Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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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

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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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Sailin pOUR children stood on the beach, one beautiful summer day. The St. Lawrence was in a pleasant mood, the waves were a deep blue just tipped with white and there were no clouds in the blue sky. The eldest was a boy of about fourteen, then two girls of twelve or thirteen and the smallest a boy of eleven. They all stepped into a boat, and immediately they were no longer children but seamen. The eldest captain, the next the mate, the next boatswain and the youngest cabin boy. The cabin boy was rowing, and as he began to pull towards a pretty eighteen foot sloop, moored farther out, I listened to their talk. Nothing of interest but full of the spirit of holidays. C. B. (resting on his oars) — This dinghy ' s about seven years old isn ' t she? Feels like three. Bo ' sn — She ' s still got another seven and more to live. Capt. — A long time. Are we going to spend it all here? C. B. (sarcastically) — I suppose you didn ' t notice that the wind ' s off-shore and we ' re nearly on the spindrift. Capt. — Bow-man, you landlubber! Don ' t let her bump, and Mate when you ' ve finished letting us go out to sea, you might make fast. Mate — Ay, ay, sir, only don ' t stand on the painter please. Capt. — ]S la e fast. Cabin boy, sail cover. Bos ' n, stow the coats the Mate gives you. Mate, look to the coats. Mate — Here they are. Bo ' sn — Oh!! sorry, Boy, I think I dropped yours in. C. B. — Well, jump in and fetch it. Mate — Hang this jib, it needs two new clips. Capt. — All ready? Bo ' sn, stand by to cast off. Bo ' sn (after a minute) — All right! Capt. — Cast off. Bo ' sn, — She ' s clear! Capt. — Hoist jib, belay. Hoist throat and peak, steady on the throat, belay. Boom the jib out to port — let her go and come aft the rest of you. Mate — Bags be bow-man ! Bo ' sn — Only for half; I ' ll help you coil down. Capt. — Gybe-Oh! — let ' s go out to Windy Corner. Mate — Ow! (as wave comes aboard). What did you do that for. Capt, — Did it hit you square on the neck? Teach you to sit up there. Mate — Down the back, I think. Give me my slicker, please, somebody. Never trust a helmsman. And then they passed out of hearing and I watched the boat tacking gayly up and down. Jean Scrimger, Form IVa. My First Love I have a horse, a kind old horse. As black as he can be; He lives alone far, far, from here. And presently you ' ll see, The reason why I like this horse And all his funny ways. And if you come to Fraser Lake I ' ll show you where he stays. His home consists of great log walls Surrounded by big trees — His friends are rabbits, birds and deer And sometimes even bees; [ 27 ]