Branksome Hall - Slogan Yearbook (Toronto, Ontario Canada)

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The Branksome Slogan 21 the arrival home, windblown and tired ... the soft, friendly, nicker of comradeship . . . and then the Jong sickness, the infection . . . and now — death. In the dim light he could read the name plate over the horse ' s stall. ' ' Black Magic, it said. ' ' Black Magic, repeated the man slowly, ilt would take more than that now . . . Black Magic .... He looked at the dead horse, sprawled weirdly on the ground, legs askew, neck twist- ed. Nothing can save you now . . . . a meaningless laugh. Good only for the glue factory. A grim joke it was ! this horse, his friend, immor- talized by a bottle of glue ! The man laughed again, a little woodenly. The raw, chilling wind moaned and sighed outside. It began to rain. The clouds, as if drawn by some invisible hand, closed over the earth. Rain tore and lashed the land. At intervals lightning pierced the gloom ; thunder broke the ghostly stillness. The man, driving fiercely, was indifferent to the raging of the elements which washed the country on all sides. Behind him, in the truck, the great bulk of the black horse slipped and lurched as they sped onwards over almost impossible roads. The rain splashed against the windshield, and ran down in sheets of rippling water. The gale howled past the windows Nothing can save you now! wind and water beat out and screamed Nothing can save you now! they shouted in ridicule. A shaft of lightening rent the sky, mocking him. The man bowed his head, insensible to all but the fateful words, pounding, surging, bursting through his head, written, seared, as with a red-hot iron, before his eyes .... The truck hit the telephone post at full speed ; but the noise of the crash was deadened by thunder. A second streak tore through the heavens, lighting up the wreckage. In the van, the black hulk of the horse had slid up against the backboard in a grotesque heap and re- mained there, quivering. In the cab, a figure lay crumpled over the steering-wheel. The broken windshield, cracked, and spattered with blood, told its tale. Through it the man stared with unseeing eyes. He was quite dead. ANNE BURTON, Form IV.

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20 The Branksome Slogan Black Magic A bitter wind swept over forest and field. Here and there a stray leaf, torn from an already bare tree, was borne along in the wake of the gale. Tufts of yellow grass bent in patient submission against the earth. Sombre banks of clouds ranged themselves on all sides, forming an impenetrable grey blanket, covering the sky. Outlines of far away hills stood out in blank silhouette, a tracery of wildly waving limbs and branches on their summits. The countryside lay bleak and ravaged. The wind moaned through the tossing elm trees and swung the weathervane wildly. The gust flung bits of straw in mad arcs and capers across the barnyard. It swung open the partly closed barn door. Dust, dead leaves, pieces of hay, and old newspapers whirled inside. The horse, spent and disease-ridden, stood weakly in a corner of the stall, head down, legs braced, as if in attempt to thwart the inevitable end. His coat, a lusterless dull black was stretched thinly over the shriv- eled frame; mane and tail hung lifelessly. The barn door burst open, rattling and banging. The horse started, faltered, and slowly slipped to the ground. Then all was still but for the wind moaning softly out- side. Anyone is sad at the death of a friend — sadder still if that friend is an animal, dependent on one for life and comfort and happiness. The man stood, staring down at the horse, unbelieving. He had known that death must come — gangrene of the lungs, the veterinary had said, shaking his head ominously. He had known that one day, near or far away, he would find the animal lying there, dead. He had known what the reward of long months of fruitless toil against infection would be. And yet he could not believe it. The sightless, sunken eyes, the stiffen- ing limbs ; the tangled swirl of the tail ; the huge helpless blackness of the body lying in a tumbled heap on the golden straw — all seemed like a fantasy, frightening, but unreal. Memories floated before him ... the little colt in the meadow, bucking, and shying at clumps of yellow, waving buttercups . . . sunlight gleaming on the pitchy-dark coat .... his pricked ears, flaring nostrils, and proud spirited carriage ... the joyous gallops after hounds ....

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22 The Branksome Slogan Woman with a Candle ' This painting, ladies and gentlemen, is the original work of de Prsto, donated by Lord Bendal in 1860. It is entitled Landscape of California and is considered one of his finest works. The straggling group of onlookers round the art-gallery quide were bored. A few walk- ed away. One or two polite ones remarked, ' ' How delightful! or Is that so? The guide moved on to the next picture. And this, ladies and gentlemen, is a most remarkably beautiful piece of work. The artist is unknown. Note how lifelike, how finely done it is. Note how the eyes follow one round the room when one moves. The group obediently moved and, true enough, it was amaz- ingly human. Entitled simply Woman with a Candle, it was the portrait of a beautiful, dark-haired woman with a heavy wrap drawn round her shoulders. A lighted candle was in her hand, the fitful light of which threw into bold relief her fine features and the folds of her gown. Her nar row white fingers tapered into long nails and her position was grace- ful and poised, but what struck one immediately, and lingered after in one ' s memory, were her weird, staring eyes. Their colour was not clear, ibut there was a little ring of white around them lending an expression of terror, and giving a touch of mystery to the whole picture. The sight- seers were very impressed and paused to wonder before moving on. One man remained, gazing at the portrait as if puzzled, amazed. He was a thin, foreign-looking man, with his hat drawn down. A jagged, white scar ran down one cheek. For a moment he stood rapt, motionless in front of the picture. Strange, . . . strange, he muttered, shaking his head, and quickened his pace to join the guide, who was now pointing out the merits of a still-life painting. That night the watchman at the art gallery was confronted by the stranger. I left my umibrella here this morning, he said. Would you let me in so that I can get it? Why can ' t you come in the morning? grumtoled the sleepy watch- man, but nevertheless, he took out his great bunch of keys and opened the door. He paused, with the flashlight pointed on the man ' s face. Tell me as soon as you come out, see? I ' ll be right here. No funny stuff, mind you ! Petri, for that was the foreigner ' s name, entered, and with no diffi- culty found his umibrella. He was turning to go when he remembered the picture — the picture of the dark woman. As if by a magnet, his footsteps were drawn down the dark echoing hall, up the three steps. He switched on the light and approached the portrait. Woman tvith a