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

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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

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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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12 near the water's edge. In that case, he would not need his spear, but perhaps from wish- ful thinking, Ian took it with him. He turned and started up the little path, walking with a decided limp in spite of his efforts to hide it Soon he could hear the murmur of the stream, and with it, the sound of frightened bleating. Hurrying around the last corner of the path, he saw the sheep. Iust as he had thought, she had slipped and caught her foot among the rocks. She is certainly making a lot of noise, he thought as he started forward again to free her. Coming closer, he heard a deep growl. He froze and listened again. Surely it must have been his imagination. No, there it was again. This time a gaunt wolf, a giant of his kind, appeared from the woods. With his sharp teeth showing, and his yellow eyes glowing wickedly in the dark, he advanced on the helpless sheep. Ian watched its approach, his heart beat- ing wildly. He had never seen such a wolf before in his life. Since it was very thin, he thought that it must have been driven from its mountain home by hunger. Raising his spear, lan moved forward a bit, hoping to get near enough to kill the wolf with his first throw. The wolf, seeing the movement, turned towards him and leapt. At the same moment, Ian hurled his little spear with all his strength. Then he closed his eyes, afraid to see what had happened. When he opened them again, the wolf was lying only a few yards away, and his spear had found its mark in the furry throat. The sheep had stopped bleating and was waiting for him to free it. As he bent over it, Ian, who had been too shocked and surprised at first to know exact- ly what he had done, suddenly realized what had happened. That giant wolf, lying only a short distance away, had been killed by him, Ian, the chief's crippled son! That meant that he could now become a warrior. Having freed the sheep, he drew his spear out of the wolf. Then, smiling into the darkness, he returned to the flock, already dreaming of the day when he would stand before the tribe and go through the cere- monies while his father smiled proudly. KATHRYN N EILSON-Grade IX Award-Winning Story -Intermediate Literary Competition The Broken Picture The luminous yellow of Mei-Ling's dress, as she stood staring at the stern Victorian-looking man in the picture before her, sharply contrasted with the long, dark hallway. Hearing footsteps, she turned, and seeing one of her teachers, she gave her a bright, cheery smile. When she smiled, her teeth shone as white as a snow-capped mountain in the dark dawn, and her slanted eyes twinkled as the stars in heaven. The teacher gave her a light pat on the shoulder. and walked down the corrider to her class- room. Watching this pantomine, unobserved. was a young girl, leaning on a door. Seeing Nfei-Ling, she bit her fat lower lip with two protruding and rather dirty teeth. She hun- ched her shoulders up to her large ears, and her short, chubby, nail-bitten fingers clut- ched at the frilly, white lace collar around her large neck. Looking at the small dark-skinned girl hatefully, her eyes suddenly turned to the picture just a few feet in front of her. Her face became as crafty and sly as did Medea's when mixing the death potion for Theseus. Glancing around, she saw a little piece of metal that had fallen off one of the desks. She darted over to the desk and back again as quickly as a flash of lightning, that on a hot, sultry summer's night flashes through the sky. Making sure no one was in the hallway besides Mei-Ling, she took careful aim, and then ran to her desk. Mei-Ling, hearing a crash, quickly turn- ed around. As she saw the picture lying at her feet, her heart skipped a beat. Slowly she backed away, only to be caught in the death-like clutch of Mr. Harrington's strong strong finers. So, this is how our young Chinese school officer behaves, she hissed, stressing the word Chinese. You are going to the Principal's office. Annabella Brown, with all the speed of Hermes, ran up to Mrs. Harrington, dragg- ing a red-haired girl with her. We heard the crash, Mrs. Harrington, and I found this piece of metal beside the glass. Hearing this, Mrs. Harrington motioned them to follow her. Walking down the hall, Mrs. Harrington hold Mei-Ling before her. and the two girls following, they looked like a flock of geese flying south for the winter. In Mr. Brock's office Mrs. Harrington stated, in as few words as possible, what had happened. As witnesses, she produced the fat Annabella, daugter of the president