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

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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.

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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

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12 Breakfast was tasteless, and tears streamed into the empty coffee cup, but Elaine had faith, for there were still ten hours until midnight. Noisily a telephone jangled, and she raced to answer the call. It was only the maid asking if she could take the day off. Suddenly Elaine brightened and dashed to her bedroom. Twenty minutes later she emerged, a radiant, spotless angel, beaming in an Alicefblue dress with her hair brushed back to the nape of her soft neck. A picture indeed, as she stood hesitating at the foot of the stairs! The hours passed swiftly and at last the mailf man came. Trembling visibly, Elaine fingered through the mail-a bill, a post card from her sister, another bill, a letter, and at last, a parcel. She glanced at the upper leftfhand corner but saw no return address. Her heart stopped beating as she tore off layers of paper only to find a brooch from her aunt. Terrified at the thought, she sat down on the couch and cried softly. Wouldn't he even remember their anniversary? Had she dressed up for a disappointment? No! Surely she must trust him! It was still only three in the afternoon and it was still the glorious day. But as the minutes passed indifferently, each succeeding tick told her more plainly that there was no use waiting. Slowly and deliberately she peeled off her dress and climbed into the nutfbrown robe which he had given her for Christmas. Yes, it was midnight, and as the chimes pealed from the grandfatherfclock she realized that it was too late and her fifth wedding anniversary was all over. To think he had not even written to her, sent her flowers, or even a telegram! Disgusted now, she stared at the large photograph of their wedding where they stood, hand in hand, faces beaming at the rosy future. Traitor! She strode angrily to the picture, picked it up, and flung it across the room, not caring if she ever saw it again. But she did not care too little to notice that where the picture had stood, now lay a dainty white tissue' wrapped package. She stepped closer. Beside it lay a note. - To my dear Elaine, it read. After having lived with you for Eve wonderful years, I know you as well as I do my favourite book. I know your many charms, and I know your fiery temper. Yes, I know, too, why you found this note, and how you found it. You see, I often forget things, and I knew that ifI didn't do it this way I would probably forget even our anniversary. So I found this little gift, and put it here because I knew you would find it. Oh, I don't mind if the lamp is broken, but I still bet that our picture isn't even bent. Elaine, can you ever forgive me? . . . What follows is not to be written, but wearing her lovely watch, Elaine will always remember how the hours ticked away until it was too late F but yet not too late, for her Bfth anniversary! SIGNE SALZBERG, Grade IX Red Red is a strong and powerful colour. It can portray happiness, sadness, mystery, and even distress. There is the red that chases the yellow and pink in a dying sunset, and casts a warm, friendly glow of peace over the world. Such colourful peace can inspire the lucky ones to thank the Lord for their good fortune, and the unlucky ones to pray for a better future. There is the faint reddish tint that crosses a young girl's face at a wellfmeant compliment, or at the mention of her idol's name. There is the felicitous red that makes its way into the hearts of many at the sight of a happy boy flying down a skiftrail in a bright red sweater with healthy, glowing cheeks to match. This picture is enough to make anyone gay, and ready to appreciate life at its best. There is the frightening red that penetrates our minds with a bright flash and an accompanying whine. It is the blinking ambulance that drives panic into some hearts and relief into others. It is one of the reds signifying life and death. There is the rich, flowing red blood that keeps us alive. It is a vital colour, and wellfknown to all. Its presence signifies life to the ill person, or death to the soldier shot down in a battle. There is the warm red found in the symbol of the famous Red Cross which signifies hope and aid to the suffering, occasioned by pestilence, floods, fires and epidemics. There is the cold, revolutionary red shown in flags belonging to the anarchist groups throughout the world who do not believe in a lasting peace. There is the radiant, glowing red of a robin's breast as it joyfully announces the coming of spring, the new season that puts hope into the hearts of everyone. There is the mysterious red of the hearthffire that brings warmth and relaxation to all and which one finds impossible to resist when the tongues of flame beckon one to rest and to peace. These are the reds that are known the world overg the reds found in grand mansions and lowly shacksg on open fields and crowded streets, by proud people and humble folksg in times of war and in times of peace. Red may be just a little word but it is a colour rich in meaning and significant in the lives of all. SUE MACK, Grade XI