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

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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

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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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A Reverie by BARBARA scorr, nu A Ab. As I sit before the fire, Thoughts of fun come fiooding back Of the summer, and of camp, Merry sails, and long, long tramps. And I think of many things, Cabin groups and council rings, Riding, tennis, swimming, too, All the things we love to do. Tall pine trees, birches white, Deep blue sky, quiet night, And I hope when winter's over, To be among them all once more. The Man With the Lantern by BARRIE JACK, IVA Did you ever wake, in your railway berth At some far-away stop at the end of the earth, And see against the velvety night A glimmering lantern-a jewel of light? A hunched old figure, bowed down with work, Patrolling the track where the dangers lurk, Seeking the railroad's silent foes, Searching the man with the lantern goes. Loose spikes, soft tanks, the threatening slide The softening snow on the mountain side This humble figure searches, seeks, Through every day of the lengthening weeks. As your train rolled on through deepening black Did you think that, before you, lze'd walked the track? That beneath the treastle was mirrored the gleam Of his light, on the swollen and wintry stream? No night so dark, inclement, or cold But the man with the lantern, hunched and old, Has gone before, all the night through Making the journey safe for you! Another man with the lantern treads That same steel trackg their two bent heads Have studied the track the long night through, Making the journey safe for you! .f Page Twenty-eight My Ship by RAE BORLAND, mB Ab. I'll sail across the blinding main, In a tall ship with billowed sails, I'll turn around and come back again, And brave the fiercest of the gales. I'll take the helmg I'll man the deck, In a fine barque with polished rails: I'll smack ol' Neptune in the neck, And brave the fiercest of the gales. I'll be Lord Nelson at the mast, VVith a Red-Coat crew that never failsg I'll make the history highlights last, And brave the fiercest of the gales. I'll make the pirates turn and run, Or exile them in barren dales, On Christmas Day I'll issue rum, And brave the fiercest of the gales. But this is a story of Conquests' drums, Of my lingering dreams inspired by tales, I'll do my work till my day comes, And brave the fiercest of the gales. The Woods in Winter by JACK RYAN, IIB cbm. As we enter the woods we are welcomed by the chirping of the winter-dwelling birds, the scoldings of the black and red squirrels, and the odd rabbit scurrying into the underbrush out of sight. The wind is still, and a gentle snow falls, adding to the radiance of the white woods. The tops of the tall pine trees, heavily laden with snow, bend over to form an arch over our heads. Here and there are some sheltered spots where the snow has not yet penetrated, and the gold and crimson tinted leaves lie waiting to be covered by a soft White blanket. A wind has risen now, and is snatching up the snow and whirling it in little eddies ahead of us, and blow- ing it off the boughs of the trees into our faces. As we walk along, we find rabbit and woodchuck tracks, but none any bigger than these. Oyer in the distance a little cabin stands on a hill. Out of its chimney smoke is curling lazily and drifting away. The wind has risen high by now, and is biting at our faces. The sight of the cabin is therefore a wel- come one. The owner of the abode gives us shelter until the storm sub- when we once more turn our sides, steps homeward through the magni- I ficent splendour of the winter woods.