Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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grave charm. There was a kinship between Drusilla and the bells — the same grace and dignity were found in both alike, but the bells were taken to the bosom of the new country and Drusilla was not. As autumn advanced sunset daily found her upon the plateau, gazing wistful ' eyed at the stubble plains as they lay rosy in the sinking rays. Her vigil never ended until she saw the strong cousins swinging homeward, untrammelled across the plains. Then she would turn slowly aside, the ache to belong weighing unbearably .... As the air assumed a sharper twang it carried its warning — the sun was turning miser, the time was coming when the house would claim her. One more glorious day was granted her. The sun relented, spilling his gold with prodigal unconcern upon the fields. With reckless grace a few distant trees flaunted their glowing burden in proud contrast to their spoiled neighbours. It was gold, gold, gold, splashed with the crimson of the leaves — it was autumn. Drusilla among her Canterbury bells watched each minute change with a pain that was exquisite and a joy that hurt. If she could only catch it — hold it! At the last instant when the sinking sun had performed his softening miracle, her strong cousins appeared swinging homewards and the air carried upwards a snatch of a French chanson to which the distance lent a heart ' breaking note — haunting. The next morning a thin layer of snow was upon the fields. It became evident as the winter advanced that the little cousin was too delicate for the harsh climate. Hers now was the first place at the fireplace, and the strong cousins had become oddly gentle. Her fading was peaceful, as a flower almost imperceptibly folds its petals, but one fire remained — the desire to see her cousins swing homeward in the autumn sunset. She lingered on. Drusilla will rally with the warm weather, her aunt predicted as she fashioned tallow dips, but it proved otherwise. The summer passed and there was no change. The wheat ripened as it drank in the rich sunshine and reproduced it in yellow tassels. Each minute change was jealously watched by Drusilla among the Canterbury bells. Many times she saw her cousins swing homeward, the faded blue of their shirts a contrast to the prevailing autumn gold; but a little furrow remained upon her brow. There was something lacking .... And then the missing note was supplied. The air carried up a faint snatch of a French chanson with a note of heart ' break — haunting. Drusilla smiled — golden fields kissed by the sun — the strong cousins swinging homeward — the far-off lilt of their voices. Oddly weary she allowed her face to rest among the Canterbury bells — the furrow was gone. Drusilla belongs now; she will always belong. When the autumn is golden with the sheafed corn, ruddy with the glow of laden apple trees and glorious with a warmth of blended colour, if you stray upon Drusilla ' s Walk you may catch a glimpse of her among the Canterbury bells as she listens for the snatch of a French chanson. Joyce McKee, Form Upper V. September Gehonne — So the Red Skins used to call This Moon of Flaming Leaves, this month, September, When the Trees are decked like warrior braves With all the brilliant paint of war Upon them, And the Chanting of the autumn wind Is like the ancient ritual Which warns of Fierce and

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that took on all the colours of the passing day, lighting up the icy pinnacles of the dazzling white snowcastle, and turning them from soft azure shades to veritable colours of fire, and then again to shades of pale shell, and pearly, blucgrey shades of night. The poor little spirits thought and thought of a service that they could render, but all the things they thought of had been done before and they were nearly distracted. At last they decided to go down to Earth and look around there. The north wind blew them down in his chariot and they alighted on what had once been a large pool of water, but which the north wind ' s icy blast had transformed into a smooth shining sheet of ice, with the sunlight glinting on its transparent surface. All the way from the land of Eternal Snow and Winter, Energy, whose nervous hands could never keep still, had been moulding an icicle into two fairy swords; he had placed them at his feet and had turned to do something else, when suddenly, with a cry, he realized that the cold wind had frozen the swords to his feet and that he would have to continue his journey with them on, or else go back. Bravely he struggled out of the chariot and with a wry face stepped on to the ice and slid his foot forward. The others gazed in astonishment, for instead of falling, as they had expected him to, he had glided lightly across to the other side of the ice and back again to meet them. Soon he began to turn and pivot round and then to progress further and make beautiful figures. The other spirits grew very jealous and wanted to do as he was doing, so they returned to the land of Eternal Snow and Winter for more icicles. It was dusk and a pale moon was shining when they returned, but they gaily traversed the ice-sheet with joyous cries the meanwhile. Suddenly they all stopped dead and cried with one voice: The Mortals! We can teach this to them and become famous. It would be healthy, cried Health. And energetic, joined in Energy. And oh! what fun, cried Fun. This is why mortals are so fond of skating and think it such fine sport. They think they invented it, but we know better. Ann Sweeny, Form IVa. r-fo The Old and the New IT WAS in the autumn she came, this gentle cousin from over the sea; an autumn that was golden with the sheafed corn, ruddy with the glow of laden apple tress, glorious with a warmth of blended colour. She was fragile and tiny who now found herself among tall women — the pioneers of this strange Canada. They regarded her with impatience and a reluctant admiration. Drusilla! Her quaint, old-world name harmonized with her sweet voice and serene dignity — strange both to the new land to which she had come. Had she come to make them appear ungainly with her graceful movements? The good wives stood in judgment, their hands upon their hips. Drusilla might have hated the new land that was to be her home, but she did not. Her first sight of the autumn woke a yearning in her heart that was never again stilled. To be one with the blue-clad figures bending in the fields became her consuming desire, but the little cousin was unfitted for the intense climate. Her aunt was the mother of lusty sons who found Drusilla beyond their ken. At her approach their merry chatter faded into embarrassed silence and their hands became all thumbs and com- pletely beyond their control. The charmed circle was not for her, their kinship with the fields shut them in as her daintiness shut her out. Gradually it became her habit to wander upon the little plateau that in time bore her name — Druiilla ' s Walk. It was a high bit of ground to which the many Canterbury bells had given a [25]

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Glorious battle yet to come. Around the painted War Pole dance The braves. Their feathers Swaying, leaping as they turn In wild yet measured rhythm, while The flames Of war fires Send their ruddy, dancing gleams To play and flicker on the throng Assembled. So the Flaming maples, with their plumes Of scarlet dipped in gold and brilliant Orange, Sway and Leap as in the chanting wind They beat the measured movement of Their war dance. On their Feet are matchless moccasins With patterns worked in berries, red As blood. And, swaying At his belt, each warrior wears The scarlet wampum of the Mountain ash. Alice E. Johannsen, Form Upper VI. The Quest of Beauty How different is the Quest of Beauty to-day from in the days of the Greek gods and goddesses and the time of Hercules ! In those days an ambitious Grecian lady might voyage to various famous fountains, such as Hippocrene, and come back endowed with startling beauty for the rest of her life, to say nothing of eternal youth. Gradually, however, the gods withdrew their magic powers from the earthly fruits and fountains and left us to our own devices. Men and women in the Middle Ages, and for two or three centuries after the Renaissance, have shown startling originality in beautifying themselves. Wigs were the simplest of these means, but then wigs were glorified until our handsome English ladies trod the streets of London with a frame-work resembling a Hindu lady ' s market basket, covered with hair and jewels, firmly planted on their worthy heads. It was no uncommon sight in these days to see a lady one week painted a deathly white, while the next, owing to a sudden change in the mode, she seemed about to die of apoplexy at any moment. And then came the patches! These little black spots could change a face, otherwise commonplace, into an authentic reproduction of the Big Dipper and the moon, and certain well-known ladies have been known to appear with a coach-and-four suddenly imprinted on their alabaster brows. When one thinks of the agonies women have gone through with their cramped toes, steel- laced waists, and voluminous skirts, one wonders — do those revered beings, men, appreciate all that has been done to please their eyes and their vanity? It is a debatable point. Many deep-thinking philosophers decided, after the war, that women had suddenly come to their senses, that is, as to the clothing of that part of the body above the knees and below the neck. But when they saw their feet, encased in ridiculously high-heeled pumps, they were inclined to reconsider their rash judgment. And the faces! Women were swiftly catalogued as going to [27]