Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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A Dog ' s Obituary A little dog walked down the street Sad and cold; A little dog with bleeding feet, And heart of gold; A little dog with eyes of brown, A little dog with head cast down; While people passing saw the hound. And kicked him as he slunk around, Weak and old. A little dog died on the street, And no one cried : A little dog with bleeding feet. And no one sighed; A darkey boy saw him crawl Into a shed, and saw him fall; But the darkey could not see The gates of all Eternity Opened wide. Janet Cameron, Form IIIa Dorothy Coristine, A Dissertation on Brook Trout (After Charles Larnh) SINCE the Indians baked them on flat stones, the rulers of Empire of Edibles have been brook trout. By brook trout I do not mean those flabby monsters, the grosser forms of delicate beings, lake trout, but the silvery dwellers of brooks and streams. There are four requisites for perfection. It must be the month of May. Later, the June sun will have heated the water and so softened their flesh, degrading them from Ambrosia to a dish fit for an Epicurean. They must be small. You sportsmen, who desire flesh not flavour, may eat your five-pound whales; I will eat my quarter-pound buds of trouthood. They must be eaten with- in four hours of their being captured, for only then do they still retain their flavour of youthful innocence. Then lastly, but most emphatically, they must be eaten m their own environment, the open air. Brook trout are not like any other fish. They are not bought at any market and therefore are far more interesting than any other food. In fact, they are so interesting that many a man who would feel lost in his own kitchen, when he sees the spoil of his rod and reel cooking, is drawn to the fire as by a magnet. See them now, their rainbow spots discreetly veiled in flour, while the pan sizzles buttery anticipation. Now they are done! They come to table respectfully guarded by the usual potato and the humble bacon. When the event — Oh, call it not a meal! — is over, the fisherman gazes on their skeletons and realizes that by some means he has invaded the culinary regions of the Gods. But, a word to the wise, banish all sauces. A pinch of pepper, a suggestion of salt, these are permissible, but that is all. Make no vain attempts to improve perfection for sauce to brook trout is as much of an insult as eau de cologne would be to a violet. Annie Rowley, Form Upper V. I 17I

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In Tibet ' s Holy City, Lhassa. dwells the Grand Lama, or high priest. He has in his possession, supposedly, two of Buddha ' s hairs, which thousands of natives pay to see every year. Major Cross was most interested in these ancient relics, and by dmt of much persuasion, finally managed to see them. He was very surprised at their appearance (they were each as thick as a man ' s thumb), and so began to question the Lama. Finally, the latter reluctantly admitted that the hairs had been manufactured in England ; but, he added, you have to have something to make these fellows pay for seeing, you know. Surely, even these ill-told titbits of Tibet will whet your appetite for real knowledge of this most interesting and unknown country. Marjorie Millar, Form Upper V. The Violet I scent the fragrance of it yet, As though ' twas but a day ago; I seem to see, sweet violet. The meadows green where thou did ' st grow. When oft beside a gurgling brook I wound my weary homeward way, I chanced upon a shady nook Where sweet the modest violet lay. Like maiden fair half hid from view It drew me onward in delight. For, dressed in softest green and blue. The violet bloomed half out of sight. I picked a fragrant bouquet then. To bring to her I hold most dear, A greeting from that leafy glen To whisper softly, Spring is here. Doris Zinsstag, Form Lower VI. City Fever (With Apologies to John Masefield) I must go down to the town again, where the cars go speeding by. And all I ask is the constable, to help me cross at Guy, With his peaked hat, and his stout club, and his shrill whistle blowing. And his strong arm to stop the cars, no matter where they ' re going. I must go down to the town again, for the need of a pair of shoes Is a strong need, an urgent need, the which I can ' t refuse; And all I ask is to find a pair the first shop that I try. The colour I want, the size I want, with heels that are not too high. I must go down to the town again, to the busy, hustling store, To the crowded way, the weary way, where I ' ve often been before; And all I ask is an empty seat beside some fellow rover, In a Westmount bus to take me home, when the shopping tour is over. Marjorie Harley, Form Upper V.

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Sunset on the Laurentians The sun is setting in the West Over the Laurentian crest. Purple mountains miles away, Tinted gold at close of day. Enchanting purple mountains lie, Sharp edged against the April sky. Snow in patches gleaming white. Reflects the hues of waning light. The birds are singing sweet and clear, The calm of evening now is here To kiss goodbye the day that ' s been. And in the West that lovely scene — Enchanting purple mountains lie, Sharp edged against the April sky. Anne Byers, Form IVa. Rare Days in June Hurried footsteps through the halls. Voices low and whispered calls; On the desks no books are seen, Only papers white and clean; Faces pale, and faces long. Waiting for the clanging gong; Worried glance and anxious brow. What has happened, when, or how? ' Tis June — so farewell fun. Examinations have begun ! Carol Ross, Form Upper V. Radio Reflections Thoughts of a Radio ' ' Fan ' J SANK down in a comfortable armchair before a table, on which rested an oblong mahogany box that might have been mistaken for an ordinary silver chest had it not been for the dials and mys ' terious ' looking knobs which decorated the side facing me. Having consulted a column in the newspaper which was headed to ' day ' s programme, I reached towards the mahogany box and turned the dials slowly to the right. For a moment all was silence and then, from apparently nowhere, came a whistling, wheeling sound, intermingled with strange cracklings and rumblings which sounded very much like the noise made by small boys when setting off firecrackers on the twentyfourth of May. What static! I murmured, twirling the dials frantically around. The noise still continued however, and seemed, if anything, to be growing louder, when suddenly the strains of music burst upon my ear. The rasping, cackling sound ceased, and giving the dials a last turn I settled back smiling to enjoy a selection from Tannhauser. Had one of my ancestors chanced to be in the room that night he would no doubt have Hstened astounded to the music which was apparently coming from the mahogany box on the table, and then, with much shaking of the head, have pronounced it as ' ' witchcraft crossing himself devoutly. In modern times, however, if you were to question the smallest child in the house as to the mysterious box on the table, he would answer with apparent unconcern, That? Oh, that ' s only I18I