Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

Page 19 text:

The very rainbow showers Have turned to blossoms where they fell And sown the earth with flowers, she quoted softly. The glassy lake was no more. Turning her head the girl could see the blue ripples through the trees. That reminiieil her of a great grey rook jutting out into the lake. So she ran down the slope to sit on it, and, her hands clasped about lier knees, to look out over the shining water towards far-away hills. Two perfect Swallowtails flitted near her, hovered, and fluttered gracefully away. A small, speckkxl trout leaped out of the water for a fly. A warbler watched them inquisitively from that low cedar. In the tlistance was the dull, steady hammering of a wood-pecker. And ever the water lappeil, lapped against the rock. Dreamily she looked at the mountains. A voice whispered in her ear, The looming mountains rise Like battlements of dreamland Against the brooding skies. Could it have been Bliss Carman ' s ? She pictured him, a big man with a kindly ex- pression, and the vision faded. — The voice of the wood ? — INIaybe. — It was odd, she reflected, as she walked slowly towards the open. But somehow, when she reached the sunshine, wistfulness left her. She felt delightfully foolish as she scampered across a field strewn with strawberry blossoms, sunny blue violets and tangled smoke-vine on that glorious spring morning. She ran until she came to the frog-pond. There the girl sat down on a mossy log to interview an immense grave bullfrog and a saucy song-sparrow. The wind rustled the l)ulrushes. A single blue flag lifted its head above the coarse water-grasses. The furling branches of the willows stirred contentedlj A great-grandson of the wise bull-frog chirped unexpectedly and dived into the pool. The girl thought of that night when the same little frog and his friends would sing the world to sleep — accompanied by the mournful bass crook of the grandfather. The gentle breeze played with her hair in the identical way that it was rocking the old, old tamarack. Tonight, she knew, a whip-poor-will would be pouring forth its soul from those very swaying boughs — and now — Why it was breakfast time ! M. D.— VI. a.

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Autumn ©ays. We ' ll up and be gone to the woodland fields, And gather the treasure that autumn yields, For October has come and the fruit hangs free. And sure there is plenty for you and me. Blackberries cluster by dells and shaws Hedges are scarlet with hips and haws. Hazel are beckoning down from the tree And sure there is plenty for you and me. The squiri ' el has taken his winter store His garner is full and he wgints no more He sits on the branch and to us says he Why sure there is plenty for you and me. Blackbirds and thrushes and wrens so small Have berries enough to go round for all ; Come, let us share in the feast so free, For sure there is plenty for you and me. M. L. L.— IV b. CLEAR, cool, early morning, a cloudless blue sky, a wide expanse of still water, a glimpse of distant mountains through silver birches, and nearer, a hillock on which some yellow and purple crocuses snuggled beside a very straight little blue spruce — nearer still, a girl, standing motionless and yet eager on the diamond-tipped lawn — that was Spring Then was an old worn path bordered with young ferns. They seemed to be on the very point of uncurling delicate, pale-green fronds. The girl walked along that path through the woods to where a quaint rustic bridge crossed a little laughing brook. She lay full length on the ground and drank the fresh, cold water. She lay for a few minutes quietly sifting pearly pebbles through her fingers. A twig snapped, and she turned just in time to see a rabbit stamp defiantly and disappear into the underbi ' ush with a flash of a white bob-tail. And now she leaves the old path, and her feet sink into the soft rich earth and crush the wet leaves. The sun filters through budding branches and catches strands of dusky black hair. Quite suddenly the girl stops. Oh ! she cries, Those Dutchman ' s breeches ! Oh ! Those lovely, lovely lily-of-the- valley ! It was wonderful — this little spot in a Canadian wood. The ground was almost covered with flowers — bright yellow dog-tooth violets, large, blood-red trilliums, curious lady ' s slippers,, lacy-leafed Dutchman ' s breeches, and tiny, shy white violets. — (5 —

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P t r Pan. Peter, the wind sang softly through the trees, Sang to the brook, and to the dancing leaves, Peter is coming to you, happy, free, Folk of the woodland, come forth, quoth he. Bunnies from tiny burrows, forth they came, Fairies and elves, who at the wondrous name Of Peter Pan came dancing through the shade. Eager to join the revel in the glade. And in the glade, beside the sparkling stream. Told he a story that was like a dream. How through the livelong day he stood as stone, A statue who could call a world his own. This world was in the midst of city brown, A garden fair and green in London town. Where all the livelong night he piped a tune, While fairies danced, and fauns beneath the moon. The merry revel o ' er, the tale is done, Anon to pipes upon the mossy stone They dance a graceful measure, quaintly gay, A cry is heard, the dawn, the dawn, away ! B. C— V. a. — 8 —