Daniel McIntyre Collegiate Institute - Breezes Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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D. M. C. I. BREEZES 33 THE SCOTT COUNTRY PE GENTLY some of the classes in the school have had the pleasure of hearing a lecture by Mr. Florence, on the “Scott Country.” This lecture was illustrated colorfully and pleasingly by many interesting and beautiful slides—these portraying both Scott’s surroundings and those of his poems and novels. In the first slide Walter Scott appears more like a kindly, comfort¬ able, country gentleman than a poet and author. Yet there is some¬ thing even about his picture, which hints at that determination of char¬ acter that was made so noticeable by ' his misfortunes in later life. The second slide shows Edinborough Castle, built high up on a rough rock in the centre of the city of Edinborough; t ' he next slide gave another view of the city with the castle and Scott’s monument in the distance. Following these were pictures of Holyrood Palace and Abbey, Smailholme tower—where Scott spent so many years of his childhood—and the tower of Selkirk, which is itself a poem with its quaintness and its memories of wonderful deeds of former inhabitants. These beautiful, picturesque, and even rugged, wild scenes give one a slight idea of how Scott was able to reflect in his poetry so much of the roughness, wildness, simplicity, grandeur, and beauty of his country. Next followed slides of the places prominent in the “Lay of the Last Minstrel”: Newark Tower, where the minstrel tells the tale; Branksome Castle, the stronghold of the Scotts; Melrose Abbey, that Scott describes so vividly through the minstrel, and the beautiful east oriel in the abbey, in front of which Michael Scott and his magic book were buried; Ilemitage Castle, from which some of the clan came at the call of their chieftain; Roslyn Chapel, of which Harold sang in the “Ballad of Rosabelle,” and the Eilden Hills that were, as the minstrel tells, once one, till cleft in three by the magic power of Michael. Then came a beautiful view of Tantallon Castle and the bass rock far out in the sea, that are depicted in Scott’s poem. Next was Mar mion, and in the Land Debatable, a gypsy village with the queen’s funny thatched roof cottage that is known as her palace; also a very beautiful, rugged, mountainous spot along the border, with a rushing roaring, mountain cascade well named as “Hell’s ’Hole,” to add to its charm and wildness. Finally there were some slides of Scott’s residences, and the beauty spots in their vicinity, including a beautiful picture of Abbotsford and the study there, where Scott wrote nearly all his novels; a picture of Scott with one of the dogs he always had with him, and Dryborough ' Abbey, where in the north transept on Saint Mary’s aisle, he is buried; and last the beautiful monument of Scott that holds in its niches statues of many of the characters immortalized by the writer’s genius. —Phyllis Paterson. No sooner do our most famous flyers accomplish one long journey than they begin planning another. If they stay on the ground more than a few days at a time their feet begin to hurt.

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32 D. M. C. I. BREEZES baking. No wonder, we began to feel enormously hungry for our dinners! Quickly we made our adieux and with happy hearts went home to plan what wonderful chocolates we would turn out at our next Domestic Science lesson. We have had that lesson, and each girl has gone home laden with a whole pound and a half boxful, made and paid for entirely by herself. Miss Dowler thought they were wonderful, too! And Mr. Campbell thought they were Picardy’s. Don’t you wish you had been around that day? —Olive Vogel, Room 52. IRISH HILLS To dream of Irish hills Is the loveliest thing in the world— The Irish hills where primrose tints The whole earth there, with colour pale As fairies’ wings, and sunlight glints Across the stream, and through the dale. To dream of Irish hills Is the loveliest thing in the world— The Irish hills, where each June night The good “wee folk” in dresses made Of petals, yellow, mauve, and white, Are dancing ’neath pale Luna’s shade. To dream of Irish hills Is the loveliest thing in the world— The Irish hills where Beauty walks In gown of gracious greens and blues, The hills where Beauty even talks, (If you can hear) and shows her views. To dream of Irish hills Is the loveliest thing in the world— Shure! the Irish hills have caught my heart, With their long, dim woods where shamrock grows, With their feet in the sea, and their topmost part Still far away, sweet, and tinted with rose. To dream of Irish hills Is the saddest thing in the world— The Irish hills, whose cool, soft rain, Whose sweet, dim sounds, and shadows pale T’ll never feel nor see again. Och, Erin! for a ship and sail! —C. C. The army was crossing a bridge and Pat got out of line. “Fall in.” said the commander. Pat looked at the water and said: “Too deep.”

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34 D. M. C. I. BREEZES ANITA’S MASTERPIECE J]VER since Anita could remember, she had travelled from place to place in the gypsy caravan. In summer they pitched camp near little streams in the beautiful Bohemian woods ; in winter they did most of their travelling. Sometimes they went on long journeys down to southern Italy, and one winter she remembered a trip far east. Anita’s mother was the gypsy queen, so Anita, unlike the other gypsy children, had very little work to do. Her only task, and it must have been a pleasant one, was to make the Romany pattern, that is a little cross-shaped cluster of flowers or twigs which was left in a con¬ spicuous place everywhere the gypsies had camped, for the benefit of those who followed their trail. Anita loved the carefree life, especially the warm summer nights when the gypsies would sit around their camp fire, singing merrily. Sometimes the older members of the camp would ask her to sing. After looking for the queen’s smile and nod of consent, she would run to their own wagon to get her mother’s guitar. She would play and sing one song after another, always keeping the Romany song till the end. Then as the last embers of the fire were slowly fading, the last bird had given its goodnight chirp, and a solemn hush iell on the Bohemian woods, Anita would sing: “Where my caravan has rested. Flowers I leave you on the grass, All the flowers of love and memory, You will find them as you pass.” So the years passed by, happy, for the Romany children, yet of late rather unrestful for the older ones. One day, when Anita was about fifteen years old, she was wandering through the woods of north¬ ern Italy, when she heard strange voices. Running silently among the trees she came upon two monks whom she knew lived in a nearby monastry. They were speaking so earnestly they did not see Anita. It was not the men, however, but what they were saying that struck Anita as being so peculiar. “I see only one thing for it,” the first monk said, “and that is to forbid the gypsies coming into our country. Of course they don’t mean any harm, but they are making our people dissatisfied.” “Yes,” agreed the other monk, “why only yesterday one of my scholars refused to work on his masterpiece, for he had seen the gypsies, free and happy because they are not bound by this sacred oath. But, Brother Angelo, tell me truly, do you think that this idea of making every class of people produce some wonderful contribution to aid higher civilization is going to measure up to our ideals?” “Ah, Brother Michael, it is in everything but music. Tf only someone would compose a piece worthy of recognition of kings, how wonderful that would be !” Anita heard no more. Could their position be as serious as that? Now she understood the vague uneasiness of her mother, and her fol¬ lowers. They had sensed the difficulty. But what was to be done? They could not give up their visits to Italy. No, there was but one