Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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dreadful feeling. I was so weak and helpless that back I went behind the heater where I remained for several days. I was quite lonely and apparently forgotten by all. Just as I was despairing, I heard Miss Cumming ask the girls if they had seen a sweater about the school anywhere. There I was very near and no one knew it. I could not help giggling, but had to con- trol myself for fear of being heaid. So many girls were being questioned about me, I really began to feel quite important. So-and-so had seen me on a Friday down in the cloak-room. On hearing this I nearly screamed because I had not been there at all. Another had seen me in the Assembly Hall lying on the piano. How absurd when I was really hanging in a dark cupboard downstairs. How could I be mistaken for any other sweater? After much discussion everyone departed leaving me still behind the radiator and blushing shamefully. But I could not help it for I seemed to be in such a terrible disgrace. I was left only one day more. Miss Cumming again asked about me and to my great surprise, a young girl dragged me by the neck from my hiding place and exclaimed, Here it is! There seemed to be great rejoicing, but a little too much laughing went with it to please my pride, for am I such a huge joke? Frances Ellis, VI. a. Shingled Hair Shingled hair so they say, is all the go and style to-day. But you never can tell. It suits some heads? it may — others — well I ' ll not say. But you never can tell. Some heads like balloons look, others the shape of Zepplins took. But you never can tell. Not long ago a doctor said, Shingling make a bald head — But you never can teh. A good topic when vSpeaking of hair, What style next wiU they wear — But you never can tell. Things change so from day to day, that it really is not safe to say What the coming styles will be — because You never can tell. Elizabeth Miller, IV., a. [21]

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some small wind-clouds about the sky. Our thirst was keen and the sparkling, dancing water seemed to lure us on. The descent was rapid until we came to the cold, thickly- wooded valley. We became confused amongst the formidable, majestic pines and spruces. The only hope of reaching the shining water was to push our way through, by forcing the boughs aside wherever it was easiest. Then, hardly realizing it, we almost walked into a lake. Once more in the open we felt free. Darting this way and that we searched a cool stream. At last some of our members found one, and with a halloa which echoed and re-echoed over the mountains, we rushed to drink from its cold water. We stepped from stone to stone in sheer delight, while it gurgled and bubbled, ever reciting the same old story. We followed its course up many a hill, stopping once to take our lunch under the spreading branches of a sturdy oak. Once or twice the stream made a sharp turn, or gushed into rapids, davShing a white foam over the surfave of the disturbed water. We were about to consult our compass when we discovered it was lost. We went ahead nevertheless, knowing it was useless to retrace our steps. The sun began to set, the sky became yellow, then a brilliant red and finally a pale, flimsy mauve. We had reached the summit of a mountain, nothing could be seen except trees, outlined against the darkening sky. Our party became disconsolate. The night birds mocked and shrieked at us. Our voices even in whispers were awed. At times there was aosolute silence with the exception of a few creaking and groaning pines, moved by the restless wind. One of our part} happily knew a little about astronomy, so all we could do was to wait for the stars, which would guide us in the right direction. Another one told jokes until ghost stories were introduced. We all professed bravery but inwardly we were shivering, outwardly too, for the night was chilly, even though we made a small bonfire. At length the stars peeped down on us and helped us out of our difficulty. On we plodded until we reached a great height. Then away below us we saw a train, curving like a phos- phorescent snake, and farther away were the dim lights of a village. We could not but acknowledge that it was a wondrous sight, although we were all fatigued. Down, down, down until we attained our destination. Fortunately we caught a late train. A weary party, blinking under the stare of the dazzling city lights, struck by the contrast of the peaceful beauties of nature, returned home ; sorry that such an eventful, delightful trip was over. Ernestine Ellis, V. a. An Autobiography of the Missing Sweater T AM a Trafalgar sweater, just a blue and white woollen sweater like so many others. But I ' ve had something they have not all had and that is the experience of being lost. I shall tell you about it. My mistress was one day up in the Assembly Hall playing basket-ball and she quite carelessly flung me over the radiator, thinking I would run to her after the game, I suppose. Instead I felt myself slipping backwards. It was a [20]

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Ink INK — Ink. What a troublesome thing is Ink. Wherever it is wanted — there it is not ; wherever it is not wanted — there it is. Now just what is Ink? A dark blue-black fluid, with a striking propensity for hurling itself out of its con- tainer upon some light-coloured object where it will show itself off to its best advantage — preferably on a white dress or a clean floor. It is a malicious, spiteful liquid — no respecter of time, place, or persons. Of course, it has its usefulness. It plays its part in literature, but often what a mean, despicable, part it is. For instance — A ragged author is writing furiously in a musty attic his GREAT BOOK. A thin, scraggy cat is looking on. Just five minutes ago the landlady has been in to demand the rent. The author is keyed up — he is writing (between ohs! and ahs! of self-admiration) his last chapter. He stops to survey his work, reading over the last few masterful lines Ah, she cried, how could you? I see it all now: GO. . . ! It will startle the world! he mutters, and plunges into his story again. Now he is approaching the climax — She thrust the key into the lock, rushed across the room, flung open the window, cast her eyes around the deserted street, and uttered a fearful cry. What did she see there ? Mercy ! It was ! ! ! Alas — it will never be known. Fate is against the author. Speechless with horror he gazes at his ruined manuscript. There is nothing left him now but his cat — and the river. Which is it to be? The author is hungry — he looks meditatively at the animal .... Let us draw the curtain on this tragedy. What ruined his Wonderful Story, did someone ask? Why, what else could it be? Writing fast — pen leaks — and another great masterpiece is lost to the world. Eunice Meekison, Form V. a. The Old Mill Down in the vale On the velvety ground Or up on the hill Purple violets did sleep. There was n ' er such a spot And from the soft mosses As the busy old mill. Their heads did peep. Its creakings, its groaning! The wheel never still — It was stiff, no doubt But it went with a will. The stream rushed by With a swish and a swill But still was left standing The wondrous old mill. O ' er the cracked roof vStood a large willow tree. With its slender branches Swaying gracefully. [22] Ah, what a spot ! There in the shade ' Twas the most beautiful place That God ever made ! Ernestine Ellis, V. a.