Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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Impressions of New York FAR above Broadway the Paramount building rears its head — modern, striking, unusual, ultra- American, symbolizing the fabulous wealth of the nation — but at its feet stand the unemployed. It is sad to think of those who have come eager and hopeful from lands across the sea to the City of the Golden Pavements, only to find those pavements quite as drab as the ones they have left behind, and perhaps a little harder, morally if not physically. However, one must not be a pessimist, and those who have got jobs may not be particularly happy either ! The streets of New York are a never-ending source of interest for those who like to study people. Here one may see old, young, rich, poor, handsome, haggard, well dressed, meanly dressed, all types, from every walk of life, crowding along side by side. Purposeful people hurry about their business, aimless people just follow the crowd, cynics watching the world go on to perdition, romantic people with the awful spell of the city upon them, and disillusioned people walk through these streets together. The most interesting street of all is Broadway. For here it seems that the very essence of the city ' s being is to be found. In the daytime Broadway is just a busy street, a little wider than most, running diagonally across the city. But at night! New York ' s life blood pulses up and down that mighty artery all night long — rushing, noise, lights, and people, people, people just going with this day ' s madness, the go fever, driving them madly on. Some of these people have a gift from the gods. They can live for the moment. Though they know that tomorrow lies ahead, and that life will be waiting for them, grim and inexorable, in the cold gray dawn of another day, yet for now they can forget, and be happy while they may. Life is a chance in New York, a game, which some may win but many lose. For some it is a glorious battle, for others a bitter struggle. There are people whose life is a reckless fight and they thrive on the very hazard. Some love this city with all the ardour of American patriotism. Others (shrewder) say that the city gives no man more than a thrill, and if you ' re not up and doing, you ' re down, and being done. With these, too, we find courage, faith, hope, and far down underneath even a little charity. Somehow, on Broadway, every night and all night long, these conflicting opinions are welded together into an indefinable something — the spell of the city perhaps. The Bronx Park was cool and still, under the setting sun. Far above a lonely crow cawed in the blue-gray smoke-flecked sky. A light wind ran across the ponds with a shivering sigh, and died in the calm of the coming night. Here the sleep time had come, and the end of another day, but beyond the walls the first restless throb of the hectic night had begun to fret, and the Voice of the City rose high above the peace of the garden. Here, as in an oasis of quietness, we listened to that wonderful roar of human activity. Some- times we tried to distinguish the individual sounds, sometimes to blend them all together into a single melody. The steady beat of pickaxes, wielded by swarthy representatives of half a dozen different nations, was the rhythm of that colossal song. We heard jarring steam whistles, starting the long night shift for men at drills and excavators, traffic whistles, screeching brakes, auto horns, taxi calls, the rumbling of elevators and street cars, all mingled together to form a very chaos of sound. We could not pick it out, but we knew that the deafening roar of the subway was helping to swell that mighty voice. A fire reel clanged by, but nobody noticed that more than the other sounds. Once the merry whistle of a boy, but he was very young and had not yet learned that Life and Death were gambling — for him. The Voice of the City is never still. It goes on and on with a strange wild song, weirdly fascinating to man, lifting, degrading, inspiring, but changing in some way or other, all who come under its magic spell — and the Spell of the City is contrast. Anne Byers, Form Upper VI.

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When running for the car one day, My instruments, they lost their way; Then two young men, they made a dash. But, woe is me, their heads did crash! They both walked off with loud lament — ■ Imagine my embarrassment! When reading psalms at prayers one day We all our verses three did say ; Miss Cumming ' s turn came next to read, I went on reading, paying no heed. Poor me, for I quite well had meant — Imagine my embarrassment ! When singing doh, rah, mi, fa, soh. Our voices up and up did go. And at the top came one loud squeak Which really was quite far from weak ; But I ! Quite off the note I went — Imagine my embarrassment ! Barbara Tooke, Form Lower V. Rumour ON THE 13th day of September, in the year of our Lord 1927, I was convicted of the crime of Ignorance, and was taken with escort to the castle of Intelligence, on the hill of Endeavour. There, in surprise, I found many in such trouble as myself. Some rebellious, some happy, and some simply indifferent. Here I remained for many weary weeks, working at tasks set by the warders. I was seated at a hard wooden bench, with a board in front. Our main occupation was what is called Picking oakum. We were really trying to achieve great knowledge in every direction: such as being able to know at sight a millimetre from a centipede, how to perceive sulphuretted hydrogen from a quadratic equation. How to make the square root of 9281461 into recurring decimals (see text book, page 228). To know that the answer of Avez-vous Tencre et les bonbons, pour faire des potages? is Nescio, num occidebatis dominum. After many hours of grammatical endeavour, we assemble in a large and gloomy room filled with instruments of torture for those who require grace and beauty. We stand in rows, and go through many contortions, trying to make ourselves look like wooden dolls instead of human beings. Here we get rewards for good deportment and activeness, which adorn the breasts of the successful. When I came to the castle, I was in company with a friend from the outside world who gave me much advice, in forms of warnings, threatenings, and prophecy. Of these I took no notice. But one day I was given something, which I received with joy : a bird, a love, a darling Little Rumour, who told me I was to join my comrades in the outside world, one month earlier than I thought. It chirped and comforted me daily, and made me so happy I became reckless, and when asked, Who was Julius Caesar? I answered eagerly, The first governor of this castle! Much to my sorrow this was not the answer required, and I was given a detention for my pains. But sorrow was not long with me, as I still held my rumour to my heart, and he whispered to me Freedom. Now though I seem small, and am thought of a retiring nature, underneath I am as brave as a lion and as hungry as a wolf. When we heard that the governor of the castle had arrived, all the others fell on their knees, but boldly I stood up and, in a voice of thunder, I asked when we were to go again into the outside world. The answer came The 14th, my expectations rose, full height, but tlu- next moment my hopes fell with a crash: the next word was June, not May! When I regained my consciousness, my bird, my love, my Little Rumour, was no more. Amy Archibald, Form IIIb.

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Reflections (With apologies to William Shakespeare) To-morrow and tcmorrow and to-morrow Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last hour of our school career, And all our yester-years have lighted girls Beyond matriculation. The time is short: School ' s but a preparation, a brief test. Through which we strive or fret our way to the Great tasks of life which wait us at the end; It is a pebbled shore, with tiny troubles Scattered o ' er the strand, but shelves into The stormy sea of life, which all must weather. We each have our appointed work to do In school and in our later life, and by This work we either make our mark Indelible upon the sands of time. Or else erase our birthright. Be it so! Whatever we become in after years. We owe to our old school a lasting thanks. For all the happy days, the knowledge gained. And all the friends we found at dear old Traf. Alice Smith ' Johannsen, Form Upper V. First Girl — Oh! but that was crazy; why didn ' t he jump in the Seine and be done with it? Second Girl — ' ' Because that would have been in Seine (sane). Lines to a Desk (With apologies to Keats) I have heard that on a day Kay Wood ' s desk chair broke away; Nobody knew why, until A very silly Trafite ' s quill To the Traf. Mag gave the story. Said she saw it in its glory, Then beheld a tiny screw Fall away, whence no one knew. And lo! the chair with sickening noise Carried with it all Kay ' s poise. O you Trafites passed and gone, In what Elysium have you known A downy couch - come now, beware— Cyhoicer than a Traf. desk chair? Marjorii ' . Lynch, Form Upper VI.