Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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The Moon The moon rose up o ' er a budding bough, Over a powdering of snow Which whitened the tops of the elm trees high, And the crocuses far below. The moon came up and smiled as she looked On the earth so far away, Where the small buds slept on the frozen ground. And a bird on the maple spray. The pale moon peeped through a leafy bower, Glancing across a faery sea, When the song of the nightingale burst forth Over the hill and the lea. And the dancing moon it beckoned on, Over the valley and lake, Through the moon-lit aisles of the forest glade, And tangles of bracken and brake. [23]

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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.

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Then the harvest moon shone brightly down On the grainfields now so near, Colouring the land with a ruddy light, And hiding the stubble drea r. And the big red moon came peeping through The branches with scarlet dressed. Where the gold sheaves watched through the fragrant night. And the tired earth lay at rest. The moon shone through the leafless trees. In winter, when the sun hangs low. When fires on the hearths were burning bright. And the were-wolf trailed through the snow. The moon looked out from a darkening sky. Warned of the coming of cloud, While the long-drawn cry of the owl was heard. And white snow fell like a shroud. Thus the moon looks down through the ages long On a world now sad, now gay, Sharing the joy of a laughing world, The sorrow of those by the way. B. Carter, VT. a. Its A Long Road Up To Trafalgar It ' s a long road up to Trafalgar Its a long way to go. Its a long road up to Trafalgar In the rain or in the snow Good-bye, Mother darling Farewell, vSister dear For it ' s a long, long road up to Trafalgar And I ' m late now, I fear. Kathleen Abbot, IV. a. [ 24]