Kitchener Waterloo Collegiate and Vocational School - Grumbler Yearbook (Kitchener, Ontario Canada)

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ament It is cold and dark, and yet there is a ghostly radiance enfolding the snow-covered hills. The fir trees sway gently under their blankets of snow. The stars above, so close they seem to graze the tops of the purple hills beyond, shed their sil- very light over the whole world. Only the moon, austere and haugh- ty, rides serenely overhead, cold and distant in her queenly beauty. The forests, the mountains, the rivers, the lakes call to me. The restless yearning that will not let me be, tugs relentlessly at my heart-strings and tears my very soul. The wind sweeps my stream- ing hair and soothes my troubled heart. I turn restlessly on my bed and brush away a tear as I emerge from another of the dreams that have haunted all my nights and have become a part of my days, so that all else seems unreal. You ask who the ghost is, I should like to meet? I do not have to turn back the pages of history and summon from their graves, musty, shadowy ghosts, for the ghost of Hiawatha knows no grave. In the forests at my side he comes, without my bidding. He comes to me and mocks me for my weakness, that I cannot free myself from the bonds that bind me. The bonds of home and parents, school and friends, all keep me from my wood- lands. I think it will become an obses- sion with me soon, this discontent, this longing when the call of the wild beats at my ear drums. This is no passing fancy. For years this thing has haunted me and I have written of my sorrow so often, that all my praises of Mother Earth sound somehow inadequate and useless. When I write of this feel- ing and pour my soul on paper, it PAL'1.INi: BREBACHER. A XII C eases the pain and sets my heart free again, but I can write no more: all my phrases are work-worn and stale and there is no release. Then the Song of Hiawatha comes to me and all of Longfellow's beautiful words repaint the picture that has become dim- With the odours of the forest With the dew and damp of mea- dows With the rushing of great rivers. -one line, one word and I am back in my dream world. Thoughts of re-incarnation come to me and I wonder if ever in the long-dead past, I ran laughing through the forests and prairies in the days when Hiawatha and great Manito the Mighty ruled supreme. How else would I know of deer and beaver, birds and trees, the laughing melody of streams, the thunder of mighty waters beating against the rocks, the music of the summer breezes lulling me, as the sweet scent of pine needles beneath my head wafts upward? Far off in a thicket the call of a lonely night-bird echoes in the silence and an answer, faint and melancholy. steals through the night air. There are crickets and birds, winds and rivers. What need I of orchestras and bands when such music charms me? No, Hiawatha is no ghost. I can see his doeskin shirt and leggings. soft and white and fringed with er- mine. Resplendent in eagle fea- thers, he walks the forest: .born of the morning star and the great West-Wind. he battles the gods. gives grain to his people, helps and aids them. How I would have liked to live then, when the God of the Red Men descended and bade them live peacefully, when mighty war- riors fought great beasts. and, vic- torious. claimed dominion of the fCondnucd on page 401 M THE GRUMBLER