fumble with it, drop it, and grab it up again, pressing softly into the soft rubber. These are small, fat hands, with dimples where there should be knuckles, and lines like thin brace- lets around the wrists. They are grubby, but clean in their innocence and inexperience. Smoke curls from the end of a cigarette in an ivory holder held casually but expertly between long slender fingers. The nails are tapered, mani- cured with care, and brightly polished. The skin on this hand is smooth and white, smelling slightly of flowers and telling the world of the work it has escaped. There is something odd, yet marvellous in these hands. Although they are the most outer part of the body, thought reaches them almost before it shows on the face. Fingers tremble over ivory keys, then slowly gain confidence as they move deftly over them-rapidly, then slowly, produc- ing notes that are painfully sweet, then startlingly harsh. A tense hand grips a smooth white throat. It trembles also, but trembles because it is so tense. The fingers tighten slowly and the strength pours from them until they relax, hot and wet. A friendly hand grips another, and love, sympathy, and sin- cerity are recognized by both persons, though not a word is said. Swift but sure and clear lines are stroked on a canvas, the expert fingers guiding their tool, until all the artist's thoughts and feel- ings are transmitted to the canvas. Surely hands are one of the most strange and wonderful works of the Creator. The poor work- man's strong hands, the childs chubby hand slip- ping trustfully into yours, the social butterfly's manicured hands, the artists, the musicians, the murderers-all tell of the work they do or do not do- the things they create or destroy. Nora Anne Richards, Grade XI. Through the Nylons on the Bathrod Parting fawn-coloured gossamer From the everyday world I go. fFirst testing my way cautiously With the tip of my big toe.j Seeking cover in denser foliage, I slip through like a woodland deer. .QBut in 15 denier and 51 gauge There is no dense, just sheer. j Into snowy whiteness I step, Whiteness as smooth as marble. fMaking sure I don't slip On a product of Procter and Gamblej Ambitiously I scourge myself Until my senses glow and tingle. QThen suddenly panic grips As too much hot with cold doth minglej Stillness-when I stop the deluge. The warm waters I again embrace. fBut silence has betrayed the gurgle From leaking plug I must replacej All is calm and peaceful, The moments swiftly fly. fUntil I'm gripped in agony Of soap-got-in-the-eye.j Mary-Kaye Simpkinson, Grade X.