Elmwood School - Samara Yearbook (Ottawa, Ontario Canada)

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28 SAMARA Agatha Ragles It was Christmas so the hustle and bustle of shopping had begun. Carols were being sung and the air was filled with the general Christmas confusion. But there was one person who was not happy, who did not feel the sweet happiness that people feel when Christ- mas is near. It was a little girl named Agatha; Agatha Ragles , the street urchins would yell at her and Agatha would try hard not to let them see her tears that ran down her red cheeks. She hated the name Agatha; it was a name given to her by the foster father. Agatha had no parents of her own; they were dead, she could not remember them. Sometimes she thought it would be nice to have a father and a mother, a little sister or brother, and to be able to sit around a hot fire while fascinating stories were being read to her— not the sort Frank, the meat seller in the market place, told her. She shuddered to think of them. Poor Agatha, she was sure Pedro, her foster father, would not give her a doll that she so dearly wanted for Christmas. Oh well, thought Agatha, and she pulled her rags more closely round her and pushed her cold feet under a pile of junk that Pedro sold. Business was not very thriving. Dobbin, the horse, snorted as if he were trying to say, Let ' s move to another corner and try our luck there. Poor Agatha. Where was Pedro? She was freezing, and if they started moving, her circulation would start again. Ah Pedro, was that not he running towards her? Yes, it was. And what was he waving, something shiny? It looked like a silver dollar, but no, that couldn ' t be it. Agatha had only seen one in her life, and that had belonged to Frank, who was rich in the eyes of poor Agatha. A silver dollar! Now Pedro could buy some wood to patch up their wagon and Agatha could buy the doll in Mrs. Gruenther ' s toy shop for fifteen cents, and they could have a Merry Christmas in the old rooming house without the landlady complaining that they hadn ' t their month ' s rent. Oh, Happy, Happy Christmas. Now the bells rang loud in Agatha ' s little heart. Elizabeth Groos, 5 C Crucify ! The day was nigh, the hour came, When voices rose in loud acclaim, And mobs drew menacingly near- All wrapped in wrath and curious fear- Around a figure strongly bound. Whose head, with piercing thorns, was crowned. Whose face was gentle, calm and brave, Tender and mild, that sought to crave Forgiveness for all who little knew The wrong that they would shortly do. He followed upright in their wake. And reached the priests all robed in hate, Who mocked Him and accusingly Rebuked Him for all He claimed to be. While fiercely rose the murderous cry, Crucify! Crucify! He stumbled as He bore the weight Of that great symbol of His fate. And so He rose to that high land Where soon the cross would upright stand; Where He would bear both pain and death Praying for strength in every breath, Praying for pardon for those who stood by Scourging Him, wanting Him soon to die; Then with a last prayer. His spirit commended To the care of His Father; and so His life ended. A nocturnal darkness than gathered around. The wind rose both screaming and singing in sound. Sharp lightning, deep thunder in the silence appeared. While dark ugly clouds with their anger revered; The people all wailed and were filled with great dread At the realization of Him who was dead. And an echoing murmur still whispered high, Crucify! Crucify! Gillian Neville, 6 Matric An Incident in Barbados The little Red Devil followed the narrow palm-arched road, rounded the last bend and finally brought us to a stop. Directly ahead of

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SAMARA 27 what it was. He used soft oils and painted in such a way that everything blended or stayed in definite lines to bring out the main characteristics. He had deep blue eyes and soft pink cheeks. The gold chain almost glistened as though it were real when the sun streamed through the nearby window and shone on the painting in all its glory. The background was painted as a dream or fairy tale. It was almost as though he were sitting in front of another painting in which the trees blended hazily with the pale sky and the old English cottages with thatched roofs were half melted into the earth. Although I have not seen it for three years, the vivid picture still lies firmly in my mind. I have never forgotten it. Caroline Grant, 6 Matric Bravery Into the flame of battle they went, Those horses, one hundred and three— Into the flame of hot desire Their allies no more to see. Oh, to be back in the stable so calm, Back to the homeland so free. Back with Topsy and Ginger and Jack, Back to the land by the sea. But they must go on For their jobs had been given, And they must not flinch For on they were driven. Never more would the stable Their happy neigh hear; Never more with the hounds Would they hunt down a deer. Back they have gone From whence they had come; The last dash is over The last sprint ' s been run. But their ghosts shall live on. Those brave hundred and three, For they have gone back To the land by the sea. Sarah Jennings, 5C Crossword Puzzle (By Franny Drury) Across Down 1. Part of the hand 2. Article 3. Sudden sharp pull 4. Prefix for again 5. Preposition meaning a 5. Suitable, having a place tendency to 8. Players of Scottish musi- 6. Beverage cal instrument 7. Mark up, soil 11. Everything 8. Flat stretches of land 13. Baby ' s thanks 9. What banks are for 14. Fear or wonder 10. Conducted 16. To wander 12. Affection 18. Ardent, keen 15. Fermented drink 19. Compete with 17. Personal pronoun 20. Wrong-doing by Bible 18. . . . white ... a sheet 21. Low marshy land, in 21. Fourth note in scale England 22. See 22 across 22. Part of verb to be 23. Circulate 24. Final profit 25. Can be bad for the eyes 26. Thin cord 27. See 17 down 28. Prefix meaning out of 29. An alternative 30. To rip 31. Section of hospital Looking for Something Where is the spring? Where has it gone— The birds, the flowers, the breezes calm, The sunshine beating warmly down. The dandelion with its golden crown. The blossoms, buds that should be here. Why don ' t they now begin to appear? But we have wind, and snow and sleet Which turn to slush beneath our feet; The groundhog from his hole can ' t get. Its iced-up entrance is solid yet. But let ' s be patient while we freeze And pull our tunics beneath our knees. Rona Brodie, 5C

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SAMARA 29 us were the wide silver sands bordering the blue rushing waves of the Caribbean. We wasted no time in dashing into the high waves. The relentless heat of the equatorial sun had lessened. Only the bright orange and purple shades of the sunset cast light. For the first time in my life I tried riding the board . This was slightly tapered at one end. The rider lay on the board and went into shore on top of a gigantic breaker. The first three times were a great success. However, as I was preparing to ride a fourth tremendous wave, it caught me before I was correctly on the board and took me for quite a spill. I remember being carried completely under the wave and scraping my stomach along the rippled sand. I must have swallowed at least a gallon of salt water; then the board came riding over me, hitting my head with a hard blow! Someone grabed me and pulled me out. After a few minutes of rest on the beach I was able to catch my breath again. We jumped into the little red Singer and drove back to the hotel. It had gotten dark and hardly a sound could be heard except the lull of the ocean-rollers in the distance. The evening had begun peacefully and had thus ended peacefully. Denise Karr, 5 A The Lily When walking in the garden, ' Twas at the eventide, I came upon a lily. The whitest I espied. I looked and lo, it opened To drink the faUing dew; It seemed lonely in that garden, And I was lonely too. So I smiled down at that lily As the day came to an end. And when I left that garden, I just knew I had a friend. Beverley Brown, 6 Matric On Being Demoted (Apologies to Shakespeare) Double, double toil and trouble We sit and boil while prefects bubble. Floor of splinters— bloomers rent, Back to humility, authority spent. No more yelling up the stairs. No more giving marks in prayers; Here we sit on laurels lost Reputations tempest-tossed. Here the pins of merit given To you, for whom we ' ve so (ahem) striven. Ex-Monitors of 6 Matric On Being a Teenager In the opinion of most adults, the golden years of our lives are those when we are teenagers. Of course, in some ways they are the most difiicult, but it is the time when we learn to appreciate the good things in life without the worries that come in later years. Suddenly Shakespeare is not so dry and we find ourselves venturing away from Humpty- Dumpty to read the books our parents read. We teenagers today are living in a scientific age where things are advancing quickly. Over- night we switch from moccasins to stilts and our pale faces turn into Pond ' s angel faces . Perhaps when we are nine we look forward to the day we can change from bobby socks to silks. When we finally arrive at that stage, we find that silk and nylon stockings have the nasty habit of running and that the act of making ourselves look older does not appeal to us, and we long for the days when we wore bobby socks; but such is life. A wonderful convenience our parents sometimes possess is the now seemingly neces- sary car. I am sure, though, our parents wish at times that such an invention did not exist. Of course, to us teenagers it is the most wonderful thing that ever happened, though it can be a cause of misery if there is a large dent in the side of the car to be accounted for, or if the gas tank registers empty when two hours previously it read full . Grandfather ' s