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

Page 39 text:

gun-butt. Then I picked up the flask, but of course. such being my luck, it was empty. Then I thought I'd have a look for some more, so I took my rifle in both hands like a club and started off down the trench, I beaned two sentries from behind, but that wasn't much fun, so I decided to pop into the first door I saw. It was at the end of that angle of the trench, and it led into a little room with a writ- ing table, a clothes-press, and a cot, some general's haunt. I crept under the bed and awaited the proprietor. I was just rubbing my first cramp, when a light entered, and two voices with itg one was foreign and raucous, one much softer, both spoke my mother-English! I wriggled along the floor a bit, and peeped out. There was old Adolf himself, just as I'd always imagined him, cookie-duster and all, and there was that good- for-nothing Alf! They were arguing about rum and prices, and pretty soon I understood-Alf had been filching rum-cases from our supply- dumps for sale to the enemy! He must have been at it a long time, for he was wrangling with der Fuehrer himself. After a bit Adolf went out after money, leaving Alf there alone. I crept out from under the bed, and hissed You rotter! pretty sharply in his ear. He let out a yell like a trapped fox, -and when he recognized me he started begging me not to tell the C.O. if I got backg which l promised him on condition that held help me tie up Adolf for shipment and bring him home alive. He saw what heroes thatld make us, and agreed promptly enoughg but then we struck the first snag, for if we were going to bring Adolf home, we'd need something to cart him in. It was Alf saved the day. He stuck a bit of comb on to his lip, and brushed his hair down, for with one of the uniforms in the clothes- QContinuecl on Page 935 Wind, Sand and Stars by Antoine St. Exupery Reviewed by sauztev Asasv, nv B Ac. Sometimes one reads a book, not because of any real interest in the author's work, but because the critics and those who ought to know have given very enthusiastic accounts of it. I was fortunate enough to read 'tWind, Sand and Stars, by the French aviator author of Night Flight, before I had heard its praises sung by others, and thus was able to gather my own impressions. One might expect a book by such a highly trained airman to tell of various iiights in the enthralling style of a railway timetable, but instead, it is full of passages of indescribable beauty. No one with a spark of imagination would hurry over his chapter on the Elements in which he recounts his battle with a cyclone off the Argentinian coast. No adjectives would be descriptive enough to acclaim his artistry in telling of his night flight among the milliion pin-pricks by which his course was charted. My own vocabulary is pitifully inadequate when I try to describe my impression of this book, so I can convey it best by quoting one of the passages which captured my interest: At that rate of speed, the impalpable erldies of evening air drum softly on the -wings, and the plane seems to be drilling its way into a qzzifvering crystal so delicate that the wake of a passing swallow would jar it to bits. Winter's Retreat by SIEWART BROWN, x A Ac. Y, ,,,, ,, . . .. Z Page Thirty

Page 38 text:

My Dream by JIM HARVEY, V A AC. My Dream is like the morning light, That pierces the mighty gloom, That severs the vale of sullen night. That stirs the lark to lofty flight, And bans the silvery moon. My Dream has the breath of spring-time. With tresses of golden hue. With cheeks the shade of mellow wine, And dimpled lips of a smile divine, My one beloved You. Unfinished Business by HUGH KENNER, IV A AC. The first day they entrusted me with a pair of crutches. I set out on a hobbling discovery- tour of all the hospital grounds, as indeed would any fighting man who had been four months laid up with his right leg full of lead, and was now at last allowed to go forth and learn over again the use of the left one. After crossing the big lawn and encountering several of my Maginot comrades who were likewise taking the air, I came to a small structure like a green- house, roofed with glass panes overgrown with ivy, and containing, so I could see through the open door, four beds, two of them empty. Of the occupants of the other two, one was asleep with his arm lying in a cast on the counterpane in front of him, the other, red-eyed and full- bearded, was wide awake, as was proved by the fact of his sitting propped up on two pillows and carolling unto heaven some witless ballad about a soup-tureeng whereby was the obliv- iousness of the sleeper made manifest, for he stirred not a whit, though the roof-panes rang. Now most of the men upon whose company you are thrown in a war-hospital are spiritless and overmuch haunted by the dulling memory of bursting shells, so hoping for some better amusement I crossed the threshold and con- fronted the singer. The soup-tureen was dropped in mid-stave, and two hot eyes were turned upon me. Maginot? asked he, observing my trussed- up leg. At Chatrussef' I replied. In the second week, too. I got mine at Malapertn, returned he. We had precious fun there, Alf and I. Old Adolf himself was visiting those parts. Near kid- napped him, we did, him with all his bloody guard around him. I was visibly astonished to hear of the Fuehrer visiting the battle-line. You don't believe it? Well, I'll tell you all about it, for I was there. Alf and I, we got old Adolf half-way across No-Man's Land in a wheelbarrow, that November morning. That's Alf there, he explained indicating the sleeper. Seeing that I was in for a yarn, I sat on the foot of his cot, disposed my crutches beside Qigxgilagpfjand And the mad tale he told me, bade him begin. which you may believe or may not as you pre- fer. was in this wise: This Alf here Cgiving the sleeper a prodl was discharged from a sappers' company as a bloody all-round nuisance, and since men were too scarce to be lost, they saved themselves shipping him home by wishing him on 57th Gunners'. Well, Alf was a clever inventive fellow. and before the week was out he had altogether persuaded the sergeant that we de- served to lose the war if we didn't try one of his crack-pot schemes- The Sniper's Friend? he called it. And because that sergeant and I were always sort of friendly, Cthis word with terrible emphasisl, he picked me to have the honour of trying it out. Well, sir, I won't weary you with all the preparations, for they went off right enoughg but the game wound up with me and my rifle at two 0' the morning standing inside an artificial hollow tree in the middle of the Flanders mud, waiting for dawn to break so we could start our little private circus, which was to be a day's round of sniping from twenty- yards with Fritz never knowing where the bullets were coming from. All at once the moon slipped out from under the clouds, and I saw a German sentry near by staring at the stars and dreaming. I was getting tired and thought I would pick him off at onceg but first I determined to edge just a mite closer, for I was a poor shot and a most senseless choice for a job of this kind. Just as I started to walk, carrying the tree with me, I saw the sentry take a long pull out of a flaskg this annoyed me exceedingly, for we-'d heard all along that the Germans had only muddy water to sustain them. As he licked his lips he looked right at me, and never batted an eye to see my tree come ten paces nearer him: I thought that if German rum was as powerful as that I'd better investigate it for myself. So closer I came, and then a bit closer still, Fritz never making a move but plying the fiask again and all of a sudden my tree-door was open and I was in the trench knocking him cold with my Page Twenty-nine

Page 40 text:

JUNIOR LITERARY SECTION Wintefs Wonderland by Joyce GALLAGHER, H. ARTS x There is something about the Winter beauty of Jackson Park that is very impressive and awe-inspiring. One cold frosty afternoon, a friend and I decided to go for a tramp through its winding paths. Upon entering this park we were immediately struck by the very silence and vast loneliness of the place or perhaps it was the grandeur of the great snow-laden coniferous trees that impressed us. The only sound that penetrated the intense quiet was the occasional twittering of a sparrovv overhead, or now and then the cawing of crows in some far- off corner of the park. Rounding a bend in the road, we presently encountered the familiar old Japanese bridge, native to Jackson Park. At the same time we noticed the artificial lake, which drained of its water, resembled some- what a small canyon with the snow sifting in on all sides. Leaving this section of the park, we made our way over the glistening hard-packed snow to the more elevated regions. Here we mounted one of those small hills, so popular with skiers. A Snowflake by DOROTHY THORPE, IX I Dainty little snowflake Graceful as a swan Floating through the atmosphere From sunset until dawn. Welcome, little snowflake, Piling into drifts Making all the skiers glad By filling in the riftsg Covering all the tree-tops With soft fluffy down, Giving each and every branch A soft and lacy gown. Carefree little snowflake, How I envy you, Fluttering so aimlessly U With not a thing to do. Gazing up and down its wooded aisles carpeted in white, we were reminded of an immense cathedral, where one could almost kneel and pray at any of those snow-covered stumps so much like altars in their purity and whiteness. Finally We turned our attention to the creek. blissfully which so fascinated us by its ever gurgling water flowing swiftly over the rocks that line its bed. Lost in admiration we wand- ered aimlessly along the bank for perhaps a mile or so. Slowly retracing our steps homeward, we fully realized after one last backward glance at Jackson Park that this was indeed a Winter's Wonderland. A Fall Morning ln Canada by ELEANoR DOYLE, x A There are charms in certain mornings, Like a morning in the fall, When the hoar-frost's all a-glitter, And the trees are straight and tall. When the smoke from cosy cottages, Rises upward through the sky, I scan this picture with a glance, And breathe a thankful sigh. For there's nothing like a morning When we start the day anew, To start with better resolutions, With a sky so clear and blueg No clouds to darken this painting, Achieved by the One on High, Then: comes the whistle of a sparrow And the piercing black-bird's cry, There are tiny flakes of delicate snow, Fluttering through the air, The frost like tiny diamonds, So precious and so rare. With a land like this to call our own, Free from trouble and despair, We are proud to be the people of Our Canada, beloved and fair. Page Thirty-one