Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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Retribution A T LAST his moment had come. The sweetness of revenge would be his. The pain and suffering of the last ten years would be wiped out, and he would be able to eat and sleep without being haunted by his obsession. Ten years ago, Jim Hall, his supposed friend, had ruined him financially, and had been the cause of his wife ' s death. The picture of the rogue ' s sneering and taunting smile was ever present in his mind. But to-night all debts would be paid. Life could be begun anew. His son, his pride and joy, would arrive from England in a day or two; and together they would set out for America, leaving old memories and tragedies behind them. Something rustled outside. He stood rigid for a moment, then slowly relaxed. It was only a sound of the night. He went to the window of the shack and peered out into the jungle. He could feel rather than see the wild life that teemed in its dark depths. Soft restless noises and the scent of damp earth and heavyperfumed flowers, were borne to him on the breeze. The darkness was intense. Nature seemed to be in co-operation with him. An undercurrent of excitement and expectancy surrounded him. What a perfect setting for his plan! Feverishly he paced the room, drawing his hand over his moist brow. It would not be long now — if only he could keep his nerves steady. He could visualize in his mind what was to happen. A step on the porch, the sudden pulling of the hidden vine, the releasing of the poisoned dagger, a low moan and then silence. Silence, he muttered to himself, silence. Yes, that taunting voice would then become silent and life would become bearable. Suddenly the sound of a footfall was heard. The man ' s eyes gleamed with fiendish anticipa- tion. Nearer and nearer came the unsuspecting man. The plan was working. The fly was being lured into the web. The man in the room seemed to cease breathing. The tick of the clock on the mantlepiece sounded like cannon shots. The man gripped the table to steady himself. Beads of perspiration stood on his forehead. The caller mounted the steps, one, two, three. Now he was at the top. Why did not something happen? What if the plan miscarried? The tension was unbearable. Suddenly there was a soft moan, followed by the sound of a body hitting the floor. For a second the watcher hesitated ' breathing heavily as if recovering from a long run. Then with a bound he burst open the door, and reached the silent figure. At last the debt was paid. He was free, free! Oh, life was wonderful! He bent over the body to see if the dart had completely fulfilled its mission. Then a hideous mocking, insane laugh, burst through the jungle. The wind caught it up and flung it tauntingly through the tree tops. A nearby bird, startled from slumber, uttered a weird, wailing, cry. Then the jungle settled back into a silence even more profound than before. The man on the porch now clasped the lifeless body of his son in his arms. Dorothy Brooks, Form Upper Vi. [ 16]

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development of modern education. On Ash Wednesday, Archdeacon Gower-Rees spoke to us, and Dr. Donald has given us a share of his time on several occasions. On May the first we had an unexpected visit from Dr. Donald. He had a very special message for us this time. Our school ' s name had been changed from Trafalgar Institute to Trafalgar School for Girls ; which even the more conservative of us considered a sound alteration. The girls have tried hard, during this year of financial difficulties, to help others less fortunate than themselves. In addition to the usual Mission Box collections, girls sewed and knitted warm garments for poor children, several forms gave Christmas dinners to needy families, and during March and April we brought fruit and vegetables on Fridays for the I.O.D.E. baskets. We, of this year ' s Sixth, know that the blessing of the rest of the school is with us as we approach the dreaded Matric. exams., and we will try to do Trafalgar justice. With such a long line of successes in front of us, we ought to be inspired, but whether we pass or fail, we will always remember Traf. and probably we will all be back to see the old school sometime in the near future. The Late Miss Ethel Hurlbatt, M.A., LL.D. A loyal friend of the Trafalgar School, has passed quietly to rest, since the last School Magazine was published. For twentytwo years. Dr. Hurlbatt was Warden of the Royal Victoria College, and, from the very beginning of her tenure of office, she identified herself with the interests of the School, and in spite of her busy life, and many and varied duties, she found time to attend the entertain ' ments given by the girls from time to time. She was a familiar figure on the platform at all School Closings, where she always gave a cheerful and encouraging message to the girls, and more par- ticularly to those who were about to leave school and take up University work. She followed them with interest, not only during their College course, but when they went forth to the larger life outside the University, and while she spoke with pride and appreciation of her students who showed marked ability, she was equally interested in all under her care, and helped them in every possible way. In the tribute paid to her memory by the McGill Alumnae Society, reference was made to those little, namel ess, unremembered acts of kindness and of love for which Dr. Hurlbatt was so well known. We, too, gratefully recall many such acts, for she very often went out of her way to speak an encouraging word to a lonely or discouraged one, and she was just as kind and gracious to those who served her, as she was to her friends. She loved people, and flowers, and all the fine things of life. She wished for no applause nor commendation, and it was characteristic of her, that she left a request that there should be no special Memorial service held for her at McGill. Her last years were not free from pain, but she never complained, and she passed quietly, as she had lived, into the land where the weary are at rest. Her friends here will long remember her gracious, winning personality, and count it a privilege to have had such happy associations with her , for so many years. Martha L. Brown. [ 15 ]

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Grey Shore Long wastes of sand upon a distant shore, A gull, a rock, the sea, and nothing more Dull crash the breakers farther up the shore Grey walls of water, spray, and nothing more. A reef of rocks, unbroken grey, Across the East the line of breaking day. Far out, the swell, of sullen grey What good will come from out this new-born day? A seagull resting on a restless wave Half lifts a feathered wing, in question grave. He sees no hope of answer in the wave. And flys away, denying it was grave. Jean Scrimger, Form IVa. A Boating Adventure TEARLY everyone has, at some t. ' me or other in their lives, an adventure on water. Most people, after one of these adventures, return to land and duly proceed to inform everybody they meet, of the thrilling experience they have just had. Unfortunately, I am no exception to this rule, and as I have had one or two minor thrills, I shall endeavour to elaborate and exaggerate, as is customary in the relating of such tales. I, or rather my father, happens to be the fortunate possessor of a small launch called the Petrel. It is only thirtyeight feet long, but it is a jolly little craft and one in which the family as a whole, have a great deal of fun. Last year, sometime in June, we gaily decided that we should travel up the Ottawa River, for a couple of weeks ' holiday. The first day, the weather was lovely. The second day it was inclined to be dull with intermittent rainfall. This was unfortunate for us, for as we were proceeding up a very narrow channel, the whole scene was suddenly blotted out by a terrible cloudburst. The channel was marked out by buoys, but there was plenty of opportunity for wandering astray and ending up on a sandbank. After wandering around for sometime in a daze, we took one of these opportunities, and having selected a pleasant looking little bank, we rammed the nose of the boat well and truly into the middle of it. When the storm cleared we found we were about a half a mile off our course. The water was extremely shallow at one end of the boat and extremely deep at the other, as I discovered, much to my annoyance, when I lightheartedly jumped off the stern and immediately found myself sitting on the bottom of the river with about twelve feet of water above me. Of course, sensible people will want to know why I wanted to jump in anyway. Well, if you really must know, it wasn ' t because I wanted to hold communication with the fish, but because I thought the water was shallow all round and I wanted to investigate the damage, if any. But we will pass lightly over that phase of the adventure. It holds rather embarrassing memories for me. About an hour after this little incident we were still sitting gently but firmly on the sandhill. We had tried practically every method we knew to extricate, or rather, excavate, ourselves from our awkward position. We had reversed our engine, rocked the boat frantically from side to side, pushed from the shallow end and pulled from the dinghy off the deep end. Our sole remaining hope was to kedge. By kedge I mean that we tied a long rope to the anchor, rowed about twenty feet from the stern, dropped the anchor, then pulled on the rope from the launch. The next half hour passed quietly enough in pulling, on a very long and damp rope. At the end of this period we found that we had pulled in the anchor instead of the anchor pulling us off the sandbank. For a [17]