Elmwood School - Samara Yearbook (Ottawa, Ontario Canada)

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SAMARA 17 l fje ong of tije Winis PEGGY Wilson stood transfixed on a large dock in the harbor of old Boston. In front of her was an array of vessels, great and small, heavy and light, but in the middle of them all rode one great craft with her five high masts overshadowing the other boats and her majestic bow pointing sea- ward. Oh Aunt dear, she ' s beautiful, beautiful! She ' s like a great bird resting before taking off on her next great flight. Oh I could stand here and gaze at her all morning; and to think that in two days I shall be stand- ing on the deck. Oh Auntie, I ' m so ex- cited! cried the happy young lady as she stared at the great vessel. ' 1 believe you would stare at it all morning. Miss, knowing full well that there are trunks to be packed and a thousand and one other things to be attended to before we may indulge in such folly , replied her middle- aged aunt, who waited impatiently for her enraptured niece to cast her eyes once more homeward. Miss Margaret Wilson was about to make her first voyage, with her aunt, Mrs. Henry H. Wallace, who was at once amused and irritated by the childish joy her fifteen year old niece showed at the adventurous pros- pect, and she found herself looking forward to the journey to England not a little. Somehow the trunks all got packed at the Wallace home. Somehow the tedious two days passed and on the morning of the 28th day of June in the year 1851, the little party bid good-bye to the fair New World and Margaret and her aunt turned their faces toward the shores of Merry England. The great white sails of the Liberty (for such was the name of the boat) caught the breeze, and its sturdy bow cut into the waves of the treacherous Atlantic. Peggy stood watching the last glimpse of the shores of America vanish behind the far horizon, and she sighed a sigh of con- tentment as a teasing wind ruffled the tidy, little curls under her best straw bonnet. Oh Aunt , she cried, Look at the wind playing among the great white sails up there. Look at it. It ' s telling them stories. Stories of ships and pirates and gales — it knows so much Auntie; how I wish I knew what it was saying. Perhaps you will someday , answered her aunt. In the next week Peggy made the ac- guaintance of many of the passengers. She talked with the captain, who told her stories of the first mate. She admired Mrs. Spencer ' s baby and she exclaimed at the beauty of Madame Dupre. But most of all she loved to hear the endless tales of England that Lord Southey had to tell. She learnt of her heroes and her victories, of her defeats and her failures, and she looked every morning to the east in hopes of catching a glimpse of that magic land. But she never saw it. In a British port anxious relatives waited for the boat that was to bring Peggy and her aunt to them, but they waited weeks in vain. Some months after the Liberty was due, a ship came, with tidings of her. They had found her drifting many leagues off the coast of England, without crew or passengers. All was intact, the tables were set for a meal, the meat stood untouched on a platter. In the cabins were found garments laid out for the passengers; and in one they found a diary, open, in which was written in a very neat hand. To-day my aunt and I rose at the, seventh hour, and found it to be a bright and clear morning. Madame Dupre was not in the best of health, and we all missed her com- pany. Here the writing stopped, and the pen was laid down by the little writing desk. All that was missing from the craft was one small lifeboat. How the passengers left the great ship no man knows. Where they went we know not. Perhaps the wind tells the story to the great white sails of another ship, and perhaps Peggy can hear what it is saying now. For none but the wind that played through the ships great masts, and the waves that beat on her sturdy sides can tell. Ruth Osier, Form V A, Nightingale.

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16 SAMARA THE spirit that guards me day and night weeps, I am sure, continually. He must consider himself the unhappiest of guardian angels. According to the Bible, I am a sinner of the first water. For I cannot help being almost complacent abo ut the age in which I live. Nay, I go even farther. Con- tinually I thank God that our age is not like others, but the best age in human history. These years in which I have grown and during which I have studied the peoples before my birth, have been nicknamed, The Mechanical Age or The Age of Science . A more fitting title would be, The Age of Reason. The sanest man ever to live on earth was Jesus. He preached and illustrated, by his reactions to his enviorment, the ideal human life. He championed ideas of peace, bro- therly love and human dignity. Human beings before Him, had never considered these things in the light that He taught them. But the human beings after Him did. Because of Him, people have visualized and fought, for a perpetually better and more democratic world. History records the physical and mental eruptions of human progress. The yea rs 1776 and 1789 still warm the mind as if they were bright jewels. It was then that two great nations suffered the birth-pains of democracy. Gradually other poeple, seeing the fruits of government of the people, by the people, and for the people began to work for greater individual liberty. The finger of history records multiple failures. But it also verifies true progress. Our age to-day is the living proof of that progress. Democracies have struggled and advanced. They have given to their people the freer individuality they promised. They have fostered eguality. They have em- ployed science, up to 1939, in bettering man physically and mentally. They have encouraged arts and culture, not only for the leisure class but for the man and woman who labour by their hands. They have, as nations or as individuals, realized, more than ever before, their obligations towards all human beings, whatever their color or customs. They have, and are, taking specific steps towards deeper understanding and fellow-ship between nations all over the world. What is important, these things they have done and are doing, not through force but through the appeal to rationalism and something rather new — the understanding and sympathy with other people ' s problems. These things, meaning nothing less than the nearest approach yet, to Jesus ' example, make our age, 1 think, the greatest in the history of the world. True, there is still passionate greed, hate, and injustice. Human nature has within itself the seeds that degrade its dignity. They are evidence of the animal within us. They will remain with us untill we are all in paradise. But the spirit in which we are fighting for victory is concrete proof of our advance, of our greatness, of our sanity. Lette McGreer, VI Upper. Fry. THE RIVER River, O River from whence do you come With your smooth -flowing back and your wild dancing foam? Onward and onward you flow brave and free, Till you merge with the tempests and tides of the sea. My home is on high, the River replied, In the cool crystal springs on the wild mountain side. My course is tempestuous, rapid and free, As I merrily, merrily roll to the sea. River, O River, what sights you have seen! The discovers ' pathway and trail you have been. On you Indians and coureurs de bois wander- ed free Past the hills and the fields to the cliffs of the sea. Man and his works only last for a day, Roared the River, But endless my sway. I have seen what has been and shall see much to be. As forever I roll to the depths of the sea. Mary Osier, From VI, Upper.

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18 SAMARA mmt Wnits for i o iWan RAEBURN slipped quickly down the lane, over his low back fence, and into the woodshed. It was dusk outside, and through the hazy fog he could see the lights of the Cannon ' s house across the road. They had been on all week at this time, but only when something important has happened does a man notice details like that. Some- thing important, yes, something important had happened to Raeburn. As he crouched in the shadow of the shed, peering through the dirty window pane, vivid pictures sprang into his mind, headlines of to-morrow ' s papers, Body of Noted Scientist Found in Laboratory , Explosive Expert J. K. Swinn Murdered , Mysterious Death at Research Building. These pictures and many others, police photographers, detectives, finger- print experts. . . . Fingerprints? No, no, he was safe there. For a moment he had forgotten those rubber gloves in his po cket, but if he had happened to leave any, well, he was working with Swinn, and if he couldn ' t leave fingerprints in the lab., who could? To-morrow he would play the part of the suspected assistant, anxious to help the police, but inwardly he would gloat. After all these years of planning he had his re- venge. Swinn didn ' t realize that day in March, ten years ago, when he applied for, and received, the patent on his subordinate ' s invention, just what the consequences would be, but Raeburn did. All these years he had waited patiently for an opportunity, and at last it had come. It was too bad that the new experiment gave off chlorine gas, and nobody knew it. He had been rather clever there. And now it was all over, all but the alibi, and that would be very easy, lean always stayed home on washdays, and Aunt Edna would be there too. There was no time to waste. As the way was clear, he half-opened the door and crept out. The light was on in his kitchen, but when he peered cautiously over the window sill the room was empty. Good. Quickly, but very quietly, he opened the door and stepped in. There was a bottle of milk on the stove. Jean must be upstairs. The hands of the kitchen clock said 6.15, but he set them back to 5.30. The janitor would discover the body soon, and these forty-five minutes made all the difference in the world. If he drew their attention to the time, Edna and his wife would testify that he had been home by twenty-five minutes to six. A minute later he had slipped into the living room, reset the only other downstairs clock, and was out the door. He ran across the lawn, through the back gate, down the lane, and into Springdale Road, then walked along it until he reached Maple Avenue. Turning up Maple, he was soon at his own front door, and, slipping his key in the lock, he entered. The light from the living room shone in an oblong patch on the hall floor. He called, Hello, dear . No answer. Jean must be lying down, and Aunt Edna was always in her own room at this time. Funny, though, the house seemed very quiet. He climbed the stairs slowly, feeling tense inside, but forcing his face to look calm. As he opened his bedroom door he called again, Hello, dear, are you. . . . ? But she wasn ' t. The room was empty. That pressure inside his chest stopped suddenly, changed to a vacuum, and fell to the pit of his stomach. Nonsense, she must be down in the cellar. Doing a little extra washing, no doubt. Quickly he ran downstairs, through the kitchen, and reached the cellar door. Locked. Of course it was locked! Hadn ' t he snapped the key off yesterday by mistake, and hadn ' t the locksmith said he would come to-morrow, Tuesday? Turn- ing around slowly he noticed propped up against the milk bottle, and hardly visible, a white envelope. Quickly he seized it, tore open the flap, and read: Dear Paul, Edna and I are motoring Uncle Joe to Wakesville. He came through on the 5.05 and missed the connection. Your dinner is on the stove. Back about 8.00. Hope this will not be inconvenient. Love, Jean Margaret Ann McKee, Form VI, Upper. Nightingale.