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

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30 THE EcHoEs My Library FIRST PRIZE, JUNIOR INIIDDLE SCHOOL 0NE Christmas I was presented with three little books. I had just learned to read, and these were the first books I had ever had all my own. VVith horror I followed the terrifying adventures of the Little Red Hen, spelling out the words with my linger. St. Nicholas had no more fervent admirer than I, as I visualized him dropping down the sooty chimney: and with tender compassion I read that great Christmas story of long. long, ago -the first Christmas. The 'iLittle Red Hen died of pure love. I regret to say I read it too much, and its disintegrated parts found their way to the dust-bin. The other two little volumes set out on the long trail to the west - the mission- aries wanted books. But my library did not stop there. Its growth has been slow but steady. I progressed through Peter Rabbit and Uncle XViggily and such childish woodlore, then the more reasonable works of Charles G. D. Roberts, and, finally, my endeavours in anthropology had their birth in the multitudinous pages of lVells' Ufflutline of History. I had, perforce, to seek new fields. Soon Alcott's books appeared on the shelf - 'tLittle Women and Little Men. Tom Brown's School Days will always occupy an honoured place on my shelves. The volumes of my childhood end with Crawfords Little City of Hope. I began, at last, to read in earnest. At a comparatively late date, Steven- son s Kidnapped and Treasure Island took their place on my shelves. I remember I could not at first under- stand whether the Fifteen men on a dead man's chest were sitting on a box, or acting as a sort of poultice to the deceased. At a later date, light began to show. Distinguished authors soon began to shine on the shelves. Scott, Dickens, Shakespeare, Gatier, Stratton-Porter, Ebers, Beaconsfield, Scott, Connor, and Yerne-all the great Honour Roll of authors Whose books will be read forever, and forever admired- I have, and love them all. Few people can realize what travel- ling I have done, and in what company. I have lain on the wet Highland moors with David Balfour, as Stevenson himself must have done. I have rid- den by the side of the Prince of Orange to fight the Spaniard, though I doubt if Ebers knew it. With T ancred, Beacons- field and I have made our pilgrimage over the burning plains of the East, and I sat with Bob Cratchett, warming my hands over the selfsame candle. I know what the inside of a debtor's prison looks like, and with Scott's julian Peveril have I lain in a dungeon in the Tower of London. I have fought the beasts in the arena at Romeg and with the Thracian Spartacus have I fought, sword in hand, through the mountains of Italy. But another library I possess - the library of memory. I know not how many volumes are in that great libra- ry' of books I have read but do not own, but I know and love them all. I can read them any time, for they need not be carried with me. It is my great library, and it can never be taken from me. My library! What meaning the word possesses. It is not merely morocco covers and printed pages, it is love, honour, truth, justice, history - all the knowledge of the past, and it is all mine. Certainly the greatest gift of a Divine Creator to his greatest creation was the gift of writing and reading, and the mind to understand. May it never be lost, for it holds, forever, the key to every door. BARRIE JACK, III A Acad.

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THE EcHoEs been caught in branches which hung over the river. The mother soon reached the spot, but seemed unable to get at the tiny creature which was entangled amongst the branches. Finally, with super- human strength, she tore the branches away and grasped her baby. She struck out for the bank and tried to scramble up, but it proved steep. Then, still carrying her precious burden, she made for a place where the bank was not as steep. I stood rooted to the spot, watching this battle against death. 29 Finally the mother reached her ob- jective, half swimming, half carried by the current. She climbed out and placed her olfspring on the grass. Then instead of fondling her baby, just snatched from the jaws of death, she delivered one good cuff which sent him rolling along the grass, and turned away. To a human being this was an heroic self-sacrificing rescue, but to the mother bear and her cub it was just another incident in a normal day, FRED HooPER, VB Acad. 1716171-g7Zdl'1.07l FIRST PRIZE UPPER SCHOOL You held it in your hand, the dying dove. VVhen first I came upon you in the wood, And the soft colours of its gentle throatl Were streaked with ruby blood. You said with scornful look, It's just a birdl Don't cry about it, silly one, you said. And, There are plenty of them in the Wood, No one will ever notice this one's dead. I wanted, then, to ask you if you thought You could bring back the tender cooing note Its mate had heard and loved, or paint again The iridescent rainbow of its throat? Oh, how I wish I could have called you lvrzrte - I only turned, and slowly walked away. You didn't understand? f You never could A I hope you will s some day. HILDA THoMPsoN, VA Academic

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THE Ecnoas 31 A R51 THE setting for this reverie is that part of the historic Bay of Quinte at Picton, Ontario. NVhitechapel is one of the first Methodist Churches in Canada-built in the year l809f and stands today in its quaint church- yard on the wind-swept hill overlook- 'erff ing the beautiful bay. It was around this little church that much of the life of the staunch United Empire Loyal- ists centred, and the graves of many, including those of my own grand- parents, still nestle in its sacred old burying ground. The wind, where sway the rain-drenched lilacs now, Is that the wind from out the bay's far gleam? Or alien gale that stirs a squall and whines To mock away my dream? Has Maytime loosed the slumbering cascade yet, Until it surges with a boisterous rush? Or is it last springs melodies that haunt My soul's sad hush? I hear forefathers raise their lusty hymns, VVithin NVhitechapel where they sang of oldg - I see their grax es deep hid beneath tall grass - O hearts so nobly bold! Still holds the steep shoreline its turbid cove Where black snakes poke their heads, then slip below? Do dormant clams and shells begem the beach As just a year ago? At sundown floats the bay upon its breast A ship with low sails anchored 'gainst the tide? Do eerie screeches sound and far resound Adown the other side? Oh! Give me two strong wings that like the gull I might sweep o'er the bay and up the hillg For what was dear and sweet all yesteryear Is dearest, sweetest still. JEAN WARREN PLATT, IV B Acad.