Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

Page 32 text:

Tuesdays and Fridays at 8.30 a.m. Ach Himmel! Es ist ten past eight, Wo ist mein deutsches Buch? Mein Lesebuch ist nicht hier auch, Viellent Til be verspat. But no, I ran to school pell ' mell. And met Johanna at the gate; Said she, We ' re not so very late, Warum gehen sie so schnell? Florence Bell, Form Upper VI. To the Foolish Virgins (By one of them) When little wisps come straggling down. And bobbiC ' pins ' are scattered round. Grin, girls, for it won ' t be long now. When people call you some new name. And make remarks about your mane. Grin, girls, for it won ' t be long now. When you are told your hair ' s a sight And it will never look quite right, Grin, girls, for it won ' t be long now. But think of all the joy to come When you can do it in a bun. Grin, girls, for it won ' t be long now. Margaret Bell, Form Upper VI. r o 7-«o Our Hero A guardian of our great white way, The cynosure of worried eyes. An instigation of sweet sighs; The one whose word we must obey. Oftimes that word he does not say. When angels pass in driver ' s guise; But sometimes he is much too wise, Then flying angels have to pay. Our hero ' s eyes are merry blue, His waist ' line measures four feet two; From standing, large his feet have grown, But best of all, our hero ' s known From Montreal unto Japan; Our hero is a policeman. Marjorie Millar, Form Upper V. I 30 I

Page 31 text:

Did You Ever Feel Like This ? HE school door closed behind me, and never a monk, hearing the gates of the monastery- clang behind him condemning him to a life of penance, felt more forlorn or more hopeless than I — a timid newcomer. A vision of long corridors, filled with girls of every age and size, swam before my eyes. Pausing for a moment, like Caesar ere he crossed the Rubicon, I picked out the most friendly looking face, and asked in hollow tones to be shown the office. Fortunately, a smile relieved the strain, and I walked upstairs with a lighter heart. The interview over, I was placed under the care of another uniformed maiden who conducted me to the Assembly Hall. To be friendly, I began chatting pleasantly in the corridors, to be an ' swered only by a Don ' t talk, please. I subsided, scarlet ' with embarrassment, and inwardly resolved to obey the time-honored rule — Speak when you ' re spoken to. Of course, I wa s conscious of many an eye fastened critically upon me, and the very pictures seemed to whisper — New girl — what do you think of her? I experienced a few bad moments when my guide departed for a moment, and I was left the curiosity of the hour — my only chance of revenge, that of staring fixedly at my tormentors, being rendered useless by their numbers. When my guide reappeared, I was ready to greet her as a long-lost brother. The ordeal was by no means over. Then came prayers in the Assembly Hall, and to save myself from making blunders I eyed my companion ' s every movement. Naturally, I innocently sat down when the rest were standing, but that was to be expected. No one can be perfect, I thought, but it ' s so uncomfortable being imperfect! Oh, that first morning! The new mistresses, the girls whom one met, and spent the rest of the morni ng in a futile attempt to remember their names — the fear that I would pronounce their names wrongly — and that terrible dread of blundering. The questions that I patiently answered — that my name was Mary Ellen Ryan, that I came from Nova Scotia, and that I liked Montreal very well, thank you. The dog ' like devotion one felt for the girl who gave you a sandwich and talked to you at recess, and by means of whispered comments saved one so much embarrassment. The agonizing moments that I experienced are still fresh in my memory. The bright scarlet tint of my countenance when I was asked to pronounce some German, and did it exceedingly badly — the moment when I tried to explain my name to the mistress — the despair that enveloped me when I could not understand the French mistress. Over it all brooded a curious feeling of helplessness — as of a fish caught in strange waters. To speak of the trials of a newcomer at drill would be to unfold a tale of direst woe. Left turn — you promptly turned to the right, and wished that angels would snatch you away. Arms upward raise — somehow those arms went sideways. Heels raise and you lost your balance. The marvellous feature of it was that by the aid of friendly pokes and nods you got through it some- how, and felt as though you had won the battle of Marathon. The morning ended at last, and home seemed a welcome word. Books were laid together — coat and hat put on — but no gloves were to be found. A casual remark from my neighbour in- formed me that they might be in pound. To the uninitiated, pound sounds most suggestive, but I found it to be an innocent enough looking cupboard, where stray articles of clothing were boarded at the reasonable rate of one cent. The erring gloves having been recovered, I hastened home, glad that the day was over. Time, since then, has slipped by rapidly, and school has become a welcome place to us. But in our hearts, when we are asked by an old girl our names or our forms, we quote with deep meaning — These are they which came out of great tribulation, even while our outward lips answer politely. Olive Mary Hill, Form Upper VI. II 29 I

Page 33 text:

Closing Day (With apologies to Robert Louis Stevenson) The end of school has come at last, Exams, are mem Vies of the past; And all the girls in chorus sing : Good ' bye, good ' bye, to everything! To school and classroom, house and lawn, The courts that we play tennis on, To gym. where basket-balls we fling, Good ' bye, good ' bye, to everything! And fare you well for evermore, O table by the cloakroom door, O morning prayers where hymns we sing, Good ' bye, good ' bye, to everything! Clang! goes the gong, and off we go To join the creeping line below, j Our arms about our chums we fling, Good ' bye, good ' bye, to everything! Sallie Ward, Form IIIa. Home O Home! it is a pleasing thought indeed, The thought of cheerful firesides, warm and bright. And blazing logs, and soft and ruddy light; And children who know not the pangs of need. But gather ' round the fire, and do not heed The cold, hard ' driven snow, that through the night Does, wildly raging in its swirling flight, Bend the great branches as it would a reed. But there are homes in this dark world of ours. Where, through the thin and trembling walls frosts creep All through night ' s dread cold, and shadowy hours To where the fire that never high did leap Now strives to warm the chilly air, and fails; But even here a sense of home prevails. Alma Howard. ti, i • -1. iipw r ' r)irtl ' l ' , ummk i f 3II