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

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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.

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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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BOOK REVIEWS A Lantern in Her Hand by BessStreeterAl:lrich Reviewed by MARGARET LUNDY, Sp. Com. This is a story of a young couple who moved into the western part of the United States when it was first opening up. There they made their home of sod. The story tells of their joys and heartbreaks, of their successes and failures. The author shows how a few homes grew into a large community and then into a small city of which these people were the heart. The lives of the central characters are carried right down to our own day, and we see their children and grandchildren marry. The contrast between young people of to-day and young people of those days is striking. We sometimes think of our parents as old fashioned when they tell us how they acted when they were young. When you read this book you are more capable of understanding the bitter disappointment mothers and fathers of to-day face when their children grow up and fail to make good in the world. I can honestly say I did not find one dull page in the entire book. Every little detail is vividly told. There were times when I wanted to weep for the dear mother in her hardships and disappointments. The grasshopper plague is very real and especially interesting because we can compare it with what we have read of the plague in our own west. You do not need a dictionary by your side to read this book, for the diction is simple. It is not a long book, consisting of about three hundred pages. The print is fairly large, and not hard to read. I earnestly urge anyone who is at all interested in pioneer life to read this book. The FlUH'el' of an by Myron Brinig Reviewed by GARTH COWAN, IVA Ac. The story is told of a snake that began eating it- self, beginning at its tail. But when it came to its neck it had to stop for it could go no further. In much the same way Myron Brinig involves himself with his plot to The Flutter of An Eyelid, one of the best and also one of the maddest books written in recent years. In a brief forenote he quotes in part: She also said that Hamlet, being a little mad, feigned madnessf' This may be an explanation. It is certainly not an apology. The story begins with the arrival of Cason Roan- oke, an outstanding conservative writer of Boston to California. From there the story winds its weird, wild, mystic way to the closing pages, where Mr. Brinig, evidently finding the plot too much for even himself, obliterates his characters by turning them and the golden state into the Pacific Ocean. Cer- tainly a startling ending for a startling book, and one that fulfils its purpose much more satisfactorily than other famous endings as, for instance, The Mill on the Floss. The keen satire of a Swift, the sensitive beauty of a Vllilde, the revolting realism of a Zola and the dry humour of a Leacock are not often all found be- tween the covers of one book. Nor is murder often seen as an exquisite beauty, nor death as an answer to a cry for perfect beauty. Our superficial reaction- ary tendencies scream revolting and our inner- most souls say glorious All this is given us by Mr. Brinig in smooth, masterly literary style. This is a book that will be remembered long after read and that will change subtly the viewpoint and re- actions of the reader. the Post by Sir Leonard Woolley Reviewed by FRANK PAMMETT, Ill A Ac. Here is a very interesting little book on the romance of archaeology which is based on a series of six talks broadcast over the British Broad- casting Corporation by the author. We cannot divorce ourselves from our past: we are always conscious of precedents, not least so when we fiout them, and we let experience shape our views and actions: this is so much the case that when tradition is absent or crystallizes into un- reasoned convention, progress stops, But the past to which we appeal must be, in a sense, our own, precedents set by men conditioned much as we are, the experience of races or of individuals morally akin to us: its value is proportionate to the degree of continuity by which we are linked to it.'i Sir Leonard Woolley in his book tells in a very fascinating Way and with numerous illustrations the work of an archaeologist, and the story of the progress of this comparatively recent phase of scientific endeavour. He explains by actual proof the Value of field archaeology to mankind, and cites several instances where it has thrown light on the lives of our forefathers: Written history tells us nothing about Britain before 55 B.C., archaeology can tell us of British kings in the south and east civilized enough to mint their own coins with dies modelled after the famous gold-pieces of Macedonf' The book includes the following general topics and enlarges on each one in a most interesting and instructive manner: the scope of archaeology, the start of an excavation, work on a town site, what ruins tell, supplementing the written records, grave digging, tomb robbers, clay tablets, and the use of archaeological materials. Cicero sums up for us in a few words the chief reason why we should increase our knowledge of this important subject: Not to know what happened before you were born is to remain always but a child. For what is man's life if it is not linked with the life of earlier generations by the memory of the past? Page Twenty-nine