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

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14 For the first time in three days, Christy brought herself to face her heartfrending problem. When had it all begun? Five years ago, she thought. She was twelve, playing on a swing in the little park down the street. The wind on her face made her feel deliciously cool in spite of the hot afternoon sun. She swung higher and higher, straining to touch a clump of leaves on the elm tree in front. Once, her foot fell short about three inches, then it was barely one-maybe next time. She became aware that someone was watching from below. She put down her feet and they slid over the sand with a grating sound, making a grey cloud of dust rise. When the swing had slowed down sufficiently, she jumped off and turned. She found herself looking into a pair of big, dark eyes. Hullo, she said after a minute. My name's Christy McMillan. Did you want to swing? My name's May Ellen. We can take turns, was the shy reply. May Ellen was thinner and shorter than Christy. She wore a faded blue dress that was a little too small in spite of her thinness. She had big, very white teeth, and when she smiled, her whole face seemed to light up. Two hours later they walked back to Christy's house. She wanted to show May Ellen her mother whom she thought very pretty and wise, and of whom she was very proud. Mrs. McMillan met them at the door. Mummy, this is May Ellen. She . . Christy suddenly knew that something was wrong. How do you do, said her mother in icy tones. When May Ellen had gone, Mrs. McMillan came into Christy's room. Dear, she began, falteringly, I haven't seen your friend Susan for a long time. Why don't you invite her to the movies next Saturday? Cr maybe Esther, orlu May Ellen and I were going to have a picnic in the park on Saturday-if it's all right. It is, isn't it? Well, yes-but I really think . . Mrs. McMillan sat down on the bed beside Christy, and took both Christy's hands in her own. It's just that . . . well . . . May Ellen is probably a very nice child, but in all due respect- well, I think you're old enough to understand. No, I don't understand ! Christy cried, yank' ing her hands away, and she stumbled downstairs and out the door. May Ellen was a negro. Christy realized that she was just beginning to understand many things about her mother, and about life in general. Christy and May Ellen saw each other conf stantly, but Christy never took her back to her house again. Her mother and she had frequent discussions on the subject, and gradually the friendship became strained. Christy began to avoid her. One day, May Ellen met Christy outside of school. We're moving away, Christy-up to Canada. Pa is getting a better job. But we might be able to come for a visit in a couple of years or so, after Pa is settled. You'll write, won't you? Christy was ashamed of the relief she felt. Of course I'll write, she said. Somehow there wasn't much time for writing and her letters were written at longer and longer intervals until, three years later, a certain Canadian address never appeared on any of her envelopes. Two days before Christy was to leave for University, she and five friends were walking along the street. It was a warm August evening. The air smelled sweet, and all was wonderful- until a low voice spoke almost into her ear. 'iHullo, Christy. She turned to the speaker slowly, her heart in her throat. May Ellen stood alone in the shadow of the building. She was still too thin, but beautiful nevertheless. Her full lips were slightly parted, showing those big, white teeth. Her large, dark eyes mirrored happiness, and then confusion, as Christy's own eyes dropped. There was a breathless hush over the entire crowd. Christy turned and walked slowly away, the others following silently. Friend of yours? someone asked. No, just someone I met along the way, Christy replied, but her voice trembled. She turned in at her gate, glad that no one could see the tears that were threatening to overflow. She knew her heart would never let her forget the wrong she had done one of the sincerest friends she could ever have. Now at college she knew the only way she could ease her conscience would be to write a long apologetic letter in which she could pour out her true feelings. But she also knew that May Ellen was bewildered, and hurt, and would never understand. The bell rang, jarring Christy into the present. With a sigh, she rose, gathered her books, and left the room, with a letter written in her heart that would never be written on paper. Louisa MCKBNTY, Grade X Variations on the Theme of Silence How would we react if we were suddenly transported from a world of noise, song, and laughter, and sound, to one of incomprehensible silence-one where there would be no drop of sound to ring its circles through the ear and mind? Would we ignore it, be startled by it, learn to live with it, or hate it? Perhaps we might come across a shellfstrewn seafshore and see the waves roll up the beaches and retreat one moment, then heave into the air and

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13 Had what? we asked in amazement. Mumps! replied Miss Tobie. My father, who is a doctor, soon confirmed her diagnosis. For the next month the shop was quarantined. During this time we found that this Mr. Snapper did not own the Snapper Super Sales Stores, but his uncle did. Mr. Snapper Senior was expected to come to Ripplebrook any day. Tim, as we soon called Mr. Snapper Junior, had been sent to Ripplebrook to look over the prospective building sights. Shortly after the quarantine was over, Mr. Snapper Senior, came to Ripplebrook. He was a big man with a red face and white hair and mousf tache, and he had a hot temper. He immediately asked Tim if he had done anything about having Miss Tobie's shop demolished. Tim answered, No, I haven't. I have had mumpsf' Mumps! shouted his uncle. To soothe his temper, I handed him a dish of Miss Tobie's toffee and, as everyone did when they ate Miss Tobie's toffee, he reached for more and more. After he had finished it all, he said, Marvellous! Best I've ever tasted. We could market this. Buy the exclusive recipe. Miss Tobie would sell it, I'm sure. I wouldn't advise her to do that E broke in Tim, who by this time was on Miss Tobie's side. I advise her to let Snappers manufacture the toffee on a large scalewbut to demand that she herself should stay here as she has always done to carry on her own business. Excellent idea V' continued his uncle. 'iPeople can come here to see Miss Tobie's toffee made. Yes, my boy, you've got a good business headf' Then, to crown it all, Miss Tobie was able to buy the shop from Mr. Snapper with the money she got from releasing the recipe, and there was no danger of her having to move. MERYL ARNOTT, Grade IX. Intermediate Literary Competition Prize Short Story One Unwritten Letter Christina was sprawled across the yellow bed' spread, fingering a little wool dog absentfmindedly. Her brother had stuffed it into her already heavily laden arms as she was boarding the train for college. To remind you of Scamperf' he had said with an embarrassed grin. Now Scamper, her brother, and her family were sixtyfseven miles away. Christina was here in the dormitory between classes, with the sun streaming in and splashing a big golden patch around her. Usually, when life looked black, her quick sense of humour would come to her rescue, but today it was I'iOt so, and her grey eyes were sad. i L OUR NEW SUMMER UNIFORM

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15 flatten mightily in foam the next. Yet we have not heard the change in mood in the thunder and crash or pleasant gurgle. Would it be unnatural? Still we wander on apace, now away from the sea, over crisp stubble fields, through pungent marshes. Can we feel the sharp prick of stubble and fail to hear the crackle underfoot, or wade through the sinking marsh without the accompanying squelch of sodden mud, algae, and decaying weeds? On the mind's ear would come back still the expected sound with every step. Our amazement has not really begun, noise is too fresh in our memory. Soon a city unfolds momentarily around us. Spinning wheels race by, shops throng, mouths of the vendors open, contort, then close. There is the flurry and movement of hasty feet, the swerving autos, jolting stops. And sound? None. It rings back less and less now. There, in an office, fingers fly over a myriad of keys and all too familf iarly we hear the ratftickftat. Then we are jolted. Of course we have not heard it-there is no sound-it was only the sharp hammer in our temples. In all haste we seek to escape ..... Suddenly on the far skyfline grey billows burst in a spray of purple and red, die down, only to be followed by a double spray. Then there is the outline of a black cannon against a raging sky, and we understand. A mighty birclflike machine dives with surprising grace, quivers momentarily and swoops to the west, while below its quiver rises a monstrous mushroom as though uprooted by some giant at play. It spreads and billows, and debris hurtles to either side, and we know the air must be rent with the echo of the blast, yet to our ears comes only the silence, and to our eyes, tears from the dust. Under the cover of ugly clouds of exploding earth, where no ray of sun can penetrate, the blaze and gleam of guns, cannon, and grenade, light the darkness with their eerie flame. We see the fallen and the dead, and the agony of those passing on stretchers as their faces twist in pain, and from their mouths, crying to us, comes only silence, a silence for which for once we are glad. Our eyes shut with the bitter hurt, we pass on, for we cannot look where we cannot hear. Now, in a fireplace of warm stone, tangy spruce blazes in the home of some family. We see in the arc of its glow the children reading aloud from a story book, their intent faces filled with another light of another world. As their mouths shape the words, their eyes echo the joy or sadness of each syllable, and they are oblivious to all else around them. Though we cannot know what it is they say, we feel yet as they, and through the barrier of silence, understanding has not failed to win a path. And though it is strange, it is not unrewarding. Yet when we hear laughter, kind words, or earth's music , are we glad that we hear, and that we are not in the soundless realm of the deaf? We are in different worlds with a world between, for we know sound. SIGNE SALZBERG, Grade XI Cfhis essay was written as part of a Composition examinationj Napoleon Small in stature, broad in mind, For fame he fought, Whatever knowledge he could find He wasted not. His first love was a merchants child, He planned to wedg Then one richer, fairer, on him smiled, And turned his head. Then vows were made and he received Newffound distinction, And quickly men of France perceived His great ambition. Treating life as 't were a game He always won, This once poor man arose to fame And paused for none. In his hands the fate of France He strongly bore, And yet he moved as in a trance, Engulfed in war. Now cast he aside his fair Empress: Childless was she: And chose instead an Austrian Princess His bride to be. But his greatest dreams could never last, They had to end, And his foundations crumbled fast, Nor did they mend. Banished was he to a distant island, And there he dwelt Until across his brow the hand Of death he felt. And so he died, 'mais sans peur' He lived his life, Hearing the cry, Vive l'Empereur! Reward his strife. DONNA DAY WASHINGTON, Grade XI gd Il ijm fl , U 1 ff 'fill iii llwllywlf 2 ' fyillilllli.isrfs??sfQ EAHIDIRS IMD Wfsslurng 4f ,WHL 771-45,