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

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26 THE EcHoEs The Birth Qf FIRST PRIZE, SLOW LY, disconsolately, the spare, almost gaunt, figure of an old shabby man mounted the creaking steps 'to an upper garret, furnished solely with an ancient arm-chair and a piano. The musicians pale, intel- lectual face was furrowed by a series of spasmodic twitchings that told of the tumult of music within his soul. VVhy must he suffer thus? For what reason must he endure the torturing inability to express the music crashing and echoing within him? His slight body was convulsed with a racking sob cut from his innermost being. It was not the sob of a weak man, beaten, but that of a strong man at the point of desperation. lVhat could he do? Thoughts of suicide flick- ered through his brain, but, with the strength of one who regarded his life as a talent given him by God, he cast them aside. Like insidious demons they returned. lYould it not be for the best? Who was there to miss him? lVho to mourn? VVhat would there be but a desultory examination and a verdict of suicide 4 motive unknown? Entering his garret through a door- less doorway, he Hung himself into his old armchair carrying scars from a life as barren and ill-used as his own. The sounds of the city surrounded and en- closed himg the crashings, the murmur- ings, the screams of the streets creep- ing up in the night air. Oh! for quiet! The peace of a lonely country-side, where his soul could find expression in immortal music. The wordsi t'Out of suffering comes inspiration vibrated in his brain. But this was more than suffering. This was torture, mental, bodily, reaching his very being with its in- tensity. Suddenly, exhaustion took control of his tired body and he re- laxed into a stupor from which he aroused later with perspiration on his brow. Again the sounds of the city zz Ma5ierp1'ece UPPER SCHOOL bore in on him with an intensity that made his brain a whirling eauldi on of spinning thoughts. For hours he sat thus, in the dark, his intellect slowly responding to the suggestions of sui- cide which persistently pierced his weakened mind. His will-power gone, he arose f a mere automaton respond- ing to the hypnotism of self-suggestion. Slowly he turned toward the door and moved forward! Then he stopped! lVas that a cry he heard? No, it was a tiny sky-lark, singing sorrow up into immortal spheres. Suddenly the hyp- notic influence ceased! Turning like a flash, he sprang to the ancient piano and let his hands fall in one great solemn chord. Then the tumultuous chaos of music burst forth like a fire from his body. His hands, urged on and guided -by some spiritual agency, produced a great melody of sound, a symphony of the city. Hard and metallic, soft and yielding, unscrupulous and humane, all such moods were depicted in his vibrating, tremulous chords. The notes Howed forth in a very ecstasy of sound. The great bass throbbed and thunderedg the soft diminuendos added a remote intimation of the joys and, somehow, sweet sorrows behind the accompany- ing thunder. Yet through it all was a single melody, the melody of life, ebb- ing back and forth in inspired notes, carrying the theme of the symphony on to its end. Slowly the musicians face softened, taking on an almost ethereal glow. His body relaxed as the pent-up force of his soul dissolved. The tempo grew softer and slower. Suddenly, with a gust of energy, the music flared into a mad burst of flame, only to die away and be stilled. The mans frame, suddenly old, sank forward over the keys he loved. Vlfith the death of a master, came the birth of a masterpiece. HORACE STEER, VB Acad.

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THE EcHoEs 27 The Duel 0U'l'SIDE Le Rouge Lion, the rain falls in a steady drizzle. Suddenly from the darkness down the road three men appear. In spite of the gloom of the night it is possible to see that they wear the red, white and blue cockades of revolutionary France. They come stealthily up to one of the partially shaded windows of the inn and stand grouped in front of it, speaking occasionally in hoarse undertones. Inside the inn two noblemen, Alex- andre de Nemours and Dupont dl-Xlembert, sit discussing their plans for the next day. They are fugitives from the Terror. VVell, mon ami, says Nemours to his companion, 'Ato-morrow we will reach the coast unless the Jacobins lie in wait for us at Caenf' Do not lose hope, H1011 brave, replies d'Alembert, I believe that we lost them at Orleans, where we tricked them into thinking that -W On guard, interrupted Nemours, someone is watching at the east window! In the meantime, outside the win- dow, tension is growing. How shall we attack? asks Car- rier, of the leader, Citoyen Greuze. We cannot enter boldly and engage them hand to hand for they are very adept with the rapier and are not lacking in skill with the pistol. W'e shall wait for an opportunity to trick them, snaps Greuze, whose temper is on edge after tramping all night through the rain. Look, rasps Lebas, the third conspirator, the aristocrats are quar- relingl Indeed, from inside the inn, come sounds of heated argument. Finally, the conspirators heard d'Alembert chal- lenge Nemours to a duel. The two draw their pistols and fire simultane- ously. Both fall to the floor, remain motionless, and for several moments the conspirators look at each other, speechless with amazement. Look, gasps Carrier, they have shot each other, neither of them moves. L'Let us return to Orleans at once, says Greuze excitedly, and report to Citoyen Marat that we have killed both of the accursed aristocrats. He should reward us Well. Two days later, two men stand on the deck of the schooner Cloud, bound for England from the port near Caen. Thanks to you We have escaped, says one whose name is Nemours, but we were almost food for lXfIadame Guillotinef' It was a simple plan, replies d'Alembert, I counted on the coward- ice of those rogues to delay them long enough to allow us to put on our little duel. ToM HooPER, VB Acad. The History of a Fine Old joke FIRST PRIZE, HUMoRoUs VERSE 9 ff F -mat was H1Qla navel These verses were inspired by the lines below: l'l'1zatez'er you do, do Jzol z'1zr!zf1'e' much ji0k6-Z'6llZ.lZg 111 the pl'0g7'C111ZI716, for there is uotlzfizg more boresome zffzau an old joke, that seems to have l1'Z'6'd-f6i'6l' since the Flood. There's nothing so infectious as The prehistoric joke, It dates from times when mortals by Gesticulations spoke. Come, listen to the history Of one undying brand, Which may be heard in vogue to-day VVhen walking down the Strand.