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

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Watching the Ships Come Home ELEANOR GLOVER, Ill B Ac. The sun is setting in the westg the red rays cover the sea, And soon the ships will come sailing in, come hurry- ing home to me. The gulls are soaring above the sails, that rise up out of the blue, Where the sky stoops down to kiss the sea, and the sun is shining through. The ships are coming closer now-larger and larger they grow, Like great sea monsters out of the deep, with their sails as white as the snow. The toils and the worries of day disappear with the evening that fades with the light, When the sun goes down behind the clouds to sleep through the silent night. I love to stand on that rocky shore, watching the waves roll by, When the roar of the wind seems to sing a song, and fades at length to a sigh, When the sky is as clear as the ocean below, with the clouds like the drifting foam, And I stand on that shore with my eyes to the west, watching the ships come home. Symphony by B. JACK, IV A, The train of lumbering freight cars, pulled by a labouring engine, Servant of trade unequalled, chanting its Benedictus i'Blessed be the God of Industry, who hath made the train and the engine! The thund'rous rumble of freight cars, the clatter of wheels on rail joints, The great, deep bass of the engine, and violins of the brake shoes Struck a metallic symphony, which, echoing and resounding Came back from the fields and river, echo'ed from the vault of heaven! The Symphony of Industry, in a quiet Autumnal landscape. Then it passed away into distance, and all was quiet in the valley. Dreams by M. WHALON, 2 B Com. I slept, and dreamt that life was beauty, I woke, and found that life was duty, Was my dream then a shadowy lie? No. In my opinion dreams are not lies. They are lovely, wispy clouds, that float about from place to place, clouding one's vision with beautiful scenes, never to be realized in true life, but always vivid in the Land of Make Believe. Dreaming is one of my favourite pastimes. Some people say, Dream- ing will get you nowhere. Everything in this world must be obtained by work. These people have never known the joys of a dreamer. They have never had the power to change summer to winter, twilight to a 'iMagic dawn. They have never travelled on Carpet to find the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. They enjoy only material things. A dreamer will always be rich. His store of wealth this dreamsj will never diminish. Jungle Night by JESSIE REYNOLDS, III D Ac. It is night-time in the jungle, and up sails the copper Little breezes move the scented air, and softly, moon, Huge at first, then growing smaller and then ' slowly swing All the gorgeous, cupped, exotic flowers growing turning Here profusely, there quite singlyg and a furry, Silver-coloured, she makes shadows, long and blue on deep lagoon, Short and flick' ring on a native camp-fire burning. trembling thing Hurries past, at first quite quickly and then slowing. Now the jung1e's pulse is quickened by a far, ex- cited cry, Green eyes gleam from out dense thicketsg and the whirrings Of the black, elusive bats, silhouettes against the A sky, Break the moonrays into many, shadowed slur- rings. Page Twenty-six

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f-'. afb X K 1lZc',T5'ix . i6T7'TV6T,,ixwz-i'1f+K'N . 4 5,51 ff fr 325' f 3 , Q - f kgaf ' Qy',,ff.fl f aw - fa.. A 5- f ' i ' 5 VA. as-3 l ing. if! 4 ff? , -Qc : 41 - W Y' ff' 3- ' I I fig. I A Wdferfdll ri K4 ' , ' by GOLDIE TULLY, IIB Com. V sf . . 'ff fn A rlver flows from the hills be- f , J ond into the woodsy-valley of I 'N r f if M7gNV,,..v. , N ., the swamp. Here and there, in 3553s, H Xl its course, it is dotted with 24, .Nil ' j -info f ' waterfalls and rapids, but else- where are calm and shallow places. Gne of the most beautiful spots, is the place where a little tributary joins the main stream and Hows harmoniously along with it. The river glides, so easily that one can scarcely see the movement of the limpid waters over the gray rocks and golden sand. Then a drop occurs in the river's course. All move- ment seems to slacken for a moment, then down the water plunges, in a desperate, foaming, volley: the spray flies high, the noise is that of thunder. A waterfall has a magnetic charm. It flows on and on, world without end, and seems to speak volumes, as your gaze penetrates its depth. From the lower valley, the view is different. The water seems to tumble in a continuous confusion, the noise is a steady, muffled rumble as of the last vestige of an echo, tossed among the mountains, the foam seems to swallow all the water that comes down, and then the river flows out between the jagged rocks, growling as if it had been hurt by the fall. Tall grass fringes the borders of the waterfall and some, growing in the stream, thread the waters and create a myriad of tiny ripples. Spray and mist keep the grass around it forever green and moist and fresh, and make it resemble a polished field of emeralds sprinkled with crystals. Madonna Mia by ALAN BROWN My lady in her shawl of green,- So dark her hair, Her cheeks so fair,- Is stately as a jeweled queen, In fish-flecked pools as still as earth, In swirling deeps Of rock-ledged steeps, My lady's green-lit eyes had birth. The Wish by MARY WAITE, IIC Ac. VVhile walking through the wood one day, I chanced to meet a fairy fay, He stood beside a babbling brook, And woeful sad at me did look. He mused aloud while standing there, His words repeat-I'd hardly dare! The little fay thought all amiss, His talk was long-the gist is this: Why through their lives all mortals go, Scarce heeding all that fairies know- The tunes the wind plays through the trees, What flowers say to humming bees, Ne'er seeing all things good and fair, The beauty 'round them everywhere, But plod along their dreary ways, Missing the glory of the days? God gave them eyes to see things with, Souls to know beauty's not a myth, Grew lovely things all o'er the earth To make them glad and give them mirth. Would I could ope their eyes so blind, And tune their ears to every wind, Set free their souls-poor things-to know The beauty 'round them here below! SUmlTlef SOUHJS by MARION BROWN, VA The drowsy hum of honey-laden bees Plundering the treasure-troves of locust trees, The opiate murmur of contented doves Filling the dove-cote with their slumberous loves, - 1- xx? as , pg' K , 1 -.I ' J '1..,.J iifiug. X.: '...Zi?f?fl rf9i W., Sai. 1-1' A'.fqrgU93Z,,. 4, ' -'+Q.Wi fw?7e4, :Q-XX L- A34 154: -L -- ' ' 'ma A -,.. X -. - QQ4-1 lgfavf . ri , ig fa, . A, - -:nj xt K , The drone of cars along the dusty road, The hay-carts, groaning 'neath their fragrant load, The laughing lullabys of happy brooks, The sleepy chatter of hone-coming rooks, The cry of night-hawks in the gathering gloom, The cool, dark silence of a shuttered room. Page Twenty-five

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Incidents, l9I6 by BARRIE JACK, IV A It was early morning when the word was given An early April morning, such as in Annapolis, Turns cherry orchards into snowy paradise. I dared not look my comrades in the face- The thought was then too clear, that, on this Side Jordan, we'd never meet again. But over there, toward the German lines we stared, Quite still, but filled with men, we knew, Men like you and me, whose only sin was That they were German, and servants of A master who had set out to rule the world, The world, and you and me. Then it came- The clear note of a whistle over the roar of Mines set off, and toward those spouts Of red and black we rush'd, hurried stumbling Over shell-holes, craters, pits, hearing, as We tore our way through barbed wire, the clatter Of machine-guns, from seeming far away. A man fell, another: I grasped more firm My rifle, and, bewildered, hurried on. The man before me suddenly fell backward, His blood rushed, spouted over me, I flung him aside. Damn him, I thought, What right has he to die just now? I stumbled on-a roaring filled my ears, The clatter of machine-guns grew louder, Death was everywhere, death and mud- Mud, mud, mud-soil of Flanders Wet with blood and foul'd with human corpses. I stumbled, fell, and then I knew that I Was in the German trenches. A man Loomed up before me and I struck him, Pierc'd him with my bayonet, as I had been taught. He fell: Yes, he was dead. From there I fought Scarce knowing why. Men fell before me, Round me, after me, asl fought. Then someone Grasped my arm. Steady, old man, It's over now. Yes, it was over, Done, there in the mud of Flanders. I heard a man say slowly, wonderingly, It will be Spring now in Annapolis, The orchards will be in bloom, and Sabbath Stillness will pervade the countryside. Yes, it was Sunday. I had forgot, I knelt and pray'd. The Gordons ay LLOYD HARVIE, in B Ac. Hark! tfuough the air comes the sound of the bag- pipes, Do ye ken the tune that they play? Ah! tis the Cock O The North that skirls free on the air,- The clan Gordon is marching to-day. Through the small village the terror is spreading, The Gordons have come to avenge, And oft will the Gunns greet sad o'er the day That the Gordons came, seeking revenge. Green plaids are swinging, the claymores are flash- ing, Quick to the foray they'd rush, The struggle is fierce, the billhooks are sharp, The Gordons they conquer, the Gunns they are crushed. Again the clear pibroch peals wild on the air, The green mountains call them away To heathered glens and braes in the Highlands,- The Gordons have battled to-day. A Winter Scene by LEONA SLIGHT, n B Com. ,-k -F L. if 'L L f is ' A '. ix , - aw,-iw, I 2 1' Q, -A L as x 5 ,i A ,,.,,i ,ui L A-N K -A ..,'.L .Fa L iii a . - I f i an Li, ' ,gn . ff- ' f fezaa I -Q.. ' .',., . 1 . ' - ' . - jai l:-1. . . . pw sgnrfi g f I LX Q K . i ' f Lffa 141 -Q - A .. A ' 4 ffff .- f 1 f 'f I ' K 1 I From the summit of a hill the surrounding country is laid out in Checkerboard fashion. The green pas- tures of yesterday have become the snowfields of to-day. Away to the south lies a great lake frozen over and covered with snow. The far shore is in- distinct, but the nearer ones are comparatively easy to discern. They are covered with a white lacework which hides the thick underbrush from our gaze. This in turn becomes tall, straight trees, bared of foliage but with a sort of courageous look about them. Over hill and dale silently flutter the snow- flakes, floating aimlessly in the sharp, crisp air. The whole winter scene is one dear to the heart of a true Canadian. 4 Page Twenty-sewn