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

Page 12 text:

10 How strong and stubborn are the feelings of youth. Only age can present a clear picture of all that has gone before, for without the things that I hated so, there would have been no awareness, no awakening, no happiness and no complete satisf faction. I should have wandered the earth without peace of mind and with a troubled soul, and my only awakening would have been after death, to the fact that my greatest sin, hatred, had thwarted and retarded the terrestrial part of my eternity. Thank you, Nero! Thank you, Rome! JUDITH HARRIS, Grade X Senior Literary Competition Prize Short Story The Sun It was still in the sadness of morn When she rose, the blue grass Chill to her feet, And the mist had spun round the Neighbouring trees that reached For the hem of her heat. So till the noon she traced the sky With lilting step and laughing eye. Gave life to the bug, flight to the bee, Warmed the grain 'neath the soilg Flung out her ray To touch, to heal, to bind Earth's children in common joy With the breath of day. It was still in the splendour of eve As she setg the green grass Hushed in the field 5 When night's dark tresses streamed In her face, and with blinding strands Her Wild eyes sealed. So till the morrow will she be Banished from touch of land and sound of sea. SIGNE SALZBERG, Grade XI. Senior Literary Competition Prize Poem HJ e Me Souviensn This summer I underwent a rather harrowing experience. For five weeks I was plunged into that infuriating, shouting, gesticulating mad' house- La Province de Quebecu. As a result, I now speak a mutilated variety of French and have some decided views on French Canada and its people. To me, a Frenchman is an unfathomable creature, complex and hopelessly confusing. The typical Frenchman is a loquacious one, with the expressive face and active hands that all French possess as naturally as two eyes and a nose. I met my first real specimen as I stepped from the plane at Rimouski. He rushed up to me, waving his arms and jabbering in lightningffast and completely idiomatic French that escaped me completely. I could only stand, mouth agape, and stare at him. Grasping my arm, he began to propel me towards a small black car parked near the airstrip. Panicky, my first thought was, Police l but then, quick anger began to rise in me. I shoved his hand from my arm and began to jabber myself-in English! I was furious. What right had this strange, noisy man to . . . and suddenly my ears burned as I realized what a colossal blunder I had made. I began to stutter an apology, for I had finally recognized my abductor for what he really was-my host! At first, I was too ashamed of my poor French to use it much. The French, on the other hand, made it a point to use their often scanty English whenever they could. One boy, whatever the time of day and whatever the weather, never passed me without saying, Good night, nice day, n'estfce pas? Lucie, the youngest daughter, aged ten, had learned an English sentence especially for my arrival. When we were introduced, she gave me a shy smile and said, Weedge es der doig dod runtz? I was touched-but stymied! Whatever could she mean? Mrs. Rosier, laugh' ing, told me, She's been practising for weeks. She says, 'Which is the dog that runs?' . The grandparents are an important part of every French family. We made a special trip one day to the home of the senior Rosiers for the sole purpose of introducing me. The house was a large one with two verandas and the Nbalangoirn or swing which seems to be a fourth necessity of life to every French home. There were ten people seated in the spacious kitchen, at least five of whom were rocking back and forth in rocking chairs. The usual din of conversation ceased abruptly when I entered. As Mrs. Rosier introduced me, I smiled, trying to murmur appropriate answers to their greetings. My most glaring mistake was to reply to, And how long will you be in Rimouski? with, Oh, ga va bien, merci-et vous? Their personal remarks I could understand more easily- Elle est grande . . . elle est blonde! The first was all too true. I towered over Daniele, who was my age, but only five feet tall. At that moment, I felt like jack, the Giant Killer ! The French are as optimistic as they are frank. One dull day in Quebec City my plane had landed three hours late and I had missed my bus connecf tion. Resigning myself to a depressing day at the Chateau Frontenac, I was silent as the young bell' boy carried my cases to a room on the fifteenth floor. He seemed to sense my boredom for he flashed me a broad smile, and, speaking slowly, he said, The nice day comes, the sky he is blue. Que' bec is yours, mademoiselle. Happy afternoon ! The

Page 11 text:

9 Hatred Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Cermanicus. I wonder how many people remember you. I can't justly claim that I do, but I do remember when your name was a household word. How I hated you, and how I hated Rome! The charred timbers and stone had been hauled away, and the Forum, houses, and statues had been rebuilt. In fact, there was nothing in this every day Roman scene to remind Octavia of that time, over six decades ago, when she had last seen Rome. There had been panic in the air then, there had been sultry heat, the highfpitched voices of women and children, tension, and panic. Even so, as she gazed on the bridge stretching across the River Tiber, there was enough in that scene to start her reminiscing. First of all, the letters. That was the bef ginning. There were two of them and they were delivered exactly one month apart to her family's villa on the Via Roma, just east of Rome. The first was ordering her father to resume duty as a Roman general to fight in Gaul. The second was announcing his death. It was then that she first realized her hatred for Nero, Rome, and all that they stood for. As a fifteenfyearfold girl, prof tected from the day of her birth, she could not begin to comprehend the significance of Rome, the heart of the known world. She could not comf prehend the feelings of men for a nation that had achieved world leadership through countless years of bloodshed and sacrifice. All she understood was the needless loss of the one most dear to her and her bitter hatred for those who had caused that loss. They moved to the hated Rome after that to live with Sorentia, her aunt. Sorentia lived in a middlefclass house on a narrow, winding street near the Circus Flaminius, which she kept up by running a little shop where she sold various articles of linen and pottery. But Octavia, unlike most heroines, was not very talented at anything, and so was a great disappointment to her artfminded aunt. In spring the soldiers returned from Gaul and Octavia was obliged to watch the Triumphal March, for her father was to be posthumously honoured. Even so, only her curiosity kept her from rebelling against this duty. On the day of the Triumph, Octavia, her mother and her aunt, made their way to a place apart from the rest of the joyous crowd. The triumph had already begun and Octavia could see prisoners, bound together, walking courageously, hesitating a moment with a fleeting look of pride and rebellion on their faces, and then bending to pass under the symbolical yoke made from the Roman spears. Octavia was sickened by the sight. She was glad now that her father had died rather than see himself a cause of the deep humiliation of these men. Beside her stood a young man named Plaudius Laviticus, the only other one there who was not shouting and clapping with the nearfhysteria that seemed to move the rest of the crowd. He stood quietly by the roadside, watching with mixed feelings of jealousy and disgust as his friends marched by. Plaudius himself had once been a Roman soldier but he had been dishonourably discharged because his profChristian beliefs irrif tated one of his superiors. And then, because they were the only pacifists in this militaristic crowd, Plaudius and Octavia began talking, first about their common hates and then their common interests. This meeting led to a warm friendship which in turn became a lasting love, She was happy then, for she had found a new feeling, an awareness of love in place of hate, an awakening from childish narrowfmindedness. In short, she felt free. But even this happiness was to be thwarted by narrowfmindedness, of a stronger and more authoritative kind, which belongs to the adult world of class distinction. Marriage was unthinkable. Her mother and aunt tried in vain to point out the fact that she was the daughter of an upper class family, while he was a common Roman soldier, made even more disf reputable by his discharge. But this was just another of the ideas incomprehensible to fifteen' yearfold girls. When this failed, they appealed to her sense of security, and finally, when they realized persuasion was in vain, they commanded her to give him up. Then, as in a thousand similar and a hundred more famous cases, came the inevitable secret meetings. These took place on the bridge that joins Tiber Island to the mainland. V Then, on july eighteenth, 64 A.D.4fire! Like the dark before the dawn, this was the inferno before Cctavia's paradise. For six days the fire raged but not an imminent threat. Then, during the hot, dark night, the smouldering embers ignited again in the Circus Flaminius and before Octavia could fully understand the situation, she was .wept into the street and lost in the terrorf stricken crowd that was heading in a thousand different directions. In this living nightmare, only her instincts were working to lead her out of Rome, where she was sure she would find safety and maybe once again, peace of mind. Hours later, Plaudius found her huddled on the bridge, shivering with fright, and without a single word of greeting, decision, or consent, they made their way out of the city on a road, appropriately called the Via Triumphante. Now she had returned to Rome. For sixty' five years her life in Roman Caul had been rich, full, and satisfying. She had given birth to two sons, but when they had grown and their sons in turn had grown, and Plaudius had died, she had decided to return.

Page 13 text:

11 afternoon was happy too. As he had said, the sky cleared and the sun shone-a perfect day for sightseeing l However, sightseeing by car in the Gaspe proved a little short of perfect. I found carftravel in Quebec a terrifying experience, for this reason: the French drive like madmen. Their extreme impatience with other drivers who are doing something foolish , such as observing the speed limit, for instance, results in furious honking, muttered or shouted imprecations, and further increase in speed. The roads of the Gaspe are a far cry from our wide, flat, straight highways. Instead, they are narrow ribbons, twisting and rolling at a frighteningly small distance from the St. Lawrence. Over these, the Gaspesians hurtle, talking furiously with the usual expansive gestures. At each turn of the road my heart would leap into my mouth, making impossible the digestion of the wonders of the justly famed scenery. By the end of my visit, my fears and the bewildered look which had become habitual, had begun to fade. I was able to understand much of what was said to me, I had enjoyed French' Canadian foods, and had attended a French Catholic Mass at six in the morning-I had even operated a French ferris wheel! I was completely in love with the countryfside, the language, and above all with the babbling, chattering, happy people. I shall always remember Quebec-or as the motto of Quebec says, je me souviensv. SHIRLEY DoNALDsoN, Grade XI Nostalgia The sky is grey, and hard the north wind blows Across the prairie lands of endless snow, Mile upon mile without a house or tree. And I remember, far across the sea, A land so small, so full of little things- Bluebells, and copses where the linnet sings. An ancient land where Roman roads still line The moors, and Roman walls jostle the banks of Tyneg And where the rain falls gently on green grass, And dismal city streets where buses pass Like scarlet monsters through the foggy night- London with fruit on barrows, shining bright. Heciged fields, like patchwork quilts, divide the and, And the great seas surge in on every hand. CAROLINE DAMBRELL, Grade X The Orange Trees The sun was sanguine and warm. As its rays travelled to the peaceful earth, they seemed to gather beauty, for, once they gently touched the petals of the tender orange blossoms, they seemed to sink in and make the blossoms glow with radiant beauty. By the time the rays reached the soil after touching the white blossoms, the grayishfblue bark, and the dark green leaves of the tree, they were purple, and made the soil that colour as they flowed into it. The whole earth was, like the pale pink lips on a Grecian goddess, indescribable. The earth was moist, warm and glowing. It seemed ready to burst with the joy of the beginning ofa new day, and the birds were singing a serenade to the earth in its moment of glory. A little cottage nestled in the dewy grass a short distance from the grove. As the sun rose higher and higher into the sky, the cottage turned from pink to white. Presently, a short, rather plump man walked out of the cottage as if Michael Anthony had just handed him a cashier's cheque for a million dollars, tax free! He was wearing work trousers which were dusty blue and had one broken strap, a red and white checked shirt with green patches on the elbows, and a straw hat which looked as if it were ready to have two holes cut in it and be placed on the head of jenny, the donkey. In one hand he was carrying a small bag of seeds, orange seeds, and in the other, a long stir-k. He walked over to a small, bare field which was next to the one in blossom and made a small hole in the soil by pressing the stick into it. Then he dropped one of the small seeds into the hole. He walked on about three yards and made another hole, and dropped another small seed into it. Soon he had planted all the seeds in rows parallel to the other grove. At least, he thought he had. He found, however, that there was one seed left. He took it out of the bag and looked at it. It was dark and rough and, thinking that nothing could grow properly with such a be- ginning, he tossed it over his shoulder and walked away, not noticing that it had landed in the middle of the adjoining fallow land. April drizzled in, bringing with it the rains which the trees welcome so heartily. By this time the seeds, having had good care by the farmer, had grown rapidly in the rich soil and had become small shoots, a few inches tall, with tiny, pale green leaves. The seed which the farmer had thrown away had also grown, but not very much. In fact, it had only just met the sun, the blue sky,and the rains a little while ago, but they were all becoming good friends. Several years later, when spring's turn came once more in the game of seasons, the former grove was in fullfblown blossoms. Passersfby stopped and stared at the mass of beauty. The new grove was fresh and young, bubbling with blooms. Both groves thought they were very beautiful, and they laughed at the poor little tree, growing slowly in the middle of the bare field. He was very un' happy. He loved the sun, the sky and the rain