Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

Page 18 text:

Under a Windy Sky A galloping horse and a rolling plain, Under a windy sky; And the hoof ' beats on the ground, the ground, With a rollicking, joyous, care ' free sound. And the world stretches far to the sky all around — Under a windy sky. White clouds scud over the rain -washed blue, Far up in the windy sky; Like white-sailed ships that dip and dip Through the clear blue sea, and finally slip O ' er the edge of the world with a farewell tip, Under a windy sky. The sun shines clear through the sparkling air, Under the windy sky ; While cloud shadows chase with a rapid pace Over the earth ' s fresh, wind ' swept face. And the wind shouts loud as we joyously race Under the windy sky. Joan Chillas, Upper V. Sonnet on the Canadian Handicrafts Exhibition Colours are here that give a thrill of pleasure. Embroidery, scarves and rugs of every hue. And fairy lace, and textures soft and new, Wrought in many an hour of happy leisure; Or else perhaps in toil by those who measure Each fleeting hour with care the long day thro Because each moment has its work to do To feed, and clothe, and care for those they treasure. Here lies the work of monk or cloistered nun. Of prince and peasant, and the lame and blind. Each loves his work, and, when the day is done, Rejoices that whoever looks shall find His task done well. For when our course is run. We live still in the works we leave behind. Marjory Doble, Form Upper VI. [16]

Page 17 text:

angel. The lines are beautiful and full of life. I could show you a hundred pictures more. There are etchings and paintings, rough sketches and finely drawn designs. The gallery of my heart is very full, yet there is always room for more. There are other scenes besides the work of man which I have loved well. These are the scenes in nature. I think I have loved them best of all. They are always mine. While they remain on earth they will belong to no single person. Three stand out above all others in my memory. I will describe them to you. The first is a sunny summer day. I am in a canoe, gently paddling up a winding river. I think it is the most beautiful river in Canada, at least it is so to me. It is full of twists and sudden turns. The sand on its banks is yellow and at the water ' s edge grow clumps of rushes, green ' Stemmed tipped with feathery pink. Bright blue flowers hide among the grass. The banks are high and at one turning we come upon a solid patch of bright red berries with shiny green ' black leaves. The sky is blue, the water is very still and clear, against the sky stands out a single, great, black, rugged pine. Another scene? It is a still, calm night, and the air is cool. We are on a little promontory over ' looking the lake. The moon has arisen in a deep blue sky and a single feathery cloud is seen across its bright fullness. There is a white path of light across the water and the pines look very black. Stillness, then the weird cry of a loon, silence again. Oh, it is perfect! The last scene is a very different one. It is a stormy winter night. No moon, no stars, but flying gusts of snow and howling wind. Through the black night and swirling snow there shines a solitary light. The flakes are huge, they fly about me like little dancing goblins in the blackness. That is all I can describe, but it was very beautiful. Without pictures, these I have described and many others, my life would be a very different one. In them we find a beauty and a romance seldom known in our dull daily lives. Or else we see it around us but cannot appreciate it until some artist comes, puts it on canvas shows us our old friend in a new form. The words whic h Browning puts into the mouth of Fra Lippo Lippi are very true : For, do you mark? we ' re made so that we love First when we see them painted, things we have passed Perhaps a hundred times, nor cared to see ; And so they are better, painted — better to us. Which is the same thing. Art was given for that; God uses us to help each other so. Lending our minds out. Pictures stir the imagination. They fill our minds with fancies and give us a new world to live in. All the beauty in life that we cannot see ourselves is there before us on the canvas, perhaps more beautiful than reality. There is the colour, too, and the beauty of line. Those count far more than the subject. The pleasure I find in a medley of beautiful colours I cannot describe. I would rather see one scene of a play, full of beautiful colour, costume and line, than read the whole play. I shall keep on adding as long as I Hve to the collection in the gallery of my heart, and, wherever I may be, I shall always have with me the remembrance of the pictures I have loved. Marjory Doble, Upper VI. [15]

Page 19 text:

JT WAS a quaint, old-fashioned little shop, and it lay hidden away on one of those remote and gloomy side streets of which there are so many in London. The roof was sadly in need of repair, so, indeed, was the whole house. The window panes were broken, rags and paper were thrust in their place. The handle was off the door, and the bell had ceased to ring for many years. And yet the owner was as happy as, or perhaps happier than, the wealthiest noble in his turreted castle. He was a bookteller. He was a man of advanced years, as could be seen by his white hair, wrinkled cheeks, and halt ' ing step. If there was no colour left in his withered face, his eyes were as bright and alert as those of a young man. He was slow in everything; slow to walk; slow to think. His very motion of lifting his eyes dreamily, and yet searchingly, to read his customer ' s face, was slow and thoughtful. Although his eyes twinkled and sparkled, he rarely smiled, and never laughed. He was always dressed in the same way, with a huge big apron over his clothes, enveloping his whole body. In this apron was one large pocket, which was always overflowing with odds and ends. Peeping out could be seen stubs of pencils, little pieces of tape, half-used scraps of paper, old clips and labels, empty spools, and, winding it all together in complete confusion, were yards of string and thread. Almost invariably he sat with a pipe on a three-legged stool, outside his shop, leaning his head against the sign of ' ' Old Books and New ' ' which was nailed to the window ledge. Inside, the shop was orderly, every book was in its place. The old man would often cast a glance of pride at the neat rows on the shelves and counter. But, behind the shop, was a room in which the bookseller most delighted. The floor, the chairs, tables and desks, were piled high with old books, in utter confusion. There was not one part of the room that was not a mass of books, except a little old table in the corner which had a great many little boxes on it. In these boxes this old man hoarded all the names which he cut out of the second-hand books. It was one of his peculiar habits, as strange, in its way, as Johnson ' s way of collecting old orange peels, or of touching lamp posts as he passed. It was in this room the queer old man spent his evenings, and often his nights, gloating over his books, or fingering lovingly the scraps of paper out of the boxes, by the dim light of a flickering candle. The people of the neighbourhood pointed him out as the ' ' mad old miser of books ; perhaps he was odd, but certainly he managed his customers and books with a cleverness that was quite un- canny. He never pressed anyone to buy a book, he merely smiled a little, stated the price, and then, to all appearances, paid no further attention to his customer. If that man would gently suggest [17]