Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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After the said contents had been restored to their original resting-place I continued on my way, hoping to gain the front door before anything else happened, but, as luck would have it, I was called back to put on my rubbers as ' ' it might rain. After a struggle with my rubbers which absolutely refused to go on, I at length escaped out the door and took great pleasure in slamming it behind me. I glanced furtively at my watch. Only half a minute to gzt to the bottom of the street — about three hundred yards away! I would have to run — no matter what Mrs. Jones said about girls of my age running on a public thoroughfare. Oh dear! I wish I hadn ' t eaten so much for breakfast ! What was it some- body said about running right after having eaten a heavy meal? iVe forgotten. Oh! is that the bus? No! thank goodness! it ' s only a truck. But isn ' t that its horn? Oh! Tm sure it is! Maybe it is the one coming the other way. Just what I thought. Hurrah! only about twenty more yards. I might as well walk. Besides there is Mrs. Jones looking out of the window. I wonder if she saw me running? What!— O Misery! — There goes the bus and the man doesn ' t even see me waving. If I only hadn ' t walked those last few yards — but what ' s the use? I will resign myself to my fate, namely, that of waiting ten whole minutes for another bus! Dorothy Ward, Form Va. A North American Indian I saw him standing tall and fierce As any beast or man; His hair was black, his eyes were black. His skin was reddish-tan. Around his neck and on his wrists Some coloured beads were hung; The skin of some wild animal Close to his body clung. An arrow he was holding Had lately been in use; ' Twas very sharp and stained with blood. For he had killed a moose. He stooped and lifted up the beast And laid it on his back; He turned — then walked towards the path That led him to his shack. Katharine Tooke, Form IVa. [27]

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there is friendship between them, but it is not perfect friendship yet. Let it be one of our greatest hopes and aims of the future that one day there shall be perfect sympathy and understanding between these three countries. Gertrude Nieghorn, Form Upper VI. Song of Lower V Sing a song of Lower V, The smartest class in school, Its members are intelligent And never break a rule. They never raise their voices In loud or boisterous glee, Such conduct would appal them ' Tis very plain to see. They love both French and algebra, In Latin they excel, They revel in their lessons And strive to do them well. There are some who will laugh at these statements And say that they are untrue; But, though I dislike to admit it, I think they are right, don ' t you? Jean McKay, Form Lower V. Missing the Bus TOU ' RE late! You ' re late! It ' s half ' past eight! chanted my sister, as she poked her head into my room where I was frantically endeavouring to collect my books and put on my hat and coat at the same time. Is it really halfpast? I asked in despair, vainly looking for my Caesar which had somehow or other disappeared for the moment. Well, to be exact, it ' s twentyseven and three-quarter minutes after, but if you sprint you may be able to catch that eight ' thirty bus. I thought I had better take her advice and sprint and, having found my Caesar shut up inside my scribbler, I dashed down the stairs, two steps at a time. Of course my box of geometry instruments had to choose this moment to fall with a crash to the ground, scattering its contents right and left. [26]

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Persons I Should Like to Have Met A STORMY night, a howling wind that rent the trees and whistled and shrieked through the yjL window cracks; a cosy room, a comfortable chair, a blading, roaring, crackling fire, a good book, my own company and an evening with nothing to do, combined to make what should have been a quiet, happy time. But my humour was not for such an evening. I told myself quite frankly that I was restless, dissatisfied with my book, and longing for someone to chat with. Were there not a do en friends I could ask to share my pleasant room with me, and satisfy my craving for company? No. There were none who could possibly suit the state of mind which had pos- sessed me that evening. Now, if only Oh! how fascinating it is to pretend! I put a chair opposite me. ' 1 am going to invite, I told myself childishly, anyone out of the past or present, who would really make a pleasant companion. I sat down and ga ed fixedly at the empty chair, endeavoring to remember no names, merely giving myself up whole-heartedly to my game. ' If, said a soft, musical, half-plaintive voice, yo insist upon staring at the second button of my waistcoat, instead of carrying on a sensible, interesting conversation, why do you want me here at all? I looked eagerly at the occupant of the chair, empty but a few minutes before, and the man pleased me. He was slight, dark and rather sad-looking. His eyes were large and a deep, deep brown; around his thin, rather sensitive mouth there were little lines of whimsical, playful humour. There was almost a pathetic boyishness in the way he looked at me. I liked him immediately. It was Barrie indeed! Strangely enough he seemed to represent all that was sweet and plaintive, pathetic and humourous, whimsical and sad, in his books. He was a Peter Pan, a Lob, a any character in any of his stories. ' 1 admit conversing with you would be far more interesting, I confessed, going back and picking up the threads of his remark. ' ' But, remember, I shall never see you again. But will you ever talk with me again? he asked, not unnaturally. Yes, I said, now that I have seen you, every character that you have ever created will be you speaking to me, in their words. He smiled, and I liked him more than ever. You read my books then? he said musingly. What do you think of my attitude towards life? I waited for some time before I replied. There is something so airy and fantastical in his books that I found it hard to apply them to life. I do not understand what it is, I admitted at last. No, he said, I expect you don ' t. You think that Mary Rose and Peter Pan are fairy tales, stories that one reads but never believes. That is not what I meant when I wrote them. Don ' t you understand? It was Mary Rose ' s spirit that disappeared, it was her love and interest that went to Fairyland, but on the stage I had to make Mary go, or the audience would not under- stand. Peter Pan is the spirit and imagination of all the children who have ever played in Ken- sington Gardens. I don ' t believe in interpreting life. What we at last discover about it may be quite wrong. I treat it as something mysterious, incomprehensible, lovely beyond human under- standing and most real when it is least able to be fathomed. I was trying to make out what he meant, when I realized he was leaving, not fading, but growing smaller and smaller. Read and you will understand, I heard. The remark was so soft that I scarcely heard it. He was gone, but on the chair lay a copy of Dear Brutus. I picked it up. I looked up quickly from the pages when I heard a musical, charming laugh. There, sitting before me, was the much abused Charles II. Charming, O so charming, did he appear! His costume was beautiful, his curls perfect, his face refined and attractive. He talked to me for a few minutes in beautiful English, with a pleasing voice, brightening his sentences with witty remarks and graceful gestures of a white aristocratic hand. I said little, but I was intensely in- terested and greatly amused. But he was too real. The lines around his eyes and mouth, which VanDyck does not give in his charming pictures, were just beginning to impress me, when he, as [28]