Elmwood School - Samara Yearbook (Ottawa, Ontario Canada)

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SAMARA 31 These are only a few. Don ' t forget to send them back and tell me what you think. Write soon, Love, Jane. Catherine Hees, VA Nightmgale Followed Walking home late one night On my way through the park, I heard muffled footsteps Approach in the dark. I quickened my pace, But was only to find I was still being followed By footsteps behind. Should I scream? Should I yell? Were the thoughts in my head- No, that wouldn ' t do, I might be shot dead! Summ ' ning up courage, I whirled right around. Prepared to face danger, Feet firm on the ground. Go away, go right home And never again Must you follow me down Through the dark narrow lane! So, turning around With a sad soulful bark, The little brown pup Disappeared in the dark. Wendy Quain, VI Upper Keller There once was a baby so pink. Who said, I cannot sleep a wink . So I ' ll just take a look. At this wonderful book; It ' ll help me to doze off I think! Susan Brain, IVA Fry A Winter Holiday It was Christmas afternoon; the thrill and excitement of opening new presents and examining them had died down. My young cousins, who were spending Christmas with us, had become tired of playing indoors and wished to try out their new toboggan. I promptly offered to take them to the park which was some distance across the city. My offer was hailed by squeals of delight as they rushed to get ready. I stretched lazily, rose and peered out the window. The snow was whirling down and the wind was blowing hard. It was almost a blizzard. I shuddered at the thought of leaving the warm fireside but nevertheless I went to get ready. I struggled into wet ski-pants and pulled on my tight ski-boots. A4y cousins, Jill and Bobby, were waiting impatiently at the front door when I went out. As I pulled on my cold, wet mitts, we started off, a seemingly happy trio. The wind was cold and cutting, and as we boarded the street-car I discovered that it was packed with other children who were being taken to the park by good-intentioned parents. We had to stand all the way. Sleds fell on me, I was kicked and bumped and when we finally emerged I felt as if it was time to go home. We reached the top of the first hill which I thought looked rather exciting, but I was informed that it was awfully slow and only good to practice on. We went down it very nicely except that Bobby fell off before we reached the bottom of the hill. We stayed at that hill for several more turns, until Bobby suggested we go to Suicide Hill , to which Jill agreed enthusiastically. I consented to go, hoping the hill would not be all its name conveyed. When we arrived, I found it to be quite steep with the snow firmly packed down which made it very fast. By this time I was freezing cold; my feet were like blocks of ice, but when I suggested that I wait at the top of the hill, I was told I was scared; so I had to go down to reassure them (and myself) of my courage. The toboggan was a three- seater which seated two comfortably.

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30 SAMARA SeKlo jUite G Mf. Section The River Dear Marion: They say you find out something new every day. I often wondered what my grand- mother did all day, and today, when my mother and I were hunting through the last of her possessions, I found out she had been an invalid the last two years of her life, and when we moved to our new house up the Rideau River a bit, she slept in the corner room with its huge windows. The view from there was lovely. Granny had always fancied herself an author— she was planning to take up writing when she got old and write a sen- sational novel. However, she never did get old; yet as she sat by her window all day she wrote down snatches of description of what she saw outside. These are what I found. Maybe she thought it would be published some day, like Pepys, Davy or something, I don ' t know, but I was never one to disobey the wishes of the departed, so I am sending them to you to see if you think they are worth bothering about. December 26: A group of skaters racing and twirling, falling, breathless; and then dashing over the ice as if blown by the chasing winds. The air was harsh, tearing and pulling their bright scarves and streaming hair. The sky reflected the blazing of yester- day, giving only a soft glow. The river was a smooth, grey, cold stone, the wind driving against it, making it smoother and barer, sweeping and whistling across it. January 8: Last night the snow fell, gliding silently, covering each filigree twig, weighing down each outstretched pine spray, and covering the wide, motionless river with an untouched, unbroken whiteness. There was no sound, the snow almost flowed, landing gently on the soft drifts. The great patches of it made the evergreens droop, as if sleeping, lulled by the ever whirling flakes, falling drowsily on, and on, in continuous motion. The darkness descended slowly, the whirhng stopped, the lights from the bridge sparkled on whiteness which caught their yellow glow. The air was clear, and from behind the snow- laden trees, I could hear the roar of the city. The bridge ' s shadow leaned silently towards the house— April 21: The mottled grey ice had been swept on by the racing water, the sky had changed, from winter gray, to the pale water- colour blue of spring. The air was steeped in the smell of fresh, brown mud and wet leaves, new buds, and melting ice. The first brownish- green grass was sprouting and the low bushes on the other side were wading in the flooding water; the birds have built a nest outside the window. This is such an exciting spring; everything is in such a hurry! The palest blue was in the water, and the fresh white spring clouds sailed on the ripples. The maple buds flew past the window, on their way to start growing, and the warm yellow sunlight thawed out the frozen ground. July 9: It is raining to-day, spattering and splashing against the window in a syncopated pattering rhythm. The sky was washed into the river, the colour was washed from the trees and the ground— everything was gray, everything was wet, the river sloshed and rippled as the sky emptied itself into it. August 14: The sun blazed on the water; the heat dulled the brain; the pulsing hum of the crickets made my eyelids droop; the drowsy ease at which the river moved, mean- dering along, resting in cool marshes, calmly gliding over the rocks, slipping and sliding, dazzled by every beating ray of the sun, made me nod, watching its aimless journey down to the sea, unhurried and calm. It was the lovely strong blue of the late summer, and already the goldenrod was showing splashes of bril- liant yellow on the opposite bank. Summer is almost over.

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32 SAMARA Because I had the longest legs, I was kindly given the back seat. Some joking father pushed us off before we were ready. We slid sideways for a bit, and a sheet of snow rose before us. Gradually we righted ourselves and gained speed. The snow blinding our view, we hit an unexpected bump and I was grovelling head first in a snowbank. I ached from head to foot and I was soaked, as the snow dripped unmercifully down my neck. I shivered and shook as I regretfully regarded the rent in my ski-pants and sucked my cut finger. My two cousins pulled me out of the snow, I assuring them I was fine. I gently suggested however, that we start back, to which, to my surprise, they readily agreed. We started the long trek back to the street- car. We were able to get a seat this time but the tram was freezing and smelled of wet wool and oranges. Walking up the road to the house, I noticed the warm friendly lights which were so welcoming to the homecomers. We would go inside, remove our wet clothing and lie in front of the warm fire, all the warmer and more delightful because we had been out in the cold all afternoon. We would have some steaming cocoa and relax— a well earned rest. How could I enjoy all this if I had stayed within the comfort of the house all day. It was the coming home that was so nice— and in spite of my torn ski-pants, aching body and cut finger, I found myself saying how lovely it had been. Diane Boyd, VI Upper Keller Fry House Play My head was whirling round and round. Snakes and giraifes were on the ground. What is that terrible creature o ' er? Oh, I declare it is a boar! Now what can all these animals be That in a circle encompass me? Perhaps if I should give a scream I ' d wake up from this horrible dream! I rubbed my eyes, and what a day— Because, my gosh, it ' s Fry House Play. Nancy Perry, VC Fry A Trip to Irazu It was a dreary morning and the clouds hung low over the surrounding mountains as we hitched our lunch bags on our bicycles. We had always wanted to take the trip, but as we started pedalling down the muddy road I wondered if we really should go on a day like that. As we pushed on through the countryside the mud huts lessened and the rain came down in a slow prickling drizzle. Once we passed two gaily painted wooden carts laden with fresh coffee berries and massive bunches of bananas, slowly making its way down the muddy road. The bare- footed men gave us a cheery good-morning and lazily poked the reluctant oxen with their long pointed sticks to hurry them on their way. Suddenly, as if in a dream, the rain stopped, and the clouds were left behind, and for the first time we were able to see our surround- ings. We were riding high on a mountain road carved out of solid rock, and on our left a beautiful panorama unrolled before us like a thick carpet in a mansion lobby. Down in the valley, we could see the quaint adobe huts with their red tiled roofs surrounded by fields of rich green corn; while in the background the tall blue mountains bathed in the warm morning sunshine looked even more majestic than ever. As we got nearer the top of the volcano, we passed one solitary house, and already the morning work had started and the hum of the busy people sounded everywhere. Women were hanging out the morning wash, as half- naked children waddled around in the red mud. Dogs chased out at us barking and leap- ing up at us, welcoming the unexpected visitors. In the background men were busy picking coffee oflf the small green bushes, and as each basket was filled it was dumped into a waiting cart and hauled off to town. The sweet smell of fresh cornbread came from a primitive outdoor oven as we pedalled down the road, and the fresh dew was spark- ling on the trees and grass. We stopped to put on our sweaters, for we were getting