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

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13 An hour later, Carlos was still in the barn with Pachina and the sun was sinking unwillingly to his rest in the mountains, when a gentle voice broke the solitude. It was Carlos' mother. It had been growing chilly and she already had her woolen shawl thrown over her shoulders. Carlos, eet ees getting late and you must not catcha cold. I weel come now, Mama, but listen! A deep rumble caught his attention. Quickly they peered out to find, to their amazement, large raindrops dropping from the heavens. His mother fell to her knees and crossed herself, saying many prayers of gratitude. She scrambled up, only to be caught in the strong arms of her husband, who had rushed into the barn with his dark brown face lightened with joy. His face reminded Carlos of a brimful cup of water filled to the point of overflowing. Their only cow, a creature of skin and bone, lowed softly with a feeling of excitement. They fetched everyone from the house to go for a walk in the rain, now coming down in torrents. All the family strolled along the previously scorched road and watched the wondrous rain pump new life into the remaining patches of grain, and wash away the sand to let the tufts of grass breathe. Carlos thought that it was wonderful to watch the power of God creating the difference between poverty and prosperity, just because he had done a hard day's work. PAMELLA KAYSER-Grade IX The Early Frost One snowflake drifted slowly down Causing all the folk to frown, And heralded its many friends Who soon the way to earth would wend. The farmers glanced with anxious faces, And watched the angry sky's grimaces Telling of an early frost. The autumn harvest cowered low Against the roaring north wind's blow And all began to harvest grain, Although they knew 'twas all in vain To fight the early frost. MARGARET BERRY-Grade IX The Interview Brr-ing, brr-ing. The doorbell echoed through the long hall visible through the window by the door. I stood outside on the vast porch surveying the huge estate of the Van Clorks. My car was parked in the drive leading up to the house and near the back. I was dwarfed by the huge steps and porch leading up to the front door. As I was gazing at the gardens along the drive, I heard a polite, inquiring, Good afternoon. I turned to face the butler standing in the doorway. Oh, good afte1'noon. May I present my- self? George Stevens Junior, reporter for the Detroit Times. I handed him my card. I would like to interview Mr. Van Clork, Sir Rumpelstiltskin Eshwald Van Clork IV, for my magazine, and perhaps obtain some pictures of him. May I come in? Certainly, please wait here. I will see if Mr. Van Clork is receiving anyone today. He gave me a quizzical look and disappeared up the long flight of stairs at the far end of the room. I stood alone in the middle of the room rapidly taking note of the luxurious furnishings. Peeping through a crack in the door, I could see a large dining hall with a huge chandelier. As I was taking down the last details, I saw the butler approaching. Sir Eshwald will see you, Mr. Stevens, but I must warn you-he has just come from his bath and is sleepy and quite irritable. He may growl at you and even snap a bit. He is also having his daily manicure which he dislikes, so, do not refer to it. Also he is rather reserved, and so, please do not prod him. As for taking pictures, Sir Eshwald's eyes are very sensitive to bright lights. Therefore, please refrain from taking more than necessary. By now we had gone up three flights and were entering Mr. Van Clork's apartments. I had heard that Sir Eshwald IV had recently arrived at the Van Clork estate for a short stay, and armed with camera and notebook, I was determined to get a great Hscoopf' on him and maybe thereby get a bonus. Actually, I had to admit I had never heard of him until recently when I had overheard a conversation at a party. Apparently, he was quite famous, but the speaker d1'ifted away before I could discover just why. Hadn't they mentioned some kind of shows? Perhaps he was a great rider. No, that didn't seem quite right. They had talked of medals and ribbons+a great military leader, perhaps? Noth- ing seemed to fit. Oh, well, I shall just have to feel my way, and try to draw him out even if he is shy as the butler says. This way, sir. The butler's voice broke into my thoughts. I stepped into the huge room and eagerly peered around to find Sir Eshwald. Here he was, in all his glory, reclining on three red plush cushions, Sir Rumpelstiltskin Eshwald Van Clork the fourth-a bright gold, snub-nosed Pekingese dog! SUZANNE f'L.A.nKr:AGrarle IX

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12 Two Blessings It was an unproductive time in Mexico. Dry, golden sand was often driven by a hot, tireless wind into parks and pastures, choking tender green sprouts beneath. It was as if God had forgotten about Mexico and had left it to sizzle in the sun. The contents of the irrigation ditches had disappeared long ago. Each precious drop that ever did fall on the field was quickly absorbed by the thirsty sands. All the inhabitants of the sun-burnt villages had two characteristics-a tired, drawn face and a gaunt figure. One of the meagre figures appeared in the doorway of the adobe house belonging to the De Lotta family. A tired but harsh voice shattered the deathlike stillness of the July morning. It was an ordinary morning and the sun had begun its long burning journey across the sky, looking down upon the wilted remains of crops. The morning was dis- turbed, when the angry and impatient voice, belonging to Pedro de Lotta, called, Carlosl Vot you teenk yow do, brusha de dog ven der's verka to do? Get in here dees meenit and fetcha de water! Hurree! Caramba! Queekll' Carlos tenderly pushed his sunkissed golden dog aside and reluctantly laid down his grooming brush and rose slowly from the parched soil. Don't go away, my leetle bonita. I weell be back soon-l hope. Giving Pachino, his tiny Chihuahua, a re- assuring pat on the head, he hurried away toward the house, dusting the sand off the seat of his trousers as he went. Here he met his father's usual torrent of complaints, but he had become accustomed to them. After all, he had been listening to them for fourteen years. Silently he slipped into the kitchen to fetch the rusty pail, not often filled with good water. As he rounded the corner, two heads popped out of the doorway, both their faces filled with curiosity. His sisters never failed to torment him after he had been scolded by his parents. Vot yow do dees time, Carlos? Always getting eento trouble ven yow do not verk. How expect poor Papa to run dees farm ven der ees a drought and yow do not verk? It may be a curse, dees drought, for your idleness. Yow always play with de dog but do not verk for Papaf' Carlos, ignoring his sisters' insults, walked steadily to the door, but tripped over the door sill, much to the amusement of his sisters. Their laughing faces, however, turned to serious ones, when Pedro, their father, stepped in. Camillita! Rosital Vot yow teenk yow do, watcha Carlos maka da fool of heemself? Yow should be going to da market. Carlos continued out the door and down the path and shaded his eyes from the burning sun as he strolled along the scorched ground with the rusty pail in his hand. Soon he approached the well and looked around as he lowered his pail into the precious container of water. He scanned the countryside only to see a thin covering of sand over every green thing, with the exception of a few small tufts of grass showing their dry weary heads above their heavy burden. He pulled the well-worn rope and grasped the bucket carefully to avoid spilling the contents. Having completed his mission, he trudged homeward. When he arrived, he was greeted by an opportunity either to clean the barn or pitch some wilted hay. He chose the hay and trudged away again to the shed to find the fork. As he pitched, his nose was filled with a withering dryness and his mind became filled with thoughts of the events of the day. He remembered the insulting remarks of his sisters. He started wondering if the drought really was a punishment for his idleness. The more he thought of this, the more he was convinced. Resolving to break the curse, he dug his fork in with added enthusiasm and pitched it with more force and energy. A few hours later, with aching arms, legs, head and fingers, Carlos wearily dragged himself into the house to receive his piece of cornbread. The smell of his reward filled his nostrils and he eagerly snatched the nearest piece of cornbread lying on the rock to cool. With a mouthful of warm pleasure, he sud- denly remembered Pachina. Gulping down the remainder, he rushed outside to find her. First he traced his steps to where he had been brushing her and looked in all possible places. He looked thoroughly under tables and chairs in the house and under boxes outside. When he had finished ransacking his room, it seemed as if a tornado had passed over it. As he raced out into the barnyard he thought of the curse and im- mediately connected the lost dog with this. After searching in every nook and cranny he decided to look in the barn as a last resort. As he opened the creaky barn door, a small but sharp beam of light fell upon a mound of hay, and nestled cozily in it was Pachina. She opened her deep brown eyes and stared at him angelically. A slight movement in the hay caused by the frantic action of her little tail, thrilled Carlos to the heart. He picked her up and caressed her lovingly.

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14 Teresa The broom dragged across the floor, and gathered the particles of dust that had been swirled through the window by the daily rush of traffic. Teresa threw the broom down with disgust. She turned and looked hopelessly at her sister, but all she saw was a vague form reclining on the couch, and from somewhere a movie magazine protruded. The head of some unusual creature was thrust up from behind the book. A pair of black eyes glared offendedly at her, and her sister rose and stamped off to her room to remove her curlers. Teresa glanced at the clock. It was exactly ten-two hours before lunch. At lunch time, her mother would arrive to take over. Take over what? All her mother would do would be to take off her shoes, complain how terribly crowded it was down town, and sit down to relax. Then she would direct her glances towards Teresa with such pitiful eyes, begging for assistance, that Teresa would smile understandingly and prepare lunch. But it was so monotonous, so dull for a twelve- year-old girl. Teresa turned her large gray eyes towards her sister's room with annoyance. Her mind wan- dered over plots and settings of dreadful events that might happen to her sister. Finally Teresa's thoughts came down to earth. If I weren't here she'd have to help, instead of getting ready for dates, she thought schemingly. The dust swept up by the broom gradually began to settle again. The broom itself lay where it had been dropped. The front door was open, revealing the merging traffic and choking fumes. Teresa had left. She paused uncertainly on the street corner. Her sharp eyes glanced quickly about her, taking in the curious sights. Her small slender nose smelt the delicious aromas from the bakery. A breeze flicked her long, black hair and the endS of her pale blue dress. The ribbon which held back her hair had been hastily tied and it drooped over her forehead. A broad smile appeared on her thin lips. Down the road was the factory, and Jack would be there. He would listen to her troubles, he always did. Jack and his wife, Marion, were always ready to give her their advice. She stepped carefully across the street and turned the corner, her heavy black shoes beating rhythmically. If she hurried, she would be just in time to see Jack during his coffee break. She entered the factory and as she approached the workers, they greeted her with enthusiasm. Her eyes passed over them quickly. Where's Jack? she asked. He's sick-fever or something, replied one of the men. Her concern for Jack overruled her disap- pointment. She knew he would lose his day's pay. When she came to the factory to see them, he often talked about how important his pay was to them. Marion assisted Jack's income by sewing splendid dresses for wealthy ladies. Once when Teresa visited Marion she found her working on a most beautiful dress. As curiosity drew her forward, Teresa noticed the dainty laces and the delicate stitches entwined throughout the ma- terial. Marion noticed her interest in the dress and promised Teresa one, though not quite so grand. The dress was to be any colour or style Teresa wanted. What colour would she like? There were some pretty dresses in the department store, perhaps she could get ideas there. She bade the workers goodbye, and set off in the direction of Rodger's Department Store. Soon the store loomed over her. She entered, and worked straight towards the dress depart- ment. A young girl about the same age as Teresa was admiring one of the dresses. Teresa gazed thoughtfully at her, noticing how well dressed she was. Quite suddenly a woman appeared, dragging an unfortunate lad behind her. Come on, Shirley, we have to go home now, said the lady. The young girl looked up at her mother. Would you buy me a new dress to wear on my birthday? she asked. No, snapped the mother, you don't need a new dress. Hurry, we've got to go. But, mother, she pleaded. No, and she grabbed the girl by the wrist Please, begged the girl. Be quiet! shouted the mother, and all eyes turned on her. Flushed and angry, she left the scene as quickly as possible with her two children. Teresa shuddered. Her own mother would never shout at her like that, especially not in public. Teresa was thankful for the fact that she had a kind mother who praised her often, and never was angry with her-not even at home. Home! Lunch! Who would make lunch? Teresa dashed down the aisle, out of the store and down the street. Before she knew it, she was facing a small yellow house with pale green windows. The door was open, and Teresa sprinted up the steps. She closed the door, picked up the broom, and put it in the closet. She glanced at the clock. It was fifteen minutes to twelve. She began to prepare lunch. ELIZABETH WEBSTER-Grade IX