Branksome Hall - Slogan Yearbook (Toronto, Ontario Canada)

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The Branksome Slogan 25 must have been hunting in freshly-turned furrows, following farmer Log ' s plough, over the hill. Yes, ;he will start ploughing tomorrow. It is colder now ; a little breeze springs up, bringing the mists in- land. Rabbits have come out to nibble green things in the twilight. The horizon, a clear limpid green, shades into darkness above, in which one star shines like a pale white lamp. With a shrill squeak, a bat, wakened from his hibernation, flits by, black against the western sky. Silence! Yet as the light fades, the isenses grow more acute. The smell of dew-moist earth rises, surges in rich waves. The winter leaves rustle roiund the roots of the ash trees ; the breeze makes a little piping sound through the twigs, a clear cold sound like marsh winds in the reeds. It grows louder; now it seems that you can hear the damp mists coming in from the sea, and, yet again, it sounds like a horse munching in the dusk. It is a friendly sound, like the chuckle of a rook — baby, warmed by its brothers in their nest high up. The rabbits scatter, their white scuts gleaming, bobbing. A pointed face shines in the darkness, and one by one they stop, satisfied, and re- turn to eat. Little hoofs rustle among the leaves with a prancing step. The hairy ears twitch, the nimble fingers whisk up and down their pipes. Who is this god-child with the goat-limbs? Thoughtless lad! The emblem of spring, he tramples the primrose buds and whistles aw ay down into the valley to waike odd roosters on their dirty perches. The old Pan is gone, the gnarled wise creature of the earth who helps the animals to find a secret place to die, who tells the burier-beetles where to find their bodies. He went with the winter, like a last leaf which taps against dry twigs, till the young buds, bursting with pride, push it aside, and it droips to moulder in the ground and give strength to the new leaves. Classical legends do not thrive in the English countryside. Doble knocks oiut the ashes on his gun-barrel, and puts his pipe away. The mists are closing down. No aircraft will be over tonight. He loops the strap of his gun over his shoulder and wanders ofi over the hill. HONOR PASS, (Form IV A).

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24 The Branksome Slogan Nis itfall In The Country All the men in the village take turns in watching on the hills each night now, foir parachute troops. The Home Guard is a serious matter, and will get the brunt of any invasion which will be attempted before the end of the war. Even old ' Steve goes out, with his grave-yard cough ; and fat Mr. Lambton, the butler from the Manor, who could not run if his life depended on it. Tonight is Doble ' s round. He is a slow fellow, a pure farmer — there is nothing emotional about him. The evening is wasted on him except from the point of view of ruminating over whether the winter-wheat has survived, and when to start his ploughing. Look at the evening, just look at it! The farmer is the only man whoi has time to admire the view, nowadays, and he probably admires it less than anyone. Doble is sitting on the bank now, to light his pipe. The evening is mild, for one in spring, and the field is his own. The upper fields are mostly poor, but he surveys- his with pride. The bank is dry, warmed throiugh the day. Here are primroses growing in the loose 3andy earth at the mouth of a rabbit ' s burrow. They have long stems, as the spot is secluded, undiscovered by village children and hikers, and they have opened during the day; now they look pale and fragile in the setting sun. In the winter months the sun was pale and lukewarm; now it is just glorious and golden. The birds are singing, shoiuting, to make the most of the few more minutes before the sun disappears behind Thistlegate Hill. Down in the village, already out of sight of the sun, the milk-pails are being put away. The farmers are whistling, satisfied with the day ' s work. There is a blackbird sitting, as he always does, on the top twig of the ash tree among the fat black buds. His watery yellow beak opens and clicks, his throat quivers, and the sun-warmed fields are fiooded with his song. The sun has gone. Shadows rise. Doble sits unm.oved ; he puffs a t his pipe, looking down into the valley. His gun is laid out on the bank, the leather strap dangling into the rabbit-hole. The misty village straggles way down the valley to Charmouth and the sea. Smoke rises, blue and scented. The fields spread out below, bare and brown from winter, but already struggling for life. Sitting out at sea, a damp spring fog hides Portland Bill and Golden Gap ; it is wait- ing for the evening before it comes in to blanket the earth. Doble takes his pipe out of his mouth, and thinks slowly — the ground will be soft to- morrow, just right for ploughing. The birds are quiet, except for a company of rooks who flap back to the rookeries around the Manor ponds. Their wings make a wheezing noise, and one bird croaks as he goes. Doble regards them silently ; they

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26 The Branksome Slogan VICTORY LOAN B ritain long has ruled the seas U nto the Polar snows, Y ou must help to keep it free. y iotory is not for our foes I f you would keep our land so fair, C aim, and peaceful, and good, T ry to help them over there. O h! Send them equipment and food, R ender your money useful to them, Y ou know how much we shall gain. B uild a ship all complete from the stem to the stern, 0 r send shrapnel from cannon like rain. N ow that you know, let us keep from our land D er Fuhrer and his German race. S end your money in Victory Bonds over the strand. N ever let Hitler out of his place. O n Britain our hopes rest to guard our dear land, W ith giving we must not delay. To back our strong troops in the brave Motherland, Buy Victory Bonds today. SHIRLEY BAKER (Form lA). JUMBLED EPITAPHS Miss Walker, Miss Maxwell, Miss MacLaggan, Miss Robinson, Miss MacMichael, Miss Reader Harris, Miss Edmison, Miss Phillips, Miss Armstrong, Miss Craig, Miss Sime, Miss Howitt. ' ' You cannot learn Maths, with- out a pencil in your hand. ' ' I could never spell. ' ' Stop fidgeting, child. Now, listen! Not that you weren ' t listening, but ... I ' m appalled at your ignor- ance. Speaking in study is a serious offence. It ' s wonderful stuff! Use your head, child! Sh-h! Pull up your socks. That ' s right— isn ' t it? Jawohi! TAG DAY Buy a tag, sir? Help the blind. Oh, how that wind does blow ! Buy a tag, sir, help the Blind? Why did it have to snow? Each person hurries by me, Intent upon his work, A street-car stops, lets people off. Then starts up with a jerk. In this great noisy city street. Won ' t someone, please, be kind? I ' ve stood so long, my feet are cold, Would you, please, help the Blind? CHARLOTTE KEENS (Form IB).