Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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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]

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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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the dogs, and, truly, one might have thought so. It became impossible to discover whether the lady in the scarlet hat was a blonde or a brunette, a Negro or a Chinese, so covered was she with every colour from black mascara to ivorywhite powder. Then the skirts began to creep above the knees, women even omitted stockings, and the doom of woman was pronounced. We like to believe, however, that we have snatched ourselves from death at the precipice ' s edge. The skirts again trail around our ankles, and comfort is forgotten for the sake of beauty. Rouge and powder, once looked upon as unbearable among women of breeding, have become an art, and a very intricate one. Nowadays, if our eyes are not big enough, they can be slit at the corners, and, presto! we have great soulful orbs. If we dislike their colour, it can be changed. We may have new noses, smaller mouths, practically any change which madame considers would be an improvement. Now that science and surgery have entered the Quest, who knows what the next century ladies will consider beautiful? The hour ' glass figure has had its day, the stick ' like flapper is forgotten, and now we struggle vainly to attain perfect proportions and some semblance of a waist. What will be next? Perhaps the ladies of 2000 A.D. will affect a barreWike appearance, and shave off the locks which we now so laboriously grow. At any rate, I am sure that many of us feel relieved that we will not have to follow that Quest of Beauty in the shadowy years to come, for the originality of a clever woman, such as those women, and men too, who decide our destiny as regards apparel, may become even more pain ' ful and ridiculous than it has been in past years. Some day we may be so sadly disillusioned as to our beauty, when a Martian lady drops from the clouds encased in fishes ' scales, or a substantial covering of bread and ' hutter, that we will return to our original fig-leaf with only a sigh for our elaborate frills and furbelows. Phyllis Durant, Form Upper VI. Sault Ste. Marie WHEN travelling down Lake Superior to Lake Michigan, one comes to the Soo locks. They are the locks which separate these two great lakes. The reason for them is apparent; for Lake Superior is higher than Lake Michigan, and is separated from that lake by a long stretch of rapids. Therefore the engineers have built canals with locks, which enable the large boats to go from Duluth right to Chicago. There are many canals; six altogether, I think, and one broad, turbulent, noisy, shallow channel. The canals themselves are wide enough for the largest lake-boats to pass through them. For six years now, I have been going from Montreal to Minneapolis, via the Soo Line, and not once have I failed to go down to the edge of the canal nearest the station and watch the boats. It is a never-ending pleasure to me. In the early summer the canals are blue-green, and quiet, with buttercups growing in the long grass beside them, but in the fall they are gray, rough, and we are not allowed to go too close to the edge, for fear that we might be blown into the chill water by the strong winds that always blow down from Lake Superior. The locks themselves are awe-inspiring. Huge, massive structures of stone, concrete, and steel, they serve as a gateway between the rough, cold and windy Lake Superior, and the more calm and gentle Lake Michigan. The boat enters the canal, and when it gets to the lock, the water in the next lock is raised by that in the lock just traversed, which water is poured in through the floodways. Then the gate is opened and the boat passes through into the next lock. This pro- cedure is repeated until the boat passes into the wide expanse of Lake Michigan. These locks make it possible for an extensive trade with the other great lakes. The boats themselves are interesting to watch. Huge, gaunt skeletons, the freighters, bearing ore from Superior, Duluth and other similar towns, pass along silently, their low red hulks, ter- minated on each end by a sort of castle or fortress, just barely causing a ripple in the canals. Some- times a bright red and white passenger boat, with long jet-black funnels, slips through the water, though at a greater speed than the freighters. All along the sides are little red or brown wooden [28]