Elmwood School - Samara Yearbook (Ottawa, Ontario Canada)

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SAMARA 21 Senior j£.iieMifi4f SeoUtut Finale The curtains were closed, and the threatre dark, The doors were shut, and the seats were stark, No scenery was up, and the floors were bare, The stage stood alone in want of repair; It thought of those years that had now gone by On a memory clear which never could die. It thought of its actors so famous and great Who played on its floor in that early date; It thought of the plays both great and small Unceasingly given from Spring to Fall; It thought of the beauty of well-known lines. Written by authors of far-gone times. The colour of costumes ornamented and gay. Of every period in the old fashioned day; Long skirts, gold slippers, daggers and tights, All built up the plays to the greatest of heights; But now it lay empty, silent and bleak. Shrouded in sorrow, humble and meek. With the hopes still high for future times, When plays might be given, and pantomimes. And so it stands, proud and haughty indeed. With a beckoning stage some actors might heed. Gillian Neville, V A The Beginning of an Avalanche It was a clear, cold, crisp winter ' s day. The snow was heaped in gleaming white drifts around the cosy little houses, nestled between the sheltering peaks of the surrounding moun- tains. The sun shone high above the white caps of these towering heights, making the snow glisten as millions of tiny diamonds; hazy curls of pale grey smoke drifted lazily from the sturdy red chimneys of the little houses. The blue of the sky made a heavenly background to a calm scene. But then, as one walked across the village square, one became aware of sharp gusts of wind throwing stinging particles of snow into the air and whipping the smoke into ragged shreds. It had been warm and sunny all day and now a wind was blowing; that sudden change of weather often spelt disaster. The few people out at that hour of a cold day began instinctively to hurry towards their homes. The wind began to moan and whistle through the trees and the sun disappeared behind banks of dark and ominous clouds. The wind blew stronger, shrieking its way across the valley, shifting huge drifts of snow. Not a soul was in sight. Then it began. The ominous, rending, ever-growing rumble was heard in the distance; small puffs of snow could be seen rising from the awful mountainside. Then they became a huge swirling mass of snow rushing on downwards toward what destruction it could wreak. Somewhere up on the mountain, directly in the path of this destructive monster, was a tiny shack where one could see the far-off figures of frantic running people. They were trying to escape that ghastly death, but soon the white cloud enveloped them noiselessly and rushed on down, unmindful of the horror it had already created and was on its way to do. The avalanche had begun and nothing short of a miracle could stop it. Susan Brain, V A Something to Remember Soldiers, sailors and airmen died here. They were buried here. In all the seasons. Summer, Winter, Autumn and Spring they are remembered. Many live in the memories of strangers, tourists and countrymen. Some dwell in the hearts of relations, friends and loved ones. Others are remembered by fellow soldiers. Almost every day one can see a man or woman walking along the paths, stopping

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20 SAMARA titled: H r m tEsr uj mcEg '

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22 SAMARA once in a while before a white cross to read the name. Many find the cross they are look- ing for, others do not. Some bring flowers or a plant, others bring love and a prayer. Whether rich or poor, each person carries a memory. Spring is the time in which Nature pays her homage to those who died and to those who reht the torch and now carry it high. The sun warms the earth and brings green grass and the trees begin to bud. The birds return to build their nests. They fill the air with music. The sky takes on a clean, fresh hue and leaves its reflection in drying puddles. Beneath the earth of Vimy Ridge lie the bodies of many brave men killed in battle. Poppies cover this ground for they grow well in the fertile earth. Their colour is a rich crimson. They are placed row on row and as they wave in the breeze they resemble a flaming carpet. The poppies are a symbol of the life that is continued even though thou- sands die throughout its course. With a background of deep red, a warm green and a pale blue, the white crosses are easily distinguished. On each cross is written in black the soldier ' s name, rank and service. Some soldiers are unknown, so their crosses remain unnamed. There are many hundreds of these crosses. Officers and men of the ranks are buried side by side, for they died fighting for one cause— freedom. The fields which are famous as the resting places of many soldiers are found in the little European country of Belgium. By many they are called Flanders fields. John McCrae ' s words embodied all the hopes and fears of the fighting men who rest here when he said, If you break faith with us who die, we shall not sleep though poppies grow in Flan- ders fields . Barbara Kennedy, V B Donald the Donkey Donald was a donkey. But in his heart he thought he was a thoroughbred race horse. He loved to think of himself as the horse belonging to a Roman senator. In reality he belonged to an old man who owned a livery stable. Now this man was a very charitable old man who would lead Donald to all the bazaars and dog shows which were given in the city. Poor Donald would be put in the shafts of a brightly-painted donkey cart; his master would tie a gaudy-looking ribbon around his neck; then children would chmb into the cart and off they would go. One day, Donald was in high spirits. It was a gorgeous summer day and Donald thought he would be able to eat grass in the field without being disturbed. He decided he would pretend to be the horse who pulled the Roman senator ' s chariot in the great race at the forum. Around and around the field he galloped. Suddenly he heard his master ' s voice calling. Somehow it was not like the Roman senator ' s voice. It sounded Hke the man who owned the livery stable. At the gate, Donald stopped his gal- loping and looked around. There was an old man, wrinkled and grey, with white hair and grey whiskers. He looked dressed up, as if in his Sunday suit. Beside him was a brightly painted donkey-cart; in his hands he held a gaudy-looking ribbon. Donald sighed mourn- fully. His day of pleasure was over. This gray, wrinkled, old man was the m n who was so charitable, the man who owned the livery stable; this man was Donald ' s master. Hee haw, hee haw , sighed Donald to the other donkeys in the field, I wish that I could be a race horse who never had to pull children in a cart and who never had to wear a gaudy ribbon . But, Donald, you are a donkey; you can never be a race-horse. Is that impossible to realize? Donkeys cannot be horses , said Elmer, his friend. I am content to be a donkey; why is it so hard for you? Come along, Donald , called his master. Donald trotted obediently over to his master ' s side. Mr. Williams tied the gaudy-looking ribbon around Donald ' s neck, and then he put Donald in the shafts of the brightly-painted donkey cart, and off they went to a garden party given by a rich old lady. Mr. Williams