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

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The Alien World of Sport I have always looked upon any object which remotely resembled a ball with suspicion and complete distrust, and regarded physical education teachers as my mortal enemies. I am definitely the indoor typefmy nose freezes on toboganning parties and my feet hurt on nature hikes. The thought of anything more strenuous than tiddlyf winks makes me wish I were going to the dentist instead. I have never heard the urgent call of the great outdoors, and never expect to. Besides, I hate fish, I loathe pork and beans, and I always drop the coffee thermos. These I suspect are the reasons I am never invited on pack trips any more. My first painful brush with the athletic world occurred at the age of six, when my young life was blighted by the gift of a pair of skates. Already I knew what this meantsafter all hadn't I been through it all before with my kicldyfcar and my little red tricycle? Even the fact that Barbara Ann Scott's autograph graced the blades was little consolation. Well, skates in hand, father and I set out for the rink and my first skating lesson. The events of the afternoon were too painful to relate and nothing much was done about my skating career for several years. Then - one fateful day when I was eight, father decided that it was high time I joined the skating club. We dug out my Barbara Annsu but they were too small, so we bought a new pair. These came with a personal letter from Sonja Henie and had red pomfpoms on the laces. I shall never forget my poor instructor! Never has a man tried so hard to teach someone her edges with such heartbreaking results. He spent hours, desperation in his voice and sweat on I5 his brow, trying to show me how to do shoot the duck without looking like the Dying Swan , or rather the dead swan. I think he was one of the kindest people I ever knew, he even endangered his excellent reputation as a teacher by allowing me to skate in his carnivals. I finally persuaded him to persuade my parents that there was no hope for me, and I gleefully put the silver blades away forever. My family are great horseflovers and with much help, encouragement, and an abundance of dire threats from my father I have somehow managed to become a fairly proficient equestrienne. But none of this came about without a great deal of torture, patience, and blood, sweat and tears on the part of father, myself4 and the horse. My hrst riding experience was gained on a fat welsh pony named jiggs, who looks like Winston Churchill from behind when he is wearing his stable coat. Needless to say, Jiggs and I have never become fast friends. I-Ie would stand for hours on my foot staring blandly off into the wild blue yonder while the little pig that went to market was being driven slowly, like a spike into the earth. My golfing also leaves much to be desired although I am improving. Last time I made it in thirtyfsix and I did even better on the second hole. My only attempt at skiing was the eventful occasion when I sailed down Hunterls I-Iill, a non' descript peak with an elevation of approximately twentyffive feet, and crashed into the proverbial tree at the bottom. And, much to my joy, it has been agreed that it would be endangering the lives of innocent people to allow me to go on playing baseball. This momentous decision was reached after I had broken my third catcherls nose by 5. - 32 i- OUR STAFF

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I4 Deserted All is still. The streets, broken and cluttered with rubble, give back an ominous silence. The bleak outline of a bombfshattered building is silhouetted cold and sinister, in the dying sun. Suddenly, that terrifying silence is broken! A thin, tremulous wail simmers through the air and a small shadow moves beneath the shell of a building. Large, haunted eyes search the cold, deserted street, while a thin voice utters a wail of anguish only to die to a faint whisper. He is a mere shadow - his tiny form, hunger' torn, bruised and cut, wasted away almost to nothing. He stumbles along, clutching his dirty, torn, teddy bear for warmth and comfort. His face, streaked with tear stains, is covered with dirt. He staggers and falls to the ground and his body shakes with deep sobs. His teddy bear is crushed beneath him. His anguished sobs decrease until once more there is silence. As the last rays of the setting sun fade into the pale, watery moonlight, a tiny, inert form can be seen with one ear of a teddy bear showing beside him. He has been left at a time of disaster- deserted! SHELAGH KELSBY, GradeXI The White Lady of Gofton The lights of Gofton Manor shimmered in front of me as my carriage wound up the long driveway. At times they seemed to flicker and disappear as the wind whipped the driving rain into a watery curtain. A welcome glow of light pierced the darkness as my host, Lord Gofton, opened the door to greet me. He led me into a large panelled library, where the cheery warmth of a roaring fire soon dispelled the dampness and gloom of my dreary journey. You are determined to go through with it? asked Lord Gofton. Our White Lady has unnerved more than one brave man, you know. I nodded. I have never believed in ghosts, and though I don't doubt that you and the others did see something, I feel sure there is a logical explanaf tion for it.'i Lord Gofton shrugged his shoulders in resignaf tion. Very well then, he said, it's late, and though I don't expect you to get much sleep, I'll show you to the haunted room. Holding a candle high above his head, Lord Gofton led the way up the wide, central staircase, then down a long corridor at the end of which was a heavy, baize door. Here he stopped, and turning, handed me the candle. I needn't go any farther with you, he said, in fact, to be truthful, this is as far as I want to go. You smile! Well, I can only say that I hope you will still be smiling in the morning. Now I wish you a good night. Behind the heavy door a narrow flight of stairs brought me to the haunted room. Some of my courage had begun to ebb. The faint light of the candle barely reached the walls of the room, so that the huge fourfposter bed seemed to disappear into unknown darkness. Eerie shadows from the flickering candle did nothing to reassure me, and I shivered, even though the room itself was warm. I lay down on the bed without undressing, placing the revolver, which I felt would discourage any ghost, on a table beside the bed. Outside, the storm seemed to heighten. Rain lashed against the window, and the wind howled and shrieked around the gables and chimneys of the old house. Finally I dozed off into a fitful sleep. It may have been minutes later, it may have been hours M- I will never know - that I was awakened by a light tapping noise. Sitting up, I reached for the revolver and looked around me. There was nothing. The blackness of the room seemed almost thick enough to feel. Then my blood ran cold, for there against the wall in a far corner of the room, was the figure of a woman dressed in white, seeming to sway with a terrible movement towards the bed. In a trance, I watched it, but suddenly I sprang back to life again. Picking up the revolver, I wildly began firing at the approaching igure- once, twice, but still it seemed to come on. In a frenzy I emptied the revolver and flung it at my assailant, but she still seemed to advance, silent and menacing. just as I heard a loud crash, I must have fainted from sheer terror. When I regained consciousness, the mysterious figure had vanished. Sinking back into the pillow I fell into a sleep of deep exhaustion. The next morning I was up early thinking that a walk in the brilliant sunshine might remove some of the terror which still hung upon me. It happened that I passed beside the wing of the house where the haunted room was located. There on the ground lay the halves of a giant oak which apparently had been struck by lightning during the previous night's storm. As I gazed at it, I suddenly realized that the branches of the fallen tree formed the perfect outline of a woman's figure! Gofton Manor would never more be bothered by the White Lady. BARBARA WRENSHALL, Grade IX

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I6 throwing my bat. In fact everyone has just about given up hope of my ever becoming an Olympian. Even my father has stopped buying me noseplugs, and memberships in the Tennis Club. One of my very old friends the has manfully escorted me to football games and explained the plays to me for yearsj very kindly puts it this way A Kathy d0esn't want to be strong and healthy, she wants to be pale and interesting. KATHERINE FAHLMAN, Grade XI Footsteps If you were to stand on a hill in southern Alberta on a winter's night, you would usually hear very strong winds thrashing through the trees, causing the long, prairie grasses to float in dark, shiny waves over the rolling dry land. Lying in bed on just such an eerie night, I heard a soft padding sound like that of human footsteps, and as I listened, this was followed by a low moaning. As my parents were away, and my sister already asleep, I could not think who could be moving about. I was just telling myself that I had imagined it all when the sudden slamming ofa door made me sit bolt upright. Sitting there motionless, I heard the moaning change to a whistle, and then gradually to a piercing shriek. I could stand the suspense no longer. Cautiously, I moved my left hand to the lightfswitch, and stepped out of bed. Feeling like a prowler, I trailed the footfsteps to my sister's bedroom, and as my eye fell on the windowsill I suddenly felt glad that in my panic I had not wakened her. I almost laughed as I looked at the windows and remembered how often Father had promised to change the loose copper weatherfstripping. Each time the wind came whistling through the cracks it made those irritating noises. I stood and watched the steady flapping of the piece of tinfoil that I had carefully put there myself to stop the rain from seeping through the window casings, and I recognized the soft padding sound that had so clearly been human footsteps. It only remained to go downstairs and lock the back door whose broken latch allowed it to swing open in the wind. I then returned sheepishly to bed and slept peacefully until morning. PAMELA MACCHARLES, Grade IX The Storm Crash! A tree thundered to the ground, the desolate, haunted house creaked and groaned in the tormenting wind. The storm became more violent. Two men and a girl, refugees from the storm, huddled together in a large room that seemed as if it had once been an art gallery. Plaster had fallen from the cracks in the ceiling when branches from overhanging trees had fallen on the roof. The floor creaked with each step. All was quiet in the house except for the turbulent wind that whistled around the sills. Suddenly, through the howling of the wind, foot' steps could be heard coming slowly down the hall. The three people huddled more closely together, terrified, for they had heard that the house was haunted, but had never dared to believe it. The footsteps came closer and closer, pausing occaf sionally, as if the person was listening for something. Finally, the footsteps stopped outside the door. All eyes grew larger with fear as the old door creaked open and a figure, clad in white and carrying a candle, walked slowly in. From the faint glow of the candle, they could distinguish a woman in a long white robe with a hood. The woman's face was deathly white in the candlelight, and there was as odd gleam in her piercing eyes. The figure stared at them until their nerves were on edge. The girl tried to scream, but her throat seemed para' lysed. The Hgure did not move. The candle flickered in the breeze that drifted across the room. The storm outside seemed to become more violent and the thunder crashed like a roll of drums. A cackle broke the stillness of the room. The girl fainted with fright. The two men jumped forward as if to protect her. The woman cackled again, and the men presumed that she was mad. The wick of the candle was slowly beginning to burn down. How long was this crazy nightmare to last? What was she going to do with them? The men saw that the woman's plan was probably to wait until the candle was burnt out and they were left in darkness. What was the rest of the plan? The dull moan of the girl's waking up shattered the horrorfhlled silence. The moans only seemed to coincide with the destructive wind. The men, keeping one eye on the woman, helped her to her feet. The woman's steady stare never wavered, despite the slight disturbance in front of the fire. As if to warn them, though, she took a few more steps towards them. They shrank back nearer to the dying embers of the fire, the men still protecting the girl. One of the men opened his mouth as if to speak, but the terrifying look that the woman gave him, removed all thought of speech from his mind. The three people eyed one another with horror' stricken eyes, and then looked warily at the woman who still stood in front of them, staring. The candle finally flickered out, and spontaneously, the men lunged forward. Out, bellowed the producer jumping up. We'll have to retake that last part again, but We'll have a short rest now and return to the set in about twenty minutes. That's all for now. BERYL HOARB, Grade XI