Lord Selkirk School - Maroon and Grey Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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♦ LITERARY ♦ Mourning Flower Ong ago, before you or I were born, there was a black flower. Nowadays we laugh at such a thing, but this flower was quite common, growing in every field, in good soil or bad. One of these little flowers was very un¬ happy. All about it were white, mauve, and pink honeysuckle, snowy wood anemone, gay red columbine, silvery morning glories, azure bluebells, and many, many more such beautiful plants, for this was before the time that man put flowers in his garden. There were red, red roses and purply thistles, but the coat of the little black flower was always dull, and drab and dreary, as if its owner was in mourning. So the other plants called it the mourning flower. One day, in the late fall, on an extremely hot afternoon, the little flower was feeling sorrowful, as usual, but it was so hot, that towards evening it fell asleep at last. So it was that the first tiny moonbeam found it, and, taking pity on the little black flower, she stooped low, and dropped part of her sparkling, silver load into the centre of it. “That will keep you a little happier until I speak to Jack Frost about you,” she whis¬ pered, and then sped off across the moonlit plains, threading her shining way north¬ ward, to the domain of Jack Frost! When the flower awoke in the morning it felt very, very happy to see its gleaming, silver centre. Now it had the most beautiful heart of any plant! But although it had a lovely heart, there were still the dull petals and leaves and stem to be grieved over. One cold night it heard a strange voice calling: “Little flower, little mourning flowe r , wake up! Wake up!” Mourning flower looked up, and saw Jack Frost skipping across the yellowing grass. “What do you want?” came the answer, in. a frightened voice. Jack Frost moved closer, and whispered, “Do not be afraid, but listen to me closely!” “Tonight I came at the request of a moon¬ beam, to paint you gay colours, but there were so many withering leaves that needed doing, that I have used up all my paints. It will be impossible for me to come again, but I shall tell you what to do. “When the warm air blows that marks the coming of Mistress Spring, you must get up quickly, and then wake up the other flowers. If you are up in time to see her go by, then you shall have the beauty you so desire.” Whereupon Jack Frost fled off across the meadows as swiftly as he had come. The mourning flower awoke next year with the first breath of warm air. Far across the fields, it could see Mistress Spring ap¬ proaching. Quickly the flower roused the other plants,.who were somewhat reluctant about getting up so early. Spring stopped when she saw the little black plant nestling in the dead grass. “Little flower,” she said gently, “I know what you want, but remember, your beauty can be bought only at a price. If you wish to be lovely, both you and your ancestors shall have to submit to being torn from the native soil, and replanted in men’s gardens whenever they wish to do that to you.” “I should consider it an honour to be thought beautiful enough to be moved to a place where people might look at me,” answered the flower. Mistress Spring smiled sweetly, and then turned to the other plants, saying, “I will give you all permission to bestow upon this dull little thing who has never known beauty, one of your own gifts.” There was compete silence for a moment, and then: “I shall give it petals like the whitest clouds, lovely as my own,” murmured the morning-glory in her low voice. • 22

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♦ ART In Midwinter ” —Vera Jennings, VIII-15 No. 2. ■Tiger’’ —Anne Yewusz, Room X-17. Wendy —Edith Close, Rm. X-17. • 21

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LITERARY Continued] “I shall donate glossy, green leaves, the same as mine.” said a Jerusalem Cherry, growing nearby. “I,” said the columbine, a trifle loudly, “offer a stem of deep red, to mingle with the green leaves.” “Would it be all right to take away the silver centre and replace it with gold?” ventured a tiny gilded marigold. “Of course,” laughed Mistress Spring, “but there is still one thing to be taken care of. Who will volunteer?” There was a deep silence, for the.matter was a very important one. “Very well, then,” answered Madam Sun¬ flower, in her stately voice, “I shall take it into my family.” “Well,” said Spring, “seeing that you have all given your wonderful gifts, I will give mine. Hereafter, you shall not be known as mourning flower, but as DAISY!” Then there was a great cheering, and throwing of petals into the air, and cries of, “Speech! Speech!” But the daisy could say nothing, for it was too choked up with happine ss. —Vera Jennings, Room 8-15 No. 2 First Prize, Short Story Contest. At Last It Hained last it rained. All day, the cloudy sky, angry and threatening, had hung like a dark, menacing cape over the city. All day, pedestrians and school- children had been pushed about by the fierce gusts of wind and the black clouds of blinding dust had reared their angry heads, and been swept mercilessly before the powerful breath of the Storm King. But, at last, all was peace. Pedestrians had all hurried in out of the rain, and the closing bell for school had rung many hours before. The clouds of dust had returned to their native earth. Only a faint breeze stirred the whispering leaves, glossy with rain. And the rain itself fell softly, glancing back from the roadway and sidewalks like a friend who is no longer wanted, and sink¬ ing gratefully into the cool, black earth like a traveller who has found a haven of rest. The whole earth lay drinking in the re¬ freshing moisture. The flowers, parched and thirsty, lifted their weary heads and seemed to smile; and their colors grew more lustrous as one watched. The grass, yel¬ lowed in patches, and parched by the hot, bright rays of the autumn sun, raised its wasted arms to the rain, and became a brighter green. The paved roads and sidewalks glistened with rain, and softly reflected the houses and fences on its glowing surface. The whiteness of the fences and gates stood gleaming in bold relief against the shadowy streets. There was no sign of activity. Not a soul was to be found in the streets, not a sound to be heard; yet the warmth of human friendship could be seen. The friendly glow of a curtained window beamed, and filled the heart with the feeling of joy, love, peace and contentment, that no human words could ever raise. And the rays that slipped out from under a shade that had been drawn over the window, or from a door that had been left partly open to let in the cool clearness of the evening air, gave a person living knowledge that good will creeps out from a mind curtained from the world; or that everywhere, one will find an open door to the weary, the friendless, the homeless. Yes, even the air was better for the rain. It was fresher, cleaner, better, filled with the smell of the good earth steeped in life-giv¬ ing moisture of plants drinking in new life and love. Gone was the strife of the world, the misunderstandings and heartless abus¬ es, the hates and the cruelties of thousands of people. Gone were the heat, the dust, and the buffeting winds. All that was once there had disappeared as if by magic, as if some mighty fairy had waved her magic wand and said, “Let there be peace!” All that was left was the sound of the breeze whispering soft nothings through the leafy trees, and the sound of the rain slipping through the morning glory vine that clings near the screen of the verandah, and. sounding like a mischievous elf at play. The world of the people had disappeared; there remained only the sky, and the rain, and the garden. —Vera Jennings, Room 8-15 No. 2 First Prize, Essay Contest. • 23