Branksome Hall - Slogan Yearbook (Toronto, Ontario Canada)

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The BRAiSiKSOME Slogan 29 ihe grace of a Mohammedan. Sometimes I could see him on the desert at night with billowing robes white in the blackness and a fast camel. Dreams? He had them too. He dreamt that what he would learn here he would take back to his people. He would teach them, guide them, and wherever they went they would be safe. Dreams, you say? Yes, but of such stuff as life is made on. A young mother held a baby who would never see his father and who was looking at his home for the first time. She was humming softly the Russian national anthem. A small, quiet group of elderly women stood in the shadow of the compianionway — wiry people, bronzed and toughened from long years of toil in China. They were not Chinese. Who but Americans could hold that light in their eyes when they see their own purple hills? Wao but those gentle, unarmed soldiers of Christ, the foreign missionaries, could throw that light over the shabby deck? There were many more people, all of them quivering with hope and excitement. Quivering is an expressive word; especially when applied to the family sitting on a trunk behind me. Take three pink jelly moulds, one slightly larger than the other two; squat them, still trembling, on a box, and there you have the face and character of the irio. Nationality? Probably German. I cannot tell you of the fears and heart-break of these people and of those like them. I do not know the real meaning of Freedom; but you will understand when I say that I saw it. I saw it in the cough of the lame engine, in the twitching fingers of the old Count, in the young Arabic spirit. I saw it in the thin, peaked features of the widow and in the calm faces of the missionaries. I saw it in a sweet Greek face that was not gloomy, but very sad. It was in the second when the bumpers squeaked, and the hawsers strained, and the old ship came to rest, that I loosed the chains that bound me to all I had left behind and stepped mto the future not looking back, but forward, always forward, to Freedom. ERICA CRUIKSHANK. A Few Hours Out of the Future Mrs. Bumby opened her eyes and stretched luxuriously. The musical alarm clock was playing a lively tune and the hands pointed to nine-thirty. Mrs. Bumby gave a disgusted yawn and would have gone back to sleep had she not suddenly remembered that the family was getting up an hour earlier than usual this morning because Mr. Bumby had a luncheon engagement in Chile with an important nylon salesman. She touched a small button on her bedside table and the window was lowered softly ;

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28 The Branksome Slogaiv We Fled to Freedom This is a picture. It is only the dull hulk of a ship, but T call it • ' Home . Why? I do not really know. Maybe because this ship was our home for so long; maybe because she broug-ht us to a new home; maybe because she taught me the meaning- of home and hence the meaning of freedom. I was not very old, but bright enough to poke my nose into everything, smell the clean sea air, and enjoy myself thor- oughly ; as a result, my memory is a blur. But one moment I shall never forget and I want you to see it as vividly as I remember it. On a sunny December day in the year 1940, the ' ' Klipfontein docked in Portland, Oregon, many days late and a little broken down. She had suffered much, but had never failed. Her magnificent prow sliced the water like the shining fin of a shark, and if one engine was silent, the other made up with double the energy. I clung to the top rail, my eyes following the sure, easy movements of the men on shore, as our old ship panted slowly and softly into her berth. On board we were silent, waiting. Soon the first contact with North America would be made; until then we still felt lost and a little afraid. A motley group were we, of every race and colour, and to each person this first contact would have a different meaning. But one thing we all knew ; we were coming home. I saw the Count. His fine bearded face was turned to the city and one hand was tense on the rail. He had a straight figure and a royal bearing. His even features might have been chiselled, firm and perfect, from white marble, had there not been a few bitter wrinkles around his mouth and eyes, and a certain undefinable look of courage that can come only to those who have seen and who know. He had no home or country, probably no family. As he stood a little apart on the deck, he seemed like a soldier, alone in some big expanse of earth with noth- mg but God and the sky above him. At his side hung the sword of honour with which he could conquer the world. Geoffrey Chaucer put him and the spirit of his people into five simple words, ' a very parfit, gentle knight. ' ' In sharp contrast to the Count ' s quiet countenance was the illumi- nated face of the boy beside me. His dark eyes flashed and he wore a beautiful Arabic smile. Not a great deal older than me, this boy was travelling alone for the first time. His home was in Baghdad, but he had been sent to Canada to avoid the impending horrors he might have had to witness. He seemed out of place here. His smooth, dark head was meant for a crown; his narrow fingers should v ear ' bright, oriental rings; and only that supple figure could carry a heavy, red cloak with

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80 The Branksome Slogan the curtains were drawn back to allow the early morning sunshine to fl sh its brilliant rays into the still closed eyes of Mr. Bumby. ' •Cuthbert, said Mrs. Bumby in an annoyed tone, Wake up. ' •My dear wife, yawned Mr. Bumby, ' ' Who would ever dream of getting up at this hour. What ' s the matter? Cuthbert Bumby, don ' t tell me you ' ve forgotten your luncheon date with Mr. Whats-his-name in Chile ! No, no dear, I ' m sorry ; I ' ll get right up. What do you want with nylon anywaj Cuthbert? Why it ' s going- out of date very quickly. If I were you I ' d try and meet someone inter- ested in thy rone. Luetta Smith told me that thy rone girdles give you the most wonderful figure. Well, if a thyrone girdle could do anything for her figure it really must be wonderful. Before his wife could answer, Mr. Bumby was in the bathroom setting the shower dial at extra cold. The cold suds made him feel wonderful ; he even attempted to sing while he turned on the rinsing water. It was a gay little ditty, he was not sure of the name of it, but he thought it was something like Boog it Momma. If Junior could hear him he would taunt him for being old-fashioned, but Mr. Itumby felt that there v as nothing like the old songs, the new ones were far too dreary for his taste. Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Mrs. Bumby was getting breakfast. She glanced at the bacon and eggs which were frying themselves on the built-in stove. A small red light flashed on which meant that they were done exactly the way Mr. Bumby liked them. The coffee was bubbling a joyful tune which meant that it also was ready. She poured it into a plastic cup and put the bacon and eggs on a matching plastic plate. Breakfast, Cuthbert dear, she called, and you ' d better w ake the children. It ' s nearly ten-thirty and they have to be at school by eleven. Mr. Bumby appeared in the kitchen a few minutes later. He looked very handsome in his blue suit of nylo n-gaberdine. He kissed his wife and seated himself on one of the air-filled breakfast benches opposite her. She passed him his coffee and the morning- paper. - Hmmm, he said thoughtfully, I see that those scientists have reached Mars. I wonder what they ' ll find? Before his wife could answer, they were interrupted by the entrance of their children, Cuthbert Junior, who was seventeen, and Cerise, a pretty girl of fifteen. Mr. Bumby looked enviously at them. In his day he had had to walk two miles to school, carrying a heavy load of books, and then he had had to sit five long hours in a hard chair and