Elmwood School - Samara Yearbook (Ottawa, Ontario Canada)

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THE TIiMES HERALD It had been a strange evening and as I crawled into bed I was still uneasy. Even the constant flap of the torn wallpaper began to bother me. Su rprising that this particular sound should worry me; it was so familiar I had long ago ceased to notice it. Finally, unable to take it any longer, I turned on the light and tried to glue back the many layers. Memories crowded my thoughts. I remembered my days as a child w hen every summer or winter I would climb onto a chair and patiently paste each peeling layer. When the warmth of the fire in the old stone hearth had caused the wallpaper to pull free it had been my favorite task to glue and re-glue the crumbling coats. But now I was no longer a child; I needed no chair and the job held no enjoyment for me. I was startled by a loud knock on the door. I was a little surprised that anyone was out at that hour but I was totally unprepared for the sight that met my eyes. Outside was a man. He was quite tall with huge heavy-set shoulders and long thin legs. His head was queerly shaped and was supported by a thick fleshy neck, which was buried deep in his massive chest. His hair, which was coarse and black seemed to grow not only over his face but along his neck and hands giving him a sinister appearance. The most terrifying thing about him was a grotesque, empty eye-socket with half an eye-lid covering it. Then in a deep, gutteral voice he spoke. Would you happen to have a November the 14th copy of the Times Herald? I replied that I didn ' t and that I had never heard of any ne T paper of that name in the area. Straining under the effort he muttered two more sentences. My name is Gregory Stark. I must have that paper! Shivering at his repulsiveness I replied that some- one in the village might be able to help him .and rhcn quickly shut and barred the door. The indow had blown open while I had been downstairs and as I entered the room a good sized chunk of wall-paper ripped off the wall, exposing an old yellowed newspaper. Overcome with horror I ripped it off and read the following lines: TIMES HERALD: NOVEMBER FOUR- TEENTH, 1932. VILLAGE SHOCKED AT DEATH OF GREGORY STARK . Paula Lawrence, 5B.

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The old shoes were resting at his bedside now. It was early dusk and the two had just finished a long day ' s tramp over difficult paths of mud and stone and tree-roots. They had not been placed carefully side by side, with their mud-caked heels touching, but lay where they had fallen, in a natural attitude of ease. Their soft leather was folded with age, and they bore an air of lax relief, as if they were very tired. And yet there was a certain dignity, a certain familiarity about them— especially the right foot. There was a sadness seen as their tongues drooped and in the care- less way their laces hung. They had once been handsome brown walking boots— square of toe, with thick heels and sturdy sides: a pair of soldiers well- equipped, young and eager for challenge, ready to do battle. Now, like tired, worn-out veterans, they slept; like two aging mastiffs, waiting for their master ' s return. Carolyn Jones, 6M. SIMPLE MEDITATION Melancholy, sharp unblessed. Sorrow brings fitful unrest. Man and goodliness will strive To keep hope and love alive. We had no worries as a child; Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, Was what we thought, What we were taught. Now we ' re in the midst of turmoil. Watching, wondering, wandering, pale. Unhappy, unholy, unwanted, alone, Wanting to find our own way home. God is with us, always near us; Always ready to see and hear us; But seldom do we wish to see Him, Blind amidst the futile mayhem. Amidst ourselves we sit alone, All thought of one another gone. Egotistical, unkind. Some love is left but hard to find. But if and when that love ' s returned All evil, malice, sorrow ' s spurned. Love takes hold, and kindness surges Over the earth — all sorrow purges. Maureen O ' Neill, 5B. HOW TO CLEAN YOUR ROOM Start by taking everything out of all your drawers. When everything is piled on your bed, take a carpet sweeper and clean the rug. Next, hang up any clothes that are lying about or put them in your drawers. Then go to your book-case and arrange all your books neatly on your shelves. Next, pull out your drawers and put everything back into them. DO IT NEATLY. Pencil-crayons, paints, pencils and paper go in one drawer. Little odds-and-ends that are fun to keep but don ' t fit anywhere go in another drawer. This way, you will know what is in each drawer and will have no trouble finding it. When you have finished, straighten your bed, pull the wrinkles out of it and fluff up the pillow. Then check your cupboard to see if all your clothes and shoes are neat and tidy. Make sure your curtains are wide open and straight. Then take a dustcloth and dust everything. Finally, if you have pets in your bedroom, see that they are clean and happy, and you are free to go. Joan McCordick, 4B.

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Cassidy Clouse Cassidy Clouse was a quiet mouse, Who lived in a quiet peaceful house, Cassidy had little to do all day. But eat and sleep and frolic and play, He was old, and had fifteen grandchildren too, But there was nothing he liked better to do, Than scamper across to cellar floor, Or under the crack of the pantry door, Or up the walls of the clapboard house. Quiet, but playful was Cassidy Clouse, One day as he played in a big armchair, That stood some feet from the cellar stair. He was suddenly startled out of his wits, In fact he almost had seven fits, For a thundering crash and a high-pitched sound, iMade his hair stand straight and his head go round. But what do you think? The sound that he heard. Was made by neither a cat nor a bird. But an old piano quit out of tune. Which no one had played in many a moon. And on the piano lined up in a row, Were Cassidy ' s grandchildren and at the word go. They jumped on the keys and gleefully played, A thumpy and bumpy mouse serenade. And Grandfather Cassidy, no longer afraid, Bounced around to the sound that his grandchildren made. Jennifer Coyne. Christ-mas The children crowed with happy glee and gaily followed after Their kindly nurse who smiled to hear the sound of echoed laughter. Together trooped the scattered band along the lofty halls, And all the house was ringing to their merry, fluted calls. Mary straight and slender stood, her eyes alive and warm. Not woman nor child was she and yet her woman ' s heart was torn. Wistful and shy she dared to seek the glance of a soldier cold; A cousin back from the Spanish waic for Christmas, she ' d been told. Lounging in his oaken chair, his voice was low and gay. Yet in his eyes there lav a fear, held long and hard at bay. Candle-light, like molten gold, lay on his scarlet coat. His mocking eyes in laughter wild, were dark and heeded not. Suddent he glanced and caught her gaze and held it over long. Until from out the tall French doors they heard a ghost of song. The carollers were singing in the softly falling snow. They light and darkness gave to all, they sang of joy and woe. Yet deeper delved the searching glance of a child who trusted well Into the bitter heart of one who ' d known the depth of hell. A half-amused and gentle smile his cynic lips did bend. His frozen heart, a girl ' s first love like magic sweet did mend. He sipped his wine and slowly raised a lingering thoughtful eve, And then he laughed and threw his heart into the crvstal sky. Janet Uren, 5 A 28 The Canadian Nort-h 1 know a land Of the howling wind Where, rugged and torn, The spruce trees sway: Where the lakes ' crystal waves Are roused by the storms, And dashed against The barren, black rocks. The sun will never Warm up that land. And make it cozy And bright with nature ' s colors. Life is windy, stormy, yet quiet, Because this life never changes. Every day the moose Comes to the edge of the stream For a drink! The startled deer hides in the thickets. And wolves howl somewhere Far away, in a still winter night; The owl hoots. Forecasting the blizzard. Which will sweep over the mountains The next night. I know that North That Canadian North, That desolate, forsaken throne of our land.