Elmwood School - Samara Yearbook (Ottawa, Ontario Canada)

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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

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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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SAMARA 23 drove through the beautiful gardens of the estate where the old lady lived. She greeted them and soon the cart was filled with scream- ing, laughing children. Donald hated chil- dren! He saw the mothers wave good-bye and he heard Mr. Williams tell him to go ahead. Suddenly Donald rebelled. Upon rounding a corner, he started to gallop. Faster, faster, he went. The children were screaming at the top of their lungs. Mr. Wil- liams was yeUing at him to stop. All the mothers and fathers and men employed by the old lady were chasing the cart, trying to stop it and rescue the children. All this noise made Donald think of the Roman chariot race he had been dreaming of back in his field this afternoon. Oh, my! thought Donald, I must win this race, I must! On and on he galloped. Over the beautiful lawns and flower beds he went. The children were still screaming, Mr. Williams still yeUing at him to stop, and the guests still chasi ng after him. After galloping around the estate, Donald was quite tired, so he stopped because he thought he must have won the race by now. Mr. Williams was very cross with Donald. The mothers vowed their children would never ride in a donkey-cart so long as they lived. The old lady banished Mr. Williams from the estate. Poor Mr. Williams was sick, beaten. He knew he would never be able to get another job with his donkey and cart. What would he do? He only had this job and he was an old man. Finally, he decided to sell Donald. Now the man who bought Donald was a cruel man. He made poor Donald pull heavy loads into town, three times a week. The only pleasure he had was taking his master and mistress to the races. He loved to watch the horses galloping around the tracks. One day as he was standing in his place, he felt a great urge to be there, racing with the horses. Sud- denly to the coachman ' s great surprise, Don- ald summoned all the strength he had and broke loose from the shafts. He galloped onto the track and started to run alongside the race horses. Poor Donald was nipped and kicked as he ran along. One very large horse stepped on his foot. The crowd was yelling and men were running everywhere, trying to catch him. They had long whips. Donald was finally led off the track to his master. The man was so cross that he picked up a big bull- whip and just as he was about to strike poor Donald, Mr. Williams ran up. Oh, please leave Donald alone; he has always wanted to be a race horse, but I do not think he will want to be one after what has happened. May I buy him back.? Sure, take him; I do not want such a dreadful beast near me again; take him away! Begone! said the cruel man, as he strode away. Donald then realized that being a race horse was not quite as he had dreamed. He decided that being a donkey was good enough for him. He went along obediently with his old master. Mr. Williams seemed to realize that Donald was at last content to be a donkey. If you ever pass through the town where Donald lives, do go to one of the bazaars or dog shows. There you will see a contented little donkey with a gaudy-looking ribbon tied around his neck. He will be puUing a brightly -painted cart full of children with a wrinkled old man driving it. That contented little old donkey who used to dream of being a race horse is Donald. Susan Belcourt, V C Snow Snow, snow everywhere, On the ground and in the air. Decking roof tops all in white. Falling through the starry night. But when the warm spring days arrive, And everything seems so alive. The snow will be no longer here. It ' s gone again for another year. Myrma Badham, V B