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

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THE EcHoEs 41 Alone' FIRST PRIZE Give me an old log cabin, Under the tree I love, And there let me dream in the moon- light, 'Neath the bright, White stars above. Give me a couch made of scented boughs, W'ith a pillow at my head. And there when the lonely darkness comes, I'll creep snugly into bed. Give me as my alarm clock, The bright red sun of dawn, ' With the sweet fresh air of morning, And love-birds singing their song. Give me as my companion, An Indian bark canoe, And I'll clear the silver waters Till they melt in Heaven's blue. I love those great tall tossing pines, I love those silvery streams, And whenever I need solitude, I'll go there to dream my dreams. l JEAN IXIETCALFE, II Commercial

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The I1!6l7ldK7'E'7',S Song THIRD PRIZE ,If jfff Z 1, 'I X ,f Mx I L'N ,--wv- ' -,,,NW,,,.mw 'mn.. rm, ,hh- W,,,nfI vn-..l V ,ff f fi .Za-Q .- f ,W . I , N 127' '- .', X 1 f'l 1 X 1 ' - R ,rift nj , I Cx I 'Ulf 'dv w : A- ' it z Q I M Lx-ll If - -in It . ' 'J' ' f 1 '..' QV, 1- IA. 7 ', '- -v-'L I. ' .' I I. W, v, - T.. A JV! .1-g-..-,.I In 6: , mv' 'P'-. - 1-.. ,1 ' Give me the friendly winding road That goes I know not where, A joyful word and a happy smile A heart that's free from care. For the countryside has a haunting call That cannot be denied To meet Life's flowing Tide. Give me a dancing morn in Spring With bluebells all the way, Or the drowsy, drowsy drone of bees That crown a summer's dayg For the countryside has a lasting charm That never will grow old That holds the sweetest memories More precious still than gold. Give me a true and thankful heart For all these joys and more. Give me the lips to praise the Name Of Him whom worlds adore. For the countryside proclaims His worth In bird and Hower and tree And as I love the countryside I can but thankful be. GRACE BI.-XRSHALL, III A Acad. THE ECHOE5

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42 Rustic Grandeur FIRST PRIZE IJOETRY, so one writer has said, is the key to one's inner being. Not long ago I chanced upon a bit of X erse written many years ago by Omar Khayyam reading thus: ll'ak'e.' for the Suu wlzo xmtteftl into flight The Stars before hinz from the jield of Night DrzAz'es Night alone iufth them from Hetnfiz. As I read that bit of poetry many thoughts and scenes flashed on the screen of memory. Because of the very nature of the poem the scenes pro- duced in panoramic sequence were those of the outdoors. Next in these brief scenes I see the glories of the awakening dawn. One morning I had occasion to rise early and cross to the opposite shore. Not a sound was heard save the sweet and mellow sound of the water idly lapping on the pebbled beach, and the familiar 'tputt-putt of the outboard. Nature had rung down the curtain in the form of a mist. Yet, even then that delicate drape was lifted and the sun in regal splendour made its debut for the day. Yonder on the rock was poised ready for instant flight a long-legged, un- gainly yet graceful, heron, its image mirrored in the placid waters. Finally, in fancy I see the climax of the day - the setting of the sun. Yonder, from my vantage point here to the left I saw it set, leaving tatters of purple and gold behind it to mourn its passing. 'What words of mine can express the scenic beauty-splendid flocks of pinks and blues and delicate pearly greys like sheep being herded into the oncoming night? Directly in the west were heaped up masses of velvety purple and midnight blue clouds, rent here and there with ragged splashes of heavy gold. As the sun slowly sank to the horizon, paused as if for a long last breath, and then was gone from sight, I found myself reading this bit of appropriate verse: THE EcnoEs The sim declines 0'er land and sea: Creeps ou the llligllff The t-wiuklzhzg stars come one by one To shed their liglzt. My mind travels back to a little cottage which might best de described as a rude structure of logs and boards hewn from the forests nestling near by, a strong door, and five small windows with wooden shutters. The moon is peering over a huge rock on yonder hill, its silver beams woven into the finest gossamer as they filter through the branches of the stalwart pines. My eyes linger on the wide expanse of sky, the purple curtained mountains, the dark plumy woods, the river winding like a silver thread along the valley. ' ' The TlfI0'i'Z.7lg Finger writesp and lzai'z'ng writ lvlores auf' BIARGARET PARKER, Spec. Com. - Sn Zig-1-177.71 SECOND PRIZE SNUG-L-INN is a tiny summer camp nestling in the trees and shrubs along a river bank. It is set back from the shore against a background of small, whispering pines. The shoreline is marked with snowy white rocks. worn smooth from the weather. During the day the sun glistens on the water, casting beautiful shadows on a velvety carpet of grass. A silver canoe drift- ing to and fro in the breeze gives one a feeling of everlasting peace. Behind the camp a tiny brook babbles over smooth pebbles, telling the story of its travels. It winds its way in and out until it is lost in a huge forest. In the evening the birds begin to fly to their nests in the forest. They come in Hocks, with a drowsy, hum- ming noise. At sunset the water becomes a vast, bottomless pool of colour. The trees cast weird shadows on the cabin and its surroundings. Night falls like a heavy velvet curtain, and complete silence reigns over one of natures most beautiful spots. FRANCES NEARY, IIA Com.