Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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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]

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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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house-boats and tugs. They sway to and from their mooring-ropes, clinging to the shore, as if they, like the Greek mariners, are loath to leave it. Meanwhile, during all this water-traffic, trains slip in and out of the station, each changing dining ' cars, and thus giving us a chance to see these huge, interesting promoters of trade, the locks. I am grateful to the Soo Line for establishing their switchyards so close to the locks, and for their changing the cars; for if it had not been for these things, I probably never would have seen the Soo locks. I remember that when I was a very small girl, and I lived in Duluth, I would often go down to the wharves and see the freighters edging their way out of the harbour, bound for I knew not where. I now understand their work, and know their destinations, but I wonder now, instead, at the size of the locks, and what it would be like to go through them some day. I suppose that by the time I have found this out, I shall have something new to wonder over. Just now I prefer the locks; there is something infinitely thrilling, mysterious, about the word locks. Doors, shutting us from fairyland, would not be too imaginative, for they are indeed doors. We shall always be grateful to the engineers who have given us these doorways to trade — mysterious doors, giving a lurking sensation of magic. Mary Wesbrook, Form Upper V. Moonlight The silver moon shines down from out the sky And makes a gleaming pathway o ' er the sea ; The little fishing boats at anchor lie, And ride the dancing wavelets merrily. Through tall dark firs the gentle night ' winds sigh. And sing a lullaby to all the trees That lift their feathVy branches to the sky. And sway, as if to music, in the breeze. Vivian Stewart, Form IVa. The Superstitious Jew AN OLD JEW called Ikie Zargovitsky had just made a lot of money by gambling. All he ever . thought of was his money, all he ever talked of was his money, all he ever took any interest in was his money, until people got so tired of hearing nothing but money, money, money, when they saw him, that they began to hate the old Jew. He was very superstitious, and one day he lost his temper with his servant and, picking up a boot that lay near, threw it at him. The servant dodged, the boot hit a mirror and broke it to atoms. For the rest of the day Ikie thought of the broken mirror and the seven years bad luck that he thought he would have to endure. That night when he went to bed he still had the broken mirror on his mind and he lay awake for hours thinking of it. Suddenly — creek — creek — somebody was coming up the stairs. I wonder vhat Sam vants, thought Ikie. But it was not Sam ' s voice that he heard nor was it Sam ' s footsteps. There were two voices. One sounded as if the owner had his mouth full of something and was trying to speak, the other sounded hollow and dead. As the steps neared his door the voices ceased and the handle was slowly turned. Poor Ikie lay on his bed turning hot and cold by turns, and, as the door opened, two figures stood there with the moonhght streaming in from a window, lighting up their faces and clothing. Ikie remembered the mirror and thought that his last hour had come, but he did not have enough strength left to scream. [29]