Peterborough Collegiate and Vocational School - Echoes Yearbook (Peterborough, Ontario Canada)

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,,1, a Z - ,KK Y -,. ,giil ,,,, THE EC . ES hands bound in her hair and flowing dress, to restrain her. She had followed on and on, enduring weariness and hunger, scarce noted forthe greater pain in her heart. And now she bends over him and weeps, St. Kevin stirs and awakens, and his eyes meet the mild eyes of Kathleen. Sternly he starts up, he seizes the gentle maiden in ruthless hands. and hurls her from the rock. The gloomy waves which soon became Kat.hlecn's grave, flash hatefully a moment as the moon shows through a rent cloud, then settle into st.illness. Too late, St. Kevin felt her lover and mourned her. As he cried Heaven rest her soulf' sweet celestial music drifted lightly round the lake. and Kathleen's ghost was seen to rise and glide, smiling. from the fatal place. Helen Steer, 5.X. Only o. flhub of'f1Jaint OU see that picture there? Now, I don't know where that picture came from, 'who painted it. nor the real story it represents,-but to me it means something. o effin wi 1, am a over o' an if s. Q s was rumma 'in .11 . - T b O tl I l l t ue X I g g 1 an old awn shop one day. I happened upon this picture. The keeper of the shop was an eccentric old gentleman, inclined to be looked upon as being in his second childhood. iVelll Yvelll I knew l'd sell that picture some day. It's been here live years, but I daresay those things mellow with age, eh? VVhy, only the other day, I was say- ing to my wifelf' I would have been there yet if I hadn't grabbed my precious burden and fled. There is something really to the picture, which. even at first glance. compels you to look again. That which struck me first. was the woman. standing in the field, a sheaf of wheat clasped in her arms. Her face is turned toward the setting sun and the reflected light is uncarthly. It smoothes the lilies of care on the wearicd brow with gentle fingers. You catch your breath and a feeling almost akin to holiness steals over. The sun is gathering its great dark cloak over its face and with a last cheerful grin, as he calls his children. sinks slowly to rest. The little beams come dancing back, playfully touching the water of the tiny creek on their way. They twinkle through the old willow, which stands on the bank. its graceful fingers idly rippling the placid water. .X high arched bridge spans the surface. adding an old-fashioned touch to the scene. , From the woman's expression you can imagine she sees her dream realized. The parted lips, the set of the tired shoulders and the eyes-which have seen the trivial worries of a day-yet the cares of a lifetime-all tell the same tale. Uver all, an atmosphere of peace seems to reign supreme. Perhaps the painter of this picture lies forgotten in some strange land, or is a poor, struggling artist. who never dreams that his painting has touched a human soul. But whoever he is I say only this-'tThank you. Beverly Rogers, IIIA Academic -30-

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THEV ECH ES -4' J' 'L ' 'lr 'U Tv U'lZo.n's Weakness 'fbbie I was shy of all the girls, On the bench did Ascot sit, Their presence made me choke, A blanket to enfold him. But now I fall for looks and curls, He said if he got in the game, They always keep me broke. The whole team couldnit hold him. You take them to a picture show, But when he marched onto the field, To see their favorite play, He began to swagger, And when you reach the ticket box, A team-mate slapped him on the back-- You're the one to pay. You should have seen him stagger. They seem to take you hy surprise. He dropped low down upon his knee Just sweep you off your feet, To open up a hole, Even boys with strong will power, And once he got to moving Admit that they are beat. He travelled like a mole. Some prefer blondes, some brunettes, When he goes lumbering down the field, Some like them short, some tall, The other players sigh. V But there's no use denying it, A small opponent hits him a tap, I, personally, like them all. And he shouts: I'm going to die. Norman Wood, Form III I.A. K. Wood, Form III I.A Ebe 'iegenb of Glenbalougb From 'iliy That Lake Whose Gloomy Shore by Tom Illoorc AKE GLENDALOUGH is isolated by its sheer cliffs from the rest of Ireland: I it is in Ireland but not of it. The same sun that warms the rest of Ireland shines on Glendalouglfs locks, and legend says they are never warmed And it is truth that the same moon that silvers other waters the world over, gleams on Glen dalouglfs waters, and they lie sullen and black, imprisoned forever in their sullen and cold cliffs. Legend adds that the lurks flying over Glcndalough, fly hastily and in silence. Nature long ago gave up an unfair struggle and retreated, taking with l.er even the clover, and leaving behind barrenness and sterility. Glcndalough may be a romantic spot, but it is surpassingly gloomy and lonely. This is the legend of Glendalough. Among all the young saints who followed after St. Patrick. St. Kevin was the youngest, holiest and most ardent. Desiring only silence and meditation, he fied from all worldly cares and temptations to the gloomy realm of Glendalough. There on the bosom of a bold cliff, he threw himself down at even, to pray and rest, thinking that there at least no woman's smiles could ever haunt him. But the saint, being a saint, I suppose, little knew that nothing in Heaven or on Earth is a barrier to a woman if she be fond. For even as he sleeps and dreams of Heaven, Kathleen bends over him and weeps. In truth, it was from Kathleen he fled, Kathleen with her eyes of most unholy blue, who had loved him well and long and thought it not a sin to follow him whereler he went. For this reason she had followed him by day and night, unafraid over plains, burning in the noonday sun, over mountains treacherous to her unskilled feet, through forests that tore at her tender skin and sought, with their millions of

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THE 5594335 Slxting O'er snow clad Helds up hill and down VVe wend our way, forsake the town, Glad to be free as the winds that blow, Glad to feel the touch of snow. And we gaze at the beauty of all around, As it sparkles and Hutters to the ground. To cover the earth with its mantle so white- Small wonder our hearts are so filled with delight. For the beauty gives looks and feelings that dart Like rays of sunshine into our heart. Nature's enchantment it is that thrills, That crowds out our cares, our woes and our ills. If you would Care for this kind of at thrill And be not afraid of a bump or a spill, Don your warm garments and try out the breeze, You'll enjoy to the full a jaunt on your skis. I lllargaret Illorgan, Form III H. pt. Ghz willow 'fflattern HE collectors and admirers of earthenware and porcelain, dceorated with the willow pattern, have ber-ome very numerous. Who has not heard the fascinating little poem: Two Pigeons flying high. Chinese vessels sailing by. Weeping willow hanging o'f-r Bridge with three men--if not four: Chinese temple, see it stand. Looking over all the land. Apple tree with apples on, A pretty face to end my song. There are several versions of the rhyme, but this is the form in which it was taught to many people. The little poem isn't the only story connected with the willow pattern: tradi- tion ascribes the scenes depicted to incidents in the love story of a beautiful C'hint-sc maiden. Koong-Shu was the daughter of a wealthy mandarin, and loved Cllang, her father's Secretary. The mandarin, who wished his daughter to marry a wealthy suitor, forbade the marriage, and shut his daughter up in an apartment on the terrace of the house which is seen in the pattern to the left of the temple. From her prison Koong-Shu uwatched the willow-tree blossom, and wrote pot-ms in which she ex- pressed her ardent longings to he free ere the peach lmloomed. Cflutng inznmgf-tl lu .31-