Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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Simpson Street With legs commencing to ache, With a burning pain in her feet, A Traf. girl with a sigh does make. Her way up Simpson Street. Ruts ! — Ruts ! — Ruts !— And huge piles of snow all around; Here ! — There ! — Everywhere ! — Covering all the ground. Her feet are heavy as lead, Her head is heavier still; Her homework ' s undone — a mere detail ! Climbing this dreadful hill. Oh, why is it not the Spring, Or once more the Summer? she asks — When walking through filthy, sloppy slush, Is not among my tasks. Tramp ! — Tramp ! — Tramp ! She falls on a slippery spot. Arising with a groan she starts Complaining of her lot. At length the climb is over; The top is reached at last. The Traf. girl heaves a joyful sigh; Her daily trial is past. Bernice Bigley, Form Matric. I. ' The Young Visiters ' I ' HE other day I was looking through some old books, and I came across one entitled The Young Visiters. May I say that probably the first item that attracted my attention was the misspelling of visitors, which, you will agree, is quite unusual on the cover of any book. I turned the pages over idly, noticing awkwardlyspelt words here and there, and the preface by Sir James Barrie. I read the preface. To understand the book, I found, one must read it. The Young Visiters is written by Daisy Ashford. She was only nine years old when she wrote the book, so it is easily understood why her spelling is so atrocious. She wrote the book all by herself, and, I believe, without anyone else ' s knowledge at the time. It can only be described as a Perfect Scream. The heroine is called Ethel Monticue, and is described thus : Ethel Monticue had fair hair done on the top and blue eyes. She had a blue velvit frock which had grown rarther short in the sleeves. She had a black straw hat and kid gloves. . . . Which gives a fair idea of the spelling. Ethel was very parshal to red ruge which the young authoress mentions quite often. As she was leaving on a jorney Ethel said, I will put some red ruge on my face because I am very pale owin g to the drains in this house. Bernard Clark was the young hero, with nice long legs and fairish hair, who eventually married Ethel after a long stay at the Gaierty Hotel. Alfred Salteena was Ethel ' s dear friend who, although he wanted to marry her, never reached that point. [ 24 ]

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of an autumn scene, startlingly familiar and real! She plucked up enough courage to ask the teacher if she might stay after school and copy that scene. She was given permission, and at dusk that evening she stayed copying away with pencil and crayons with rapt absorption until she achieved a result which satisfied her. She hurried home and showed the scene to her grandmother, explaining that while the scene was not a good reproduction of the real woodlands, yet that was the scenery she had enjoyed for a few, short weeks. The grandmother set down her broom to look at the painting. She looked twice, thrice, giving Jean surprised, pleased glances. She said not a word but the next day a famous artist staying in a hotel far uptown, had a visit from a strange and seem ' ingly very poor old woman. She had in her hand a sketch, a woodland scene in autumn. The artist sat for a long while, looking at the scene. He asked how old the woman ' s grandchild was and when he was told her age a pleased smile lit up his face. He asked that Janet be brought to him. In the days following Janet had art lessons which prepared her for her great future career. Soon she travelled all over Europe with her teacher. Janet Mark became a famous artist, pinning her good luck on the beautiful autumn scenery which she had wished to keep with her always. Betty McCrory, Form IVa. The Three Little Pigs The three little pigs left home one day, To seek their fortunes far away. The first one was lazy, the second was shy, The third one was busy and clever and spry. Their mother had said to them, Children dear. The time has now come when you cannot live here. So the three little pigs kissed their mother good ' bye. And went on their journey with hardly a sigh. The first little pig built his house of fine straw. The second took nails and a hammer and saw, Then he fashioned his house of neat little sticks. While the third little pig made his house of strong bricks. Now, near to the pigs lived a wolf bad and bold. He hungered for little pigs, so I am told; To the little straw house he wandered one day And said, Let me in without any delay. No, no, said the pig, by my chinny, chin, chin. Said the wolf, Then Til puff and Til blow your house in. So he gave a big puff and the straw house fell down And the little pig fled for his life to the town. Two puffs blew the second pig ' s house to the ground And he looked for the pig, who was not to be found. He huffed and he puffed as hard as he could But the third little pig ' s house of bricks firmly stood. This little fat pig, said the wolf, I must get. Down the chimney I ' ll go, said the pig, You ' ll get wet. So he put a big kettle of water to heat And the wolf tumbled in and burned his poor feet. Then he picked himself up and scampered away And for all that I know he ' s still running today. Betty Brodie, Form IIIa [ 23 ]

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One of the funniest scenes in the whole hook is Bernard Clark ' s proposal to Ethel. . . . Say you love me, he cried. Oh, Bernard, she sighed fervently, I certainly love you madly, you are to me like a heathen god, she cried, looking at his manly form and handsome face I will indeed marry you. . . . Oh, Bernard, muttered Ethel, This is so sudden. No, no! cried Bernard, and taking the bull by both horns he kissed her violently on her dainty face. Ethel, Bernard and Mr. Salteena are the triangle that form this droll story, which, though it was written in all seriousness can only be taken as a lark. May I add in closing that the book contains no punctuation whatsoever, and that it is purely original. ' RUNDLING along a dusty road in France was an old farm wagon drawn by a large boned. dust-coated, brown horse. From the opposite direction came a buggy. The road was so narrow that the buggy had to get partly off the road to allow the larger cart to pass. For two miles the road stretched on, a road of holes and stones and the choking dust. At last it reached a quaint little village and here there was not so much dust, for the street was cobbled and the hoof beats clattered noisily as the horse trotted past the houses on either side. How peaceful it was to walk along that road into the country! No noisy cars rushin g along with a hoot, no motor- cycles tearing past at a breakneck speed, but only an odd cart or two, the driver gating with unseeing eyes at the familiar scenes on either side. How different this quiet solitude was from those noisy, horrible, gruesome days when half the world seemed to be struggling for mastery! In those days the roads were horrible to look at, shell-pitted, rock-strewn, with debris scattered here and there, and here a corpse lay grotesquely, telling of a hard fought fight or a hasty retreat. If a road could speak what would be its story? Women, young and old, children and old men, staggering along with loads of their most cherished possessions, either on wheel-barrows or in their hands; troops of soldiers marching gayly along singing or humming a merry tune, or the terrible scene of the retreat, guns rumbling along over the bumps, the wounded being helped by their comrades, with the rear-guard of horses coming behind and last of all the few stragglers struggling bravely along. Far behind along the shell- gutted, winding road, rolls wave upon wave of the enemy in a cloud of choking dust. Suddenly there is a flash and part of the road disappears in a blinding flash of flame, and rocks and earth are hurled sky-high as a shell lands with a shriek and the road trembles as though hurt. What a change nature can make in a few years! There is still the dust and bumps but no pitiful scenes to witness, for grass has grown where once a shell had ripped open the ground beside the road or where a heap of earth tells its own tale of some gallant heart being hastily buried by his weary, foot-sore comrades. Earth has been placed in the pits in the road and the bits of guns and metal have been removed. Still the road goes on its seemingly peaceful way unconcerned by the trials and cruelty of man. pIFTEEN minutes to one reported my small time-piece, as I slipped my hand carefully through the crack of my desk and began to prepare my homework books, a process at which, through constant practice I had become amazingly skillful. At length the cheery note of the one o ' clock bell resounded throughout the corridors and reached my welcoming ears. In an instant I had caught up my books and was retreating hurriedly to the cloak-room when I was arrested by the kindly hand of our form mistress who helpfully reminded me that the office of neatness monitor Phoebe Anne Freeman, Form IIIa. Roads Jane Seely, Form IIIb. Have You Ever Waited For a No. 14? [ 25 ]