Elmwood School - Samara Yearbook (Ottawa, Ontario Canada)

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32 SAMARA The Tyranny of Fashion Among teen-agers as well as grown people, the tyranny of fashion is felt. Fashion maga- zines are selling as fast as political ones, and no newspaper is without its fashion adviser . The Lady cannot go out, for her coat has stuffed shoulders, or because her shoes don ' t have the latest cut. The dress she bought last year is absolutely useless, because the neck- line is wrong. She will spend her last cent on new clothes. The teen-ager cannot go to school because his jeans look too new, or his leather jacket doesn ' t have creases in the sleeves. The girl must have a pair of saddle shoes and a big scarf. But mother, every- body has one! is the usual cry. The teen- agers, still so insecure and in need of feeling they belong to a group, would rather die than go dressed differently from the gang. It has not always been so. The fashions before the first World War did not change so quickly, and it was not so essential to be dressed exactly according to the fashion. Another difference is the rise of the teens. In the beginning of the century they were considered children, but today they are scrutinized by psychologists, and have realized their importance. They claim a special pos- ition in society. So the teen-age fashion has become very important. I believe that there are two main reasons why fashion has become as tyrannical as it is today. One is the development of communication of news between people. We have movies, radio, and newspapers to tell us what is happening in the world. Therefore the wo- man knows it the following day when Dior has stated that the skirts are to be longer. She can more easily follow what is happening. In earlier days, people in a community dressed alike, and now the whole world is a community. The fashion centres dictate, and the people obey. The other reason is democracy. Equality has given us the feeling that it is absolutely necessary to be dressed just like everyone else in order to be equal. Everyone has the right to be equal, and therefore must be equal, some people think. The We must live up to the Jones ' feeling arises. There is a great middle class everywhere, and the people of this class seem to think that there is only the choice of being a slave to fashion or a social outcast. The tyranny of fashion is playing with the whole world, and making fools of us. Every- one must be alike, not only in dress, but also in speech and manners. Social conformity is starting to be a problem in the world of to- day, and certainly the tyranny of fashion is the cause. Helena von Numers, Form 6U. A Sad Dog One would think that dogs really under- stand their owner ' s thoughts. Last Good Fri- day, our beagle dog, only a year old, had to be killed. We were all sad, but the dog too seemed to realize that something was amiss. His usually, pert curly tail was dropping, and when he wagged it, it was not the same cheer- ful swishing as on other days, but a slow wag as if it were an effort to be happy. His large eyes had a look which made his whole face reflect the sadness which was in our own thoughts. He didn ' t run and jump but lay quietly at our feet, as if he knew he was staying with us for the last time. Pamela Moore, Form 6jM. Sunrise The sky is grey and birds are sleeping, But see! A ray of light comes creeping. Yonder over there it gleams And sheds a light on Childrens ' dreams. Another and yet another still Comes shining o ' er the distant hill. And now the sun comes into sight To banish shadows of the night. It brightens skies to a pastel shade Of blues and greens which soon will fade To colours of a rosy hue Which start the day to life anew. Jane Rowley, Form 5B.

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SAMARA 31 illuminated fountains with mists of water enshrouding the golden figurines, the people stroll, or the more wealthy, in their thin woollen shawls, rattle in the antiquated black and red taxis to the night clubs. They stop at the Florida in the centre of a majestic park dotted with rushing fountains and spot- lights. Inside they are shown to a marble- topped table in a large round room with green vines creeping up the walls. Their eyes follow the vines to the roof which thev find is the starry sky. They see the dance floor elevate to their level and watch some more enhvening, rhythmic Spanish dancing. At the same time let us follow others who pile into taxis and go down dark streets untfl they reach brightly lit gypsy caves. Unlike most gypsies these are wealthy, as they make money dancing for the tourists. They lead the tourists into small cloisters covered by a trellis with vines from which hang clusters of grapes. The gypsies are infinitely happy and flash their teeth at the bewildered newcomers who watch them dance as gracefully as pro- fessionals amidst the stamping of feet and clapping of hands. Now at three thir ty in the morning, all, whether strolling, visiting the night clubs or gypsy caves, come home tired and happy. Oh! Oh! They have no keys and the care- taker is asleep! Never mind, for they are not troubled. They clap their hands and stamp sticks, and after a few breathless moments hear the tap of a stick in reply. Soon an old man comes limping up the street with all the keys of every building in the district on a ring, and unlocks the door of the building. Thus ends a contented, perfect Spanish evening. Esther Prudham, Form 6 Upper. A Transformed World When snow comes drifting down, covering the hills and fields like a mysterious veil it reminds me of a strange but beautiful fairy- land. The light snowfall of the night before trims rooftops, trees, and shrubs with a filmy lace. Silvery icicles hang from the frosty eave- troughs like icy spears. Along the lane, large spruces sparkle like giant Christmas trees sprinkled with diamond dust. The road is a thin white ribbon covered with a blanket of feathery snow. This enchantingly beautiful scene fills me with wonder as 1 stand looking out on a world that has been transformed overnight. Katherinf, Connolly, Form 5C 1. The Forgotten Dead Remembrance Day is a tragic day,— a day of sorrowful recalling of loved ones. These heroes, the forgotten dead for whom we mourn, are they really to be pitied? Who were the dead? They were men and women hke you and me. They felt pleasure and pain; they sinned and sorrowed; they were petty and angry, loving and kind. The old man went to war. But what did war mean to him? Why, he was alive again, young again, and needed. He was shot through the head. Terrible, you say. Was it? He was saved from a rheumatic old age! The youth went to war. He died and lives forever as one of the forgotten dead . What did he sacrifice? A life of hated toil, on a farm already too small, was his loss. But what of the average man, the family man? He gave up his life, but after all he had lived. His death had a meaning. Does not the tragedy remain here on earth in the lives shattered by the absence of the dead? These are the families, the toilers, the survivers who must struggle on. The broken- hearted widow, the sorrowing mother must struggle to keep body and soul together. These are the ones who deserve our tears. The dead are cared for, at rest, hallowed and loved. What they might not have attain- ed in life they have attained in death. Their spirit has become immortal, eternal. They are heroes forever. Is it then so bad to die a soldier ' s death? Sheena Ewing, Form 6 Upper.

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SAMARA 33 The Horror of Montague The old house loomed up at the end of the long drive; it seemed to look even gloomier and larger than usual in the twilight. Its sepulchral outHnes melted into the dark poplars and jackpines surrounding it, making it a soHd, impervious black mass. We alighted gingerly from the car, glad to be free of its small confines. We all stood in a group not sure what to do next. Roger spoke first: You chaps, he said, go on in and make yourselves at home. We laughed at his weak parody of a joke. A4ake ourselves at home in a haunted house? Indeed!! Well, we finally went in together with our bags and paraphernalia. All had on their bravest smiles, but I noticed Roger ' s grin was becom- ing strained around the edges, as were all our smiles. Roger crept up the decrepit stairs first, making a lot of noise as if to scare away anything that might be up there. Then I came, more scared than anything else, but deter- mined to be jaunty. Then Tim, my brother; then, at the rear, Pete, our erstwhile driver. We all had the same purpose— to spend the night in the haunted house. We laid out our sleeping bags and other things on some old sagging cots we found on the second floor, then explored around. I began mentally reviewing the reasons we had come here. It was mostly to prove to our parents that we could really be on our own. We all thought it would be a great lark. On exploring we found nothing except a few old dusty stones which Pete, being an anthropo- logist, found interesting. The house itself was a cavernous old building, dilapidated and crumbhng, its once splendid rooms dim and dusty. The gay frescoes on the walls had almost faded into nothingness. The rooms gave the impression of unending grey caverns untouched by light for years un- counted. We ate our supper of bully beef sand- wiches, -slightly dusty-, boiled eggs and tea with great gusto in spite of inner trepidations. Tim carefully wrapped up all our leftovers and put them in his knapsack though there wasn ' t much to be had. It was dark now and our flashlights cut through the darkness with strong, steady beams that lighted the walls and ceilings with curves and spirals. Pete and Roger crawled into their sleeping bags. Tim and I were elected to go downstairs and out to fetch water for the morning. We went down and closed the door behind us; that was the last time we saw Peter alive! This is what we gather happened. They heard a noise and Peter went down to investi- gate. He did not come back and Roger, be- coming worried, followed him. We heard a scream. Tim went inside and I got in the car and went for help. I returned with the police. Inside Peter was lying half way under the stairs, his head severed from his body. Tim had calmed Roger and he was taken by the police to his home. The murderers did not get far. They con- fessed that, when Peter had discovered their hidden jewels, they lured him downstairs by a noise, then killed him because he knew too much. Roger came down, and let out the scream that we had heard. Tim and I stood there dazed until our father came and led us away. What a ghastly ending . . . but how could we have known . . . ? Mary Findlay, Form 5B. Farewell to School As I took a parting glance at the old grey building that had been my home for so many years, I could not suppress a tear or two from creeping to my eye. The sun, shedding its soft, bright rays on the gathered graduates seemed to accentuate the glistening tears on their cheeks and the heaviness of their hearts, hidden beneath the new white gowns. All had been my comrades through the years of study and play. Now we were separating, each on her own path of life, and adventuring forth to what the future might hold in store. Flitting through my mind flew many of the pleasant memories that those ivy-covered walls held for me. The beautiful spring and