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

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The Clue by SYLVIA BOORMAN, XIII A AC. The ring of the horses' hooves sounded clear and metallic through the frosted stillness. The hostler, hurrying across the inn-yard, beat his arms about his body in an energetic effort to keep his blood in as warm circulation as pos- sible. His breath issued forth in White clouds which seemed to hang solidified before they proved their vapourous nature by disappearing into black nothingness. The horses' mouth was hung with silver icicles. The rider, his own beard tinged with frost, threw the reins to the hostler, jumped off his horse and strodg over to the inn door. The host, white-aproned, open- ed it to him, and he entered. Inside, the air was warm and scented-the pervading odour being that of fried for frying as the r i d e r hopedl bacon. A goodly com- pany was seated around the great fireplace where a huge fire was roaring, like many a human be- ing, in defiance of all the elements, blazing away in the full glory of its youth and egotism and power - power where even human beings bow- ed before its superior merits. The human beings then availing themselves of the great one's indul- gence were a mixed lot, but all alike in that they had a common end in view - that of keeping warm. All, that is, except a friar who sat on a stool in the corner, whose main object seemed to be to obtain enough light with which to write. Near him was a little mousy man who sat With- out saying a word but stared solemnly at who- ever was speaking, and if, by some odd chance, there was a lull in the conversation, he stared with the same solemnity at the mug of ale rest- ing between his knees. Near him was a young man who made up for him in conversation, or at any rate, noise, he was full of good cheer and willing to fill himself with more. Come, he cried gaily, more ale, more ale! Le diable m'emporte if this isn't the best I've tasted in the past forty-eight hours-and, in sooth, it has had plenty of comparison! Come, my lassie, you'll fill our mugs for us, won't you, my dear? Fill them all up-it's my treat this time. Page Twmzty-six This last was delivered to a rosy-cheeked maid, who stood beside him, none the less rosy for having her cheek pinched now and then. On the other side of her sat another man who was fond of pinching-but not a young girl's pink cheeks necessarily. He was a fairly fat gentleman, every quarter-inch of whose clothes was put to good use. His small avaricious eyes were gazing fondly on his mug of ale. He was going through a series of motions whereby he wished to make, by sweet anticipa- tion, all the sweeter, the realization. He would raise the cup tantalizingly close to his nostrils, then hold it off at arm's length as though to get a last view before making it disappear for ever, then with a grand sweeping gesture, bring it to his lips-and take a tiny sip. Thus was he teasing his glands de- liciously when the loud young man called for more ale. Quickly then he downed his ale so that when t h e young girl came around, he was able to turn his mug up- side down fnot a drop ran outj and hold it out nonchalantly with the words: Well! What a coincidence. M i n e ' s empty too. Next to him sat the landlord's wife in a rocking chair, beside her a young boy whom she prudently sent off to bed when the stories began to circulate. Leaning up against the fireplace was the hostler thawing himself out, and in the corner opposite the friar, sat an old man with a white beard. The traveller having dined, joined the circle. The loud young man was becoming louder as the ale became more plentiful. The traveller remarked to the landlord that it was a frosty night out, the loud young man said that it was indeed, but not so frosty as he had known it to be. Why, one night last winter I was walking to the village three miles away, and hadn't got more than halfway there, when a pack of wolves came howling up. I was that frightened that I made the sign of the cross above my head with my sword. Well, just like that, there ap- peared a beautiful white cross in that very spot. I seized it, waved it over the wolves and every last one of them slunk away. When I Hnally reached the village and warmth, my

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the sun itself arose, sending a warm flood over the Water where but a few hours before had been the cold white path of the moon. With a burst of exquisite song, a woodthrush greeted the new day from his perch in the top of a tamarack. From all sides came the morning songs of countless birds: the liquid warbles of the thrushes, the teeterings of the downy woodpeckers, the loud wick, wick of the flickers, the sprightly bubblings of the Wren, the harsh strident notes of the blue- jay, and the soft cooings of the mourning doves. Amid this rapidly increasing riot of sounds, one of the sleepers awakened and nudged his companion who in turn sat up and gazed about him. By golly, he remarked, stifling a yawn, seems like I just went to bed. A fellow can surely sleep up here away from all the city noises. lt's funny that no animals disturbed us though. His companion replied, Don't you worry, no animals would come near a camp. Why, l'll bet that there weren't more than a few rabbits and mice within two miles of us last night. I suppose you thought that a deer would come along and look at you! Democracy Ar War by MARGUERHE WALKER, xm B Ac. Freedom is in peril! Defend it with all your might. Valiantly, grimly, with that inspiring slogan ever in the minds of her people, Britain has buckled down to war. Chamberlain showed us the weak state of our defences and the in- vasion of Poland showed us what had happened to nations similarly unprepared. Chamberlain had done his work, very finely, at Munich, and in this new revitalised Britain, the call was for a leader, a strong man, and so Churchill came to power. Fighting for freedom, the British people re- nounced it. Factories became Government supervised and the Government took over the production of many sources of food. Conscrip- tion came into force and the problem of organ- izing and equipping the British Army was dealt with sanely and intelligently. Even in the stress of war Britain preserved the right of individuals to hold their own beliefs, so a board dealing solely with conscientious objectors was set up. Air raid shelters sprang up all over the country, from those in London capable of hold- ing thousands, to school shelters and little family ones in suburban back yards. Huge factories were cleverly camouflaged, sound detectors were established in key points, and a ring of bristling anti-aircraft guns protected the vital war supplies and factories of Britain from the enemy bombers. Cheerfully the people submitted to a black- out which made fortunes for torch battery manufacturers and inspired several song hits. It was an eerie sight when the huge blue-lighted buses moved silently and slowly along the roads. Of course the blackout was felt mostly in the towns, but the country had its share of complications. The evacuation of many firms into the coun- try created housing, feeding, and amusement problems and gave rise to many humourous articles describing the town dweller trying to work a rusty pump in the back garden, or being wakened by horses peering in the windows. There were, too, the inevitable child evacuee stories, several of which have come across the sea and become seavacuee stories, probably be- cause of the new wartime rule of economy. Under that rule rationing came into force and busy housewives had to fill in ration books and still busier shop-keepers had their quota of forms to fill in too. In fact, the only real hard- ship suffered in the first few months of ration- ing was writer's cramp. Britain was jogging along, getting the last ounce of humour out of every situation and gradually adjusting herself to war conditions when suddenly, unbelievedly, she was fighting in Norway, then Holland, Belgium, and finally France. The situation was getting serious, and the threat of invasion was imminent, so Churchill called Britain to the defence of her beaches. Men willingly gave up their brief half-holidays to fill sandbags and pile them up around air-raid shelters, decontamination posts, police boxes and telephone boxes. The sight of air-raid wardens practising be- came quite familiar. They roped off a street, exploded practice bombs, dealt with imaginary fires and gas, and treated very real patients for imaginary injuries. And then the military really took over. Many coastal areas were made into defence areas and no one could get in or out without producing their identification cards and accounting satisfac- torily for their desire to enter the area. Every exposed beach was closed off with barbed wire and every inch of them covered with machine guns. Roads were blocked with old cars, barb- ed wire, anything, at night, and the barricades were patrolled by sentries. England was ready, and the British were prepared to defend their freedom. Herbert Morrison invented a new slogan- Go to it! So, with one eye on her beaches and ears listening for an air-raid siren, or the church bells which would herald invasion, Britain went to it. Page Twenty-five

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cross disappeared. What do you suppose it was? He looked around with the confident air of one who knows his question cannot be answer- ed. Why, le diable m'emporte if it wasn't my frozen breath, he said triumphantly, and then added by way of conclusion le diable m'emporte. Amen, said the friar impiously without raising his head. The fat man chuckled-he could afford to, it being at someone else's expense. The old man who had formerly kept counsel in silence, now spoke. Take care, young man, he said. Once I knew a young fellow, Jack Robinson was his name, and that expression of yours came as readily to his lips as did ever his favorite mug. Why, a sentence was not punctuated properly for him if it didn't end with le diable m'em- porte. Ah, poor fellow, and here the old man shook his head over said reminiscences, never will I forget the night he set out for home from the Blue Goose Inn where we had been spend- ing a jolly evening. Now Jack lived half a mile or so within the Trentbury woods, and no one else was going in his direction, but, he assured us, he would get home safely, 'le diable m'emporte,' if he wouldn't. Well, that was the last ever heard of Jack Robinson. He just disappeared. When it was discovered he had not reached home, we all went to look for him. About half on the way, the path took an abrupt turn, and there the snow was trampled as though there had been a scuffle, but absolutely no sign of Jack. Of course, there were those who said the wolves devoured him, but I tell you, to this day, I and my three comrades would swear to it fonly un- fortunately they are deadj that just an arm's throw from where the snow was all trampled, there were, and here his voice lowered to a tense whisper, there were marks of a pitch fork! There was a silence, and then the loud young man with wide-eyed and amazed incredulity, whispered le diable m'emporte. Snowflakes by DOROTHY ANDERSON, IX A Snow is like tiny gems Riding on high, Floating so softly Down through the sky. Floating and lying So soft and still On a high peaked-roof Or a sheltering hill. These tiny bright jewels, The beauty they show- And to think that they're made From nothing but snow! Types At P.C.l. by WALTER WHEELER, x B mo. ,sms First we have the glamour girl, Who has the boys in such a whirl Their heads go round and round, She puts the warpaint on her face, And should not be seen in any place Except as a circus clown. Then we have the lazy lad, Who thinks that sleeping's all the fad, No riches will he reap, When other boys enjoy the din, He props his hand beneath his chin, And dozes off to sleep. We now have a student who knows his stuff, He'll figure questions long and tough, He takes work with a grin, He doesn't fool like other boys, When the teacher talks he makes no noise, But sits and takes it in. We have the lad in strange attire, A sense of colour he cannot acquire, Suitcoat pink and trousers green, A flashy tie hangs round his neck, His socks are red and brown plaid check, He goes to the extreme. We also have a camera fiend, The school hates him and his machine, For he takes some candid shots, He has several pictures of different chaps With silly looks upon their maps, But some day he'll be caught. Then there's the hero of P. C. I., For the dear old school he'll do or die Upon the rugby Held, He breaks his ankles, ribs and neck, He has the cheers of the weaker sex, A strong right arm he wields. Some students bring their midday meal, They throw crusts of bread and orange peel About the corridors, They are a pack of careless curs, They make lots of work for the janitors, By mussing up the iioors. And last we have the country hick, Who comes through weather thin and thick, To attend the dear old school, For brains, you'd think he'd be the worst But when reports come he's near the first I guess he's no one's fool. Page Twenty-seven