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

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ll A Flame Flickers Smoke filtered through the smouldering ruins of the recently bombed city. In a matter of hours a wide area had been converted from industrious households, busy streets, and boisterous play' grounds, into a sombre morgue of charred timber above which skeleton walls jutted occasionally. The artificial light faded as the last fire choked and died. Dark clouds moved sluggishly over the tragic scene. The moon threw its cold Engers of white light in playful mockery of the lifeless piles. All was quiet except for the occasional crunch of timbers as they fell. In one charred section a black hole was formed by a roof clinging to one remaining wall. Here a frail young mother took shelter. Deep sobs wracked her body. Again the dreaded sound broke the silence. The steady, haunting drone of bombers increased as they returned. The woman clutched her limp and lifeless child desperately. Her reason for living no longer existed. Her entire family had perished in the merciless onslaught. She alone had survived, saving just one of her many children. This child now lay void of life, in her bosom. For her, solitude was unbearable. Her only desire now was to die. Although her body was uninjured, her soul was maimed. The fires had consumed her hopes and dreams, and she held in her arms the ashes, her child. She wrapped the shabby black lace shawl more tightly around herself and the child. Her gaily-coloured dress was covered with ash. Her paiilk complexion seemed almost black in the fading ig t. The monotonous roar was broken by explosions which made the earth tremble as the murderers attacked again. The whole country was a seething turmoil, corrupted within itself. The dark planes appeared like vultures, picking clean the flesh from the great city's bones by destroying her factories, hospitals, and more of her homes. They peppered the buildings with their poisonous black eggs, each cane lighting the dark city with crimson tongues of ame. Long after the enemy had abandoned its siege, the fires continued to burn. Gradually they died, one by one. When the cold grey fingers of dawn crept into the city, the woman was lying in the rubble pref pared to die. Suddenly, the child stirred! Unbelieving, the mother remained motionless. Gradually the move' ments grew stronger. Faint cries of hunger came forth. Recovering from her astonishment, the mother wrapped her son in her black lace shawl. Her dark eyes flashed with fire. Life had been restored! Her only thought now was to find food for her child. Somewhere in this deadened city she must find something for her son to eat so that he might live. Gathering all her strength, she staggered to her feet, holding the child tenderly. She emerged from the dark enclosure, and surveyed the surroundings. Black smudges stained her cheeks and forehead. Stray hairs lay matted on her face. Her tattered rags clung to her body. She picked her way through the ruins. She went in search of food. BETTY Nici-IOL,-Grade X One to T wenty-one Youthftime- When bottles, rattles, carriages and dolls, Up we go fun and down we go falls, Learning to eat with a fork and a knife, Clutter your life With joy. Growing-up time- When kittens, ponies, forests and food Seem to take care of your every mood. Climbing up trees and running down stairs, Fill your affairs With fun. Changingftime- When mothers, fathers, girlffriends and boys Open new doors when you throw out your toys. Going to parties and riding in cars, Man, it's like Mars . . . Way out! Adolescentftime- When fashions, formals, sunftans and men, Doing your homework just now and then, Following fads and doting on Rick . . . Life is a kick For sure! Adultftime-- When diamonds, furs, flowers and beauxg Travelling to Europe-anything goes. You soon meet the one and then settle down, Wearing your crown Ofjoy. NANCY ANN EATON,-Grade XI P'rizefWinning Poem-Senior Literary Competition Dreams Come True William Ross dropped his morning paper and let a knife clatter on his plate. A plump woman with steaming toast and a silver coffeefpot appeared through the swinging door. Good morning, Mr. Ross, she said. Did you sleep well ?S9

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10 By midmorning the cathedrals were filled with the poor folk and the rich, and together they sang the triumph of Christ risen. Among the devout and indifferent, standing with their heads bowed and holding between them a loaf of bread, was Nicholas Saar and his wife, Maria. Once or twice he raised his head slightly to look at her face and when she smiled or nodded in return, he closed his eyes again and moved his lips without speaking. Following the custom of centuries, they now went forward in their turn and laid at the altar the loaf of bread that they had brought to be blessed. This sacred loaf they would take home to share with friends or relatives and any poor folk who might ask. Maria confided to her husband that she would like her mother to receive this loaf, for her mother was too old to come with them, and lay at home alone. It was a short time after the blessing of the bread that he led his wife to their small carriage and started the single mare at a pace fast enough to allow them to reach home by the noon chimes. They exchanged few comments, for the most part their thoughts were their own. At the cross road turning Nicholas suddenly stopped the carriage and reached for the loaf of bread in his wife's lap. He indicated the beggar Ender the cross road marker and was about to step own. Leave that! Whoever that peasant is, this bread is not for him! Leave go I say! But, Maria, called Nicholas, I must give him a piece. Look, the man needs it and your mother will still have some. Do give me a piece, only a small piece. My dear Nicholas, my own mother is waiting at home, and you will deny her this loaf of bread? Maria, you are a hard woman. Will you not give me even a corner? I tell you, I feel I must give this man something. Look at his face, and he is lamed in one leg. Perhaps he is holy, all sufferers are holy on the day that Christ rises! Come, my own good wife, how can you force me so against my conscience? You will rue this Nicholas. Please drive on. In one movement she seized the reins and slapped the mare until it progressed at a rapid trot. Nicholas sat back, then called once more to his wife before they had gone very far. For the sake of heaven, Nicholas, you are persistent! Very well, take this piece, but I am staying here in the carriage. Without another word, Nicholas ran back to the cross roads, but when he reached the spot, he looked about in disbelief. The man had gone. Only a moment ago he stood here, by this marker. There-there is his print. In heaven's name, I must give him this piece of bread. Where has he gone? There was not a further trace of the peasant's whereabouts. The piece of bread lay in Nicholas' hand, small, moist, and somehow bitter. He threw it by the side of the road. At least the birds may eat of it. But the peasant-he looked at us with eyes of pity not given to every man. Perhaps he was indeed holy! O God, what have I done! Why did I delay? Why did I listen to foolish words? You, good wife, how shall I live with you now and with your selfishness? You care for your mother at home and would not deny her a loaf of bread, but for a poor man whose need is greater, for him, on Easter Day, you could not spare a piece! Nicholas did not return to the carriage as he had gone, running, but at a slow walk, from time to time shaking his head as though it were filled with heavy thoughts. Only after they were under way again did his wife dare to speak to him for he looked at her strangely. And was the peasant glad to get the bread, or did he laugh at your charity, my impulsive Nicholas? Neither, Maria. Well then, didn't you give him the bread, Nicholas? No, Maria, I did not. The man had gone and not a sign did he leave. I could not find him, and I returned. And the bread? The birds eat it by the roadside. Here he shook his head once more, slowly, wearily. Ah, but why are you so sad then, Nicholas? And Nicholas looked at his wife with a deep, strange expression in his eyes that she could not understand. Because, Maria, we have cruciied the Christ . 15 that was risen. SIGNE SALZBBRG,-Grade XII Decadence Once he was a man so proud, Always leader of the crowd. Once he was a man so bold, Conquering the unforetold. Once he was a man so great, Never dreaming of his fate. But greed became a parasite, Which fed upon him day and night Until his soul cried out, Be vain, Much wealth is there for you to gain, Be not humble, help not others, No need to treat them as your brothers. Apathy, jealousy, hatred and scorn Pierced his heart, and he died from the thorn. JEAN Lnsun,-Grade XII

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12 Yes, he replied without thinking, but then he paused and reflected. I had a strange dream. I came into money-quite a bit of it, and took a trip to England. I visited my old school, Wicksford, while I was there. Time went back to when I was a schoolboy, playing our old pranks with the other fellows. Here he chuckled over something he remembered. Good old Charlie jones got the punishment, as usual. Then, he sighed, I grew up. A bell rang, and it seemed to be time for me to leave. A chill wind blew from a door, and a dark corridor loomed in front of me. I stepped forward, and it closed around me. I walked again, but suddenly the floor wasn't there. I fell through the darkness, down and down. Then, of course, I woke up. I believe it will come true, he added with conviction. My dreams always have in the past. For instance, when . . Yes, Mr. Ross, said his housekeeper, and withdrew into the kitchen. She had heard the story before, and had no wish to deal with the supernatural at that early hour. When Ross left the brown brick house, he strode purposefully past the budding hedges and soon was seated on a big green bus labelled, Downtown . Absorbed in his thoughts, he did not at first notice the man in the faded grey trenchcoat who was staring awkwardly at him. When their eyes met, the stranger pushed his way toward Ross, and mumbled something as he pulled his wallet from his pocket. Strange, thought Ross with a little alarm, until he remembered the man's face, and an old unpaid debt. Not wishing to embarrass the man, he took the money. The man muttered a few civilities about the weather, and lurched to the back of the bus. At noon Ross walked up the steps and into a small brick building that housed a long established men's club. As he was having lunch, a friend ushered in a small man with a familiar, friendly face to his table. Do you know . . . he began. Charlie jones! cried Ross. I'd know your face anywhere. Why, I dreamed about you last night! The other friend was lost in the reminisf cences of good old Wicksfordn that followed. After several vain attempts to change the conversaf tion, he left, and ate in gloomy silence at another table. In spite of his haste to get back to his office, for he was half an hour late, Ross began musing on his dream as he walked along the street. It must come true, he thought, my dreams have in the past. By George! It is coming true. I came into some money this morning on the bus. Talking to good old Charlie was almost like being at Wicksford. Wait until I tell my housekeeper! He gloated over the idea of proving to his doubting house' keeper that dreams come true. What about the rest of the dream? He remembered it too, as he ascended the dark, twist' ing stairway to his office, glancing over his shoulder and expecting at any moment to be struck down by a dreadful calamity. Nothing unusual happened, but the dream was not soon forgotten. After work he caught his bus and became so absorbed in an evening paper that he rode several blocks past his stop. Walking alone on the dark, shadowy street, he thought of the dream again. The wind moaned through the knotty trees, and they cast weird, dancing phantoms in his path. In spite or himself, he shuddered as he turned into a small corridorflike lane between two apartment houses. He began to whistle softly. Suddenly a dark figure sprang from the gloom. The man approached Ross slowly, but his features became no clearer because his collar was turned high, and his hat pulled down over his eyes. He stopped and waited. Have you got a match? Ross stood still. A thousand thoughts raced to his mind. He fumbled in his pocket and drew out a matchbook. The stranger put his large hand forward and took it from him. The other hand went to his pocket. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and walked on. PATRICIA MCMAHON, Grade X Mother and Child And while she ran, the harsh green sage Reached up from 'neath the cold, white snow To prick and scratch her tiny calloused feet That, blue with stinging cold, were numb to feel The pierce, and only in her heart she bore The fear and pain. Meanwhile, The hovel shuddered in the biting wind That knifed the thin dirt walls and blew Upon a writhing form enveloped in the dark. The woman's face was worn and tight with time And pain, and from her trembling lips escaped A prayer to God. The wind grew still, but all too late To help the quiet child whose tiny frozen face Was upturned towards the darkened sky. The tiny footprints, dimpling the fresh cold snow, Ended where her little body lay. Her mother's tortured pain had given way To endless sleep, and both would rest In peace, with God, together. LYNNE ANDERSON, Grade XI