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

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16 The Day of the Snowstorm The day started just like all school days, with everyone rushing to get dressed. No one has time to look out of the window before breakfast in our house. Dad was the first one to notice, and when he told us that nine inches of snow had fallen during the night, we all left the table to see it. Then came the question. Dad, are we going to school? No, he replied, I don't see how we could possibly get through. I-Iurray! We all started to dash upstairs, intending to leap back into bed. Oh, no, you don't! Mother called. This is the very kind of day I've been looking for. We knew what that meant-tidying cupf boards, cleaning out clothes closets, and ironing. And that was the way we spent the day you dream ofgthe day that school is closed because of snow. I. for one, hope we don't have another snow' storm for a long time. BARBARA ALEXANDER, Grade VIII -Af' ff ZX .I if ll ,f'xXf'x3 rf.K'N-N in E Ravi ' y CND rg '-'ui GQ if 'X .25 4 QL!!! .Ex-T ...C fx BETTY NICHOL The Picnic Cold drops of dew fell on Linda's back as she threaded her way through the willows near the water's edge. Wet reeds clung to her blue jeans. Flip! Flip ! she called, Come here, Flip ! Mist was rising from the river, and insects buzzed in the warm morning sunshine. Soon her mother would call her to breakfast, and she had not yet found her dog. He must have been frightened away by last night's scolding from Aunt Sarah. Suddenly, a black and white streak flashed among the trees, and her scrambling, furry pet knocked her to the ground. She had just got to her feet when she heard Aunt Sarah rasping, Linda! Where are you? Merciful heavens, child, will you come to breakfast! Will Aunt Sarah never go home? thought Linda as she trudged up the long flight of wooden steps toward the cottage. just because of her, I have to go to the opera instead of to the beach' party! Linda had just finished her third piece of toast when her father said, Nice day for a canoe trip? Let's have lunch at Bell's ferryfl Marvellous idea! said Mother. Isn't it, Sarah? If it doesn't rain, sniffed my aunt. Linda said nothing. She liked canoeing, but she did not like the idea of spending the day with Aunt Sarah. They were almost ready to shove off. Linda was climbing into the bow. Ch! You're not taking that thing? gasped Aunt Sarah, pointing to Flip. Perhaps you had better leave him at home, dear. The boat is a little crowded. Mother's inflection was clear. Linda told Flip to go home , but he only cringed and stayed where he was. Snatching his collar, she yanked him up the steps. Don't you dare turn it loose in the cottage ! Aunt Sarah's voice sounded like a key turning in a rusty lock. Linda found a length of rope and hastily tied the dog to the woodshed. Once more sitting in the bow, Linda dipped her paddle lazily into the water. Her father was doing only enough paddling to keep them in mid' stream and drifting with the current. Everyone was enjoying the trip until they approached a stretch of white water. Aunt Sarah began to fidget. Jim, those rocks look pretty dangerous, she said. Dfdo you think we ought to go through here? Now, Sarah, there's nothing to be afraid of. Dad's reassuring words did not calm Aunt Sarah. As the canoe neared the first of the rocks, she stood up, shrieking, and flailing her arms. The canoe lurched sideways, smashing the bow under Linda's feet. A sudden shock of cold water hit her as she was hurled into the water. Kicking to the surface, she clutched a slimy rock. Even though she was always complaining of stiff joints, Linda saw that Aunt Sarah was spry enough now. She was scrambling over the slippery rocks on all fours. Mother was wading cautiously through the shallow water. Soon Dad was pulling them all up onto the bank. There goes the canoe, he said, noticeably controlling his temper. Now we'll have to walk home. I suppose we will, replied Aunt Sarah icily. They had not gone far when Dad, who was in the lead, stopped. We are following a bend in the river, he said. Would it not be better to go straight through the woods? They were all cold and hungry, and they readily agreed to this plan. Leaving the river, they started off through the woods. It seemed to Linda that they had been walking for ages when they sat clown to rest.

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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,

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Suddenly she pointed. Dad,'l she faltered, haven't we passed that red rock before? Giving a closer look, the others realized that Linda was right. Really, jim! Aunt Sarah cried. First you tried to drown usg now you've got us lost! Sarah, Dad replied evenly, I've had just about enough of you. Itxs your fault weire in this mess. Anyhow, this is no time to argue. Why, why-'l Aunt Sarah's spluttering was cut off by Mother. Hush!l' she said. There is something moving in those bushes. just as Mother pointed, with a trembling hand, to a clump of bushes several yards away, a small spotted head peered out from under it. Flip! cried Linda, running to her pet. Isn't that a big, frightening animal? asked Dad, smiling at Mother. He seemed greatly ref lieved. He must have wriggled out of his collar. What say we follow him home? Late in the afternoon of the day after the picnic , Linda stepped outside the back door to feed Flip. She sat on the steps and watched, enjoying the peaceful sunshine. Aunt Sarah had left on the morning train. 'lMom, she called, letting the screen door bang behind her as she refentered the house, are my slimfjims clean? I want to wear them to the beachfpartyf' PATRICIA McMAHoN, Grade IX Growing Up It is quite strange just how time flew So long ago when I was two The thin white bars about my crib And picture stories on my bib. Noddy, a brown bear I still adore Was given to me when I was four. I was five when school began, And off I set with school bag tan. At six-it hardly seems the truth- A flower girl I was for Ruth. The next year, and this with hesitation, I had the tonsil operation. At eight, class president I became Which at first I thought a gameg The literary competition at ten I won- I found writing poetry was great fun. I waited long and then did gloat When I saw my first tweed riding coatg Beige, brown, and yellow, extremely gay, And wrapped up for my twelfth birthday. Life so far has been good to me, But beyond the present I cannot see. If all goes well, I wish, I hope To use a doctor's stethoscope. JOAN SELLERS, Grade VII Musicians Would you like to be a musician And play the organ or flute? Would you like to be a musician And give all the horns a toot? Would you like to be a musician And play the trumpet or harp? Would you like to be a musician And play tunes which sound like the lark? Would you like to be a musician And play the oboe or tuba? Would you like to be a musician And play in France or Cuba? Would you like to be a musician And play the lute or cello? Would you like to be a musician And play notes both round and mellow? I'd love to be a musician Sing songs that sound like the larkg I'd make music for all to hear From morning until it was dark. CHERYL HOWAT, GradeVII .W L .WTF -,.. , - , .lwiklgv 1 ' 1 . , , i I l A JUNIOR SINGING CLASS WITH MRS. BIRSE Lily and Her Flute Lily Mason looked out of the taxi cab window. She gave a little sigh. How she wished she were back at home! In front of her was Murphy Hall, the new school she was to attend. Hi, said a welcoming voice, I am your roomf mate, Polly. Come on down to the store. No, thanks, later, maybe. I want to go to the parcel desk. 17