Eastern High School of Commerce - Eastern Echo Yearbook (Toronto, Ontario Canada)

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46 EASTERN ECHO RT T Ries The Qpen Road 'lfVeoIth I ask not, hope nor love, Nor a friend to know me: All I ask, the heaven above Ana' the road below me. -R. L. Stevenson. AVVRENCE B. JUPP speaks of youth being indissolubly associated with the song of the open road. Perhaps that explains, t-hen, why I always envied the dusty tramps to whom the open road is home lit they could be said to have homesj. Wanderlust is innate in youth. Old-age has to be con-tent with a Chair in a chimney-corner, rand .must perforrce live on memories. Not for him the rude, cold blast! , c On the ranch where I was born, there was a very high hill. Wlhen my day's 'work was done, I delighted in climbing to the top of thatrhill, from where I could wat-ch t'he sun sink into the far horizon, sharing his blood-red splendour wit'h all the wes-tern sky. It was an ideal place to dream, there in the vesper silence that was broken only by the fading song of a meadow-lark. Some -distance away I cou-ld see two roads lying gray and bare andnarrowing in the distance to a tiny thread. Une road ran to the west and to the city-the smoky, noisy city where huge skyscrapers with grasp-ing fingers reached into the blue ethereal sky, where dazzling lights in luminous display Flasfhed -high above the crowded thorouighfaresg where gay shops exhibited tempting waresg where noise and rabble made one forget -cares for one brienf moment. I would not yield to these. T'he open road was mulch more alluring. It had much to offer that the city had 'n-ot. E The other road, the road that tramlps wandered, ran to the ,nor-th. It was dusty, rough, full of curvesg and it was bordered by untrimmed hedges that were showered in sum-mer with dust a-mid luscious red berries. The bushes were haunts for the birds, and from here, too, squirrels chattered incessantly and showed white teeth to intruders. Some distance up the road, a row of trees grew on either side, their over-:burdened limbs forming a canopy over the road beneat-h. Every fall gypsies came do-wn this road on their way south. I-Iow I envied the care-free life of these merry folk who, with their brown faces, brass ear-rings and scarlet blouses, were not unli-ke tihe autumn woods garbed in leaves of brown, yellow and red. Oh, how I longed to travel the open road! An-d -how many stories

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EASTERN ECHO - 45 Sundays the ministers put new hope into the hearts of many in their congregation and teach them to, Do unto others as you would they should do unto you. A few words of praise and cheer when we are downcast and depressed will go a long way in helping us to face life with a smile and make the best of our situation. Great orators as Demosthenes of Greece, or Cicero of Rome, have so influenced multi- tudes of people that tyranny and corruption have been overthrown, and industry and culture arisen in their place. Good poetry helps us In understand the wonders of nature and Fills our minds with beautiful and inspiring -thoughts. The direct, clear, simple and powerful words of Abraham Lincoln were the chief cause of the abolition of slavery in the United States and his Gettysburg -Xddress will always lixe in the memory of the American people. Even in our own public speaking work. by learning to ta-lk intelligently and constructively, we are de- veloping self--confidence and increasing our chance of success in the future. - In conclusion, talk has helped in the making of history, in relieving pain and sorrow and in developing character. E C. A. Bailey. 4GZ. Essays Inspiration T is said that inspiration comes but once. It is like a glowing Hanie. It shows up the dark paths of doubt. weariness. unhappiness an-l hopelessness with its white burning flame. It shows up every crevice, hole and twist in the dark path you are wandering on. The path is shown to you as clear as light before you, so as you can go on accomplishing what you have pondered over for so long. To illustrate this, here is a story of a girl, a school-girl. who was to hand in the next day's story. She is tired, vexed and all ready to give up as hope- less. Arden was her name. She looked out the window at her side. where -the lacy curtains were billowing in like clouds. .-Xrden looked out upon cobbled roads, quaint old houses, dared with age, and as she looked on up the street. which rose to a hill. a street-musician came strolling down the street. with his violin cupped lovingly under his chin. Arden could not hear the music yet. so she leaned over the window to catch the haunting strains of the wandering gypsy's violin. X sad. unforgetable and inspiring melody poured from the musician's box. The girl could not place the song for a time. but as the street-player shuffled oh' into the misty twil-ight. the tune struck some forgotten cord in Arden's mind, it was Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. The song's dreamy and sad melody made something burst into flame in the girl's brain and she returned to the desk and sat down and wrote one of the sweetest and most appealing short stories ever handed into her class. Inspiration has been sung by singers. written of by poets and writers and acted by players, but to this girl on that night, inspiration seemed to comc from out of the sky. just like a falling star. But in conclusion, l sav in this case it was the 'homeless violinist's music that showed the path to success up in brilliant relief in .Nrden's deadened brain. ' -E. Hnrurll. 3S2.

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EASTERN ECHO 47 I wove around it. I wondered if age-old trees, carefully guarding that well-worn way should speak, would they tell of primitive caravans. rumbling along, hard-pressed by treacherous Redmen, riding with immuta-ble faces, mile after mile? And now, today, my dreams have matured into realit-ies. 1 am at one with the free companions off the ever-open road. I have journeyed over ways that follow ragged shore-lines, and watched white phantom- like ships stealth-ily push out to sea-ships that, as a child, made me dream of foreign ports, mahogany-faced men with golden rings in their ears, and flaming bandannas, or of Maseheld's . . . island in the Spanish Seas, tiny white houses and orange trees, of coral reefs and cinnamon groves. I have travelled roads at midnight-roads that, lying s. dreamy beneath night's velvety mantle, reminded me very much of Alfred Noyes' The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, The .moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the puirple moor . . ' It is a great life, this. No cramping betwixt four wallsg only the high roof of heaven above, and the flames of a roadside fire leaping merrily. It is a great life! -Florence Bates, 4S2. Cn Writing Short Stories WAS talking to three friends of mine the other day about the relative merits of the popular modern-day authors. AOne main- tained that, in his -opinion, there would only be one Edgar VValflace. Another believed only in P. G. Wodeihouse, while the feminine member of our quartette held out for love stories and added, rather discon- certingfly, that she didn't give a hang who wrote them. Now you may be wondering why my opinion was not expressed. That is the problem wh-ich I am still facing, for, you see. l have to Write a short story and I have to see which type, if any, is apt In be most appreci-ated by the readers. I t-hink we shall 'decide on the love story. So let us accordingly draw up our system of campaign. First, of course, from the male standpoint, comes the heroine. Let us consider what size she should be. How about shoulder high? That should satisfy all readers of all statures for -they can then work out the details for themselves and everybody will be happy. ller eyes. ah! there is an all-important item. lt seems to be the practice of most uf our writers to give the heroine some distinctive quality. Now I read not long ago of a heroine who had violet eyes. I still am rather sceptif cal on this point for I have never seen a pair of eyes that even approached violet. However. I shall not condemn the author in question. rather shall T give my support for his originality. And for the sake of being a li-ttle out -of the ordinary, don't you think we could give our heroine violet eyes too?