Branksome Hall - Slogan Yearbook (Toronto, Ontario Canada)

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28 The Branksome Slogan The water lapped against the rocky shore of the island and, together with, the scent of pines and blueberries, it lulled our senses into a trance The goddess of night stepped shimmering along the ridge of evening. On the highest mountain peak she stopped — the most exquisite being I had yet seen or visioned. Her hair was like a calm sea at midnight and her hands like delicate carvings of purest wax. The gown which shroud- ed her graceful form in vapoury whiteness might have been fashioned from baby clouds at dusk, so soft and light it seemed. From a silver pitcher she poured the moonlight which filled an ebon world with golden radiance. Taking a sparkling needle in her hands she pricked a million pin-holes in the sky. Points of light danced on the velvet blackness of the lake beneath. As her lovely form faded into obscurity she threw a silver kiss to the world and the symphony of the night began. It surged from clammy coves in the depths of the waters and soared to the silver summits of the mountains. Even its crescendos blended with the quiet of the night, for when they ceased momentarily the silence became so profound that the air seemed to have lost its power of conveying sounds. Presently a lighter theme crept into the music and a small light be- gan to bob up and down above the eastern horizon. As it neared the earth I could perceive that it illuminated the wizened face of a very old man. His small, wiry frame was bent almost double by the weight of paint pots and brushes suspended from a yoke across his shoulders, but there were centuries of happiness etched upon his countenance. He was setting out for the morning ritual of his eternal task of keeping the flowers ' colours clear and bright. Just as he reached the eastern horizon, the painter tripped on a silver ribbon stretched between two mountains. His lovely colours flow- ed across the sky in a mad profusion of colour. With one loud chord the music fell silent. The whole world seemed standing on tip-toe, breath- less and dumb. ' ' Lazy bones sleeping in the sun, How do you think we ' ll ever get the days work done? Peg ' s hoarse chant, very much off-key, transported me to reality. Wrig- gling half way out of my sleeping bag, I hurled a convenient pine cone in her general direction. As we sat on a rocky point eating our breakfast, the sparkling ' ' Singing Waters and the purple Hillory mountains beckoned enticingly to us. CAROL HENDERSON, Form IV.

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The Branksome Slogan 27 ZEKE: This is Zeke Chimpanzee signing off for ' ' Smoke Skreens, those wonderful cigarettes with that delightful aroma that simply knocks you out! ' The Atomics, was written especially for radio by Theodore Bombshell. We ' ll see you tomorrow. Until then — Goodbye. JUDY SHOEBOTTOM, Form III. Nocturne Too tired even to eat Peg and I crawled into our sleeping (bags just at dusk. Thirty miles ! We decided belatedly that it had ibeen far too great an undertaking for the first day of our canoe trip. We had made camp on a small island in Lake Singing Waters. A graceful fringe of silver lace which the evergreens made on the western shore contrasted with the majestic forms of the Hillory mountains, silent witnesses to centuries of beauty, on the east. At the School Farm

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The Branksome Slogan 29 Feast on Two Burners As the sun completed its downward curve and buried its face for another day in choppy blue and white St. Lawrence river, the sailing craft ' ' Lotus anchored for the night. The surrounding country was serene and peaceful, but aboard the ' ' Lotus confusion reigned. On board the clatter of pots and pans was mingled with a profusion of nau- tical oaths. This was the moment for which ration books had been mutilated, grocers had been coaxed and ibutchers flattered. For now a meal, nay, not a meal, a feast was to be created. The captain of the three man crew leaned against his tiller, his hat cocked at a jaunty but somewhat weary angle, and roared out in- structions and criticisms. The greater part of these were ignored by the crew, which strove and laboured mightily in the galley. Cartons were unpacked, bags unearthed and cans discovered in various unlikely places. At last the pre-culinary arrangements had been made. All that remained was to light the stove, cook and devour the meal. Then the two galley slaves would lounge in luxurious comfort while the captain did the dishes. To the unknowing landlubber preparing a meal may seem compara- tively simple, but alas, the sea-going or nautical stove does not consist of a system of ingenious buttons that turn on harmless electric coils. On the galley stove, it is found necessary to provide a certain degree of pressure. The above pressure must be provided by a series of small hand pumps. If the pressure is too high, the galley ' becomes thoroughly seared and the cook becomes as well done as the steaks. If the pressure is too low the results are far less dramatic — in fact, nothing happens. Thus it might be ascertained by the discerning reader that a great deal of precision and experience is necessary in the art of nautical cookery. Unfortunately these requirements were not among the many attain- ments of the crew of the Lotus. The stove fizzled — the stove exploded! The once neat and compact galley became blackened and charred. Potatoes floated about in the bilge, pots were blasted over the side into the depths, and various cans of vegeta)bles were mixed with the guilty coal oil. The first cook, recoiling from the shock of the explosion, reached behind her for sup- port. Unfortunately raw steak on a slippery board does not afford the best of support! Cook number two beat a timely but unpremeditated retreat to the wash room. The reader might at this point think the crew of the Lotus would become discouraged. This was the case. Vows in blood were taken on