Branksome Hall - Slogan Yearbook (Toronto, Ontario Canada)

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26 The Branksome Slogan Diary of a Branksome Girl Sunday — Church at St. and the first short sermon in weeks. — Family ' phoned coming down next Saturday. Hurrah! Monday — No less than four tests and I am sure that Trigonometry test netted me an even zero. Who cares what tan 2A equals? Had a fine game of tennis — two sets, but lost my last ball — another fifty cents out of my allowance. Tuesday — Missed the bell this morning — one mark — gym. class this afternoon and I am stiff from the top of my head to my heels. — Went swimming at night and did ten lengths, nearly bursting my lungs. — Had to rip out the last four inches of my sweater. I guess knitting isn ' t my long suit. Wednesday — Sherbourne Street and then tennis — rushing to get dressed for visitors but no one came. Am I popular? Thursday — Yonge Street today and my last nickel gone. It is a good thing the family are coming down on Saturday — studied for that Geom. test for five hours — my brain is reeling — I see triangles and circles everywhere I look. Friday — Funny I couldn ' t see any of those triangles or circles when I tried to put them down on the paper today. — Forgot my interior decoration homework and so I have an hour Saturday morning. — Got a mark for leaving my running shoes on the bed. — My prospects for Saturday look a little strained — and the family coming down, too. Saturday — At last it came — but I had an hour — it rained and the family didn ' t get here until noon ; but what matter, it was absolutely tops, the whole day. And so to bed. EDITH WILSON, Form V S.

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Art Although there are few things that I know less about than art, I have some ideas on the subject which I shall endeavour to put forth. Too much comment is made upon what is called the grotesque and far- fetched modern art. Modern paintings are made for modern buildings. They should not be criticized because they are different from what we have become accustomed to. We are continually changing our houses, our clothes and our transportation to suit our needs, so v hy not treat our art in the same manner ? As far as I can see, an artist, when painting a picture, aims to bring out the idea that the scene conveys to him rather than to produce an identical copy of his subject. Why look at a copy of a tree when we can look at the tree itself? The real artist does not draw the tree as the average person sees it, but as it appears to him. If it is a graceful tree he accentuates that feature; if it is a stocky, compact tree that idea dominates his work. Well, I don ' t see anything beautiful in that is the usual pronouncement of a person who has let his appreciation of art get into a rut. He has looked at a piece of modern art for two seconds, made up his mind that it is not beautiful, and, furthermore, that no one is going to convince him that it is. Why must everything be beautiful? The ugliest faces often show the most character and, after all, that is the most necessary thing to any portrait. A picture I saw in a Russian art exhibition illustrates this. Two typical Russian peasants, a woman and her son stood side by side in a setting of their own fields. There was no physical beauty in either face, but the strength, deter- mination, and poverty of the Russian peasants was startlingly evident in the two expressions. It seems appropriate to the present conditions in Russia. The mother was raising a son who would be strong and able to carry on the work when she was gone. The character of a good picture shines out through its physical shell which fades into the background, leaving the meaning behind. BARBARA PARKER, Form IV A. 25

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ROMEO AND JULIET Juliet ; your eyes are like stars, your hair is like fine spun gold, and your lips like a dew-tipped rosebud. Will you be mine? Romeo, my romantic balcony climber, you have the build of an Adonis and the appearance of a Robert Taylor. Climb up and see me, and I will give you my answer true. But Juliet, my dove, there is no ladder. It matters not, Romeo, if you love me truly you will be walking on air. Right-ho, Juliet, here I come ! ! ! CRASH ! ! ! SILENCE. Romeo ! Romeo ! Wherefore art thou ? Speak to me my lover, are you dead ? Answer me. Here I am, Juliet, but methinks I do not love you truly. Please, why can you not be the first to invent a parachute out of your umbrella and float down to me like a whispry, summer cloud. Ah, my Einstein Romeo, what a brain ! JANE MORGAN, Form V S. THE HUMMING-BIRD It was tiny and dainty, of wonderful hue, It darted so quickly and flashed in the sun. Working so hard till its day ' s work was done. I watched it poised and then in flight, I never shall forget the sight. NANCY-BELLE MANN, Form I A. THE STORM Calm lake, still trees and humming bees, A rumble of thunder, a darkening sky, A tiny ripple, then rising seas, A flash of lightning, the tall trees sigh. The storm is sweeping across the bay, The thunder roars but doesn ' t stay. At last there is quiet and peace once more And in the blue sky the seagulls soar. NANCY-BELLE MANN, Form I A. 27