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

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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

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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

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12 dearly, though, and they loved him. He vowed that some day he would be very strong and tall and beautiful, then he would be very close to those he loved. 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. But one tree was more beautiful than all the rest. It grew alone in the middle of an open field. It stood proudly, reaching to the sun with long slender arms, each one heavily garf mented in thousands of fragrant blossoms. In return, the sun's rays made a beautiful halo around it as he smiled down on his friend. NANCY EATON, Grade X My Many Loves I love the trackless whiteness of the snow, The coral of a lily on a plain, The waters tumbling to a lake below, I love a hidden sheltered brook that's formed From rivulets of falling summer raing And reindeer moss with glowing fruits adorned. I love the birch so pale with winter's bleach, The melodies of gay and joyful birds, A straying butterfly, a tidefswept beach, The gold and scarlet flame of autumn leaves, The waving ferns when carelessly disturbed, The ivy, and the bark to which it cleaves. I love the wind on lonely mountain trails, Its echoes and its distant lulling cry That whispers through the forests and the vales. From smallest shoot to highest leaves above, I love all in the seasons passing by- In Nature I have found my many loves. MARGARET Kos1NsKI, Grade XI Miss Tobie's Toffee Miss Tobie was about seventyftwo years old. She was the kindest, most generous person we knew. She wore black buttoned boots, an alpaca skirt, a highfnecked blouse, and a snowy apron. A pair of steelfrimmed glasses hid her twinkling eyes. Her white hair was tied back in a bun. She rented a small shop in which she sold the most delicious toffee you have ever tasted. It melted in your mouth. Ever since we could remember, my brother, Ben, and I had been allowed to serve in her shop in the village of Ripplebrook where we lived. Cardwell was the nearest town. It was full of houses and had miles of road lined with factories and stores and it was growing so fast we expected it to gobble up Ripplebrook any day. One day we went into Miss Tobie's shop to find her sitting in a chair, with a letter in her hand, crying. It came as a surprise to us because we had never seen her anything but brisk and cheerful. She then told us that her landlord had recently died and that his heirs, knowing that Cardwell was expanding rapidly, had sold all the property, including the shop. Miss Tobie would have bought the shop herself if she had had enough money, but the toffee business didn't make much pro5t. And where would Miss Tobie go? She had a cousin in Manchester and one in London, but we knew she would never be happy there after Ripplebrook. It made it even worse when we found out who had bought the shop-Mr. Snapper. We had nothing against him personally and we hadn't even met him, but we thought he had enough stores in the British Isles without having Miss Tobie's. Besides, they all gleamed with cream paint and chromium, even on the wettest days. If we could only get hold of Mr. Snapper, I said, and could show him just how perfect Miss Tobie's shop is, he would see that it would ruin Ripplebrook to have a big creamyfcoloured building stuck in it. Ben said that he supposed Mr. Snapper was hidden behind rows of desks and that no one could get near him. In the end it was Ben who found him. One day when Ben was out for a walk he saw a man leaning against the bridge. He had his head in his hand, nursing it as though it hurt. Ben stopped to say, Hello, as most people do in Ripplebrook, but he didn't ask what was the matter. Then they continued to talk about everyone and everything. Ben was just about to say goodbye, when a uni' formed chauffeur drove up and said, Are you ready, Mr. Snapper? loudly enough for Ben to hear. This was enough for him. May I show you something, sir? he asked. Well, replied the stranger, I am by no means in the mood to go sightseeing, but all right, if it isn't far away. After Mr. Snapper had dismissed his chauffeur, Ben took him straight to Miss Tobie's shop and all the way there he raved about how beautiful it was and what a shame it would be if someone came along and destroyed it in order to put up one of those modern stores. Then Ben took Mr. Snapper inside to find Miss Tobie and me talking. Ben introduced us. If Ben had been wondering how Miss Tobie would greet Mr. Snapper, he should have known that she would welcome him and ask him to sit down. All this time Mr. Snapper had been groaning and nursing his cheek, which looked swollen. When Miss Tobie saw this, she immediately com' manded him to lie down on the couch. When he objected she said, Nonsense, I'll nurse you. You two, pointing at us, have all had it, I know because I sent you some toffeef'