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

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Ma . -. as B The Scar It was a dull, dreary night, and as Pamela lay in her cozy bed, she could hear the lapping of the waves on the cold barren beach, and the rhythm- ical pattern of the rain pattering on the roof of the cottage. She was all alone and the rustle of the poplar leaves along with the dreariness of the Cold night whispered evil. Pamela's imagination wandered from weird crea- tures to even more weird objects. Forcing herself to think of more pleasant things, she finally settled down, and drifted off into a deep sleep, Sometime during the night she was awakened by knocks on the front door. At hrst she thought it was just the rain on the roof, as she had heard all evening, but again she heard three distinct knocks. After wait- ing for quite a long time, she realized that her parents still were not home, and thinking that someone might desperately need help, she ran quickly to the door. There, standing on the door- step, was a little old lady, wearing a black shawl, iglilllili 'i l lf' me f b i ig i P' 26' ig- , ll 4 'l 1 -I ,i e l ' .Zhi ll it l s I 5, Til I i llfl f I i i4f fM,, mn11a 1l fffv l1fAA which was tightly drawn around her. More notice- able than her minute size, was the T-shaped scar which she had over her left eye. Without waiting, she pushed past the girl, dropped into a chair, and asked, 'Have you a boat? Quite astonished the child said that they had, and it was out on the beach. Without another word the old woman scurried out of the cottage and ran, forcing her way through the driving rain, down to the beach. But, cried Pamela, you had better not take it because- Before she could finish the sentence the old lady was pushing the boat off into the tur- bulent waters. Helplessly Pamela stood with the door ajar, and above the roar of the waves she heard some of the words that the old woman shrieked. Take care my child! If anything should hap- pen to me this night-will be sorry-youebut. Within a year you will lose the use of your legs, and stay-the rest of-life. Troubled about what the woman had said, Pam- ela crawled back into bed, and prayed that nothing would happen, Morning soon arrived accompanied by the merry sunshine, her mother's cheery voice, and the gay chirps from Cheeco their budgie. Before break- fast Pamela went out into the kitchen, and feeling quite relieved that her past experience was only a dream, she started to tell her mother all about the weird old woman, with the dreadful scar. Before she could finish, her father called and asked if she would run down to the store and buy him a pair of shoe laces. Saying that she would complete the story later, Pam skipped off down the road to the general store. When she arrived, she noticed that there was a great commotion down on the beach and the peo- ple were madly talking and some carrying blankets. Curious, Pamela ran down to see what had hap- pened. No one knew exactly what had taken place, but they did know that someone had drowned. Whether it was a male or female no one knew, for no one dare look. Pamela looked over at the picnic table where the body had been placed, and covered. At once her eyes fell upon a black piece of cloth that hung below the blanket. With her heart beating like a drum inside her, she walk- ed slowly to the table, and after closing her eyes tightly. her shaking hands reached for the cover. After drawing back the quilt, she slowly raised her eyelids, and there on the ghostly white face was the T-shaped scar above her left eye. There lay the woman whom she had seen last night, in what she had thought was a dream! Then Pamela re- membered what the old woman had shrieked at her as she rocked about in the waves. If anything should happen to me this night. -something had happened- Within a year you will lose the use of your legs -How many more days-one, two, ten, fifty-would she be able to walk, run, and play as any other child could? With this thought lingering in her subconscious, Pamela faced the rest of her doomed days. Diana Duncan, Grade XI. THE SCAR A well-organized story with good word-manipulation! A fine contrast is drawn between the carefree Pamela and the little, old, burdened woman. The climax itself is well-handled, creat- ing suspense and a vague uneasiness in the mind of the reader.

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gg ggggggrgg g g g I3 BLTXRNP Any other time Twinkletoes McThistle:horn was a friend of mine, but tonight at dinner she sat silently on my shoulder. I didn't notice, though, for I was diverting my friends gaze from my two brothers, who, par excellence, were conducting the usual show at their end of the table for her bene- fit. Then Twinkletoes' impatient foot tapped my shoulder. Let's be bad, she suggested eagerly. I'm eating, I replied. Silence ensued. All right, she exclaimed, then I'll give your mother the BLTXRNP! What's that? I asked indifferently. It makes you do what you've always wanted to do-your secret desire, she explained excitedly. Intriguing, I returned, shrugging my shoul- ders, My mischievous friend then fluttered down sulkily. Then here goes, she called rather carelessly. It is hard to describe but mother, a young moth- er, rose from the table in a flowing blue gown, and, to the strain of an appropriate Strauss Waltz, began to dance around and around on the arm of a gallant Frenchman. I glanced sympathetically toward dad, who had a very dark, red face. As Twinkletoes advanced on dad, I made a lunge at her. Atbove the sound of music and laughter I heard a horse's shrill whinny. My youngest broth- er, in full mounties' regalia, was directing imag- inary troops across the living-room carpet. Thank you so much for the meal, but we must be getting alongf' This was a calm voice at my back. I turned to see a vaguely familiar woman departing out the door with a child in her arms, and at least four more clinging to her skirt. With a cry of wonder I ran once more to the dining-room, but my last hope had vanished. The chuckling, stooped man with an armful of test-tubes and chemistry books was my brother. Twinkletoes McThistlethorn sat triumphantly in the crook of his arm. Now it's your turn, she grinned maliciously. The protestations of the horse and the waltz seem- ed to crescendo in my ears as I cried, No, don't come near me! Stop! I found it hard to adjust myself at purrist-I mean first, but meow-I mean now, I find my claws and speed very handy when I am hungry. Do you know, this afternoon I ate my first mouse. I love washing my black hair with my rough tongue. Meow! Brenda Dougall, Grade IX. Intermediate Lilemry C om pelilion Prize Slorj' Reaching for My Star Diamonds glittering in the Heavens, Wondrous jewels that brighten the grey Earth Speak to me every night. It is they that penetrate my soul Causing me to aspire to many things Far beyond my reach. Yet never shall I cease attempting To achieve the greatest glories on this earth Though they may fall far from my grasp. One star is my aim, my hope, And when I attain this star, my way of life, I shall make my goal and rise. The night shall come I know in later years When the dazzling spectacle of the celestial bodies Will be within my view. Then shall I look down and see Courageous youth on the grey globe below Reaching for the stars above. Izllermedifzle Lifemrjf C om pelifiwz Prize Poem Joanne Wilson, Grade VIII. Evening It was evening, the sun was just sinking beyond the far west horizon. The mountains which a few minutes before had been a crimson and gold were now a deep purple shade. The sky in the west was orange tinting to crimson. At the far east the sky was deep blue. The insects had begun to come out and a nightingale had begun to sing. Everywhere it was calm and peaceful. A rabbit came hopping by on its way to bed. A fox came slinking by on its nightly prowl. In the woods close by an owl hooted and was answered by another on the other side. A trout splashed in the lake below. Slowly the sun sank beyond the horizon. Soon nature was all asleep. A chilly breeze rustled the tall pines. God's children were asleep. Susan Dickinson, Grade VII.

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. -.--cG-l5 Shoes for Nancy She might go lame or get the blues If she should lack a pair of shoes. Get her sandals? Get her spikes? QThe first are worn by little tykesj. What of satin? What of leather Suitable for any weather? White for summer, black for fall, Tan for anytime at all? Something toeless? Something suede? fThese perhaps in Paris made?j All of these would be too fancy For my darling little Nancy. What of linen? fgood for sportsj Or rubber things of different sorts? Tell me, does she run and play? However does she spend the day? Does she dance half through the night? Or play at cards with all her might? Has she a liking for buckles and bows? Or does she go in for corns on her toes? How about waders right up to the thigh With diamond studs to catch the eye? None of these will do. Of course Nancy is my saddle horse. jane Savage, Grade X. Before the Curtain Goes Up As you tug open the heavy stage door and breeze past the watchful doorman, your head held high, and dancing kit your passport to fairyland in your hand, a feeling of smug superiority assails you. You are a part of this fairyland, part of this wonderful, exciting thing called show business. A familiar thrill of satisfaction runs up and down your spine and you skip down the cement steps two at a time. Down, down you go to the tiny barren cubicles with the glaring electric light bulbs and the ever-lingering odour of grease-paint. There is a certain, special magic about these rooms. Maybe it is the rows and rows of glitter- ing tutus with their stiff, dainty skirts. Maybe it is the pile of shiny pink pointed shoes heaped carelessly in the corner, toes newly darned, rib- bons stil crisp. Perhaps it is the smudgy mirror, the littered dressing tables, strewn with sticks of make-up, jars of cold cream and crumpled tissues. The magic, regardless of its origin, is potent. Once under its spell you are destined to remain under it always. I The theatre is quiet. Quickly you slip out of your coat, tie back your hair with a towel and seat yourself at the cluttered table. The transformation begins. Steadily and diligently you work, The minutes tick past. Sounds of the awakening theatre penetrate your wall of concentration. Dan- cers drift in and out. Have you some extra pins? Oh no! My zipper is broken 3 The transformation progresses. The crowd begins to arrive. Wisps of idle chatter float down from above. My dear, these seats are exquisite! I wonder how much Mrs. Blaine paid for that creation? The members of the orchestra start tuning their beloved instru- ments. The din increases. An air of suppressed excitement fills the theatre. A call boy rushes through the hall, Five minutes, ladies. The first gong sounds. Over your sleek, jewelled head the fluffy tutu slips. Hurriedly two slender feet are thrust into shiny slippers, shaking fingers fumble with the ribbons. One last quick glance at the smudgy mirror-almond shaped eyes, shaded lids, beaded lashes, flawless snow-white comple- xion, glistening netted hair. The house lights are dimmed, a hush falls over the audience. A burst of polite applause for the conductor and then the first soft, sweet strains of the overture descend, Last nervous glance at the tiny good-luck charm tacked above the dresser, last flick of the powder puff over the newly made- up face already shining with perspiration, last silent prayer-then a soft knock at the door and an even softer whisper, You're on, miss. 'Sonja Nelson, Grade XII. On Being Short Some people are inclined to believe there are no advantages in being short. To those especially, I dedicate this story. On the morning of November ninth, Miss Mur- rell-Wright gave five of us the surprise of our lives. Mavis Gossling, Maureen Hunt, joan Gun- ston, Helen Smith and myself were to be pages in the Sadler's Wells Ballet-not because we were good, mind you, but only because we were short! Maureen, Helen and joan had the thrill of car- rying on to the stage the White Cat fDorothea Zaymesj perched on her satin cushion, during the third act of Sleeping Beauty . Then they posed as monkeys behind trees, for Little Red Riding Hood fApri1 Olrichj. Mavis and I, as pages, stood transfixed, as we witnessed Margot Fonteyn do thirty-two jouettes fsome argue thirty-onej in Swan Lake . In the Sleeping Beauty , tingling with excitement, we carried the trains of the King and Queen fArnott Mader and Greta Hambyj throughout the court scene. After each performance, quite a gathering of Balmoralites could be found in our dressingroom. We made -sure that we had the stars' autographs, some of us boasting as many as ten, We were also the proud possessors of Miss Fonteyn's discarded toe shoes and Violetta Elvin's wilted roses, With these treasures in hand, we left the auditorium, five of the happiest shorties one could ever meet. Susan Carnegie, Grade X.