Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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]

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 20 text:

the book was not worth the price, the old man would get ofFhis stool, peer into the face of the buyer, and gently, but firmly, take the book from his hands, replace it with tender care on the shelf, sit down again, take up his pipe, cross his legs and appear to forget him. The man would invariably walk away, pause, turn around, and come back to purchase the book. Retiring into his room one night, having lit the candle, he sat down as usual on his little broken rocker. Picking up two or three books and one of the boxes, he looked at the names and mused. ' ' Ruth Ann Maxwell was written on the first; under it in a bold daring handwriting was ' ' Christmas i860. He pulled out several and read the names. Daisy meekly written, but evi ' dently guided by a stronger hand. Daphne Heart and under it were the words given by her husband, next to the word husband in a different handwriting, was naughty in brackets. George written slowly and carefully, Harry scrawled across half the page. Others had Mother, from her son, or My son, from his mother; Father, from his ever-loving daughter; and many others. A strange drowsiness seized the old man; the books dropped from his hands; his eyes closed. He was looking in at the window of a wealthy house, and yet he could see all over it, and hear every word. A Christmas tree was decorated gaily with candles, streamers, and presents. There were four happy people gathered around it, eager anticipation written all over the faces of the two children. The father paused as he picked up his first present, Where is Ruth? he asked. Where is my little wild Indian? Somewhere in the house a door banged. A burst of hilarious laughter followed, and a few seconds later a young girl bounced into the room. Her cheeks were crimson, her eyes sparkled and her mouth was parted in a smile. Her hair was black and heavy. Her coat was half on and half off, her hat was pushed back on to the very top of her head. She threw herself impetuously into her father ' s arms, while her mother mildly remonstrated. When the little party was settled again the presents were given out. Ruth threw her paper, string, and some of her presents around her in wild confusion. The old man watched eagerly for the time when his book would be given out. Its turn came at last, the girl hugged it and, speaking more softly, she thanked her father, telling him it was what she had longed for. He smiled as he watched her walk over to the table to write Christmas i860. The old man turned away and walked to the next house. It was very different, there were no bright lights, no roaring fire, no sounds of laughter. He looked in. Ruth was lying on a bed. But such a different Ruth ! Her cheeks were white and hollow, her eyes dull and deep sunken, her hair gray and thin; she was an old woman. Beside her bed was a table on which were a few trifles, among them the book. She picked it up and calling to a child, she begged her to sell it for her. The little thing curtsied and ran away. With a sob the poor old broken-down woman turned her face to the wall. Another window, and a very different scene. A delicate lady was sitting, wrapped up and almost smothered in rugs, on a chair. Her husband walked up to her, What do you think I have for you, Daisy? To-day is your birthday, you know, he said, bending over her as he spoke. She smiled wearily and shook her head. He placed the book before her, and watched her pleasure with evident delight. I shall keep it always, John, she said. Always? She did not know or realise that the tide of life never flows too long in one direction. The bookseller turned away, for he remembered how he got the book, and had no desire to see the half-crazy, half-dead little woman again. The next was a happier scene. Standing before a big open fireplace was a very pretty girl, talk- ing to a young man, who stood with his hands behind his back, and a tantalising, teasing expression on his face. Do tell me what you have, Peter, she coaxed. You must promise to r — use it if I do. She pouted, I promise nothing of the sort, you bad boy. He came up to her and explained very gravely that for both their sakes she ought to learn to cook, for they could not afford to keep a maid much longer. For this reason he had brought her home a cook-book, a perfect gem he told her, and as interesting as could be. She walked away and sat down. I shan ' t learn to cook, she declared pettishly. He argued. Finally she allowed him to write her name in it. Not that she would read it, she said, but just to please her Peter. The scene changed quickly and before the old man ' s eyes appeared a young boy, very like that same Peter. He gazed around the room, and picking up every- thing of any value, which was very little, and sadly with a last glance, walked swiftly out of the room, closing the door as he went. [18]