Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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The Sky ' HE sky is a kingdom of ever ' changing moods; a kingdom as fascinating as the fairyland we 1 dream of in our childhood days. Its inhabitants, the clouds, are like the people of our own countries, of many different types. Sometimes they are brisk and cheerful, scudding gaily across the sky as if they had not a care in the world. Sometimes they are lazy, indolent little balls of white fluff, suspended motionless from the blue dome far above. At other times they are so close that they seem almost to touch the tree ' tops, as, black and sullen, they drag their weary way across the leaden sky. Sometimes one may see a prince, riding in state towards the lands beyond the blue, his chariot drawn by white horses with flying manes and tossing heads. And as we lie gazing up into the blue depths and watch the idle clouds, it is in the sky that we see our castles in the air. At sunset the sky is tinted a thousand different shades. Each cloud seems lined with fire, which runs in crinkHng tongues of flame around its edge, making the purple of the cloud seem yet more dense. The sun at last sinks to rest in a bed of crimson and yellow, reflected vividly in the water down below. And when the sun has vanished, the sky becomes a land of enchantment and mystery. Here reign ancient deities and kings and heroes of long ago. Myriads of tiny Ian ' terns wink and twinkle in a setting of velvety black. And over all the moon sheds her tranquil silver light, even more beautiful when she glimmers through the chinks of a cloud which has, for the moment, veiled her face. Without the radiance of the stars and the moon, the sky, on a cloudy night, seems to press down upon the earth and swallow the mountains and tree tops in its inky blackness. But perhaps the sky is most beautiful after the rain, when the sun bursts suddenly through the clouds and pours a golden flood upon the tree tops, while far, far up in the sky appears the rainbow, the fairies ' many-coloured bridge to earth. From the earliest days man has made a study of the sky. Many years ago it was believed that the heavens had a particular bearing upon the lives of men, and that certain stars were favourable to those born under their influence. Although this superstition has long been dead, man still studies the stars, for he has always something new to learn from this mysterious realm above him. Betty Hurry, Form Upper VI. On Beethoven ' s Moonlight Sonata O ' er the keys the player gently bends, Softly, softly drawing from the notes A wondrous tale, and to my soul there floats A dream . . . the pale moon from the deep sky sends Her limpid beams ... a Spirit now descends, It glides across the waters to the boats Which slumber gently on the quiet lake ' s breast — My aching heart lies peacefully at rest. Moonlight, thy magic spell is everywhere! It fills the heart of yon sweet nightingale: He sings with pathos to the whispering pines, I hear them crooning to the stars ... I dare Not breathe ... for God is smiling on the vale. My soul is still, it murmurs low, Peace reigns. Nancy Thacker, Form Upper VI.

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every word, but Miss Spencer ' s cut and dried method did not appeal to her imagination, and so failed. At lunch time Miss Spencer surrendered the reins of government to Aunt Jerusha. Spinach, cold mutton and boiled potatoes — ugh ! Silvia shuddered at the mere thought — followed by tapioca pudding, Silvia ' s pet aversion. Well, it was a good time to pretend she was a prisoner, in a damp dungeon, with prison fare! Immediately after dinner Silvia was conducted to her nap, where with blinds pulled down she lay wide-eyed , staring at the blank wall for an hour. Even her doll Verbena was not permitted to share this imprisonment, which Silvia pretended was on a torture wrack. Then began the first free time in the day, when she went to play in the garden, with strict orders not to go out into the street. To ' day the garden was bare and dull, a nd old Loos the gardener, who let her plant things once in a while, was not there, and Silvia had only Verbena, who was nearly as old as her- self, to talk to. Of course Verbena was a much ' cherished heirloom, but her cracked face had such a vacant stare at times as to be almost annoying. Besides, she could not talk. After a dreary time Aunt Jerusha said, Come in, child, from the window, so Silvia came. She had tea in the kitchen with Mrs. Briggs presiding, but here was no companionship, for Mrs. Briggs read missionary pamphlets in grim silence. At last, when bed ' time came, Silvia trudged wearily upstairs, having bidden Aunt Jerusha a subdued Good Night, and still no mention of her birthday. Surely Aunt Jerusha hadn ' t forgotten? She undressed slowly, with a rising lump in her throat, and jumped into bed, pulling the covers around her ears till her shadow looked like a distorted hunch ' backed gnome, leaving her clothes in a disorderly heap on the floor. Mrs. Briggs came in to switch off the light, and eyed Silvia disapprovingly. She picked up each article of clothing in grim silence, hung it over the back of a chair, and stalked out, shutting the door on a great black room, with a sobbing, heaving bit of humanity in the centre of a huge high bed. Silvia longed very much for someone to under ' stand her and love her, and thought wistfully of the happy days in the dim past, before she came to Aunt Jerusha. Aunt Jerusha did her plain duty by the child, as she expressed it, but that was not love — not by any means. In the middle of the night, a sudden sound awoke Silvia, and in a daze she jumped up, put on dressing-gown and slippers and pattered down the long dimly-lit hall. The sub-conscious part of Silvia had a set purpose. What was it? When she reached the front door, someone was just coming in, with a suit-case in one hand. With a cry of joy, half a sob, Silvia flew into the strong protecting arms of Daddy! She knew it was Daddy by the strange acrid smell of his rough coat as she rub bed her cheek against it — tobacco, strangely nice, and daddyish . ' ' The strong arms carried her into the library where a warm fire was burning. Just before she dropped asleep, she heard the words, Happy Birthday, Cherub, and knew that here at last was someone who understood. Suzanne Kohl, Form IVa. Easter Green are the buds on the lilac tree, fx hibernis suis ' bu22;es the bee. The robin courts his happy bride, It ' s Eastertide! Crocus buds are beginning to sprout, DafFydowndillies are coming out. Spring is coming along the line At Easter time. And everyone is happy and gay. And the birds sing all the livelong day. For they hear the promise of summer long In the Easter song. Mary Wesbrook, Form Upper V. [31]

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' God ' s in His Heaven, All ' s Right with the World ! — Browning. VERY few people possess the optimistic view of life with which the writer of these two short lines was endowed. Many there are who cannot understand how all can be right with the world while there is so much sin, sorrow and sickness. But sorrow itself can be beautiful as long as we remember the thought behind the words of Van Dyke: There ' s something happy on the way and God sends love to you. The grief and pain, that every man must experience at some time in his life, are sent to us by God to test our strength and will to cope with them. We fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, sleep to wake. Our hardships play as necessary a part in our lives as do our pleasure;s. For the soul would have no rainbow had the eyes no tears. Perhaps much unnecessary sorrow can be caused by one ' s outlook on life. When one has optimistic viewpoints, the world cannot help seeming rosier and happier. After all, says James Russell Lowell, the kind of world one carries about within oneself is the important thing, and the world outside takes all its grace, colour and value from that. And one gets so much more out of life through being an optimist and taking the brightest view of things. These lines of Herrick ' s show what an optimist is like. Give me a man that is not dull When all the world with rifts is full; But unamazed does clearly sing Whereas the roof ' s a-tottering; And, though it falls, continues still Tickling the cittern with his quill. Besides a sanguine disposition, it very often takes moral courage and strength to be optimistic. Charles Lamb had these qualities, and he faced the world heroically despite the tragedy which sad- dened his life and made him give up all thoughts of married happiness for himself. From this letter of his to a friend we can see the joy he took in the sweet things of this world. One passage in your letter a little displeased me, he writes; the rest was nothing but kindness, which Robert ' s letters are always brimful of. You say that ' this world to you seems drained of all its sweets! ' At first I had hoped you only meant to intimate the high price of sugar, but I am afraid you meant more. O, Robert, I don ' t know what you call sweet. Honey and the honeycomb, roses and violets are yet in the earth. The sun and the moon yet reign in heaven, and the lesser lights keep up their pretty twinklings. Meats and drinks, sweet sights and sweet smells, a country walk, spring and autumn, follies and repentance, quarrels and reconcilements have all a sweetness by turns. Good humour and good nature, friends at home that love you, and friends abroad that miss you — you possess all these things and more innumerable, and these are all sweet things. You may extract honey from everything. — Charles Lamb. There is another extract containing the same thought that we find in Lamb ' s letter. It is taken from the writings of George Borrow. — Life is sweet, brother. — Do you think so? — Think so! There ' s night and day, brother, both sweet things; sun, moon and stars, brother, all sweet things; there ' s likewise a wind on the heath. Life is very sweet, brother; who would wish to die? — I would wish to die . . . — You talk like a gorgio, which is the same as talking like a fool. Wish to die, indeed! Romany chal would wish to live for ever! [33]