Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

Page 25 text:

Yesterday and To-day In grandmother ' s day The girls were dressed in such a way : Many flounces and one large bustle Made their dresses sway and rustle, While several petticoats and a train Swept dustily along the floor. To ' day the girls are clad Not at all like the long ago fad : They have in place a straight silhouette And their hair cut short or fixed in a net, And instead of wasting their time at teas They spend all their money in athletic fees. Carolyn Smith, Upper V. Sonnet (With many apologies) When I considered how my time was spent ' Ere half my term in this girls ' school, I sighed ; ' Gainst my ignorance which is death to hide In time of tests, although my soul ' s more bent To serve withal my teachers and present My passing mark lest they returning chide. ' ' Doth school exact hard labour, brains denied? I sadly asked, but Patience did resent That murmur and replied, ' ' School doth not need Girls who complain; she only wants the best Who work steadfastly early until late; Them should ' st thou imitate in word and deed ; Strive thou thy hardest, pause not long for rest. Thou wilt be needed, do thy best, and wait! DoREEN Harvey ' Jellie, Upper V. [23]

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A Radio Fanatic O you radio fanatic ! Surely you must be erratic iTo love to listen to the static Night after night? Why do you use your precious time Sitting and thinking it ' s sublime? The waste of money — it ' s a crime, Tube after tube. A man in his right mind, Tm sure, Would think it more or less a bore, Yet what do you worship it for Hour after hour? That radio you never leave, If something ' s wrong Oh, how you grieve ! Such mighty sighs you often heave One after another. You should put away that craving. Stop your foolish, childish raving. Do a little honest saving Cent after cent. At your radio you ' re profane. It drives you mad, almost insane; From such language you should refrain Word after word. The squeaking birdies on the wire Seem to fill your soul with fire. How could such noise e ' er inspire Eveni ng after evening? You have already been too long In realizing you must be wrong That distance e ' er improves a song Mile after mile. You seldom go early to bed, Wonder why you feel like lead. Or have lines on your forehead. Wrinkle after wrinkle. It ' s hardly necessary to mention. The radio ' s a great invention, Except when it shatters with tension Nerve after nerve. Leave the radio an hour, or gloom Too soon will send you to your tomb. You are creating your own doom Minute after minute. You are now classed among the freaks Because of the pallor of your cheeks And the love of abhorent squeaks. Noise after noise! Straighten the back that is so curled. Wake up right now and see the world. And you will have, with red flag unfurled. Friend after friend. [22] Ernestine Ellis, Upper VI.

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The Spirit of Niagara Gitche Manito, the mighty, . . . .From his footprints flowed a river, Leaped into the light of morning O ' er the precipice plunging downward. — Hiawatha, Longfellow. FIVE HUNDRED years ago I stood there at my wigwam door, and watched — watched my people as they worked and played. I heard the war song and the rumbling of the waters, the cry of wild birds in the gorge below. I saw the day rise, full of hope and smiling; and smiling still I saw her pass away. I watched the night come, dark but not foreboding, lighting a thousand stars and that great, silver lamp, the moon. Into the gorge below the thundering waters fell, white through the darkness as the Milky Way upon the blackness of the Heavens. Then came the dawn again, again the busy day. I watched my people working as before. I watched the frail canoe of bark struggling with the white waters of the cataract; I saw my valiant braves go out to war, with painted bodies and with waving plumes. The harvesters were glean ' ing in the fields, and in my orchards black-haired maidens gathered the ripe fruits of red and gold. By the fire the old squaw dried her winter ' s corn J and a thin blue curl of smoke rose up before the — . wigwam. When the black night returned I heard the weird, wild cry of loons, the strange and mystic songs of maidens by the campfire and ever — as of yore — the thundering roar of great Niagara. To ' day I stood again beside the Falls, and watched. I saw a strange new race of men, pale of face and weak of limb and joyless. I heard no war-cry and no song. Where are the camp ' fire and the wigwam gone? Here in their place I found a city full of noise and hurry, of discord, dirtiness and greed. Who are these people, so unlike my children, who rush back and forth, who push and jostle, and have no time for quiet or for joy? I have sat here a thousand, thousand years and watched, and never tired of watching. Come! foolish white men, leave your town awhile, your busy factories and your clanging railways, and sit upon this cliff and watch the Falls. Watch in the stillness of the twilight while the great red sun, casts his last, manycoloured bow across the mist which rises from the plunging waters. Listen to Niagara ' s mighty roar and hear the screaming of wild birds upon the wind — you could not hear them ' mid your city ' s roar — and know how small you are, how transient and how weak. And then go back, back to your city by the rumbling falls. Strive not so hard nor push to gain some trivial prize; but pause, giveyour- selves time to love and to enjoy. Watch the warm beauty of the autumn day, the glistening whiteness of the winter, the waking spring and placid sunny summer, and listen to the music of the Falls, for it can teach you much. They do not listen as my children did. How my great world has changed, and those I loved are gone! They never will return, and I must stay forever and forever, all alone. Yet not alone! When I awoke a thousand, thousand years ago, I placed my foot upon this redstone rock and formed Niagara. This race of men shall pass as others have; but great Niagara shall forever roar through the resounding gorge. Each day it thunders past my rocky home and it shall thunder still when even I am gone. Marjory Doble, Form VIa. [24]