Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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Miss Muffet {As Spenser might have written it) A lovely Ladie sate upon a stool In purple stole and golden vele ycladd, As framed in the waters of a pool, A goodlie meal of curds and whey she had; And therein paused with ydle pleasure lad To listen to the birdes sweete harmony: But suddeine loosed by a false Dryad A loathsome spider fell from out the sky, Eftsoones it forst Miss Muffett farre away to fly. Hazel Ahern, Form Upper VI. The Swallow Swallow, my sister, O sister swallow. What hast thou found in the spring to follow? ' ' ' Hylus, by A. C. Swinburne WHAT hast thou found in the spring to follow? A merry question to ask a swallow, as if a bird could know! Why! it ' s only instinct that guides it south, you will say. Maybe. But don ' t you like to think that perhaps animals have more sense of the beautiful than we have? They live always close to Nature, and I think are sometimes awed, happy, sad, and merry by turns, according to her moods. So let us try to imagine what the little swallow ' s thoughts are on its long quest for spring. When autumn winds begin to whistle through the tall, yellowed ferns, and over the cold streams, and around the blackened branches of the great trees, the swallow feels it is time to leave [ 18]

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After a long, long time, my other son came home, mais sans un hras. He has left me and married a girl whom I distrust; but his little Jeanette is good and I love her. My story is nearly finished, and until I am called, I must live alone in this cabin. Pray God it may not be long. I do so want to see my brother Paul, and little Antoine, in Heaven. Elizabeth Tooke, Form Upper VI. Ode to Big Chief Mountain You stand, O sentinel of the plains, Majestic, triumphant and free. Monarch of peaks around you. Shrouded in mystery. You tower o ' er the valley and foothills. O ' er the forest, the lake and the stream. Semblance of strength and of freedom. Formidable, lofty, serene. What mystery surrounds you. Refuge of outlaw and thief? What secrets do you cherish, O home of the Indian chief? You have silently witnessed battles Fought ' twixt the Blood and the Cree; You have echoed the shouts of the valiant As they chanted in victory. Thus have you stood through the ages, A stoic without change. Pride of the western prairies. Big Chief, lord of the range. Jean Mack ay, Form Lower V. [17]

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the saddening world round about. The dawns are sharp and cold, the nights come dark and fast, and the sun ' s rays seem far, so, starting from the branches of a tree, the swallow wings south- wards. At first the wee bird is startled by the gigantic shadows of great clouds as if some huge un- known bird wheeled to grasp it in its long talons, but at the glory of a patch of autumn trees contrasting their bright colours against a clear sky, the plucky little heart bursts into song. All day it flies over dewy grasses, which, from a height, resemble diamond dust. Later, although weary from flight, it mounts higher in the air, to bathe longer in the rays of the setting sun. When the radiance is at last blown out from the skies by the rising winds, the bird sinks to earth, and is lost in the dark shadows. That night in the corner of a strange bare branch, a little warm swallow tucks its head under its wing and, its tiny heart quivering, at last falls asleep. It awakes drenched with dew, and once more mounts into the skies. On and on it flies, over long dusty roads, over land and water, over high cHffs and rocky hollows, over houses and woods, until in the late afternoon the rain begins to fall, the tiny raindrops forming little silver pearls on the feathers of the bird. The torch of the sun is put out, the day turns grey and lonely, and the swallow ' s song ceases. But the next day, with never a thought of what it has left behind, it flies onward to its golden goal — a land of sunshine and flowers, of harebells and green grasses, of red berries and rich fields, of dark lucid waters and pale bright moons. O, the little swallow ' s faith is firm! and it believes that at the end of its long unwavering flight it will find a warm bright haven! Would that we too were thus. Alice Gurd, Form Lower V. The Bad Mark (With apologies to Tennyson) I come from hands of those most stern, I make a sudden sally, And make with shame my victims burn. And all their courage rally. By thirty names Tm written down. Between some long blue ridges. Of thirty girls who went to town. Or spent their time at bridges. Alas! I ' m called their direst foe. Though it shall stop me never, For girls may come and girls may go. But I go on forever. Doris Ahern, Form IVb. [ 19]