Stratford Central Secondary School - Collegian Yearbook (Stratford, Ontario Canada)

Page 28 text:

COLLEGIAN, 1937. STRA TFORD, ONT. A GLIMPSE OF FRENCH CANADA By Kenneth Ingham, 5A. French Canada! The picturesque land of the habitant!! Vague visions of calendar- pictured scenes flashed through my mind. I was to spend two whole weeks at a cottage in the heart of the Laurentides! It was a long journey to Montreal but each view of the great St. Lawrence dispelled any weariness, with its beauty and splendor. The great metropolis of Montreal resembles very much the other great cities of my acquaint- ance. Yet there was a difference. Perhaps it was the bi-lingual street signsg perhaps it was the French printing on familiar bill boards. Or was it the outside staircases? I remember how peculiar it seemed to see whole streets lined with rows of steps. Plain steps, fancy steps, bright steps and drab steps, all led up to small squarish buildings, each with an in- variable peak and ornament on its upper win- dow. But the greatest thrill of my stay in Montreal was seeing the fountain in La Fon- taine Park at night. Never have I seen such beauty of colour and form: myriad jets of water forming all sorts of fantastic and beau- tiful shapes, illuminated by concealed lights from below, radiated, with a curiously beauti- ful diffusion, blending and changing tones of crimson and orange, green and blue, while the surrounding pool reflected the soft transient colours like some scene in fairyland. Next morning we were off for the north. At first the country was fairly flat and the road like a narrow dust-coloured ribbon, Wound in and out among the little French villages with their silver roofed churches and white-washed houses. Then came the mountains. The road became winding and tortuous. Occasionally from a hill top we could catch the most gorg- eous views of tree-clothed mountains and tiny sparkling lakes nestling in the hollows between. Stopping for dinner at a little town along the way, we got a more intimate glimpse of the people. Hearty, talkative, gay, they wel- comed les Anglais warmly and not without curiosity. Is Stratford far from Ottawa? - Are there any Francais there '? They want- ed to know. Shyly we tried out our French, much to the amusement of our hosts. Dinner finished, we started off again and were soon at our destination-a small white- washed log cabin at the foot of one of the slop- ing mountains, right on the edge of a petit lac. For two weeks this was to be our home. Page Twenty-eight It was a fairly out-of-the-way place and I had my time much to myself. The tempera- mental flights of the weather, I greeted with unabated enthusiasm. Today the sun smiles down on the sparkling lake: I go exploring up the mountain, or swimming or rowing. To- morrow the mountains will be festooned with low hanging clouds and I shall go fishing. Each day has its novel experiencesg full to the brim with adventure. I remember particularly one exploring trip. I set out in the early afternoon along the nar- row winding road on my way to the large mountain behind the cottage. Before long I came to a little red and white building beside the road with a tiny belfry straddling its roof. This must be the French school-house! Look- ing through the front windows I saw a pleas- ant little room profusely adorned with wall maps and with Bienvenue in large letters printed rustically on the little square of black- board. There were several pictures of the Christ-child about the room. The desks, each for three children, were high and sloping and the front ones had strings of coloured beads on wires fastened to the desk tops: these were for the little ones, I surmised. It was all very interesting and I only wished that I could have seen the petits of the village sitting behind their desks and going about their school work. I continued along the road for a short dis- tance and then struck out across country to- ward the mountain. At first the rolling fields, with their rock piles and winding rail fences were easily enough traversed. But soon the going became harderg up, up, climbing over rocks in steep gullies, grasping trees and shrubs to get a purchase for the ever stiffen- ing climb, I struggled on. Occasionally the way led down through thickly wooded ravines along a crispcarpet of leaves, darkened by the dense foliage overhead. Then came the real climb. Looking up, I saw a high precipice of reddish moss-covered rock rising up steeply, without warning, from the very forest floor and jutting up over the tree- tops above. With the welcome aid of some small niches in the rock and scattered clumps of evergreen shrubs, I toiled cautiously to the top. There, a glorious' view greeted me. I sat spellbound! The Whole valley spread it- self before my gaze,-the great mountains with their green foothills spreading down to

Page 27 text:

COLLEGIAN, 1937. can easily see how popular this park is by the large area left aside for tourist camps. This is always taken up in the summer months. Our parks and the beautiful Avon are truly things to be admired. The river above the dam is known locally as the Upper Avon and that below the dam is known as the Lower Avon. The Shakespear- ean Garden is the latest addition to the Parks System to beautify our city in the Lower Avon. To help the connection of our city with Shake- spearean times the Parks Board is trying to reproduce the garden surrounding Shake- speare's home at New Place. This was not the dramatist's birth place but rather his home during the latter years of his life which he purchased when he returned from London. The garden is on the site of the old Dufton Woollen Mill west of the Stone Bridge on the south shore of the Avon. Work on it began over a year ago under the direction of Mr. R. T. Orr of the Parks Board. The garden does not contain glorious new specimens of flow- ers and shrubs as many may expect but rather it is a small, simple garden containing old fashioned flowers which have been ment- ioned in the works of Shakespeare. Some of these, because of the climate, will not grow here but many others have thrived. Care has been taken to arrange the beds and flowers so that there will be flowers blooming continu- ously throughout the summer months. You enter this beautiful garden by passing through an imitation Lych gate with a thatched roof. Here at the entrance are beds of crocus and glory of the snow which are replaced later by daffodils, tulips and narcissi. Shakespeare had an admiration for daffodils. Daffodils that come before the swallow dares And take the winds of March with beauty. The first terrace is a Knott Garden of Tudor or Elizabeth design. This consists of four squares intersected by paths. In the centre is a sun-dial, bearing at the base of the dial, a quotation from Sonnet V. For never- resting time leads summer on. This means that when dull weather and winter come, the memory of the beautiful garden, flowers and sunlight will remain and it will always be summer in our hearts. After this there is a beautiful rose garden in which grow one hundred and twenty-five roses of various bright colours. This garden is divided into five sections and surrounded by a trimmed cedar hedge. At the edge of the rose garden is a large chimney, once a factory chimney, STRATFORD, ONT. but now used as a bird house representing the dove-cot in Shakespeare's garden. Beyond this is a large green lawn, well trimmed, sur- rounded by the long walk which runs through the garden. It is hoped that soon a rose trellis will cover the long walk to lead up to a like- ness of Anne Hathaway's cottage, which has not yet been built. The sloping south bank of the river is covered with glorious flowers and shrubs to illustrate Shakespeare's words, I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows. Beside the garden is a small pretty little island. From one of the benches on this island in the shade of a large drooping willow you are able to look through the arches of the stone bridge and see the foamy water flow- ing over the dam. Beside this you see a lovely rock garden beneath the pergola. The whole garden is a glorious picture. Stratford-on-Avon is famed for something else besides its beauty. At the top of Erie Street stands the glorious cenotaph-Strat- ford's tribute to its citizens who lost their lives in the Great War. It was designed by the sculptor who modelled the Canadian War Mem- orial at Vimy Ridge-Walter S. Allward. Two bronze statues are mounted on a granite base which bears the names of the soldiers, who once lived in this city. Beneath the figures are the words, They gave their lives to break the Power of the Sword. One of the figures stands upright with head uplifted. The other figure is slouched and drooping, carrying a broken sword. The upright figure stands in a position of victory. This is not a victory because of power in war but the victory of right over Wrong. The second figure, in a position of shame and defeat, symbolizes the defeat of wrong. At different times in the year this monument is the scene of a very impressive and solemn gathering when lovely wreaths of flowers are placed in front of it in memory of the dead. This is truly a work of beauty to be respected and admired by all. I am sure that a visitor to this city would be well repaid. After a heated argument Mrs. Brown had persuaded her husband to allow their daugh- ter to go to boarding-school. After a few weeks the girl wrote home and said, 'Tm awfully keen on ping-pong. 'tWhat did I tell you ? exclaimed Mr. Brown, I knew it would come to no good, now you see, she's fallen in love with a Chinaman! Page Twenty-seven

Page 29 text:

STRATFORD, ONT.COLLEGIAN, 1937. the little silvery pool in the valley,-the other mountains rearing their peaks skyward in the distance,-a breath-taking spectacle! After resting a few minutes I began the descent. Spying a tiny lake in a sort of pocket part way down the mountain, I headed off to the left. Descending was much easier than climbing and was enjoyable enough except that I wasn't certain now of my directions. I reached the lake and found a path, but accord- ing to my calculations, it led in the wrong direction. The surrounding woods, however, were thick and uninviting, and would soon be impassible in the growing dusk of the evening. Hesitatingly I took the path, and hurried along with pounding heart. A night in those woods would certainly be far from pleasant. And the people at the cottage-I hadn't seen any animals but I had been told-! With these thoughts racing through my mind I sudden- ly came upon a clearing. Hopefully climbing onto a stump I looked about. There down in the hollow just ahead was our lake! With a genuine sigh of relief I pressed on and soon found myself at the cottage. Oh well! It was all in an afternoon's fun! The fishing trips were hardly as exciting but they did provide a taste of adventure. Early one morning or, as it seemed to me, one night, we set out in the car, for the lake was some distance away, loaded with all the para- phernalia of the fishing art. I have been in a few roller coasters in my time, but cer- tainly no ride could compare to this one. The road had been literally hewn out of the moun- tain side only a few months before, and still followed minutely every hump and hollow, ravine and mound of the rocky land's contour. Despite its discomfort, the ride was a pic- turesque one. On each side of the road the thick underbrush had been untouched by the road-makers and from the car window one could see the same dense virgin forest which must have greeted the astonished eyes of the first explorers of the New World. Vivid orange tree fungi and bright red and blue flowers, peered through the closely set trunks of lofty trees, as if to reprimand our disturb- ing their wild solitude. We fished all day but, I confess, my interest lay with the wooded mountain slopes rather than the finny inhabitants of the lake bottom. My success reflected my interest, for nothing but agile little chub would seize my line. My companions fared better, however, and I had the pleasure of examining the anatomy of sev- eral large trout: my job was cleaning the catch before returning home. It was nevertheless pleasant to sit motionless in one of the tiny row-boats and dreamily watch the mist play about the rolling mountain sides in the dis- tance, or to hear the echoing cry of the birds in the woods, or, stirred into action by a mut- tered Ga'dez, from the other end of the boat, reel feverishly at a twitching line, only to land a tiny chub. On our fishing trips we sometimes came upon an old bewhiskered habitant and his wife, living off by themselves, beside some lonely lake, scraping a meagre subsistence from the soil, augmenting it by renting boats in the fishing season and trapping in the long, cold winter. It seemed a queer lonely life, yet maybe, after all, it was just as good as the vain, feverish rush of the city. Two weeks, fit seemed a monthj of this happy carefree life, and then back home. Two weeks to think and dream about for years. I had seen another bit of Canada: more than that, I had seen, and had come to know, some- thing of the vast country of the French Can- adians, which still preserves the sturdy rustic life of the real founders of Canada. CHASING BEAUTY By Annie Adamson, 3.4. Who may hold the stray sunbeam That casts a magic spell Of enchanting mystery In a flowered dell? Who may have the rivulet That glides by shadowed glade, Etched in beauty's mirror, clear As brightest crystal made ? Who may know the fleecy cloud That drifts across the blue, A little bit of heavenly light Reflected on the dew? Who may catch the southern wind That haunts the stirring flowers And softly blends their sweet perfume Throughout the passing hours? Page Twenty-nine