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

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10 school building, put on her jacket and boots., which she left in a vacant locker, prop the back door open with a block of wood, and hurry out to the garage. This went on for three weeks. Then finally on a Saturday night the vehicle was ready for a trial run. At twelve o'clock Minerva wheeled it slowly out of the garage into the street. It ran beautifully and Miner- va was quite proud of herself. Then it hap- pened. lust as she turned the corner, the chain broke. Minerva, very discouraged, wheeled the machine back to the school. All Sunday night she worked on the broken chain and finally repaired it. During the next week Minerva saved food and collected things for her escape the next Saturday night. Finally the time came. Dressed in a jacket and slacks and carrying the money and food she needed, Minerva tiptoed down the corridor of the residence for the last time. She wheeled it out of the garage, and as the clock chimed three, Minerva Mullins pedalled west on her four-wheeled desk. RUTH THOMAS-Grade X Canada Canada! A rugged nation lapped on either side By a salty wave. A maze of furry forests, Of trophospheric slashing peaks, Of pancake prairies, and of living waters, Adorned by a radiant sunset, And topped by an ice-cream north. But we dare not speak of this splendour! 'Tis best we forget our glorious past- The dauntless men, Their dreams, their hopes, their labour, Courage, determination, Democracy- The foundations of our country. If these things were spoken of, Why men might think us proud! Come, Canadians! Let us be proud of Canada: Let our pussy-footed pens write of it And our dull brushes dip in Canadian colours. For out of our glorious past, And from the pulse of the living present, Must emerge a mighty future! CAROL SWINDELL-Grade XI Red or Dead Thomas Greenwood paused outside his red brick house and inhaled one last breath of the new spring air. Spring was his favour- ite time of year, maybe because it reminded him of his flaxen-haired fifteen-year old daughter, Sarah lane. She had grown es- pecially dear to him since his wife had died five years earlier, and he was proud that he was bringing her up by himself-unaided by his ever-helpful female relatives. Yes, spring really is the best season in the whole year. The birds sing and ..., Thomas Greenwood's pensive mood was interrupted by muffled sobs which echoed from the direction of the bathroom. Un- doubtedly it was Sarah lane. Mr. Green- wood raced to the top of the stairs and threw open the door. The sight he beheld fixed him to the spot and he grasped the door to keep his balance. There in the centre of a profusion of topless bottles containing a bright liguid, paper with directions, and red-tinted towels stood Sarah lane with a head of flame coloured hair! Mr. Greenwood blinked rapidly a few times as if trying to dispel a nightmare, but when he opened them again and found the same sight before him, he cried, Sarah lane, my dear girl, what have you done to yourself? Do you know what colour your hair is? I I only wanted a few streaks in the front, wailed the girl, but then . . . But then your whole head fell in by mistake, finished her father sarcastically. Don't tell me the rest! He clapped his hands to his head and tried to think what did one do in an emergency like this? Dial 999? Phone the fire department? Maybe Aunt Martha would know. No, he would handle this by himself, and as tactfully as he knew how. He turned to his daughter again and stated in a matter-of-fact way, Well, wash it out. I can't. The directions say that once it's in, it won't come out for two w-weeks. TWO-two weeks? Young lady, you have to go to school tomorrow, and I re- fuse to allow you to leave this house look- ing like a-a fire engine. Surely this stuff will come out if we use plenty of soap, and scrub, he ended rather dubiously. No amount of pleading could dissuade him. He srubbed for half an hour, but that only made the colour brighter. Finally he

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9 dreary eyes revealed many long days and nights of pain. Disregarding the frantic child's pleas mingled with insults, the two delivers gently lifted Casey up the stairs, through the hall, and out the back door. Iohnny's cries against Beth's Stop-it 's were useless. Casey had gone forever to be put away. Mrs. Walden leaned against the wooden doorway. Her anxiety, almost completely masked was revealed by her beautiful, yet red, roughened hand on her son's head. She had always been proud of Iohnny's shining blond hair which fell loosely over his dark forehead. Now he was wet and dirty as he quickly wiped away a tear, trickling down his cheek to join the pool on his chest. What was happening he neither knew or under- stood. He could only see that his mother was in deep misery. Suddenly the hand, once soothing, pres- sed down so desperately that he wanted to cry out in pain. But he didn't. I-le saw the reason for his mother's unhappiness now. l-le watched eight burly men ignore the doorbell to his home: he watched them trudge into the combined bedroom-kitchen. Not able to en- dure it any longer, he darted from under his mother's hand to follow the workers around the corner. At last he saw what his mother had been keeping him from all morn- ing. He saw his brooding father sprawled on their only bed, his dark, dancing eyes now languid under coal eyebrows. All of them threw in their power tone could have managed easilyl to strong-arm the vio- lent, dangerous man, the thief of sixty-five dollars from a home on Crescentville Drive, out of his home into the chill summer air. No resistance--Iohnny resumed his place under his mothers gentle soothing hand. Together, silently, they watched him being driven away, the man who had tried to save his family from starvation. MADELEINE MURRAY-Grade XI The Escape The light had been turned out and from the single bed in the corner of the dormitory soft sobs could be heard. Minerva Mullins was not at all happy at boarding school. She missed the family and the freedom she had had at home. She hated it here. All she could think of was escaping, leaving the place and going home. That night she had a brain wave. Now the way to escape was clear in her mind. It was going to take a considerable amount of time, but it would get her home. The next day she set to work. Being a bright girl, Minerva realized that she must have a means of transportation. Immediately she knew what that would be, but the ques- tion was where she would construct it. Where around the school could she make it, so as not to be discovered? She pondered over this for a long time: then finally she remembered the garage behind the school which appeared to be vacant. lt would be perfect. Step two was to find the materials for the vehicle. Since she was at a school, the chassis would be easy to get, but other parts would have to be bought. She sighted as she rcalizcd that this would mean saving her allowance and therefore staying in on Saturday afternoons. No movies, no cokes. but it was worth it. Tools would present a problem, too. She could find out where the caretaker kept his tools and borrow them secretly if she could get the key. One day when the caretaker was mending a table she followed him to see where he put his tools when he had finished. They were kept in a little room down in the basement off the room where the furnace was. As she watched, she saw that he did not lock the door. What luck! The tools would be easy to get after lights out. That night, after everyone was in bed, a robed figure crept out into the basement. Cautiously she tiptoed down the stairs to the basement. Iust as she was about to leave the tool room, she heard footsteps on the stairs. Quickly she jumped back into the shadows. lt was the night watchman making his rounds. After checking to see if any- thing was unusual, he left. Slowly Minerva crept out and tiptoed up to bed. The next day she went downtown to look for pram wheels and a racing chain. She decided, since she wanted to get home quickly, that a racing chain would be best. The wheels were easily purchased but the chain was a problem. Either the second-hand dealer did not know what a racing chain was, or he did not have one. Finally in a dingy little shop on an insignificant side street, she found an old but still usable racing chain. Now with the parts collected and the tools ready, she set to work. Each night after the lights were turned out she would tiptoe through the silence, through the

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ll admitted defeat, but vowed that the follow- ing day he would buy something that would change it back again. The next day, Thomas Greenwood viewed the world through rose-coloured glasses, not by choice but because he could not rid his mind of the horrible colour of his daughter's hair. As he left the office about five, he stopped suddenly by his secretary's desk and said, Miss Wilson, you wouldn't know anything about . . . but then he thought better of it. After all, only adolescents are foolish enough to dye their hair. On his way home he inquired at the drugstore about a new product guaranteed to remove all foreign colour from the hair. Mr. Greenwood did not stop to ask him- self how the product would know which colour was foreign, and which was not. The druggist did not guarantee that it would work, because it was only in the process of being tested and he only had a sample. Mr. Greenwood replied that anything was worth a try. That was a night never to be forgotten. Thomas Greenwood followed the directions on the bottle to the letter. The last step en- tailed waiting for half an hour and then removing the towel around the girl's head. Half an hour passed, but as the towel was removed only a scream and a thud were heard. Sarah Iane's hair was purple and Thomas Greenwood had fainted. JANET HARRISON-Grade X That Land I have seen the beauty of a tropical mountain And the lapping of waves against its foot, And the birth of a gardenia. I have heard birds sing to the day And insects to the night, And the rustling of dry grass. I have known the smell of a rain forest, Hot, wet, green, and alive And the smell of the sea. I have felt the sting of a spider, hot against my neck, And the pain of crisp flesh, unprotected from the sun. And the loveliness of a shell. All these treasured memories are dear to me, And some day, I will see, hear, smell, and feel That land again. JENNIFER WIMBUSH-Grade XI The Little Shepherd The sun was just sinkingbehind the hills, sending its last rays over the mountain mea- dow and over the boy sitting on the rocks, watching the sheep. The night's silence was broken only by the sounds of celebration drifting up from the village in the valley below. The boy winced as the noises reached his ears. Then he shook his head in an effort to shut out the sounds, his blonde hair fall- ing into his eyes. He was small for his twelve years, and looked like an elf as he sat there alone in the gathering night. His name was Ian, and he was a member of the tribe of Celts who lived in the village below. In fact, he was the chief's son. Yes, the chief was his father, and yet, Ian, was only a shepherd. He looked in disgust at his right leg which had been crippled ever since he could remember. Usually he was cheerful, and he tried not to feel sorry for himself, but tonight was different, and he was indulging in self- pity. All his friends were going through the ceremony of being made warriors of their tribe, and, more than anything, Ian wanted to become a warrior, and make his father proud of him. All his spare moments had been spent in throwing his little spear again and again, until he had become quite expert. His difficulty was that he had no chance to prove his bravery. His friends had all been on hunting trips, and some of them had even been on a battlefield, but Ian knew that he would never be able to go very far because of his twisted leg. His only chance lay in killing some animal if it threatened his sheep, and wild animals seldom came very close to the herd. He sighed again and absent-mindedly began to count the sheep. One, two, three . . . fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-two! There should be fifty-three. He counted again. Surely he must have made a mistake, but no, only fifty-two sheep were there. Ian looked up. He strained his eyes in the waning light, hoping to see a white shadow in the dis- tance which might be the missing sheep. He called into the darkness, but there was no answering sound, only the eerie voices of the echoes in the hills. Alarmed, lan picked up his little SPCHI' and climbed down from his perch on the rocks. Looking about him, he tried to decide which way the sheep had gone. Perhaps it had left to get a drink from the nearby stream and had slipped on the mossy rocks