Elmwood School - Samara Yearbook (Ottawa, Ontario Canada)

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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

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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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24 SAMARA The Nightly Battle Loudly up the stairs came father, Threatening in his tread; Now close that book , he said most sternly, And put yourself to bed . Softly down the stairs went father. Evening paper in his hand, She knows she needs eight hours sleep, I wish she ' d understand! Firmly, up the stairs came father. Determination in his eye. Hand me that book , he said in anger. I did, but could not hide a sigh. Hopefully, I looked at father. Standing at the foot of bed, I only had a few more pages. Then the book would have been read . Gently down the stairs went father, Feehng duty had been done; At last he sat in peace with mother. The nightly battle had been won. Elizabeth Bogue, V B Watching the Friendship Log The moon rose like a pale limpid bubble over the dark velvet sky, cut off only by the occasional tall whispering pine. The silver birch on the shore waved in the cool night air to the rhythm set by the waves lapping against the rocky shore. The friendship log in the fire had almost been reduced to ashes and only the thin trickle of smoke drifted like incense toward the sky. Close to the forest edge, silent and still, and at the end of the grove stood two mighty spruce that guarded with paternal vigilance the hidden paths of the wild deer. The only sounds were the heavy breathing of sleeping campers, the odd crackle of the embers in the fire, and the whispering trees, that had many times before sheltered other campers. My four hour watch was up but there was no need to wake anyone else, because the log was still burning as the sun came over the far- off hills. Joy Beverley Brown, V A Winter Skiing down a mountain trail. Sliding down the hills. Sleigh-riding in the country, Are some of Winter ' s thrills. Making snowmen in the snow. Or skating on a pond, Winter is the season. Of which I am most fond. Diana Radcliff, V B Saturday Afternoon It was approximately twelve thirty on what could be considered any Friday night. As I slowly peeled off my tights, I hstened, for lack of anything else to do, to the babble of the dressing room. Couldn ' t get that combination in the , faded into, My toes are so sore , and See you tomorrow , with a rue- ful laugh whenever anyone walked out the door. I did, and as I reached the street I felt the strange letdown which comes when you have given yourself to something com- pletely and it is nearly finished. I thought of what I would be doing to- morrow night at twelve-thirty, the ballet over, crawhng home mentally and physically weary, having thrown my whole being into a bit of a crowd in Gisele and my first solo while the cast changed for Rhapsody in Blue . Crowds —how I hated being a nameless part of a name- less thing called a crowd. My mind, tired as it was, turned to pleasanter things, solos, my first . . . I arrived home in a happy daze, told my mother I would be rehearsing the next after- noon and went to bed. At one o ' clock on Saturday I walked into the theatre. The street outside was filled with people to whom Saturday afternoon meant a release from the week ' s drudgery, a chance to