Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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The Land East of the Sun and West of the Moon JT HAD been one of the hottest days of late July and it was with a sigh of relief that I sauntered out in the cool of the evening, my telescope in my hand and my mind intent on studying the stars. However their interest seemed to wane that night and I was about to start for home when I suddenly became aware of a cloud behaving in the most extraordinary manner. It was dropping rapidly downwards, growing larger and larger as it did so, until it seemed that it was nearly upon me, and I found myself, to my surprise, knocking boldly on a small gate over which swung a sign bearing the words — The Land East of the Sun and West of the Moon Babies exported at any hour The gate was at last opened with a rush by a fiery red ball of a person — presumably the Sun — who hustled me in, quite as if he had known me for years, and told me to sit down whilst he attended to one of his numerous duties. So I seated myself obligingly, feeling rather like Gulliver at Lilliput, for everywhere were babies of all shapes and si es. I decided to question one of these infants w ho was engaged in teaching a sunbeam the correct slope at which to enter a window. I found that I was rather at a loss as to how to approach the child, but finally inquired in my most polite manner if this was the land where our mortal babies came from and, if so, how was the distance between here and the earth covered? The baby eyed me suspiciously as though considering whether or not I was respectable enough to be taken into his confidence, and apparently deciding in the affirmative, began to speak in a high falsetto, all the time waving his arms around at random, in a manner which reminded me slightly of the conductor of the village band at home. ' ' Babies from here? Of course, my good fellow, where else could they come from? As for getting there — easiest thing in the world — rainbow express, of course. Then as I continued to wear a rather blank expression, he condescended to explain. ' ' You see, whenever you mortals see a rainbow in the sky, that means a baby is coming to some one. And a double rainbow? I asked, already half-anticipating the answer. Twins, of course, he replied promptly. I was soon to test the truth of the baby ' s statement, for at this interesting point of the con- versation the Sun bounded up, looking desperately worried. Dear, dear, quoth he, Father Stork has just sent word that a fat blue-eyed baby is wanted immediately. Do you suppose you would help me? He ' s so particular. Certainly, certainly, I smiled, and was ushered up to a gurgling row of babies who nodded and swayed in perfect rhythm. After much excited debating a cherubic youngster was chosen and I watched with interest the preparations for her departure. A lever, upon which the word Rain was marked in large letters, was turned and I was informed by the Sun that the earth beneath was having a shower. Then suddenly a rainbow, large and perfect, arched itself in a medley of soft colours across the sky. Upon this baby climbed, and with many backward glances and farewell calls slid slowly off into the mist at the foot of the rainbow. I turned expectantly to the Sun and then gasped in pained astonishment, for his rotund form was slowly taking on the proportions of my six -year-old brother, while the clouds, stars and babies vanished completely and I found myself standing, arms outstretched, in the little field behind our house. Kathryn Wood, Form IIIa. [20]

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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]

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The Possibilities of a Minute k MINUTE is not a very great space of time, to be exact just sixty seconds ; yet many of us realize, through experience, that a minute has possibilities of which an ordinary mortal would never dream. In an old nursery rhyme we read: ' ' How doth the busy little bee Improve each shining minute? ' ' Bees, gentle reader, are not the only creatures who improve the minutes! List to the experiences of a day girl at Trafalgar. You are lying in bed, dreaming of carefree vacation days, when you awaken with a start, and find to your dismay that you have overslept. A dive out of bed — then a feverish ten minutes of dressing ensues, punctuated with little wails of Oh dear, TU be late! You gulp down your breakfast, grab your books, and with another frantic glance at your watch, dash out of the house. As you are halfway up the street, you see a street car rapidly advancing, and realize that you will miss it unless you make a hundred yard dash. You begin to run, clutching at your coat, remembering even in your hurry, that you are wearing a decidedly short gym. tunic. Faster — faster — faster — until your breath almost gives out — but making a final effort, you reach the car just in time and clamber on board, while a triumphant smile spreads itself for a moment over your anxious countenance. ■ Are the cars ever as slow as when one is late? They seem to stop at every corner, and to crawl along with the speed of a snail. It is all that you can do to concentrate your mind on a bit of last minute work in Latin, for an irresistible attraction draws your eyes to your wrist watch. At last you alight from the car, and now a walk awaits you. You glance at your watch — ten minutes to nine — a sinking feeling pervades you. Then, wrap ' ping your coat firmly about you, you set off with grim determination, running up the street; not heeding the jocose remarks of the passers-by, who appear to believe that you are training for a race. The minutes are slipping by, and, putting forth every effort, you toil up the hill. Panting, you reach the school gates. Now you begin to have a presentiment that the bell has rung. All seems quiet. There is a moment of suspense as you open the door. Then — oh blessed relief! — -a distant hum of conversation reaches your ears. But the struggle is not yet over. You hurry to the cloakroom, and feel alarmed once again when you find it deserted. Off comes your coat, and just as you reach for your running shoes, the bell clangs. There is not a moment to be lost! The running shoes are put on hastily, and you dash up the stairs with the laces dragging. Your line has started up to prayers, but by sheer good luck you catch up your Bible and Hymn Book, and join them just as they enter the Assembly Hall. You march in serenely — regardless of the trailing laces — with a smile on your face that is beautiful to behold — a smile of victory! It ' s the minutes that count, you say some day at recess in a sage way; ' ' they have great possibilities! O. Mary Hill, Form Upper V. [21]