Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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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 ]

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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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had lately been conferred upon me. For some twelve minutes I remained grudgingly until the last girl had departed and I straightened up the room. Then with a burst of enthusiasm and newly regained freedom 1 entered noisily the cloak ' room, only to be reminded once again that the ten past bell had gone some time ago. Soon afterwards warmly clad I strode bravely out of the front dcor and was greeted by a most piercing blast and the most dismal howling of the wind as it battled with the branches of the trees. With undaunted courage I pushed steadily forward and presently overtook a large group of my class-mates who were chatting noisily, little dreaming of the horrible fate that awaited the majority of them. As we carefully ploughed through those disagreeable snow drifts the approaching rumble of a tram car spurred us on to a run. Just as we reached the car spot a Number 65 sailed independently by. The prospect brightened somewhat when we spied another street car peeking around the corner of the Bank of Montreal building. The next blow we received, when at last the approaching car made the Number 65 possible to distinguish, positively staggered us. Our resistance thus lowered, the cold found us easy victims and took advantage of our weakness. The space of time which passed between the second 65 and the sixth 65 even to me, one of the few survivors, still remains hazy but nevertheless horrible to contemplate. As I watched my brave little comrades stiffen and fall silently upon the cruel white snow my very heart itself seemed to freeze. At last as a belated number 14 drew up to a halt beside us, I wearily dragged myself into the car and with the kind assistance of an apologetic motorman I raised those stiffened bodies into the car. Even at such an early age I concluded with a sob of despair that Life is hard. This little tale I wish to dedicate to those brave young girls who so courageously perished while waiting for a Number 14. Phyllis Henry, Form Upper Vi. Jacques Habitant On Skiers De wind she blow at St. Jerome, At Shawbridge she blow more. An ' when you come to St. Agathe, Le vent he sure do roar. Some many skier come from town All dress ' up fine an ' bright. But when dey see t ' ermometer Dey sure get wan beeg fright. De zero she ees ' way below, De snow she six foot deep; But many skier come to go Down de Laurentian steep. Dey freeze de foot, dey freeze de face — But still dey come to ski. An ' den dey say le Canada She ees wan cold countree. Dey fly downhill comme les diables, Dey scare my horse an ' me. I am some glad when dey go home Back to de beeg citee. Nancy Murray, Form Matric. L 26