Elmwood School - Samara Yearbook (Ottawa, Ontario Canada)

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SAMARA 31 Les Preparatifs et le Jour de la Danse a Elmwood Voici le jour de la danse a Elmwood! Depuis trois semaines nous discutons les de- corations, le buffet, les paroles entendues dans les corridors, dans les chambres ou sur les levres de chaque fille. Qui amenez-vous? Qui avez-vous invite? Ah, ces pauvres g ar9ons! lis n ' ont aucune chance de nous echapper . . . nous aucune . . . Quand les fiUes leurs telephonent et leur disent, Voulez-vous venir a la danse avec moi? Eux, ils n ' ont guere la chance de donner une bonne excuse. Alors, ils sont obliges de balbutier, Qui merci beaucoup. Les filles manquent leurs classes pour pre- parer les decorations: Paris, ses cafes, ses boulevards . . . II y a de la peinture sur les uniformes, et personne ne fait le moindre effort ni en latin ni en frangais! Mais, enfin le jour arrive et maintenant tout est vraiment pret . . . II ne nous teste qu ' a nous laver les cheveux, et nous faire une beaute pour ces pauvres garcons. „ -,r ° Barbara Kennedy, VI Matric Un hombre en la libreria Estaba de pie en el centro de la gran sala obscura de la libreria. Era alto, pero encor- vado. Su cabeza sobresalia entre los honibros como si tuviera miedo de que las paredes, cubiertas de libros, fuesen a caer sobre el. Su traje estaba rai ' da y abombado en las rodillas y en los codos. Tenia una nariz aguilena, sobre la cual se sentaba un par de anteojos. Sus carrillos eran huecos. Pero sus ojos, que pareci ' an grandi ' simos detras de los gruesos lentes, eran muy vivos. Echo una ojeada a las paredes, se detuvo un mom ento para pensar, y despues empezo a buscar algo en todos los bolsillos. Por fin saco un papel, leyo lo que esta escrito en el y se dirigio hacia los libros de astronomia. tvt Helena von NuiMers, VI Matric

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30 SAMARA The Daydream I gazed unseeingly out of my sixth floor office window. It was a hiot, humid, sticky day, the kind of day that the sun broils down on the pavement, making Hfe almost unbearable. Slowly my mind drifted from my stuffy office, farther and farther away, until suddenly I was back at our farm. It was just sunset as I sat on the crooked rail fence that ran about the apple orchard. It was cool and peaceful, no blaring city noises, no cars, telephones, aeroplanes, trains or any of the other numer- ous noises, just the contented grunt of a bullfrog and an occasional tonk-tonk of a cowbell. The sun had set now, and slowly the pale moon sailed up from behind a thicket. Humping and sprawling between the branches of the pine trees, finally the round pale ball appeared in the Eastern sky. A whip-poor-will called faintly from afar and suddenly the weird, mournful cry of a loon rang out. Again and again it echoed across the lake and died away. Startled, an owl hooted as the silence descended. The sharp report of an automobile frightened me, and I awoke with a jump to my stuffy office and the sticky overpowering heat. I sighed heavily and re- turned once more to my work. Sue Hamilton, VC II Uninspiring He was a small, indistinct man, the sort who does the shopping for his wife. He wore a brown tweed suit, with leather elbow- patches and crepe-rubber-soled shoes. He had a small paunch, sloping shoulders and un- naturally short arms. His face was a perfect type , the sort that belongs to the vast army of little grey men , typified by its peculiar ex- piression, that of constant apology, as though he were forever trying to justify his existence. His eyes were brown and slightly, just slight- ly, bloodshot. His nose ran dejectedly towards a pursed, rather old-maidish mouth. His hair was a nondescript brown, which he smoothed continually with well-mannered, but nervous hands. „ Vicky Brain, I VI Matric Composition Deadline No longer was I able to put it off; so with a final sigh I took out a sheet of paper, filled my pen and sat down all prepared. Prepared for what? Such was the thought that buzzed through my head as I ransacked my memory for an unusual personal experience. The ticking of the clock seemed to mock me as I gazed at the list of suggested titles: Beware of Dogs was one; since I value dogs highly, it did not appeal to me. Another was Green Apples . I could think only of an unpleasant, far from unusual experience with green apples. On the next page I found this title, Achilles Heel , which intrigued me, however, I was not in an imaginative mood. Some of the other titles were Muskie , Dead Adan ' s Run , Fear is a Black Panther , and One Came Back . In vain I continued to search for something suitable, but no title brought any inspiration to my mind. A glance at the clock told me a half hour had gone by wasted. If I could only put it off until later, but I had no alternative since it was due the following day. I was seized suddenly by a feeling of panic as I th ought of the French, Spanish, and Biology yet to be done, when my eyes came to a stop at one of the suggested titles. What was it? That is right; you guessed it, Composition Deadline . TONTON DaRRICADES, VI Upper Penitence There is no longer the excited frenzy of our pup as he plays joyfully about the yard. The happy and once carefree personality has suddenly disappeared, and we see standing before his towering master a small shivering form. His tail, which is usually wagging con- tinually behind him, is sagging between his legs, and the expression in his eyes is one of hurt and pathos. He dares not turn away although he would like to, and a low whimp- ering tone is heard in place of a loud bark. We do understand, though, for this is a dog which has just been scolded by his beloved master. „ Pat Slemon, VI Matric

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INTERAIEDIATE ART by Jane MacTavish