Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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Jenifer left the room softly. She went out into the fragrant unreality of the slow ' coming night. She climbed up into the elm at the end of the garden. She leaned her body against its rough brown bark. There was so much in life, so very much. There was so much in oneself, so many strange, little unexpected things if one only took the time to think about them. So many things that needed changing! Jenifer watched thin lines of blue smoke curl from the broad chim ' neys of Aunt Jane ' s house against the pearl ' grey mauve of the sky and lose itself in space. Poor Aunt Jane ! How futile her life had been ! How useless ! Just one long gasping run from beginning to end — and now — what? Rest? One small star burned above the slim lone poplar on the hill. Away, away off a dog barked. A motor car purred past. Jenifer bowed her head and wept silently, painfully, not because Aunt Jane had gone, but because she had gone without sensing her own life, without knowing herself. Velma F. O ' Neill, Form Upper V. cr o c KO (T+o The Scottish National War Memorial ON THE highest point in the city of Edinburgh, on the summit of the Castle Rock, stands the Scottish War Memorial. It is a monument, a shrine, sacred to the memory of Scotland ' s sons who died for her; the symbol of a nation ' s grief. The intangible beauty of the building cannot be adequately expressed in words. In plan it is a sanctuary, facing north with an east and west transept. The entrance looks south on the historic Crown Square of Edinburgh Castle. Upon entering, one ' s voice and thoughts are instantly hushed. There is no light except day light filtering through pale stained glass windows on to the gleaming marble. Looking around, one sees a dim vista of arches. Each arched panel of the north wall is dedicated to a Scottish regiment, twelve in all, and has at the top of the panel the crest of the regiment, while hanging at the side are the regimental colours. Carved in the centre of the panel is the regiment ' s record of achieve ments during 1914 1918, and on the table in front is the Regimental Roll of Honour. The south wall is composed of a series of stained glass windows painting the picture of the war. At the west end of the Hall of Honour is a memorial window to the Flying Corps, while the window at [ 20]

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An unexamined life is not worth living. — Plato. AUNT JANE was dead. Jenifer lay in the grass, her hands resting under her head, thinking about it. That very morning Aunt Jane had walked in the garden, scolded Hodges, the gardener for being a lazy, useless, dreaming fellow, and played tennis with the Hiltons. Then she had gone indoors, tried on the four new frocks that had come from the city that morning, and hurried away to a luncheon at the club. That afternoon she had brought back the Renfrews, the Carews and the Martins for garden tea. And now — she was dead. Jenifer shuddered slightly. Strange how suddenly death came. Aunt Jane sitting in the garden talking brightly, her slim white fingers moving restlessly about the stem of her lemonade glass, the sun shining upon her hair, shadow upon her neck — sunlight, shadow, laughter — then suddenly — all shadow! Aunt Jane fallen forward, her hands hanging limply by her sides, her face twisted and strange. That was death. Jenifer pressed her cheek against the softness of the grass. One could never think of Aunt Jane quiet, alone, thinking. Always she was running about, here, there, always with a crowd about her, always talking, never silent, and now — sorrow swept over Jenifer, great waves of it, a sorrow that was not grief exactly. More, it was a poignant regret. Jenifer could not understand it quite, this overwhelming feeling of pity for Aunt Jane ' s life, a life that had been all movement, all glitter. It was that she felt Aunt Jane had missed so much. Aunt Jane, who had never thought about life, about death; who had never paused and looked into the innermost, fundamental fibres of her own being. Why, thought Jenifer, Aunt Jane scarcely knew herself. She saw her again as she had seen her so many times, her mouth a discontented line, a little frown across her forehead, her long slim hands moving restlessly. She had called Jenifer a quaint youngster; such a difficult child. She could not understand her, she frankly admitted, this girl who liked above everything to creep off by herself. Strange child ! The wind swept through the birches, a cold, sobbing, little wind. Jenifer got up. She ran across the lawn to the house. She crept upstairs. Aunt Jane ' s door was closed. Jenifer softly pushed it open. The room was a place of shadows, grey blurs and wavering half lights. She could just see Aunt Jane ' s outline on the bed. She moved forward until she could see her face. Strange how it had changed ! Now it was a colourless, discontented, empty mask. It was hideous, dread ' ful. Jenifer shivered violently. Could it be that after death the face was the story of what the life had been? A little night wind crept in through the window, rustled through a pile of papers on Aunt Jane ' s table. One fluttered, fell to the floor. It lay just by Jenifer ' s foot. Idly her eyes rested on it. It was either a page from a diary or a letter Aunt Jane had been writing. Oh, I ' m so bored. I don ' t know quite what it is I want. Ronald thinks it ' s a rest I need. I never did enjoy sitting down with folded hands. I should loathe it now. Besides I ' m always frightfully busy. Somehow though I never get anywhere. Nothing seems worthwhile. The sentences stood out, vivid, arresting, pathetic, unhappy little wraithes. [19]

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the east end is dedicated to the Royal Navy. The west bay is a memorial to the Women ' s Corps and to the Argyll and Sutherland and the Cameron Highlanders; while the east is a memorial to the Royal Artillery and the Royal Engineers. Opening off the Hall of Honour, opposite to the entrance, is the shrine, a miracle in stone. The fan-vaulting of the roof sweeps upward, and hanging from the centre of the vault, carved in oak, is the figure of St. Michael triumphing over the Spirit of Evil. Around the shrine runs a bronzie figure on which every type of Scotsman and Scotswoman, who took part in the war, has a place in the long procession. Beneath the central window the Castle Rock seems to have thrust its way through the floor, to support an altar, carved exquisitely from green Italian marble. On the altar rests a beautifully wrought steel casket, presented by Their Majesties King George and Queen Mary, in which are recorded the names of all those who gave their lives for Scotland. No one part of the Scottish War Shrine is more beautiful than another. The whole is perfect in harmony, grace and splendour. It is the crystallization of a glorious lament; it haunts one ' s imagination; it speaks to one ' s soul in the words of Rupert Brooke — There ' s none of these so lonely and poor of old, But dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold. These laid the world away; poured out the red Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be Of work and joy; and that unhoped serene. That men call age; and those who would have been. Their sons, they gave, their immortality. Cynthia Bazin, Form Upper VI. |[Editor ' s Note — The following fragment, written by one of the House girls after a visit to the Battlefields, suggests a memorial of a different type, the simplicity of which means as much in its own way as the thought embodied in the great monument to Scotland ' s heroes|. A marble cross! A small marble cross contoured against the blue, blue skyl Not one cross but hundreds and thousands marking the place of the young and old men who died for their country. Great men all, but men with no epitaph but their name; no fame but that of thousands of others. As I looked up and down the columns, the word Unknown magnified itself before my eyes. Somehow as I stood there I shuddered and yet I thrilled. It was a tragic but yet a glorious sight. They sought the glory of their country. They see the glory of their God. Patricia Mitchell, Form IVa. [21]