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

Page 12 text:

I0 What rubbish! . . . Write an essay on 'Old Clothes' and bring some to show the class. Well, really, if that's what is wanted, some of my own would do as well. Sulkily she drew out a wellfpreserved shoe, and was forced to smile at the high top, the pointed toe, and the wee buttons which went right up the front. How quaint they were, and how uncomfortablef looking! She thoughtfully put them aside as an example, and reached once more into the trunk. Withdrawing a photo, she was startled by the eyes, so very like her own, which looked out from the gentlyfsmiling face. The picture was signed, Forever, darling - Margaret, and this message was duplicated in the patient, loving countenance. Now, she could not contain herself -she delved deep into the musty contents of the chest, dreaming, remembering, imagining. Here, was a worn prayer book, there a book of poems and a pressed violet. Further down she found a tiny lace dress, and baby's locket. Where had that old pistol been used? Figures loomed about her now, talking gaily, whispering softly. Dust forgotten, and mothballs too-Ashes of Roses permeated the room, and sunlight poured through the little window, gleaming upon the brass buttons of a faded uniform. Near the bottom there were letters: love letters, blackfedged letters of consolation, letters of cheer. In a sudden revelation she realized how lovable these forefrunners were, and how loyal and brave. She felt that she had known them always . . . and then her heart whispered, They fought for the freedom which you are now enjoying. But they do not expect you to give up that battle 4 you and your generation must work so that faith and love, hope and international peace may be established forever. She ventured back into the twentieth century to write her essay, her arms full of old clothes, and her heart full of hope. LYN STEPHEN, Grade XII At the Lake I love the green grass, and I love the pink clover, I love moonlight nights with clouds scudding over. I love the waves roaring at night on the beach, I love the pines stretching way up out of reach. I love where the rocks make the soft ripples break, I love, yes, I love our place at the lake. RosAL1ND WALLACE, Grade VIII Practising A distracting breeze blows in through the open window, and the voice of your History teacher drones on. You glance at your watch and simulf taneously the four o'clock bell rings. Books snap closed, locker doors slam, and school is over for the day. Longingly you gaze out the window at those lucky individuals who do not know the harsh sound of a music teacher's voice. Maybe they're not lucky at all, you muse, just plain smart instead! There is Joan, stretched out on her back soaking up the rays of the sun - you can practically see her already tanned skin turning darker! You glance at your own white hands, fingerfnails neatly tapered to the length best suited to one taking piano lessons, and sigh. You hear a child's voice crying in the distance, the exhaust of a heavy truck, the sweet song of a meadowflark, all the everyfday sounds that make up a glorious summer afternoon. Should a glorious summer afternoon be spent in the dark, cellflike interior of a Practice Room? It can wait until tomorrow, one half of your mind cries, but the other half retorts, Your lesson is tomorrow, and you know very well that you haven't practised all week. Very well, the first half agrees, to tortue we go! But it certainly seems a shame to waste an afternoon like this! You force your lagging feet down the long school corridor and through the open passagefway, sheer willfpower pushing you on. Having resisted the most formidable temptation, you breathe more easily. You hear steps approaching but your eyes, still unaccustomed to the darkness of the lower passage, do not recognize the person attached to them. Hello! a cheery but unloved, at least by you, voice exclaims, On your way to the studio, I see ! Her voice ends on a note of expectation. Obviously she intends me to say 'yes'. Uh, oh yes, Miss Dansy, says your natural, or nearly' natural voice. As if I don't spend all my spare time practising, one inner voice says. 'lThat's right, you don't! your conscience proclaims. Oh shush, you say out loud. You two 'me's' make me feel like Launcelot Gobbo! Eh, wot's that? a puzzle voice asks, coming from the Downstairs Maid. Oh nothing, just talking to myself! you say gaily, and with a burning face, you run the remaining steps to your studio. There follows a harried ten minute search for your music books and for an unoccupied studio. At last, anything but cool and collected, you sit ready for action at the keyboard of the piano. Through the small window set high in the wall, float those gorgeous sounds made by the smart free people. Reluctantly but resolutely you turn your thoughts to the scale of B flat minor and succeed in pounding out two octaves, hands to' gether, up and down. Your mind cries, This may

Page 11 text:

ii Pr at r ig . xg Q gg S '- M-1. The Stgrm water is up to the doorstep now. It pauses The day dawned brightly. The peaceful blue sky accentuated the fresh green grass. The fragrant flowers raised their radiant faces to the sun. The trees, in their best attire, swayed gracefully in the gentle breeze, that played merrily over the meadow. The brook gurgled at some hidden secret, and the birds sang from pure joy in life. It was a glorious summer morning. Nothing could spoil a day such as this. By mid afternoon the farmer noticed a slight darkening of the sky but continued his work. Soon he noticed another change. The breezes had stopped their frolicking. The birds had ceased their noisy chatter. The brook gurgled more softly now. Silence reigned. Everything waited in expectation. Suddenly it came! The sky grew black. The wind arose. It shrieked with anger as it tossed the tree branches to and fro. The farmer hurriedly retraced his steps. He hustled the livestock into the barn. Frantically he cornered the last chicken. Into the barn with it. Now back to the cottage to quiet his slightly hysterical wife. Fighting his way back to the house, he stumbled on the gate which had blown down. He struggled to his feet and moved forward. Now the black sky was torn by streaks of white light. Torrents of rain water dashed down the gullies in their mad scramble to reach the sea. The farmer is at his doorstep, is over it. Now the struggle to shut the door. The bolt, the bolt! There, they are safe. Crash! Dashing to the window, they gaze with panicfstricken eyes at the world outside. A tree had crashed against the house. The relentless wind is knifing through the cracks in the wall. Stuff them, quickly. Here's a blanket to serve the purpose. There. Outside the storm rages. The rain plummets down as if to cut great holes in the earth. They can see that the oncefgurgling brook is now a ferocious torrent, bent on destruction. A tree falls from the bank and is caught in the clutches of this terrorffilled deep. On, on it goes, bobbing up and down. The rain continues. The black sky bellows with rage as a white knife cuts 'its sides: The momentarily as if in wonder about what lies beyond, then surges ahead. The farmer and his wife have tried to keep back the raging torrent, but to no avail. The children whimper in fear. Outside, the cry of dying animals mingles with the howl of the wind. The gallant horses fight to rise to the surface of the turbulent waters, but are mercilessly dragged under. A branch lashes the window as if trying to reach safety, but is dragged back by the fierce clutch of the river. What is this? The barn is shaking. It collapses, and is sucked under by the mighty river. The trembling structure is carried down stream, the roof alone remaining above the water, a chicken clinging desperately to it. The gale loses its force and becomes gentle once more. The rain ceases. The roaring giant of a river becomes calm, and mirrors an already,clearf ing sky. The sun peeks cautiously around a cloud and, 'finding everything still below, comes :forth in all his splendour. The farmer, his wife, and his children survey the ruin of what, less than twelve hours before, had been a beautiful world. The birds again begin to twitter. The remaining trees are lacking branches and leaves. The beaten farmer looks dismally at his land, then brightensf He still has his family, and before long he knows that they will be as happy as before. A little paint here, some seed planting there, some . . . ' GAYLE MORRIS, Grade XI Old Clothes Finally the last clasp was unfastened. Trying not to breathe the thick dust awhichlhlledtthe air, she reluctantly pushed back the lid of the battered trunk and peered inside. How common -- everyf one from the Bobbsey Twins to Nancy Drew had at one time or another stolen up a creaking staircase to a dingy attic, where they discovered ancient relics of former glorious days, reeking with mystery and romance. Determined not to become involved in such nonsense, she ignored all odours, save that of moth balls, and probed into the depths of the trunk with an unwilling hand.

Page 13 text:

ll not be so bad after all-why, we're half way through. Not so fast, replies your conscience. You've four pieces and your duets to practise. You spread wide the book with your new piece in it, loving the crisp, fresh feel of its pages and the smell of its newness. The door bursts open and a pigftailed head with a shrill voice intrudes upon your reverie. How many sharps in the scale of B flat? the voice questions. Fifteen minutes later you return to your new piece with the realization that both you and little Susie jane have learned something. A piercing wail from the studio next door reduces you to a state of panic. Another, more recognizable sound relieves your mind. It is only Pat, practising on her clarinet. You are good friends, so you drop in on her. The curtain falls late that evening on a deserted pair of Practice Rooms. In one, lying open on the rack, is a piece of music, brand new and obviously not worked over. Next door is a clarinet only partly put together. The Downstairs Maid, resting on the stairs, nursing her aching feet, reflects some' what drowsily on the day's happenings. At least there wasn't the usual racket out 0' dem dere Practice Rooms. A couple o' scales and a clarinet blast or two waz all there was today. SHIRLEY DoNALDsoN, Grade IX The Lonely Shore Shelly was restless and afraid. Something was wrong at this old mansion. It was so quiet heree too quiet. Against all of her friends' wishes, Shelly had rented a room in the mansion on the Salamahi estate on Key West, one of the islands off Florida's coast. Now she thought that the rumours about this house once being a hideout for gangsters, who had stolen a fortune in jewels, might be true. Maybe the leader really had betrayed the mob and in doing so been killed himself. Maybe the jewels were still hidden in the mansion. But that was nonsense! This estate was so beautiful! How could anything like that ever have happened here? Shelly's gaze drifted toward the ocean shore. The beach was quiet and still. The moon shone on the rippling water and the white sand. The palm trees swayed gracefully in the wind. She went to bed thinking about her holiday. What was that? Shelly sat up in bed. There it was again! That noise! It sounded like a motor. Shelly sprang from her bed, slipped on her bathrobe and crept silently down the stairs. She heard it again and froze against the wall, then tipf toed silently to the door and onto the porch. The refreshing wind blowing against her and the silence made Shelly wonder if she had been dreaming. Then she saw a light coming from the direction of the shore. Shelly ran towards the beach and crept behind a palm tree. As she gazed over the sand before her, a look of horror suddenly filled her eyes. She grew faint with fear. There-lying on the sand before her were two bodies. They did not move and showed no signs of life. The light, which was focused on them, revealed dark patches on the surrounding sand. The light came from a flashlight held by a man whose features were covered by a thick black blanket. Shelly watched, terrihed, as the man calmly carried the bodies, one by one, to a motor boat pulled up on shore. He then rowed a short distance, started the motor, and was soon out of sight. Shelly ran back to the mansion and flew up the stairs. She ran to Mr. Gray's bedroom and pounded on the door. There was no answer. Shelly concluded that he was asleep. She ran trembling to her own bedroom. Sleep would not come. She lay awake in bed thinking until dawn. Who were those men? Why were they here? Maybe it was better that her landlord had not wakened. He probably would not have believed her anyway. She had been expecting such a wonderful holiday and now this had happened! The next morning at breakfast Shelly blurted out that she wanted to leave. Mr. Gray seemed to stiffeng he eyed her coldly, but said nothing. As Shelly walked past Mr. Gray's bedroom, she suddenly stopped! Through the open door she saw a thick black blanket lying in a heap on the floor. She stepped fearfully into the room to inspect it. The blanket had two dark red spots in one corner. Shelly shook with fear. Suddenly she heard a voice behind her. So you know? I thought so. She swung around. There stood Mr. Gray holding a gun in his hand. No! screamed Shelly. A shot rang out. It is the following evening. The moon is shining on the rippling water and the white sand. The palm trees sway gracefully in the wind. The shore is quiet and lonely once more. CYDNBY BURRBLL, Grade IX Too Late Leaping from her bed, Elaine Cushing rememf bered the day. Today was their fifth wedding anniversary and how she wished Andre were home. Tearfully she recalled the sad goodbyes when Andre had left for Vancouver. Ever since then her one hope had been that he would be back in time to celebrate this joyous event. But alas, fate intervened, and now as she sat alone on the edge of her bed, she remembered, and prayed. At least, she thought, he would send her a present. He had promised.